The Golden Silence Page 6

  ‘Moron,’ the driver said as he made rapid hand movements. ‘I’m pulling up by the red carpet for you, Mrs Chioti.’

  Rea waited until the Mercedes glided to a halt and one of the guards from the second car had opened her door. She swung her legs round and got out of the car, blinking momentarily in the flash of a camera. A photographer from one of the scandal-sheets was grabbed by one of the guards and manhandled away. Then, as she stepped on to the carpet, she slipped into another dimension.

  The first thing she heard was a single shot. There was a gasp from the security man next to her. She turned and saw his shirt flower crimson, his arms flailing as he went down. Then she heard a series of cries, saw the men around her drop to one knee, their weapons in their hands, pointing in different directions around her. There was another shot and she heard the high-pitched ricochet of a bullet from the Mercedes’s armoured shell. Then another shot, this one clearer, as if her ears were growing accustomed to the frequency. The driver crouching by the front of the car fell back, his head an explosion of red and grey.

  Rea’s senses started to function normally again. She heard screams and yells, the dull pounding of music from the Silver Lady, the noise of cars and lorries in the background. She stood motionless, her bag still under her arm. The guards, unclear where the shots were coming from, had started loosing off their machine-pistols blindly. Even though she felt no fear, she was unable to move, her arms and legs frozen.

  Then she saw a man running towards her down the red carpet, his arms pumping and his knees high. An earpiece slipped out into the airstream he was creating. His chest was heaving and his eyes were wide, fixed on her. For some reason she noticed that he’d put too much gel on his short brown hair.

  ‘Get down!’ he shouted. ‘Get down!’

  In an instant he was on her, crushing her to the ground and smothering her with his body. She smelled his mint-flavoured breath. There was more gunfire from close at hand and then it began to peter out. The screaming continued, getting louder as people raised their heads and saw the blood-drenched bodies of the two men by the Mercedes.

  ‘Mrs Chioti, Mrs Chioti,’ came an agonised voice, ‘are you all right?’ She recognised it as one of her guards.

  ‘Stand back,’ said the man who was shielding her. ‘I’ve got her.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded the guard.

  ‘Never mind that, have you secured the area?’ Her protector sounded calm. ‘It was a sniper. On a roof across the road.’

  ‘Do as he says,’ Rea ordered, keeping still despite the discomfort.

  The weight came off her. ‘I take it you weren’t hit,’ the man said. ‘I don’t see any wound.’

  ‘I’m not injured,’ she replied, ‘but you almost suffocated me.’

  ‘Rather that than what happened to the men standing next to you.’ Her rescuer rocked back on his knees. ‘Yanni?’ he shouted. ‘Get Panos and stand on either side of us when we get up.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Rea asked.

  ‘I’m going to take you inside. You’ll be safe there.’

  She waited as two men she didn’t recognise came up.

  ‘Mrs Chioti?’ said one of her guards from further away.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said acidly. ‘This bouncer seems to know more about what he’s doing than you people.’

  The young man with the gelled hair smiled. ‘I’m going to get you up now. I’ll be behind you and my colleagues on either side. We’ll take the shots if there are any more.’

  ‘What?’ one of the others gasped.

  ‘Come on, Yanni, it’ll only take a few seconds. Ready? What about you, Pano?’

  ‘Let’s go, Dami.’

  ‘Right, Mrs Chioti. One, two, three.’ The young man put his arms round her and lifted her up, positioning himself between her and the Mercedes. ‘Walk quickly. Now!’

  The four of them managed to get into step and before she knew it, they were inside the Silver Lady. There was a line of staff keeping the customer back, allowing them to get into the rooms at the rear without delay.

  The door closed behind them and the trio in dark suits stepped back. Rea took them in. One with a sharp face, another who looked like an all-in wrestler, and the tall man who had saved her. He was brushing dirt from his knees as if he’d slipped on the street rather than risked his life for someone he’d never met.

