The Green Lady Page 5

  ‘I ordered it for you.’

  ‘Uh-huh. There isn’t much left.’

  ‘You know me – hungrier than a hyena.’

  Mavros dipped bread into the aubergine paste. ‘So, how have you been?’

  Bitsos took a slug of slightly diluted ouzo and smiled. ‘Socialising, are we?’

  ‘If we were doing that, I’d have brought magazines.’

  The journalist lifted his battered briefcase. Underneath was a brown paper bag, the garish jackets of the triple-X publications he favoured poking out. ‘I’m already well supplied.’

  ‘Nazi Vampire Lesbians? Jesus, Lambi, how low can you sink?’

  ‘Very low indeed.’ Bitsos grinned. ‘Any sign of Niki?’

  ‘Watch it,’ Mavros warned. ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. I always fancied her.’

  ‘The feeling wasn’t anywhere near mutual.’

  ‘That’s what made it even more exciting.’

  Mavros gave him the eye. ‘How are your daughters?’

  ‘All three of them on to their second husbands, as you very well know. I think Ritsa’s shagging around, as well.’

  ‘You must be very proud. Do you want more to eat?’ He knew the answer. The journalist might have been skeletal, but he ate like a large quadruped. Mavros ordered another serving of wine-stewed pork and a slab of melted cheese. He also opted for the taverna’s own wine rather than its brain-melting ouzo.

  ‘Busy?’ Bitsos asked.

  ‘Sort of. You?’

  ‘“Sort of”, as in you need help from old Lambis?’ He laughed when Mavros nodded. ‘Me? Haven’t you noticed? With the Games on and the cops all over the city in force, the criminals are being good boys. They’ve put off killing each other to concentrate on fleecing the visitors.’

  ‘I hear the Albanians and Serbs have imported hookers to cover the increase in demand.’

  ‘True,’ the journalist said, making space for the new plates. ‘But they’re keeping a close watch on them and there have been no cat fights.’

  ‘All of which means you must be at a major loose end.’

  ‘Ah, now we get to it. You want me to drop everything and become your sidekick.’

  Mavros choked on a piece of sausage. After he’d recovered, he assured Bitsos that wasn’t the case. The idea of working in close proximity to the most notorious newspaper ghoul in Athens had little appeal. ‘No, I just need a pointer or two.’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  Mavros laughed. ‘Now we get to it. The usual. Exclusive on the story when everything’s wrapped up.’

  Bitsos started to laugh, an unpleasant sound. ‘How many times have you promised me that and failed to deliver, Alex.’

  ‘I gave you an inside angle on the Crete case.’

  ‘True. That makes once.’

  Mavros knew he was on shaky ground, given the extreme confidentiality of Lia Poulou’s disappearance. ‘All right, I will say this. Even if the case is blacked out from above, I’ll tell you all about it. Knowledge is power, even if you can’t print it.’

  Bitsos finally finished eating. He mopped his brow with a paper napkin and lit a foul-smelling unfiltered cigarette. ‘We’ll see. What’s the angle?’

  Mavros stifled a groan. A frizzy-haired young man had started setting up a sound system. The last time he’d played, he sounded like Bob Dylan on laughing gas.

  ‘Have you heard of anyone important going missing in recent months?’ he asked, with as much insouciance as he could manage.

  ‘Well, there was that ship-owner back in June, remember? His family coughed up a couple of million and he was set free on Mount Olympos with his hands tied to his ankles. Nearly died of exposure.’

  ‘Russians, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Right, though I heard a rumour that one of his competitors paid for the kidnapping and was less than impressed when he reappeared alive.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  Bitsos stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘With your fine law degree from . . . where was it again?’

  ‘Edinburgh.’ Mavros had studied at the university there after going through the Greek primary and secondary system.

  ‘Of course, the Athens of the North – with substantially worse weather. Anyway, you’re familiar with the term quid pro quo, yes?’

  Mavros considered it. On the face of it, Bitsos hadn’t heard about his case, but that didn’t mean he might not have information that would be helpful.

  ‘A hypothesis only. Rich man. Daughter missing for some time. Kidnapping?’

