Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) Read online

  Dinos was thinking about the trata he’d been watching the other day. His cousin Yiangos, he’d been at the helm. And Nafsika, her chest bare. They had swum to the little beach; Dinos hadn’t been able to see what they’d done, but he knew all the same. He had gone hard when he thought about it, had emptied himself on to the thin soil. And then…and then the other boats had come. He blinked and forced the images away, wouldn’t think about them.

  The goats had headed west. He got up and went after them, suddenly worried that they were homing in on the cultivated terraces over there. The widow Rena worked the old madwoman’s strips now and she sometimes spoke sharply to him. But not as sharply as Lefteris. Even though Yiangos’s father was a fisherman he often came out here; Dinos didn’t know why. He hadn’t planted anything on his terraces, the ones beyond Rena’s. But Dinos had seen the gleaming new pick-up over by the rocks where they used to dig the minerals, usually in the evening, its headlights never on. He was probably looking for ancient things in the caves, like the woman with curly hair who spent her days digging. Lefteris was a fierce man. One time he had spotted Dinos as he looked down from the ridge. The goatherd shivered as he recalled the burning eyes and the clenched fists. But Lefteris hadn’t done anything more. Like everyone else on the island, he thought Dinos was a moron, the son of a drink-addled farmer and a shrewish mother, not even worthy of a clout on the back of the head the next time he saw him in the village. Dinos was pleased that he had fooled them.

  The clanging of the goat bells was interrupted by a shout. Dinos looked round and saw the only person he knew who didn’t treat him like a fool. Smiling as he stuffed the pipe back in his pocket, he ran with loping strides towards the shattered walls of the old hut. To the devil with the goats.

  A little before eight o’clock they set off on foot towards the tower. Eleni had given Mavros a pair of cream trousers and a loose-fitting shirt that a previous occupant of her house had left behind. She’d pulled her hair back and put on a pale yellow dress that flattered her figure, but she’d made no other concession to evening wear. Make-up apparently wasn’t her thing either. At least her tanned face gave her a healthy glow that was just the right side of rugged.

  ‘How many people work on the estate?’ Mavros asked as they passed out of the orchards and entered a rock garden filled with a plethora of plants and blooms, insects buzzing somnolently around them in the gathering gloom.

  ‘Dozens,’ Eleni replied. ‘I think most of the families on the island work for Theocharis one way or another. He gives the locals work even though it would be much cheaper for him to use Albanians.’

  That made an impression on Mavros. Most Greeks with money used workers from the former communist stronghold to do the shitty jobs for shitty wages. It seemed that Theocharis believed in looking after the islanders. He took in the complex of buildings. Close up he could see that there was accommodation for numerous guests, though most of the houses were unlit. The old tower was even more imposing from beneath, the medieval stonework picked out by floodlights and the terrace beneath it covered in light-coloured tenting. He followed Eleni up a wide staircase. Reaching the top, he saw that a large part of the platform in front of the tower was filled by a swimming pool, the water gleaming pale blue in the lights. Beyond it Panos Theocharis was standing at the rail of the belvedere, looking out over his glittering nocturnal domain. Above him the dome of the sky curved into the darkness, the Milky Way and the stars much more intense than Mavros was used to in the big city.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ the old man said in English. ‘I hope you don’t mind yet another dinner, Eleni?’ He nodded at her once, the set of his face beneath the sculpted white beard discouraging a reply. ‘Please introduce your friend.’

  ‘Alex Cochrane,’ Mavros put in, using his mother’s maiden name. He suspected the multimillionaire would have met Dorothy at cultural receptions in Athens, but he was hoping that he wouldn’t remember that half of her surname or connect it with him.

  ‘I prefer to use first names, Alex,’ Theocharis said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mavros replied. Eleni’s stiffness gave him the feeling that following suit and addressing Theocharis by his first name was probably not a good idea, despite the offer of informality. The old man was wearing a perfectly pressed pair of white trousers and an open-necked silk shirt that didn’t need a tie to emphasise its quality.

  ‘And what do you do, Alex?’ Theocharis asked.

  ‘I’m a writer,’ Mavros replied glibly.