  ‘Well,’ she said, waving away the bald-headed club manager. ‘I have to thank you gentlemen.’

  ‘What you have to do is improve your security,’ said her saviour, now rubbing the elbows of his jacket.

  Rea smiled. ‘And I suppose you’re the man to help me do that, are you? What’s your name?’

  The young man stopped fiddling with his suit and looked at her, a smile spreading across his lips. ‘My name’s Damis Naskos. And yes, I am the man for you.’

  There was a tense silence. Then the woman who controlled the most extensive criminal organisation in the city laughed out loud.

  Mavros headed down the uneven paving stones of a street parallel to the main avenue. It was nearly midnight, only the occasional neighbourhood grocery store still open. The orange trees that lined the pavements were sweet-smelling, the blossom at its height, but the reek of exhaust-fumes was prevalent even in this residential area.

  As he walked, Mavros mulled over the start to the case. He’d found a lead immediately, but he wasn’t congratulating himself yet. If Katia had run off with her boyfriend, there wasn’t much he could do. She was eighteen and she could choose for herself, whatever her father thought. But he had the feeling things weren’t that simple. The man she’d been involved with lived only a kilometre from the family. If Katia was the loving daughter that her father portrayed her to be, surely she’d have been in touch.

  He found the street without difficulty—it led on to the avenue—and stood outside number four. It was a nondescript post-war block with four storeys, some of the apartments lit up. The balconies were festooned with vines and other plants, water dripping on to the pavement from the first floor where somebody had been hosing down their miniature garden. Mavros stepped round the river that had formed under the steps and went up to the street door. There was the standard row of buttons, most of them with names written in scripts of varying legibility. But there was no Skourtis. Shit, he thought. Had Zak sent him off with a false address? He thought about that. It didn’t seem too likely, given that he could easily go back and put the squeeze on the young man.

  He heard unsteady footsteps behind him and turned, to be confronted by an overweight middle-aged man with sunken shoulders. He smelled like he’d taken a bath in ouzo.

  ‘Does Sifis Skourtis live here?’

  The drinker was fumbling with his keys. ‘Uh.’

  ‘Uh, what?’

  ‘Uh…yes,’ the man said, blinking at him as he slid the key into the lock. ‘Third floor. The one with the holes in the door.’ He gagged and Mavros stepped back. ‘Fucking druggie.’

  Mavros followed him into the building. ‘Have you seen a girl with him?’

  ‘Uh?’

  ‘A girl,’ he repeated. ‘Blonde, very pretty.’

  The man was stumbling towards a ground-floor door. ‘Uh, blonde…very pretty? I wish…I wish I had.’

  Mavros watched him struggle with his keys again and left him to it. There were fewer piss artists in Greece than in most countries, but the ones who chose that road went down it with Olympian virtuosity. Even if Katia had been around this apartment building, the guy probably wouldn’t have made her out through the alcohol-induced haze.

  He went up to the third floor, making as little noise as possible. The fact that Sifis Skourtis was known as a dopehead meant he was potentially a handful. People who left their names off the entry phone usually had a reason. He pressed the light switch when he reached the landing and saw what the drunk meant about holes in the door. The bottom section looked like a heavy-calibre machine-gun had been directed at it. There was no nam
e on the doorbell here either.

  Mavros reckoned that a gentle knock would get the best results. He tapped the door and then stood back so that the occupant could see him through the spy-hole.

  ‘Who is it?’ came a faint male voice.

  ‘The name’s Alex. Is that Sifis? I need to see you.’

  There was the sound of coughing. ‘You got money?’

  Mavros took out his wallet and held up some banknotes. ‘I’ve got money.’

  A chain rattled and then the door swung open. A thin young man with rat’s-tail hair and sunken cheeks was leaning against the wall. There was no sign of the goatee from the photograph. His face was now covered in heavy stubble.

  ‘You’re on your own, yes?’ he said weakly. He looked to both sides of his visitor.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then get inside.’

