The Green Lady Read online

  ‘Make sure you don’t break the law.’

  ‘Wouldn’t think of it. In the meantime, there’s something else you should know.’ He told him about the murdered woman in Trikkala.

  Xanthakos closed his mouth when Mavros finished. ‘Where do you get this information?’

  ‘Contacts,’ Mavros said, tapping his nose.

  ‘There’s obviously been a media blackout. Those fucking Games.’ The deputy commissioner leaned against his car and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘Presumably you think it’s the same killer – this Son, who’s somewhere around here. Your ecologists seem unlikely targets for him.’

  ‘Not really. They’ve got up the noses of the HMC.’

  ‘But Bekakos hit them with a court order.’

  ‘Bekakos might not know everything that’s going on.’

  Xanthakos raised his sunglasses and glared at Mavros. ‘Any idea who might be behind the killings, then? I mean, who employed the Son and why?’

  Mavros gave that some thought. Paschos Poulos had mentioned the torturer to Maria Bekakou at the airport. Could it be that she knew things her husband didn’t? Or was there some shadowy presence behind Poulos himself?

  ‘Not really,’ he replied.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the deputy commissioner. ‘A lot.’

  SEVENTEEN

  At first the young men were keen, but they didn’t like it when the Fat Man fought back. They’d been told he was a lump of lard well past his prime. What they hadn’t heard was that, despite never having been a frontline fighter for the Communists, he’d been on enough demonstrations to know how to look after himself. As soon as he was vertical, he concentrated on the man with the piece of wood. He gained possession of that by grabbing the hand that held it and crushing the fingers. That brought his assailant to his knees, with a lot of squealing. Once he had the thick club, the odds rapidly turned in his favour. He belted the man with the curved knife on the side of the head and watched him collapse like an undercooked meringue. The other man turned and ran.

  ‘Right,’ Yiorgos said, panting as he held the club under the conscious young man’s chin. ‘Tell me . . . who paid you . . . to attack me.’

  There was an outbreak of babbling in a language the Fat Man couldn’t understand. He didn’t like bullying people, but his blood was up. He jabbed the club into the young man’s belly, sending him flying backwards. Then he put one foot on his victim’s chest and exerted pressure.

  ‘Last chance.’ He grinned. ‘Think how easily . . . I can crush your ribs . . . puncture your lungs . . . flatten your heart.’

  Suddenly the young man could speak Greek. There was a lot of, ‘No, I can’t tell’, and, ‘He’ll kill me if I talk’, but that died away when he saw the glint in the Yiorgos’s eyes.

  ‘OK, OK, I speak name. Please,’ he begged, ‘not to tell anyone. Not to tell man.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ the Fat Man said, shifting his weight to the immigrant’s disadvantage.

  ‘Man’s name Roufos. Tryfon Roufos.’

  Yiorgos immediately recognised the name despite the way it had been mangled. He’d heard it often in the past.

  ‘And where did you meet this Roufos?’

  The immigrant hesitated, but not for long. ‘Not tell. Please not tell. He call my friend who ran away. We go to restaurant called The Tree in Menandrou. He give us your photo and say us to wait here for you.’

  ‘What were you to do to me?’ The Fat Man pressed a little harder.

  ‘I . . . we not do it . . . kill you . . . we to kill you.’

  An icy finger ran up Yiorgos’s spine. ‘And how much did he pay you?’

  The young man turned his head as far to the side as he could. ‘Five hundred euros.’

  ‘Each?’

  ‘No, for we all.’

  The Fat Man moved the club back, picked up the curved blade and signalled to the immigrant to look after his friend. He went back to the bush, not expecting to see Maria Bekakou standing at the summit any longer. She wasn’t.

  Back at the car, he rang Alex to pass on what was definitely a break in the case.

  ‘Roufos?’ Mavros exclaimed. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘I’m over the moon and halfway to Venus.’ There was a pause. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Rescuing my kataïfi from the furnace that’s the Peugeot. By the way, I was hugely flattered that my life is worth as much as five hundred of the European capitalists’ currency.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally.’