  The journalist put on the gold-framed glasses which were hanging round his neck. ‘Interesting, Alex. Very interesting.’ He raised his hand and ordered more drink. ‘But I haven’t heard a thing.’

  Shit, Mavros said to himself. What now? If he set Lambis loose with the Poulos name, anything could happen. On the other hand, the hack knew people in all sorts of dubious places. Still, he needed more time to figure the pros and cons.

  The singer broke into Theodhorakis’s Sto Periyiali to Kryfo, mangling the Nobel winner Seferis’s poem.

  ‘God, how can you stand it, Lambi? It’s hotter than hell and Hades is on lead vocals.’

  Bitsos laughed. ‘I never liked that old bore Seferis. Come to think of it, Theodhorakis is a wanker too, commie one moment, ultra-nationalist the next. They deserve all they get.’

  That was double sacrilege as far as Mavros was concerned, but he kept a grip on himself. ‘Tell me, have you ever heard of a rich man’s daughter going missing for several months?’

  The journalist thought about that. ‘Occasionally. They usually turn up in Brazil with their riding instructor or the like. Most of the time, the family pays the cops to put their best people on it and offers a hefty reward. One or both of those does the trick.’

  ‘What about kidnappings that go wrong?’

  ‘You read my reports, don’t you? If the crooks are idiots, they can’t take the strain and kill the victim to save their skins. Almost always, the body’s found and the kidnappers are nailed, either officially or by contract killers.’

  Mavros pricked up his ears. ‘Interesting. You mean the families have underworld figures on the job as well as the cops?’

  ‘Of course. Would you trust the ELAS, even if you were paying them under the table? A bigger bunch of banana-brains has never existed.’

  It made sense. Paschos Poulos would have hired a pro to find his daughter, but he wouldn’t have told his wife in case the pressure got too much for her and she blabbed. The question was, who was that individual? Or was it more than one man? And how would he or they react if Mavros’s involvement became apparent?

  ‘You’re looking very thoughtful, Alex.’

  ‘What? Er, yes. Well, it’s been fun as always.’ He took out his wallet and put down a fifty-euro note.

  ‘That’s it?’ Bitsos said, glaring. ‘You pick my brains and give me nothing in return?’

  Mavros smiled as he got up. ‘Nothing? Are you sure, Lambi?’ He headed for the door, giving the singer a suggestive look. Bitsos would start asking discreet questions of his contacts, he was sure of that. If the hack came up with anything, he would tell him more about Lia Poulou.

  As he walked through the unusually festive square, the police having moved the junkies, hookers and beggars on in the interests of Olympic harmony, it struck him that he was on a serious hiding to nothing. Then he remembered the look on Angie Poulou’s face, the look of utter desperation, decided he would see the case through, no matter how bitter the end was.

  His phone rang and he saw it was Bitsos.

  ‘In all the excitement,’ the journalist said ironically, ‘I forgot to tell you what I heard this afternoon.’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Some of it’ll be in the paper tomorrow, but you might as well know now. The cops in Viotia found someone burned to death in an old farmhouse on the top of a hill in the Kithairon range.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The victim had bee
n tied to a chair with wire before going up in smoke.’

  Despite the heat, a very chill shiver ran all the way up his spine. Could that be Lia Poulou?

  FIVE

  The Son had driven overnight to Trikkala in Thessaly, having sprayed paint over the scrape down the pickup’s side. He had lost control as he accelerated away from the farmhouse on the hill. It wasn’t as if he was afraid of being discovered up there, even though the flames were bright. No matter. On to the next target. The people on his list were being clever, trying to delay him by scattering all over the country. He was prepared to play their game because he knew that eventually one of them would talk. He didn’t have the slightest doubt of that.

  Trikkala in central Greece was a pleasant and prosperous town built around the River Lethaios, with the Pindos Mountains standing high to the west and, in the east, an open plain leading to the provincial capital Larissa. Beneath the bell tower on the hill were the oldest houses, many of them renovated with grants and cheap loans. Even here, three hundred plus kilometres north of Athens, the Olympic Games had extended their tentacles and there were hoardings and posters all over the place. But the narrow streets of the medieval and Ottoman Varousi quarter were quiet, especially now that night had fallen.