  Mavros did as he was told and took a blast of fetid air. The small apartment was dimly lit, the shutters closed. The main room was littered with plates and aluminium containers, the remains of the food covered in mould. Techno music was coming from the speakers of a cheap system, the volume inappropriately low.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ the young man said with a gasp, staggering past Mavros and collapsing on to the ragged sofa. On the table in front of it were a syringe, teaspoon and twists of foil. ‘How much d’you want to score?’

  Mavros was still holding the banknotes. ‘Who decorated your front door?’

  Sifis looked up at him blearily. ‘Sometimes people get desperate, you know?’

  Mavros went closer and leaned over him. ‘How desperate are you?’ He caught sight of photos strewn on the cushions and floor. They were all of Katia, some of her with Sifis. She was smiling or laughing in most.

  ‘Aw, fuck, man, I’m desperate enough. Let’s get this finished so we can both get high.’

  Mavros picked up the photos and sat next to the sprawling young man. ‘Okay, here’s how we’re going to do this. I’m going to ask you some questions, you’re going to answer them, and then I’m going to pay you. Clear?’

  Sifis’s eyes were less bleary now. He tried to raise himself, but didn’t have the strength. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘The name’s Alex. Don’t worry, this won’t take long.’ Mavros held up one of the photos. ‘Katia Tratsou. Where is she?’

  Sifis blinked and then slumped forward. ‘Katia?’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Why…why do you want to know?’

  Mavros got up quickly and went back through into the hall. There was no one in the tiny kitchen or in the stinking bathroom. He pushed open the door to the bedroom. There was a heap of stained sheets on the bed and the wardrobe doors were open, revealing a few shirts. There was no sign of a female presence, and no school satchel or any of the clothes Katia had been wearing the day she left home for the last time.

  He went back to the main room. Sifis was where he had been, his chin on his chest. It took Mavros a few seconds to work out that the noise coming from the young man was sobbing. He sat down beside him again.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked gently.

  ‘I wish…I wish I knew,’ Sifis said, raising a hand to his eyes. ‘I really wish I knew.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  The young man swallowed and wiped his hand across his eyes. ‘I don’t fucking know. Must be a month.’ He glanced down at the equipment on the table. ‘Since she went, I’ve been…I’ve been sampling the goods.’

  Mavros looked at the numerous pieces of foil. The rate Sifis was going, his supply would soon be cut off. The scumbags in the gangs who controlled distribution wouldn’t let a dealer turned junkie consume their profits for long.

  ‘Were you still seeing her after her old man warned you off?’

  Sifis didn’t seem to be disturbed by the question. His head was down again, his breathing shallow. ‘Yes, of course. We were just more careful. I used to pick her up a couple of streets away from her place.’

  ‘And you brought her here?’ Mavros ran his eyes around the wreck of a room.

  Sifis gave him an angry look. ‘It wasn’t always like this, you know. I’ve only let it go recently.’

  ‘I believe you.’ Mavros leaned closer, his expression hardening. ‘Did you give Katia any dope?’

  Sifis’s head jerked back. ‘No way. I didn’t do it myself until…until she went. Only grass.’

  ‘So what happened? You and Katia were carrying on as usual and then, on Friday March the twenty-second, she didn’t show up?’

  ‘That’s exactly the way it was,’ the young man agreed, staring at Mavros. ‘I arranged to meet her after her evening class, but I was a bit late. They’d already finished.’

  ‘This is the place in Kanningos Square?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sifis’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know? Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Never mind that. She’d been at the class?’

  ‘She said she was going,’ the young man said sullenly. ‘I thought she’d ring me, I thought she’d come here. But she never did. I tried her mobile, but it was switched off.’ He burst into a loud sob. ‘It’s never come on again. That bastard, he moved her away, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘You mean her father?’ Mavros shook his head. ‘He doesn’t know where she is either, I promise you.’