  ‘How much more—’

  ‘I’m trying to concentrate, Yiorgo. Tryfon Roufos. I might have known that kiddie-fiddler would be involved in this, considering the antiquities angle.’ Mavros had first come across the tall, balding and ultra-sleazy proprietor of Hellas History S.A. during a case on the small island of Trigono. More recently the man who was widely believed to be the country’s most ruthless smuggler and dealer of illicit antiquities had turned up in Crete during the big case there. He’d managed to slip away from the police, no doubt using contacts in high places, but it was no surprise that he was still in Greece, despite the outstanding warrant for his arrest.

  ‘I’m going back to Kifissia to kick down that gate and put the fear of Marx into Maria bitchy Bekakou,’ the Fat Man said. ‘She and her tosser husband are obviously in this with Phis and Roufos. Ancient artifacts and modern underage girls.’

  ‘Hold on, Yiorgo,’ Mavros said. ‘You may be right, but getting yourself sued for criminal damage isn’t going to help.’

  ‘I should have taken the money off the little bastards too . . .’

  ‘There’s no point in you going to The Tree either. You know what a hellhole it is down there and Roufos will have made himself scarce. Obviously La Bekakou spotted you. The question is, do they know of your connection to me?’

  ‘Oh, I see, it’s all about you. I should have realised. The great Alex Mavros is the target, not his unimportant friend and dogsbody.’

  ‘Finished?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Good. Your instinct is right, as it happens.’

  ‘Which one? To piss on the Bekakos’ rugs?’

  ‘No, to strike back immediately. The best way to do that is to target their weakest link.’

  ‘Which is . . . oh, I get it. Professor Phis.’

  ‘Correct. Fancy trying to get into his place and seeing what you can find?’

  ‘Why not? Except he’ll likely have a serious security system and armoured doors if he’s got antiquities in there.’

  ‘I’m sure you can think of a way round and through those.’

  ‘I’ll see. Any sign of you know who?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’m sure he won’t be long.’

  ‘Thanks for that thought. How are your wounds?’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘So brave.’ Mavros rang off.

  Telemachos Xanthakos looked at him quizzically. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘You’re a smart cop, you’ll have read the wanted bulletins. Remember a specimen called Tryfon Roufos?’

  ‘The antiquities dealer?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you took any steps.’

  The deputy commissioner shrugged. ‘Nothing much I could do. Athens and Thessaloniki are the centres for that trade. I spoke to the antiquities ephors. They knew about him, but said he doesn’t operate in Viotia.’

  ‘He operates everywhere. Now he has to do it underground, he’ll be even more slippery. Any significant robberies recently?’

  ‘The usual kind of thing – icons and other ecclesiastical valuables disappearing from rural churches, but nothing from ancient times that I’m aware of.’

  ‘The piece of shit deals in icons too – anything that’ll give him a hefty profit.’ Mavros took a deep breath and decided to open up further. ‘He ordered a hit on a colleague of mine in the big city. Three immigrants, probably illegal – 500 euros was the fee. Not only is he a murdero
us bastard, he’s cheap.’

  Xanthakos looked at him. ‘Presumably the hit was ordered as a way of getting at you.’

  ‘I think so. The Fat Man – that’s my friend – has been putting me up recently and he’s not hard to spot.’

  ‘You call your friend “Fat Man”?’

  Mavros caught his eye. ‘Why not? If you’re really lucky, I’ll start calling you “Tall Man”.’

  The policeman laughed. ‘So we’re friends, are we? Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me anything close to the whole story?’

  Because, thought Mavros, you’ll cramp my style. And I can’t be sure how far I can trust you. Even if you’re clean, your boss will have been kowtowing to the HMC for years.

  ‘The suspect declines to answer.’

  ‘What?’ Mavros smiled. ‘I’m not a suspect. I didn’t take aim at the ecologists or knock out Akis Exarchos.’

  ‘I heard the tough guy fisherman refused to go to hospital. You should steer clear of him. Since his wife died, he hasn’t been in his right mind.’