  ‘Really?’ The museum benefactor suddenly sounded less friendly. ‘You’re not a journalist, I hope.’

  Mavros shook his head. ‘Fiction,’ he said.

  ‘Anything I might have read?’ The Greek’s English had only the slightest hint of a non-native speaker’s accent.

  ‘I doubt it. I write trashy thrillers.’ Mavros went for an extra layer of security. ‘Under several noms de plume.’

  Theocharis looked slightly more at ease. ‘How interesting,’ he said. He glanced at Eleni as a white-coated waiter came up with glasses of champagne. ‘And are you planning a scene in an archaeological site?’ There was an edge to his voice again.

  ‘Em, no,’ Mavros said, realising that he had to take the pressure off Eleni. ‘No, I’m in the middle of a book set in the United States. When I heard that Eleni was working on a dig here, I asked her if I could have a look. I’ve no special interest in Cycladic culture, though I found the excavations fascinating.’ He sipped the wine. It was as good as anything he’d ever tasted.

  Panos Theocharis was nodding slowly, his eyes still on the archaeologist. ‘Eleni is an expert, Alex,’ he said, enunciating the words clearly. ‘But sometimes she acts beyond her authority.’ He gave a tight smile, and it was suddenly apparent where his son Aris’s malicious side originated. ‘That site is on my land.’ Now he turned his gaze on Mavros. ‘Visitors are only allowed with my personal permission, as Eleni knows very well.’

  Mavros felt his heart begin to beat faster. The museum benefactor may have been old but his voice was underpinned by a young man’s strength of will. He wondered what had happened to the gorilla Mitsos. Presumably he should have denied Mavros entry rather than let Eleni do as she pleased. Or was the tycoon just playing at being a tyrant? ‘I’m sorry…’ he began.

  Theocharis raised a hand and smiled with a little more warmth. ‘It’s all right. You’re not the first one. Eleni takes her friends up there quite often, even though I’ve asked her not to.’ The tension went out of his upper body and he leaned heavily on a stick that had been standing against the wall. ‘We’ll say no more about it.’ He looked past Mavros. ‘Ah, there you are, my dear.’

  Eleni and Mavros turned and watched as the statuesque figure of a middle-aged woman approached them. She was tall, her unnaturally blonde hair set in a cascade that reached her bare shoulders. The black evening gown she was wearing would have been excessive at an embassy reception in the capital and the silver high-heeled shoes made loud clicks on the tiles of the terrace. Behind her three Alsatians padded across the tiles, their eyes fixed on the stranger.

  Theocharis bowed to her with old-fashioned courtesy. ‘May I present my wife, Dhimitra?’ he said to Mavros. ‘My dear, this is Alex…ah, Alex Cochrane. He is a writer from—’ He broke off. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t yet discovered where he’s from.’

  It wasn’t clear to Mavros if his host was mocking him. There was a touch of irony in his voice but that may just have been his nature. The only way he could have discovered Mavros’s true identity was by examining the Greek ID card, and that was buttoned securely in his back pocket.

  ‘I’m from Scotland,’ Mavros said, taking the hand that Dhimitra Theochari extended.

  ‘Really,’ she said. ‘How fascinating.’ Her English was much more heavily accented than her husband’s and the sardonic edge was more pronounced as well. She gave Eleni a brief and disapproving glance. ‘Back again?’ she asked in Greek, her tone coarser. />
  Theocharis took a glass of champagne from the waiter and handed it to his wife. ‘I asked Eleni to bring Alex to dinner because he visited the site this afternoon.’

  Dhimitra was looking at Mavros over the rim of her glass, her kohl-lined eyes wide open and penetrating. There was a visible tension about her.

  ‘As he showed such curiosity,’ the host continued, emphasising the final word, ‘I thought he might like to see the collection.’

  His wife turned her gaze on him. ‘Are you sure, Pano?’ she asked. ‘Things from graves are not interesting to everyone.’ She took a long sip of champagne. ‘Where is Aris?’

  Theocharis raised his chin. ‘Who knows? Chasing tourist women in the bars, no doubt.’ He gave Dhimitra a brief smile. ‘Don’t worry, your stepson can look after himself.’

