The Golden Silence Page 17

Lakis’s head and upper arms appeared round Damis’s shoulder. ‘What?’

  Before his eyes could register that the bald man was holding up a key, there was a blur of movement from the Son’s hand followed by the sound of sharp metal penetrating flesh. With a shriek Lakis dropped to the floor, writhing and kicking.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Damis said, kneeling down and trying to steady Lakis’s violently twisting head. A steel shaft about half a metre long was protruding from the man’s left arm.

  ‘Good,’ the Father said to the Son. ‘Now get him on to the table. Quick.’

  ‘Isn’t this enough?’ Damis asked, his hands drenched in blood.

  ‘He’s going to talk before he dies,’ the old man said.

  The Son came over and pulled Lakis up, giving Damis a slack smile as he did so. ‘Too shocking for you, pretty boy?’

  Damis swallowed and put his hand under Lakis’s other arm. When they got to the bench, he held the injured man’s heaving shoulders down as Ricardo ran a length of rope under and over several times. Soon Lakis was secured, his head in the Son’s vicelike grip.

  ‘I’m going to get my fish spear out of your arm later,’ he said, his mouth close to the captive’s ear. ‘First you’re going to talk.’ He glanced up at the Father. ‘I promise you’re going to talk.’

  Damis watched as the old man pulled open Lakis’s trousers and bared his groin. Then, his jaw dropping in undisguised horror, he saw the Father pick up a glinting fish hook with multiple barbs.

  Mavros crept into Niki’s bed and received a semiconscious embrace. She quickly fell back into sleep, but he wasn’t able to follow her. The case refused to let him go and he found himself reviewing images of the people he’d seen the previous day: the reporter Bitsos sniffing for anything that might make a story; Commander Kriaras warning him about the Chiotis family; the gorillas in the nightclub doing lines of coke and fighting with each other; Dmitri, the lines on his face deepening with every hour that passed; the actress Jenny Ikonomou with eyes like bottomless wells; her brother Ricardo, his face blank, giving nothing away. Behind them all was the smiling Katia, who’d disappeared into the void. Was she at the centre of this web, or had he missed some vital clue?

  He came round to the sound of Niki closing the wardrobe door.

  ‘Oh, you’re awake,’ she said, with a distracted smile.

  ‘I am now.’

  ‘I’m late. I made coffee.’ She leaned over the bed to kiss him. ‘Bye. You didn’t see Katia?’

  ‘No, but I ran into her father at the Silver Lady.’

  ‘What was he doing down there?’

  ‘Looking for her. Or so he said.’

  Niki stopped at the bedroom door. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He didn’t want to bring up his suspicions of his client again. Besides, he was inclined to believe him after the conversation they’d had last night.

  ‘All right,’ she said, unconvinced. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Don’t know. I might be working. I’ll ring you.’

  She waved and left.

  Mavros had a shower and got dressed, his clothes stinking of smoke. He was on his way out of the flat when his mobile rang.

  ‘You know who this is.’

  Mavros recognised the policeman’s voice.

  ‘Were you at the Silver Lady last night, like you said you were going to be?’ Kriaras’s tone was harsh.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Answer the question!’

  ‘Yes, I was. What’s happened?’

  ‘There’s something I want you to see. I’ll send a car.’

  Mavros told him where he was. While he waited, he ran through the events at the end of the night. Ricardo and the tall man had left the club with the guy who was unconscious. On the way towards the city, they realised they were being followed and shook Dmitri and him off. It struck him that they’d got close enough to be seen by the occupants of the Audi, so there was a chance Ricardo had recognised him. He wasn’t sure whether to be worried or pleased. Maybe that would put the squeeze on the actress’s brother and make him do something stupid.

  When a horn sounded outside, Mavros went down and got into the back of an unmarked car driven by a plainclothes officer he didn’t know.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ the driver said, accelerating away. They turned to the east and started to climb the flank of the mountain.

