The Green Lady Read online

  Mavros made preparations. He shaved and then dressed in up-market tourists clothes, consisting of a pair of pale blue chinos his mother had given him and a yellow Bondai Beach T-shirt a friend had brought back from down under. The pièce de résistance was a floppy green hat that almost obscured his eyes, his hair having been tied up and stuffed inside. He looked at himself in the mirror and burst out laughing. If the Fat Man saw him like that, he’d throw him out. A bunch of Aussies – ‘convict bottom feeders’ – had drunk him out of beer in the café once, argued over the bill and forced him to do what he hated most: call the organs of oppression, i.e. the police. He’d had to bribe them to take action.

  Finding out where the super-rich and their acolytes lived was feasible, but cost money – they weren’t in the phone book. Mavros could have waited for Angie Poulos to call and asked her for the Bekakos address, but he didn’t want to waste time. Besides, Rovertos’s website gave his office address, a building on Valaoritou. There were cafés and restaurants on the pedestrianised street not far from Syndagma Square and he would be able to keep watch easily enough, even though the prices were outrageously high in order to discourage the hoi polloi. Before he left, he called an old school friend who ran a car hire firm. Mavros didn’t own a vehicle, preferring to walk, or use public transport and taxis. He did a cheap deal for a small Citroen and took the trolley to the end of Alexandhras Avenue to pick it up. He then drove into the centre and parked in a multi-storey near Valaoritou.

  Taking up position under the umbrellas of a flash bistro, he ordered the kind of milky coffee he thought would go with his disguise, speaking English. He’d feigned being foreign often in the past – it had often been effective, making Greeks who would otherwise have been on their guard relax and speak openly. He knew what the Bekakos couple looked like from newspaper photos, so he sat back and pretended to read John Fowles’ The Magus through aviator’s sunglasses. He had only to wait half an hour. The street door to the lawyer’s office opened and both he and his wife emerged. They paused in the street, kissed each other on the cheek and separated, Bekakos heading towards Syndagma and his wife to the establishment where Mavros was sitting. For once, he was in luck. He gave the woman a few minutes to get settled, then followed her in, taking a table as close as he could get – about five metres away. He’d have liked to be closer as eavesdropping wasn’t going to be feasible due to the noise of the customers conversing volubly, but at least he would see who Maria Bekakou met, as well as being perfectly placed to tail her when she left.

  The waitress was both stunning and up herself. He mumbled his way to an order of grilled fish, regretting the salad he’d eaten earlier. Keeping his hat and sunglasses on, he looked over to the lawyer’s wife. She was in her late forties and he was sure she’d had work done on her face and body. The latter was thin, with small but pert breasts beneath a figure-hugging top, while her short, dyed blonde hair surrounded features that were too tight to be true. She was smoking one of the long cigarettes that were fashionable among Greek women, taking frequent puffs and exhaling quickly. Was she nervous about something or permanently on edge? It seemed unlikely she’d be meeting a lover opposite her husband’s place of work, not least because three people had already greeted her warmly. So what was this going to be? A gossip session with a girlfriend?

  A few minutes later, Mavros was bending over his sea bream, hoping the person who had sat down facing him at Maria Bekakou’s table didn’t see through his disguise. He’d have bet good money against Police Brigadier Nikos Kriaras, head of the Athens organised crime squad and a member of the Olympic Games security committee, turning up in the bistro. For a start, Kriaras was notorious for working all hours. He had also put a lot of jobs Mavros’s way, usually via contacts in the foreign embassies, though he was a cunning operator who had played dirty more than once. It was impossible to be sure which interest group the brigadier was protecting or promoting at any given time.

  Kriaras and Maria Bekakou had kissed each other politely, but there was no sign of emotional involvement. In fact, as Mavros glanced up every minute or so to study them, it seemed they were carrying on an argument in low voices, their lips moving rapidly at the same time and their expressions grim. That was interesting, but also frustrating. Mavros wondered how he could get closer without being recognised. It just wasn’t feasible and he called for another coffee after he’d finished what was an excellent fish – fortunately, he had a wad of Angie Poulou’s banknotes in his pocket.