  Mavros was watching the woman. There was something false about her, something out of place. He couldn’t work out what that element might be. She was decades younger than her husband, but that was hardly unusual in the families of the super-rich. And her hair colour obviously came from a bottle, though again, that was par for the course among women of her status. There was an ill-concealed scowl on her face now, as if the absence of the blustering Aris had ruined her evening.

  ‘Well, Alex?’ Theocharis said, turning to him. ‘You decide. Would you like a brief tour of my private collection before dinner?’

  Mavros felt Eleni’s elbow jab into his side. She was looking at him expectantly. Showing interest was obviously de rigueur in the old tower.

  ‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘That would be very kind of you.’ He looked at Dhimitra. ‘I don’t have much experience of grave goods, but I’m very keen to see some. Are they from the site Eleni’s been excavating?’

  He felt her elbow again, this time harder.

  Theocharis put his still-full glass on the waiter’s tray. ‘Certainly not,’ he replied firmly. ‘All new finds are handed over to the relevant experts for analysis and classification.’ He moved slowly away from the edge of the terrace. ‘As I’m sure Eleni told you. What I’m going to show you are the fruits of my passion for collecting over the last forty years.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you out here, Pano,’ Dhimitra called after him, her voice suggesting that she’d seen this particular passion fruit often enough.

  Theocharis stopped briefly and then limped on towards the house, his weight on the stick. When Mavros caught up with him he said in a low voice, ‘Museum pieces aren’t Dhimitra’s major preoccupation.’ He smiled in a curious way, his lips twisting. ‘She didn’t always live like this.’ He glanced around the opulent terrace. ‘I rescued her from a hard life, but at times I think she resents me for it.’

  Mavros gave his host a polite nod and tried to place Dhimitra Theochari. He was sure he’d seen her somewhere before, not dressed in the products of haute couture.

  Theocharis led them into the cool house. Mavros took in the huge open reception rooms with their gleaming marble floors and ornate furniture that had been built around the medieval tower. The base of the original curved wall was now inside, and the great arch of the gate was protected from the elements. He suspected that the development had contravened numerous building regulations, but Theocharis clearly had enough clout—and wealth—to cut though any bureaucratic tangle.

  ‘The tower was in danger of collapse,’ the old man said as he led them down a broad stone staircase. ‘So we dug out the foundations and strengthened them.’ They came out into a large, dimly lit area. ‘That gave me the perfect space for the pieces I haven’t donated to the museum.’ He took a remote control from his pocket and pressed a button. ‘Behold the glory of death.’

  Mavros didn’t have time to quibble at the melodramatic introduction. As soon as the lights brightened he temporarily lost the power of speech. He stepped forward and moved his eyes slowly around the display cases and the walls behind them, aware that both Theocharis and Eleni were studying his reaction. The strains of doom-laden orchestral music came from speakers in the corners.

  ‘It’s…it’s amazing,’ he said feebly. ‘This must be worth a fortune.’

  Theocharis nodded. ‘Indeed. That’s why I have the security that you may notice.’ He inclined his head towards the closed-circuit TV cameras that were suspended from the ceiling. ‘Let me show you around. Do you recognise the musical accompaniment, by the way? No? Rachmaninov’s symphonic poem The Isle of the Dead. It was inspired by the famous painting by Böcklin of an oarsman steering a white- clad figure to its final resting place.’

  Mavros followed his host around the display cases. There were exquisite pots and flasks from the classical period, including several lekythi like the one he’d seen on the poster for the museum in Athens; there were grave markers of all kinds, from head-high, unadorned columns to miniature statues of humans and animals; and there was a line of sarcophagi labelled as coming from the Hellenistic period, their sides carved in magnificent detail. But, as he went farther into the underground room, Mavros realised that the most important part of the collection was on the far wall. A few metres in front of the wide panel, Theocharis pressed another button to activate additional lights.

  ‘Do you know where you find yourself now, Alex?’ the museum benefactor said, the breath scratching in his throat.