  Was Ricardo the key to Katia’s disappearance, Mavros wondered. Although he’d denied seeing her at his sister’s house, he was in with the Chiotis operation. It had plenty of vacancies for attractive young women. Where had he been going with the comatose man in the Audi during the small hours? Mavros began to get a bad feeling.

  The car was climbing through the highest suburb. This morning the residents had a choice view of the pollution cloud that was smothering the city centre. The driver headed up a steep road that ended in an outcrop of rock. There was a cluster of police cars and other official vehicles. Reporters and cameramen were standing behind a blue-and-white tape that had been strung between the railings outside the last houses.

  ‘Follow me,’ the policeman said, pulling out his ID.

  Mavros saw Bitsos in the crowd. The reporter gave him an inquisitive look and then had the sense to conceal his interest. Mavros ducked under the tape and walked between an ambulance and a police van. A track had been trampled through the new grass and spring flowers that were growing around the rock. He could see Nikos Kriaras standing with his head bowed as he examined something on the ground. As Mavros drew closer, he saw it was a body.

  ‘So, Alex,’ the commander said sternly. ‘You should be interested in this. You’re the only person I know who admits to being at the Silver Lady last night.’ He smiled coldly. ‘That makes you a suspect.’

  Mavros tried to keep cool.

  Kriaras squatted down and pointed to the naked body lying on its front. ‘Male, aged between thirty and forty, time of death approximately six a.m. this morning, cause of death shock and/or loss of blood. An anonymous caller directed us here at eight a.m. There was a wallet placed between the dead man’s buttocks. The photo on the ID card matches. His name is Angelos Lazanis, accountant.’ Kriaris laughed drily. ‘How many accountants wind up like this? The wallet also contains a book of matches with the Silver Lady’s logo on it.’ He signalled to a technical officer in white overalls. ‘Turn him over.’ He watched Mavros as the front of the body came into view. ‘What do you think of that?’

  Mavros blinked. He’d seen more bodies than he wanted to in his professional life, and viewing them didn’t get any easier. People did sickening things to their fellow men. He forced himself to run his eyes down the victim. The head was undamaged apart from lacerations and dried blood on the lips. It seemed the victim had bitten through them in his agony. There was a major wound to his upper left arm, as if a sharp object had almost passed through it. But it was the groin that made him gag. There were small metal shafts protruding from the penis, scrotum and surrounding flesh. Short lengths of line were attached to the eye at the end of each one.

  ‘Fuck,’ Mavros said under his breath.

  Nikos Kriaras took his eyes off him and stood up. ‘Fish hooks. There are thirteen of them. We think that the lines were longer than they are now. The damage to the tissue suggests that what the surgeon calls “significant traction” was applied. In other words, the hooks were inserted and then pulled.’

  ‘Maybe he was strung up like the guy at the transport company,’ Mavros said, shaking his head.

  ‘You could be right.’ Kriaras glanced at the technician. ‘All right, get him to the morgue.’ He led Mavros away. ‘Did you recognise him?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, without hesitation. ‘He was in the club last night. He was wearing a dark suit when I saw him.’

  ‘Do you think he worked there?’

  ‘Not sure. He was in a scuffle with another guy in a suit. It got broken up.’ />
  Kriaras’s eyes were on him again. ‘Anything else you noticed about him?’

  Mavros returned his gaze as frankly as he could. ‘No. I was looking for a missing girl, remember?’ What the victim had gone through turned his stomach, but if he told the commander about Ricardo and the other guy taking the dead man away, he would lose the only lead he had to Katia.

  ‘Very well.’ Kriaras turned away. ‘Give a statement of your movements last night to my men.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘And don’t talk to any reporters until I’ve had my say to them.’

  ‘Are you treating it as another gangland killing?’

  ‘What else? The war’s hotting up and they’re using us now, the scum.’ The commander spat on the ground. ‘The anonymous calls, the wallet up his arse. One side’s telling us who the victim is so that we publicise it and put more pressure on the opposition.’ He walked away down the slope.