  In the event, Kriaras didn’t stay longer than twenty minutes, eating only a couple of breadsticks and drinking a soda. At one point, the woman seemed to be pleading with him, her hand on his besuited forearm. The brigadier stared at her and she took her hand away. Shortly afterwards, he got up and headed for the door, without kissing her farewell. Maria Bekakou stayed another ten minutes before going to the washroom and then settling her bill. Mavros had already paid his and was ready to roll.

  Out on Valaoritou, he had to make a rapid stop outside a shop the woman entered. She nodded to the girl at the counter and then pulled out her phone. Five minutes later, her husband reappeared. This time, Mavros was close enough to hear the words they exchanged.

  ‘He says he is waiting for further developments,’ Maria Bekakou said, her voice harsh.

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ her husband replied. ‘You told him how important it is?’

  ‘Of course. I even said that Paschos would pay double.’

  Rovertos Bekakos looked around, not giving Mavros a second glance.

  ‘Doesn’t he realise they’ll kill the girl?’

  His wife shrugged. ‘The stupid little bitch deserves everything she gets.’

  The lawyer frowned. ‘We don’t talk that way,’ he said firmly. ‘All right, I’ll advise Paschos. He’s got a dinner with the Olympic hierarchy tonight. He won’t be happy.’

  Maria Bekakou adjusted her gold-rimmed sunglasses. ‘You think I am?’

  Bekakos’s eyes were on a smart woman who walked past, a girl of about twelve by her side. ‘What we think or feel is irrelevant, my dear. There’s far too much at stake for you to start playing Maria Callas.’

  She opened her mouth and then slowly brought her lips together again.

  ‘That’s better,’ her husband said. ‘Now, go home. I’ll see you later. I take it Phis is up to date?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Rovertos Bekakos kissed Maria on each cheek and went into his office, turning to watch the woman and girl as they went further down the street.

  Mavros gave Maria Bekakou a twenty-metre start and then went after her. It was his lucky day. She entered the car park where he’d left the Citroen and went up to the second floor. He waited behind the door, watching through the window as she approached a silver Mercedes coupé, then raced up to the level above to the hire car. He was two vehicles behind her at the barrier and managed to stay close as she headed up Akadhimias, turning left at the parliament building.

  Three quarters of an hour later, he knew where the lawyer lived. His wife drove to Kifissia, one of the well-heeled suburbs north of Athens, and stopped outside a green metal gate, waiting for it to respond to the device she had pointed. Mavros couldn’t see much of the house, but it was large and surrounded by high bushes. He took a note of the address and parked further down the street, watching in the wing mirror. It was always a good idea to wait after people went into their homes, he’d found. This time was no exception.

  Five minutes after Maria Bekakou went beyond the green gate, a black BMW saloon with darkened windows pulled up. The electric window came down and a long, pale arm came out and pressed the bell. Then the driver leaned out to speak into the intercom. It was Angie Poulou.

  The maiden prostrated herself before the statue of the King of the Dead, avoiding his stern gaze and plaited beard. The temple was smoky and there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Great Hades,’ she said, whispering into the gritty soil, ‘grant me leave to revisit the world above yo
ur realm. I do not belong here, you brought me without asking my mother’s permission even though Great Zeus sanctioned your act. The empty chambers and realms that echo only with the flutter of pallid shades are not for me, a living creature. Allow me to rejoin my brokenhearted mother and spend my days in the light of the Sun God.’

  There was a faint rattle and the maiden heard light objects hit the ground around her. She raised her head and saw red tears, the seeds of the pomegranate. The cramps in her stomach returned, this time so pressing that she could not resist. She stretched out a hand and gathered up a few seeds. As she blew the dust from them, she counted seven. What harm could they do? She stuffed the seeds into her mouth and swallowed the bitter, life-giving juice. Immediately she felt stronger and her courage returned.

  ‘Let me go!’ she cried, raising her shrouded head to the great god.

  His laughter was deep and shocking, his voice a condemnation that would last for eternity.

