The Green Lady Page 19

  He raced along the shore road, wondering where Xanthakos was. He wasn’t at all sure that the cop would share information with him any more – and if he found out about the presence of the country’s best-known crime hack, he’d stop cooperating immediately. Then again, it sounded like the Viotia police had been effectively sidelined by Athens. It suddenly struck him that Nikos Kriaras hadn’t called him. He would know that Mavros was down here, if not from the TV then from Bekakos. If he was involved in some conspiracy with Poulos and his lawyer, why hadn’t he told Mavros to get back to Athens? Then again, Kriaras was a consummate operator and he’d be keeping as many options open as he could.

  As he came into Paradheisos, he passed a large gold Mercedes that had stopped on the waterfront. The rear windows were dark and he couldn’t see the occupants, just a couple of steroid-crunchers in the front. Greek plates, so not tourists who’d missed the Delphi turn. He glanced in the mirror. The car had turned up the slope and disappeared.

  Mavros looked ahead again. He was almost at the end of the white houses. There was a dumpster at the junction with the road that led to the HMC plant. A figure in a hoodie stepped out as he approached and he stood on the brake.

  ‘Ourania?’ he said, staring into the sun. He heard the passenger door open.

  ‘Drive!’ the girl sobbed. ‘Quick!’ She ducked down so she wasn’t visible from outside.

  Mavros did a three-point turn, then headed back along the front. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, moving a hand towards her back and then stopping himself. ‘Ourania?’

  The girl was weeping and gasping for breath.

  Mavros approached the other end of Paradheisos, catching a glimpse of a dark blue Porsche in his mirror. It followed him and then turned up into the town.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘We’re out of Paradheisos and on our way to Kypseli.’

  The crying gradually stopped, but Ourania kept her head down.

  ‘Did someone hurt you?’ Mavros asked.

  ‘No. But . . . but I saw him.’ It was obvious who she meant.

  ‘At your house?’

  ‘No, in the square. He . . . he beckoned to me . . . as if . . . as if he expected me to go to him willingly. I . . . I ran for it.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘There . . . there was someone else. In a big gold car.’

  Mavros reckoned that Bekakos and the other vehicle had been searching for the girl.

  ‘I saw a man get out.’ Ourania paused. ‘He’s her father, isn’t he? I mean, Lia’s.’

  Mavros felt his heart rate increase. Paschos Poulos was in Paradheisos? In the middle of the Olympic Games? Something big was going down, but he had no idea what.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Fat Man went prepared. His late mother had made sure his tool kit was fully stocked, because she insisted that all the house’s plumbing, electrical and other maintenance be carried out by Yiorgos. He had moaned about that for decades, especially when the drains blocked and the ancient wiring needed fixing. He’d lost count of the number of times his shoes had been soaked in shit and his hair raised by electrical shocks. But the end result was that he was a skilled handyman and even had the boiler suit to prove it – Kyra Fedhra had found it in a rubbish bin and resewn the seams, after adding extra material to encompass her son’s girth. It had the name of a long-defunct plumber’s business on it and was as good a disguise as he possessed.

  Parking the Peugeot three streets away from Professor Phis’s apartment block, the Fat Man set off with his tool box. One street would have done for the sake of cover, but the area was packed with cars even during what was now the summer holiday. It seemed that people really had been taken in by the hype and stayed in the city to attend the Games. After he’d watched the block from across the street for a few minutes, Yiorgos went over and examined the names by the entry buttons. One was handwritten, the spidery letters those of an old woman. He pressed her bell.

  ‘Yes?’ came a weak voice.

  ‘Plumber.’

  ‘I don’t need a plumber.’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a leak in the basement and no one else is answering.’

  ‘I hope you’re not a burglar.’

  ‘Certainly not, Madam.’

  The Fat Man was buzzed in. Exaggerated politeness usually won the day, not that he used it much. All he had to hope was that the old bag wasn’t on the ground floor. It seemed not. There was another list of the occupiers inside, this one showing which floor they were on. Epameinondhas Phis appeared to have the whole fourth floor. Getting into the lift, which claimed it was designed for six people but barely took him, Yiorgos pressed five. When he got to the top floor, he walked down as quietly as he could, looking round the corner as he approached the professor’s domain. There was a marble-tiled corridor and, at the end, a black door and frame that could have come from Fort Knox.