  Mavros watched him go. He had the feeling that he’d become a pawn in some game that Kriaras was playing. But it wasn’t the commander who worried him most. Ricardo and the tall man with him were responsible for the torture and murder of Angelos Lazanis, he was sure of that. If Ricardo had seen him and Dmitri, they could be next in line for the hooks.

  The Son was standing on the external wall of the port of Piraeus, watching a cruise liner negotiate the narrow passage that led to the Saronic Gulf. The ship was like a great yellow brick. It had none of the sculpted lines that enabled most vessels to slip through the water like fish. The square-ended boat that he and the Father used on the lake back home was better attuned to its environment. This monstrosity was an expanded version of the high-sided trucks that took sheep and pigs to the slaughterhouse, the animals crammed into restricted spaces. The Son looked up at the passengers who were waving at him from the upper decks. He kept his hands in his pockets. People were cretins. Who would pay to be cooped up with hundreds of others in a floating prison?

  He turned his eyes to the open sea. There was a smudge on the horizon beyond the ships that were waiting at anchor. It was the first of the islands. He’d have liked to take a ferry to see how the fishing was over there, but he couldn’t leave the city now. Men were casting lines from the wall. The windows on the breakwater’s superstructure had been broken years ago and never replaced. Despite the bright sunlight and the breeze that was cutting up the surface of the water, it was a depressing scene. What kind of fish would they catch here? Dull-eyed scavengers that fed on the filth pumped from the city, grey-skinned predators stunted by chemicals from the nearby factories.

  The Son watched a baited hook as it flew through the air. The Father had surprised him last night. There was a good chance that the squealing traitor wouldn’t answer their questions after he’d been hit by the fish-spear. But no, even though his hands weren’t steady, the Father used his hooks with consummate skill, looping the lines round the pipes on the ceiling and fixing the tension on them so that the victim floated in midair. The vermin spilled everything about the opposition people he was dealing with. It was no surprise to learn that the Russians were behind the assassination attempt. Ricardo looked pleased, probably because the bastard’s confession had taken suspicion away from him—apparently the subject was a minion of his at one of the family’s nightclubs. The other guy, the tall one, he wasn’t so keen. He was already in the shit for allowing the victim to hold his own knife on him. His eyes went glassy when the hooks were applied and he struggled to hold on to the contents of his stomach. A wimp like that didn’t have any future in the business.

  The barking cry of a seagull made the Son look up. He’d never gone queasy like that. The Father had trained him well. By the time they went on a job together for the first time five years back, the Son was ready. He’d watched the man they were working on wriggle and gasp, his eyes bulging, the Adam’s apple almost bursting from his throat, and felt nothing but satisfaction that the work was successful. Not that the old man had shown much approval, let alone pride. The Father lived in a world where pain was the only currency. He exchanged the pain of others for money. He hadn’t always been like that. During the dictatorship he’d been driven by hatred of the Communists, of anyone who resisted the Colonels’ rule. The fool had actually believed that the old traditions—nation, Church, army—were worth something. What happened to family?

  He watched as one of the anglers reeled in a small brown fish that flapped feebly. The Father was a hypocrite like everyone else. At the same time that he was breaking the opponents of the regime, he was working for Stratos Chiotis, who was in with the Colonels. They were all criminals. The Son swallowed a laugh. That was why he was superior to the Father and everyone else. He didn’t allow himself to be distracted by notions of right and wrong, he wasn’t affected by ideas or emotions. That was why he’d be the best. He looked down at the fish as it gasped its life out on the concrete, feeling no pity. He was fascinated by fish, their empty eyes, their permanent hunger, and the speed with which they caught their prey. But they were nothing compared with him. He was the new order, bred to show no mercy to the weak. Even when those included the Father.

  It would soon be time to make his move.

  Mavros pushed open the door that the Fat Man left dirty to discourage all but the locals. The café was half-full, the market traders taking a break from fleecing the tourists. He acknowledged the ones he was on speaking terms with. Some of them were too grasping to merit even a nod.

  ‘Smile, Yiorgo,’ he said to the figure behind the chill cabinet. ‘Your loyal customers deserve friendly service.’