  Flicking on a torch, the Son looked at the street plan he’d been provided with. The area was confusing, the lanes often turning into dead ends and street names few and far between. Still, he found the house without difficulty. It had enclosed wooden balconies in the Turkish style and money had been spent on reconstruction. He was reminded of the lakeside town in the far north of Greece where he had grown up. Technically, the Father still owned the house since no one knew what had happened to the old fucker. But he had no intention of going back. It was a place of suffering.

  The door knocker in the shape of a thunderbolt was a dead giveaway. There was a convenient ruin across the cobbles and he took up position behind a partially collapsed wall. By two in the morning, he was ready. The only light in the house, on the second floor, had been extinguished half-an-hour earlier. It was time.

  The locks were easy enough to pick. The door was solid, but the occupant had made the mistake of trusting the wood rather than reinforcing it with bolts. The Son slipped in, his feet in cheap trainers. His hands were sheathed in latex and his clothes would be disposed of far from the city. The new wooden staircase was solidly constructed and he made it to the second floor without a sound. The door to the bedroom was open and there was a motionless lump on the bed under a sheet. It was as hot as Egypt in Thessaly in the summer and the air-conditioning unit over the window was labouring to maintain a reasonable temperature. It also made enough noise to cover his final approach.

  The Son paused at the door, leather cosh in his right hand and silenced Glock 19 in his left. He didn’t intend shooting the target, at least not at first. Pain was to be applied before the comfort of death could be allowed. He took a slow step forward, then realised something was wrong. The object on the bed was too still. His left shoulder erupted in a blaze of agony, but he managed to hold on to the pistol while lashing out at the shadowy figure behind the door. There was a gasp and the woman thudded to the floor.

  ‘Bitch!’ he said in a low voice, rotating his left arm. He saw a short length of piping by the stunned target. ‘You’re going to regret that.’

  He hauled her to the bed, throwing away the pillows that had been arranged under the sheet. She had been expecting him. Turning on the torch and grasping it between his teeth, he dragged the woman on to the bed, securing her arms and wrists to the frame with pre-cut pieces of wire from his back pockets. He cast the light around and went to the old-fashioned wardrobe that took up half the wall. He saw himself in the mirror on the inside of the door. The crewcut hair, dyed blonde, made him almost unrecognizable from the way he’d been the last time he was in Greece. If anything, he looked like a Serbian mercenary, but he had been given the documentation under a false name to prove he was a Hellene. There were wire coat hangers on a rail, many of them holding up long robes. He took one and straightened it, leaving the hook intact.

  Putting the torch on the bedside table, its beam on the target’s face, he sat down next to her and blew gently on her partially closed eyes. Soon they opened fully. He grabbed her throat and pressed hard.

  ‘Don’t scream or you’ll lose an eye,’ he hissed, brandishing the coat hanger in his other hand.

  ‘Great Father . . . stand with me in this . . . hour of trial . . .’ the woman croaked. She was in her sixties, with long grey hair. He knew her name, but that was of no consequence.

  ‘Your imaginary father’s no use to you now,’ the Son said, with a harsh smile. ‘Only one thing will make your passage to the underworld easier. Tell me where she is.’ He released his grip slightly.

  The woman gasped for breath and then spat in his face.

  The Son carried out his threat and settled down to a long night of torment.

  Mavros woke to the sound of the Fat Man yelling up the stairs.

  ‘Courier for you, Sleeping Ugly!’

  He stumbled down in his shorts and signed the pimply youth’s clipboard. In return, he received a large padded envelope.

  ‘What’s this then,’ Yiorgos asked, wiping his hands on the discoloured apron he wore over his paunch in the kitchen and grabbing the package from the half-asleep Mavros. ‘Looks like a woman’s writing.’ He turned it over. ‘No sender’s name and address though. You got a secret admirer?’

  Mavros went into the saloni and turned down the TV. An elderly female Communist MP was arguing about the cost of the Games on one of the morning chat shows.