  ‘Shit,’ the Fat Man said, under his breath. It was then that the fundamental flaw in Mavros’s idea revealed itself to him. Phis knew Maria Bekakou. What if she had told him about the man who had been tailing her? What if Tryfon Roufos had told him about the hit he’d arranged? Then again, maybe the immigrants had gone into hiding and kept their cock-up to themselves. But still, how was he to talk his way into the apparently hyper-secure flat? Maybe that wouldn’t be necessary – maybe the old man was out. In which case, all he had to do was call one of the comrades and get him to bring round a bucket of TNT.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Alex,’ he muttered. ‘Oh well . . .’ He slid a screwdriver into one pocket and a chisel into the other, then set off down the hallway. He put his ear to the door, but it was so thick that he couldn’t hear a thing. There was nothing for it. He had to ring the bell.

  ‘Who is it?’ The high-pitched voice made him jump. It came from a small speaker he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Any jobs to be done?’ he said, in his most ingratiating voice. ‘I tighten taps, I clean out drains, I fix plugs—’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  The Fat Man went into full mendacious mode. ‘I was in Mrs Manelli’s replacing a U-bend so I took the opportunity of trying the other doors. I hope you don’t mind, sir.’

  ‘Mrs Manelli, eh? She needs more than her U-bend replaced.’ There was a harsh cackle. ‘As a matter of fact, there is something I need done.’

  There was a series of loud clicks and the door swung open like the entrance to a tomb. There was very little lighting inside and the floor was of black slabs.

  ‘My, you’re a big one.’

  Yiorgos looked down. More than can be said for you, he thought, nodding at the wizened hunchback with the Einstein hair in front of him. He ran his eye around the place. Several doors were closed. He was led into a large sitting cum dining room. Almost every part of the wall space was covered by glass-fronted display cases.

  ‘Christ and the Holy Mother,’ the Fat Man said, under his breath.

  There was nothing wrong with Professor Phis’s hearing. ‘On the contrary, my dear man. They are unrepresented in my collection, but every Olympian god is. Look.’ He pointed to a red-figure vase with a bent finger. ‘Zeus in his splendour, thunderbolts in each hand.’ The old man turned to a small bronze statue. ‘Poseidon with his trident.’ Then he moved towards the other side of the room. ‘And Hades in his helmet of invisibility. Do you know how rare that is?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘It’s the only one that’s ever been found.’

  ‘Really?’ The Fat Man decided playing dumb would be the best way of eliciting information – not that much playing was necessary regarding ancient pottery. ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘Ah, that would be telling,’ Phis said, with a crooked grin.

  Yiorgos shrugged. ‘Doesn’t work anyway.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The helmet of invisibility. I can still see him.’

  The old man blinked. ‘Anyway, what I need you to do is check the wiring behind that cabinet over there. The lights keep flickerin
g.’

  ‘These are all women,’ the Fat Man said, peering at the statuettes and pots.

  ‘Demeter and Persephone,’ the professor said. He pointed at a black figure vase. ‘Only on this piece can you see a male figure – Hades again, in his role as husband of Persephone.’

  Yiorgos stared at the pieces in as bovine a fashion as he could manage. ‘Who’s Persephone, then? There was a song about her, how did it go?’

  Epameinondhas Phis laughed harshly. ‘The public education system really is a disgrace. Demeter is the goddess of crops and fertility. Her daughter Persephone was abducted by Hades. You do know who he is?’

  ‘Em, Death?’ Yiorgos hazarded.

  The professor sighed. ‘Lord of the underworld. Because Persephone ate pomegranate seeds – three, four, five, six or seven, depending on which source you believe – she was condemned to spending every winter beneath the earth, but her return in spring signals the beginning of the earth’s annual flowering.’