  ‘Anyone who takes a run at the Son is OK in my book. Speaking of whom, why don’t you get after him?’

  Xanthakos stiffened. ‘I’m doing my job, difficult though it is. The question is, whose job are you doing?’

  ‘Client confidentiality,’ Mavros said. ‘Look, could you send a patrol car to Kypseli and have it park near the ecologists’ office? They’re just kids and they don’t stand a chance against the Son.’

  ‘I’ve been warned off by my chief,’ Xanthakos said, shaking his head. ‘They’ve annoyed some major players.’

  ‘So you’re going to leave them to be burned or decapitated?’

  The policeman’s cheeks reddened. ‘I’m working on it,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Did you know that Lykos’s aunt is an MP?’

  ‘I’ve read his file.’

  Mavros glared at him. ‘I bet you have. I suppose you think that since she’s a Communist, no one will pay any attention to her.’

  Telemachos Xanthakos turned away. ‘Don’t push your luck, Alex.’

  Yeah, right, Mavros thought. He wasn’t looking forward to babysitting Lykos and Angeliki. On the other hand, he was pretty sure they hadn’t told him everything they knew about the HMC’s activities or about life in the town by numbers that was Paradheisos.

  Ourania had spent most days of the summer holidays in her room. From the day after the pig had pumped his mess on her, she’d started to withdraw from her friends. Her teachers noticed the change in her too – she’d been one of the better students, but had drifted towards the bottom of the class, showing little interest in any subject. They spoke to her parents, who were mystified but too overworked to do anything other than try unsuccessfully to find out why she had ‘withered on the vine’, as the director of the middle school put it. She ate irregularly and sported bruises she wouldn’t explain. Her mother heard banging one evening after she’d closed the shop early and discovered Ourania pounding her arm against her desk. She gave no explanation for her behaviour and refused to see a doctor, muttering, ‘The company controls everything’.

  Today she felt better. Perhaps telling the long-haired, unshaven Alex Mavros had helped, though the shame of revealing her disgrace still burned in the depths of her being. Could he really do anything to punish her abuser? The man was rich and people like him didn’t go to prison. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by a tide of resentment. Why should she cage herself in her room while the pig was out in the sunshine? Why should she be a victim? She wasn’t guilty of anything, she’d never even broken a school rule until he ruined her life.

  Ourania got up and pulled on a hoodie. She would be far too hot, but she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to face people. In the month since the schools had closed, she’d got out of the way of being with others, even on the pavement. Taking her keys but leaving her mobile behind – it needed charging and who was going to call her? – she went downstairs and opened the front door. The sun blinded her, but she had no glasses or cap. Anyway, she preferred to walk with her head down.

  There weren’t many people around, even as she turned off Themistokleous and headed up the hill towards the main square. She’d have liked to go for a swim at the far end of the town beach, but none of the locals went into the water any more. There had been too many people dying before their time. The HMC said the rumours were rubbish and brought in doctors to prove it, but everyone knew the families of sufferers had been offered compensation – as long as they kept their mouths shut. It was all right for the people in the pink section of Paradheisos. The managers had swimming-pools provided by the company in each street. Ourania didn’t have any friends up there. The bosses’ kids ignored everyone else.

  She was hoping that the girls she’d been friendly with – Fofo, Yiota, Maro – might be at the benches under the plane trees. In past summers the girls had congregated there, while the boys circled them on their bikes like vultures. Ourania would never touch a boy, never allow one near her – that was the legacy of Rovertos Bekakos. She stopped as a bitter liquid rushed up her throat, spitting it on to the road. Then she went over to the periptero and bought a small bottle of water. The old man inside the kiosk smiled at her, but she scowled. Men. They were animals. Even Alex Mavros would have the instinctive urges she’d read about in her biology book. Was there no one she could trust? She had a thought. Why had Mavros shown her that photograph of the girl called Lia? She’d only met her once and he hadn’t been clear. Had she suffered in the same way?