  ‘Give me that back, you lump of lard. It’s not a billet doux, it’s work.’

  ‘Not a billy what?’ The Fat Man held the envelope above his head. ‘As the house owner, I’ll have to insist on checking it. For all I know, it could be a bomb.’

  ‘If it is, you’re going to make a lovely wall covering.’

  ‘Come on then, take it off me.’

  There followed an ungainly struggle, culminating in the package being torn open and its contents scattering over the parquet floor.

  ‘Malaka,’ Mavros said, looking at the photos, leather gloves and sheets of paper.

  ‘Eh, sorry, my friend,’ Yiorgos said. ‘Hey, I know that woman. She was on the TV the other day.’ He scratched his bald crown. ‘She’s that bastard Poulos’s wife, isn’t she? Except she looks a lot more worn down on the box. Who’s the girl with her?’

  Mavros had a decision to make. He could either gather up the material in a cold fury and stomp upstairs, or let his friend in on the case. The fact was, he could do with someone to talk things over with and, unlike Lambis Bitsos, the Fat Man was trustworthy – decades of operating underground for the Party had made him highly circumspect. On the other hand, Yiorgos had a habit of putting himself in places that Mavros would avoid like dengue fever. Then again, there was the issue of him staying rent-free in the bugger’s house. Although the Fat Man didn’t necessarily expect payment in non-monetary terms, he would be overjoyed to be a part of the investigation.

  ‘You tell them, Tati,’ his friend said, his focus on the television again.

  Mavros glanced at the TV. The MP, Tatiana Roubani, was respected across the political spectrum for her outspoken honesty. ‘All right, you’re in.’

  The Fat Man turned to him and smiled broadly. ‘Yes!’ he shouted, punching the air. ‘Ow, that hurt.’

  Mavros shook his head, then started picking up the contents of the package. There was a handwritten note from Angie Poulou, her signature an almost illegible scrawl:

  Here are more photos and lists of Lia’s friends and contacts. Please be careful if you follow any of them, not that I can think of any reason they would be involved in her disappearance. I’m sure she never had a boyfriend – she would have told me – but I’ve attached a list of the sons of relatives and friends who she knows. Again, I think it’s very unlikely they’ll give yo
u any leads, but you know your job. Last night I tried to find out from Paschos what’s going on with the police investigation. He told me they were following up some new evidence, but he wouldn’t say what that is – apparently it’s too early to be sure if it’s relevant. I don’t know. I feel so lost.

  Mavros sat down and waited for his friend to reappear with coffee and pastries. The names on Angie’s lists included the scions of some of Greece’s richest and most influential families. Setting up surveillance on them would be close to impossible, as they were hyper-careful about security and hired private guards. And he couldn’t ring the bell outside their high-walled domains, saying he was investigating the disappearance of Lia Poulou. He thought about the gloves. There were private labs who would run DNA tests, for a large fee, but when did she think he would require that kind of input? After he found a mangled body and kept it hidden from the cops while he confirmed, or at least excluded, its identity? That would be several steps too far, even for him. Then he slid his fingers into the tight gloves and felt a jolt of affinity with the missing girl. Suddenly he wanted desperately to find her.

  ‘So,’ Yiorgos said, setting down a tray of coffee, water and great chunks of fresh galaktoboureko, ‘what’s it all about, Sherlock?’

  After drinking, eating and drinking again, Mavros gave him a rundown. His friend looked at the lists, shaking his head in disgust at notorious enemies of the people, then frowned.

  ‘I don’t get this, Alex. You can’t talk to the thief Poulos, you can’t interview any of these people, and the cops are out of bounds too. How are we going to find the girl?’

  Mavros let the first person plural pass. If the Fat Man wanted to play Dr Watson, good luck to him. At least he was smarter than Holmes’s sidekick, if substantially more cynical and less handy with a revolver.

  ‘Did you see anything on the news about a body in a burned farmhouse in Viotia?’ he asked, recalling the heads-up Bitsos had given him.

  ‘Yes. The cops’ spokesman said it was probably an accident. You know what old people are like with paraffin fires.’