  The Fat Man knew most of that, but he was interested in the reference to pomegranate seeds. Did that mean there would be more murders, the future victims containing three and four seeds? As he unscrewed the case from the wall, he pressed the old man casually.

  ‘Why pomegranate seeds, then?’

  ‘Well, they’re among the few seeds with liquid as well as solid content, so they can be construed as life-giving. The ancient Egyptians believed they symbolized fertility and prosperity. Conversely, our ancestors saw them as the fruit of the dead because of the Persephone myth. In more recent times we have deviated from ancient knowledge and use the fruit at weddings as well as funerals, on religious feast days, and to bring luck to new houses.’ Phis stepped back as the cabinet came away from the wall. ‘Be careful, these pieces are worth a fortune.’

  Which begs the question, how did you come by them on a professor’s salary, Yiorgos asked himself.

  ‘Ah, I see the problem,’ he said aloud. ‘Some of the wires have come unspliced. Tut, tut, this is very shoddy workmanship.’

  ‘But you can fix it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Fifty euros should cover it.’

  ‘Thirty.’

  The Fat Man moved away and put his screwdriver into the tool box. It was always the rich who argued over money. ‘Nice meeting you,’ he said, heading for the door.

  ‘Wait,’ Phis said, coming after him. ‘All right, we’ll say forty.’

  ‘Forty-five.’ Yiorgos didn’t care about the money, he was enjoying winding the old skinflint up.

  ‘Oh, very well. I have people coming this afternoon and I need everything to be in perfect order. But for that price you’ll tighten the screws on all the other cabinets.’

  ‘All right.’ Yiorgos had to be acquiescent. There were some framed photos on a table by the French windows that he wanted to check out.

  The professor was the kind of employer who wanted to oversee everything.

  That was good because it meant he could be questioned.

  ‘Did you dig these things up yourself?’ Yiorgos asked, as he respliced the junction wires.

  ‘Some of them,’ the professor said guardedly. Then he seemed to remember he was talking to a nobody. ‘But most I bought.’

  ‘You must be loaded.’

  All but the most wealthy liked to be complimented on their prosperity. ‘I inherited some money and –’ the old man grinned lopsidedly – ‘I made a killing on the stock market.’

  That would be the same stock market that ate up the savings of many misguided Greeks, the Fat Man thought.

  ‘Right, let’s try these lights,’ he said. ‘There you are. Perfect.’ He moved the cabinet carefully back to the wall and reinserted the screws. Phis then followed him around the room as he checked the other display cases’ fixings. They were fine – the old man was paranoid. Then he got to the last cabinet and casually cast glances at the photos. He got several shocks. One showed the professor with the ex-king, another with Aristotle Onassis, another with Melina Mercouri and yet another with the bastard antiquities dealer Tryfon Roufos. Alex would be happy to know about that connection, while he himself had to hold back from belting the old fool.

  Phis saw the direction of his gaze. ‘Yes, I knew the king,’ he said. ‘Are you a monarchist?’

  Mouth filling with bile, Yiorgos said he was – the sacrifices he made for Mavros.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. What this country needs is the ancient model – gods who inspire fear and kings who apply order. Parliament is full of swine.’

  He was right on the last count, Yiorgos thought – apart from a few honourable Communists. Then it struck him that the old lunatic had used the present tense when he talked about gods and kings. He discounted the latter as there was no chance of the monarchy being restored, but there were people openly believing in the Olympian gods. Was Phis one of them after all?

  He hung around as long as he could, even checking the professor’s kitchen and bathroom drains, but he wasn’t allowed into the majority of the rooms and eventually he took his leave. Phis tried to stiff him on his fee, handing over forty euros, so he put his large foot down.

  Back on the street, he knew he had to wait – who were the people the old man was expecting? He was lucky. He found a parking space near the apartment block and sat back to await the arrival of Phis’s guests. At least the old fool hadn’t known who he was.

  Angeliki took Ourania into the back room and closed the door behind them. Mavros sat down with Lykos and Bitsos. The former had a curious smile on his face, while the latter was shovelling the contents of tins of mousakas and dolmadhes into his mouth, having decided against the sole café-restaurant in Kypseli.