  There was no one at the benches. Ourania sat down and glanced around the place she had spent much of her childhood in. When she’d been at kindergarten, she ran around the dusty playground outside the multicoloured building to her right. Ahead was the town hall, a concrete monstrosity, and next to it the church, its high dome glinting in the sunlight. She’d been there every Easter, but she wouldn’t be attending the ceremony of the resurrection again. Christianity was a lie. There was no goodness in the world. She turned to her left and took in the shops and restaurants. There were some well-known franchises as people in Paradheisos – especially the pink section residents – were better off than most Greeks. Where was everyone, she asked herself. Surely they couldn’t all have gone off to attend those stupid Games.

  Then a dark blue sports car drove past, Ourania didn’t know the make. But she did know the driver, his arm hanging out of the open window. It was him, her abuser. She watched as the car slowed to a halt outside the most expensive of the restaurants. Rovertos Bekakos got out and stretched his arms. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and his hair was in the back-brushed wave that she remembered so clearly. Then he took off his sunglasses and looked straight at her.

  For Ourania, that was bad enough. Then a smile spread across his fleshy lips and he beckoned to her. Before she sprang up and ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction, she saw another car pull up beside his. It was large and gold-coloured. Men with muscular arms got out, one opening the rear door. The shorter man who emerged reminded her of someone. It was only as she was halfway to the sea front that she realised who that someone was – the girl called Lia.

  Lambis Bitsos arrived in Kypseli not long after Mavros had returned.

  ‘Good day,’ the journalist said, as he walked into the Ecologists for a Better Viotia office and ran an approving eye over Angeliki. ‘Has the bastard come back?’

  Mavros got up and steered Bitsos to the door. ‘You don’t have to go into detail about the Son in front of them. They claim the only reason he would be targeting them is their opposition to the HMC.’

  ‘Oh, right. So they’re civilians.’ He stared at Mavros. ‘No “Great to see you, Lambi”, no “There’s a superb taverna I’m taking you to”, not even a ‘How do you feel after such a long and exhausting drive?”?’

  Mavros laughed. ‘Tosser. I’ll tell you one thing – don’t eat any local produce, especially not sea food.’

  The journalist peered at the HMC in
stallation across the bay. ‘There does seem to be a lot of muck emanating from that place.’

  The wind had dropped, sending the temperature towards forty degrees and leaving the pollution cloud in place above the plant.

  ‘Look, Alex, I need to justify being here. I’m already getting both ears bent by my editor for wasting time in Trikkala.’

  ‘It’s not your fault the government embargoed the story.’

  ‘Ah, but was it the government? I reckon the Olympic security committee’s running the country these days.’

  The committee on which both Paschos Poulos and Brigadier Nikos Kriaras served, Mavros thought.

  ‘So,’ Bitsos continued, ‘the Son – assuming it’s him and, frankly, I don’t doubt it – has done away with three people: one burned, one eye- and hairless, and the other headless.’

  ‘And the number of pomegranate seeds in the bodies is going down.’

  ‘Hm. Two points. Why did he kill those particular individuals?’

  ‘And what’s with the seeds?’ Mavros sat on a bench under the bamboo shelter that served as the village bus stop.

  ‘Not many people around,’ Bitsos said, joining him.

  Mavros told him about the cancer victims. ‘This is all linked to the HMC works, I’m sure of it. Paschos Poulos’s lawyer Rovertos Bekakos has been down here frequently in recent months.’

  ‘And he was at the blockade yesterday – I saw the snake on TV. Why do you think he’s doing anything other than his job?’

  Before Mavros could open his mouth, Lykos ran out of the office.

  ‘It’s Ourania,’ he said, when he reached them. ‘She sounds terrified. Can you pick her up on the coast road in Paradheisos?’ The young man shrugged. ‘I would go, but the court order . . .’

  Mavros got up. ‘Stay here, Lambi, I’ll be back soon. No doubt Lykos can tell you where to get something to eat.’ As he left, he heard the activist telling Bitsos that he’d seen his reports on TV. That would keep them occupied – there was nothing the reporter liked better than boasting about his appearances as a crime expert, especially when there was a young woman in the vicinity. Christ, he thought. How will Ourania react to him?