  ‘Bend over and I’ll give you friendly service,’ the Fat Man said, with a scowl. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Busy.’ Mavros went out to the enclosed yard at the rear. It was a pleasant morning, but that wasn’t why he was sitting down there. He wanted privacy. He smoothed out the pages his sister had faxed him and found the passage that had caught his eye on the way down from his flat.

  ‘You’re too late for anything to eat,’ the Fat Man said, coffee and a glass of water on his tray.

  ‘You mean there are no pastries? I’m starving. Why didn’t you keep me any?’

  ‘Because you haven’t been in the last few mornings.’

  Mavros glared at him. ‘You ate the last piece yourself, didn’t you?’

  The café owner looked sheepish. ‘Well…’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Mavros said in disgust. ‘I’ll let you off if you answer a question.’

  The Fat Man was immediately suspicious. ‘What kind of question?’

  ‘Jesus, Yiorgo, it’s not the dictatorship. When will you Communists loosen up?’

  ‘We Communists? Have you forgotten that your father and your brother both came under that heading?’

  Mavros raised a hand. ‘All right, all right. Look at this.’ He spread the pages across the table. ‘Jenny Ikonomou.’

  The Fat Man’s lips curled. ‘Rich, fancies herself, appears in deadly boring TV programmes. What about her?’

  ‘It says here that she was a member of the youth party in the late-sixties.’

  ‘So?’

  Mavros looked up at the pergola and the vine hanging from it. ‘Jesus, try to open up. Communication is god these days.’

  ‘Communists are atheists, remember?’ Yiorgos shuffled his feet in the gravel. ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Did you know her?’ Mavros said, emphasising each word.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, you were the link man between the youth party and the comrades often enough. You must have come across her.’

  ‘Jenny Ikonomou? No, I swear on Lenin’s tomb.’ There was a hint of a smile on his lips.

  Mavros stared at him and then laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. She had a different name then.’

  ‘Bravo,’ Yiorgos said, clapping. ‘Who’s a clever investigator? Her family name was Zanni.’ He leaned closer. ‘What’s this about, Alex?’

  Mavros shrugged. ‘She’s come up in a case I’m working
on.’

  The Fat Man grunted. ‘What was that about communication being god?’

  ‘Client confidentiality. What do you expect?’

  After a pause, Yiorgos sat down heavily. ‘All right, where’s the harm? I don’t think she’ll have paid her dues for a long time. For what it’s worth, here’s what I remember about Jenny Zanni. She was one of those rich kids who want to see the other side of life. She was enthusiastic, the others liked her, especially the boys, but there was always something fake about her. Makes sense that she became an actress.’

  ‘Was she involved in any resistance activities?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ the Fat Man said, his eyes shifting away. ‘You know how we worked. Cell structure, need-to-know basis. She was in with Manos Floros’s group.’

  ‘Floros? The one who was found in the sea off Rhodes?’

  ‘That’s right.’ The café owner’s expression darkened. ‘The fucking bastards. They beat the shit out of him and then chucked him overboard when he was unconscious.’

  Mavros made a note on one of the pages and then looked at the Fat Man. Even though he’d decided to give up the hunt, he couldn’t resist. ‘Did she know Andonis?’ He spoke his brother’s name softly, wary about raising his smiling face, but he stayed away.

  Yiorgos heaved himself up. ‘I don’t know. She might have. You know how inspirational Andonis was, especially in the youth party.’ His eyes moved towards the interior. ‘Oh, shit. Here’s one of my favourite human beings.’

  Mavros looked up and saw the cadaverous form of Lambis Bitsos coming towards them.

  ‘I thought you might be here, Alex,’ the reporter said, giving the Fat Man a cursory glance. He’d got into loud disagreements with him more than once. The café owner had the Communist’s disgust for the popular press—for him, journalists were the fleas that spread the plague of capitalism.

  Bitsos took in the papers on the table.

  Mavros gathered them up quickly. ‘Yiorgo, we’re going to need more coffee. I’ve forgotten how you take it.’