  ‘Stuffed vine leaves are good for your sex drive, my old man always said.’

  Mavros glared at him. ‘Lambi, that girl’s been abused. Cut it out.’

  ‘What, my sex drive? I’ll need a bigger knife. Anyway, when am I going to get to talk to her? You told me her story’s hot.’

  ‘I think I’d better tell you,’ Mavros said, getting the nod from Lykos. ‘She won’t be able to cope with you.’

  ‘I’m not a paedophile,’ Bitsos said indignantly.

  ‘Are you sure all the girls in the magazines you salivate on are over fifteen?’ Mavros give him a bitter smile. ‘Thought not.’ Then he told him what had happened to Ourania.

  ‘I always thought Bekakos was a slimy specimen,’ the journo said, when Mavros finished.

  ‘Takes one to know one.’

  Lykos laughed.

  Bitsos turned to him. ‘Quiet, sonny. This is an adult conversation.’

  The young man smiled knowingly and went on tapping at his keyboard.

  ‘You know I can’t use it.’

  Mavros nodded. ‘Bekakos has friends everywhere.’

  ‘Including in my management. But it might lead to something that even they can’t shut up.’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping. Ourania may have seen Paschos Poulos in Paradheisos earlier today. She thinks Bekakos and his boss were chasing her.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘The lawyer smiled at her.’

  ‘Ah. He wanted another go.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Mavros turned to Lykos. ‘You said you’d heard of other girls being abused.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Bitsos exploded.

  ‘Keep it down, Lambi,’ Mavros said, frowning.

  ‘Not exactly as in girls aged fourteen, i.e. under the age of consent. I have heard rumours of sex parties involving girls over fifteen – not illegal, but morally reprehensible, considering the people who supposedly take part.’

  Mavros and Bitsos exchanged glances.

  ‘Who might they be?’ the journalist asked.

  ‘Who do you think?’

  ‘HMC management?’ Mavros guessed.

  Lykos nodded slowly and then looked outside – a van had drawn up in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Oh-oh,’ Bitsos said, taking in the we
ll-built young men in T-shirts and jeans who were getting out.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lykos said. ‘My aunt sent them down from Athens. Party cadres.’

  ‘His aunt’s Tatiana Roubani,’ Mavros explained.

  ‘Oh.’ The tension left the journo’s skinny frame. ‘Good.’

  The four men came in and nodded to Lykos, then turned to Mavros and Bitsos.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Lykos said to the cadres. ‘They’re on our side. I think.’

  One of the men stepped forward. ‘We are to act as your personal bodyguards. Where you go, we go.’

  The door to the rear opened and Angeliki came out.

  ‘Hello, boys,’ she said, smiling widely.

  ‘They’ve obviously worked together before,’ Mavros said to Bitsos.

  ‘Yes, we have,’ Lykos said. ‘The Communist Party has ecological aims too – especially when those are being compromised by a plant that has expelled the union.’

  Mavros introduced himself.

  The young men looked at him and then at each other.

  ‘Spyros Mavros’s son? Andonis Mavros’s brother?’ asked one. There was admiration in his voice.

  ‘The same. Not that I’m like them. I’m not in the Party, for a start. What do I call you guys?’

  ‘Em, I’m Cadre One, he’s Cadre Two, he’s—’

  ‘I get it. Anonymity in case of problems. Don’t worry, my old man had a code name during the war – Kanellos. Slightly more imaginative than yours.’

  Akis Exarchos came in, fish spears in both hands. He shook hands with the cadres, obviously having met them before.

  ‘So you think you’re safe now,’ Mavros said. ‘But unless your friends have had Special Forces training and are armed to the teeth, the Son is still a big danger.’

  ‘We can look after ourselves,’ said Cadre Two.

  ‘Using what?’ Bitsos asked.

  ‘Our fists. And we have clubs in the van.’

  Mavros scratched his stubble. ‘Well, they’re better than nothing. I still think you’d all be better off in Athens.’

  ‘What, even me?’ Akis asked.