  Sifis roused himself. ‘The Russian lunatic doesn’t know?’ He stared at Mavros. ‘You mean Katia’s gone missing?’

  ‘Officially. You haven’t had the cops round?’

  The young man shrugged. ‘I keep my head down.’

  Mavros decided to turn the screw. ‘And you were such a chicken that you never went back to Bonzo’s?’

  ‘I…Christ, that guy’s a fucking headcase. He…’ Sifis broke off and glanced at his right wrist. ‘He almost broke my arm. And he did some damage to my bike. No way did I want any more of that. I’ve got customers in other bars.’

  ‘Can you think of any place she could have gone?’

  Sifis gave that some thought. ‘No. Katia’s a smart kid. She works hard. It was difficult enough to get her to spend time with me.’ His voice broke again. ‘I want her. I miss her. I fucking love her.’ He wiped tears away. ‘Why are you looking for her? Do you know her?’

  ‘Friend of the family,’ Mavros said, handing him a twenty-Euro note. He wrote his mobile phone number on the back of a photo of Katia and asked for the young man’s. ‘There’s more where that came from. Call me if you hear anything.’

  Sifis rubbed his eyes. ‘So no one knows where Katia is? Jesus Christ.’

  Mavros got up. ‘Someone knows. And you can be sure I’m sure going to find out who.’ He turned away and headed for the door. Katia’s boyfriend was scrabbling for another hit before he got there.

  The Father and Son spent most of the night on the motorway. The BMW took them past the trucks easily enough, apart from the frequent sections where traffic had built up. The Father insisted on doing the initial stretch, which wasn’t as quick as the north-south highway. The Son let him have his way. The old man’s reactions were still good enough, the only slight deviations from the lane occurring when he lit one of his numerous cigarettes. The Son put his seat back and lost himself in his thoughts. The Father didn’t approve of what he called ‘woolly thinking’, so the Son closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. But, all the time, he was weighing his options.

  The Father was still useful to him, there was no doubting that. He was the one who had the connection with the family, their sole source of income. The old man had first met Stratos Chiotis in the early-sixties when he was in the Military Police. He’d helped the crime boss with some unspecified work—selling him arms from military bases, the Son was pretty sure. One of Chiotis’s lines of work had been supplying weapons to opposition groups in the Middle East—terrorists in the common tongue. During the dictatorship, the Father had grown even closer to the family. The Son didn’t know exactly how, but he was sure it had something to do with
what the Father was best at—torture. He’d started the business they were still involved in—getting information out of criminals, carrying out reprisals and generally scaring the hell out of the family’s rivals. The old man had done that in his time off from his work as an interrogator.

  The Father had taught him everything he knew: how to make people shit themselves and spill their guts without a hand being laid on them, how to beat them for the right amount of time to ensure that what they said was the unadulterated truth, how to use the tools that he’d checked three times before packing them. The Father and Son had become a made-to-measure enforcement and persecution agency. Stratos Chiotis stated his requirement and they produced the results. The money was good and they were protected because the head of the family dealt with them himself.

  Except that now Stratos Chiotis wasn’t the one giving the orders. Even before the old man’s condition had deteriorated, his wife had been communicating with the Father. The Son could remember the first time the woman had called the old man—back then, he still handled communication with the family himself. Something about Rea Chioti had spooked the Father. He’d taken the call in the kitchen and the Son had watched a sick smile spread over his face. At the same time, he seemed to find the conversation awkward. Soon afterwards he told the Son to talk to the family in future, saying it was time for him to take on more responsibility. But the Son wasn’t fooled. There was something about Rea Chioti, and it wasn’t just that she had once been a seriously attractive woman—still was if your taste was for mature flesh.

  The Son drove the rest of the way to Athens with the Father snoring in the seat beside him. The old man had stopped the car to empty his bladder, his voice harsh when the Son spent a minute longer in the petrol station than he deemed necessary. The bad-tempered old bastard. When would he retire into drooling incontinence like other men of his age?