  Mavros looked at him and saw that the skin of his face was taut under the pointed, pure white beard. He looked up at the great mural, some parts with brighter colours that had clearly been restored, and made out a sylvan landscape with a river snaking through it. All around were marsh flowers and drooping trees. The music’s intense rhythm suggested the regular movements of an oarsman.

  ‘Is that Charon in his bark?’ Mavros asked, pointing to the figure at the stern of a small craft in the middle of the stream.

  ‘The ferryman of dead souls,’ Theocharis said. ‘Excellent. You appear to have more than a passing interest in Greek mythology, Alex.’

  Mavros glanced at the old man and shrugged. ‘The benefits of a classical education,’ he lied. Although he went to school in Athens and the Greek system drummed ancient culture into pupils relentlessly, he’d met people at university in the UK who were much better informed than he was about the subject. ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked. ‘I presume you weren’t lucky enough to find it here.’

  Eleni shook her head at him as if he were a particularly dense student.

  Theocharis put a wrinkled hand on Mavros’s arm. ‘This mural dates from the fifth century BC. It is from a palace in Sicily.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘I have contacts over there who enabled me to obtain it. Master restorers worked for years to complete it and to install it here. It has been assigned to the great master Polygnotos, whose painting of the underworld in Delphi is one of the lost masterpieces of the ancient world.’

  Mavros was looking at the depiction of the old ferryman, his beard unkempt and his thin arms bent against the flow of the infernal river. This section of the work seemed to be original. The piece would be worth millions, its value to scholars priceless. So what was it doing in Theocharis’s cellar? And why was it being shown to him?

  ‘Charon was a shadowy figure in classical literature and art,’ his host said as he dimmed the lights, ‘but in later Greece, as Charos, he was equated with the ineluctability of death. In effect, he personified death.’ He clasped Mavros’s forearm again. ‘When you die, it is believed that you fight with Charos.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘And inevitably you lose.’ He turned away.

  Mavros looked at Eleni and raised his shoulders, trying to understand why he’d been brought here. She gazed back at him blankly then followed the old man out. As Mavros moved off, the music rose to a strident climax. He suddenly thought he could feel the eyes of the death god burning into his back from the underground wall.

  If Theocharis was making some kind of oblique threat, it was having the desired effect.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE screen flickered in the darkened room, then the image consolidated.
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br />   The woman was cowering in the corner of the cave, her bound hands clenched between her legs. She was trying to cover her breasts with her tanned upper arms. The screams she was emitting could not be heard as the sound had been deactivated. Then the light, which up till then had come only from a single torch, was increased. An oil lamp was placed by hands with varnished nails on either side of the captive, out of reach of her flailing legs. These were quickly stilled when the rope around her ankles was stretched.

  The image was suddenly unsteady, the camera held now in hands that were shaking. The woman kept her eyes off the lens, as if by looking at it she would become complicit in what was about to happen to her. Now that her bonds were taut, she stopped struggling and let her head droop to one side, her chest heaving for breath.

  A male figure appeared on the screen, the heavily muscled upper part of the body naked, jeans and heavy boots on the lower part. He turned to face the camera without reservation. His face was split by a vicious grin, his eyes staring and wild. After holding his gaze on the lens for a few more seconds, he loosened the rope attached to the woman’s ankles. Grabbing her by the hair, he forced her into a kneeling position. The ropes had drawn blood on her wrists and she was mouthing inaudible words, her lips cracked. Then she was hit by a series of heavy slaps on both cheeks and she slumped as far as her bonds would allow. The assailant manoeuvred her towards the wall and then calculatedly drove her head three times against the stone. She collapsed forward, her backside raised above her crumpled legs.

  The position of her body seemed to enrage her attacker even more. He glared at the lens then pulled down his jeans and massaged his half-erect penis. Pushing the woman farther forward with his knees, he raised her buttocks into a higher position. Then he inserted his now stiff member between them and started riding his victim like a cowboy on a steer, one arm pulling the rope around her wrists. The camera stayed on him until he arched backwards and rammed his groin into her with quicker thrusts, mouth hanging open as he reached his climax. As soon as he withdrew, the screen went blank, dots and flashes of colour running past.