  SEVEN

  Mavros waited down the street from the Bekakos house for over two hours, but his client didn’t reappear – even after the lawyer himself arrived in a dark blue Porsche Carrera. Chasing Angie Poulou when she came out and demanding what was going on seemed like a good idea for the first hour, but then Mavros began to have second thoughts. He already knew that the grieving mother hadn’t told him everything and her visit may well have been innocent. Perhaps she had no idea about Maria Bekakou’s involvement with the police brigadier. Perhaps Paschos Poulos was using his lawyer’s wife as a go-between – though why? It wouldn’t have been hard for him to establish secure lines of communication with Kriaras, not least because they were both involved in the Games. Could Rovertos Bekakos be playing some dirty game behind his employer’s back? And who or what the hell was ‘Phis’? Then something else struck him. At first, Mavros thought the lawyer had been watching the attractive woman outside his office, but on reconsideration he realised that Bekakos’s eyes had been directed towards the girl.

  After delivering the Citroen back to the hire car depot, Mavros went home. He found the Fat Man in an unusually good mood, the scent of cumin-flavoured soutzoukakia emanating from the kitchen.

  ‘Meatballs are murder,’ Mavros said, looking in.

  His friend laughed. ‘How many of these tomato-drenched beauties shall I serve you? The usual eight?’

  ‘Later. I’m parched.’ Mavros took a large bottle of water from the crate beneath the table and drank half of it down.

  ‘There goes your appetite,’ the Fat Man said. ‘Still, all the more for me.’

  ‘I had two lunches today.’

  ‘The boy’s learning.’ Yiorgos grinned. ‘Wait till you hear what I found out.’

  ‘Let me have a shower first.’

  ‘Always washing! Your skin’s being deprived of its natural oils.’

  ‘It’s about time yours was too.’ Mavros ducked as a shoe came up the stairs after him.

  When he came down, Mavros found his friend in front of the TV, getting through a mound of soutzoukakia on rice. In between swallows, he was bellowing at the TV – the usual diatribe about the waste of public money.

  Mavros watched the athletes doing their best in the still high temperatures of early evening. It didn’t take long for Yiorgos to clear his plate.

  ‘So, what have you discovered, Watson?’

  The Fat Man sat back and belched. There was a cardboard file on the table. ‘Look in there.’

  Mavros did so, finding a thick sheaf of photocopies bearing the logo of one of the Communist trade unions. As he flicked through, he realised they all concerned companies in the Poulos group.

  ‘You have been digging,’ he said, nodding approval. ‘Still got some friends in the Party, then?’

  ‘Of course. How many people do you think I worked with over the decades.’

  ‘A lot, but I thought you’d been black-marked for capitalist activities.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Once a comrade . . .’

  ‘Hm. Fancy giving me a synopsis of all this?’

  ‘Lazy sod. All right. The bottom line is that the bastard Poulos has been squeezing the work force across the board, despite a huge increase in Games-related activities. When I say work force, I mean the Greek unionised one.’

  ‘So how’s he been meeting demand?’

  ‘By bringing in unskilled workers on the minimum wage and using immigrants, many of them illegal. Tosser.’

  Mavros remembered what he’d read about the former. ‘How come the Party hasn’t made a loud fuss?’

  Yiorgos shook his head. ‘It’s not like it used to be, Alex. Deals have been done, favours have been dispensed, funds have been deposited in secret accounts. Tatiana Roubani’s one of the few who’s been making a stand. You saw her on the box this morning.’

  Mavros was saddened. His father would never have countenanced deals and favours with the capitalists.

  ‘Of course, it’s all justified by the leadership as a legitimate part of the people’s struggle, though oddly enough they don’t say so in public.’

  ‘I suppose they know more about their strategic aims than the ordinary member. Anyway, have you got anything specific that might help me –’ Mavros saw the Fat Man’s eyes narrow – ‘might help us find the girl?’

  His friend picked up another file that had been obscured by his bulk. ‘Take a look at that.’

  Mavros scanned reports from the branch of the union at the Hellenic Minerals Corporation bauxite processing and aluminium manufacturing plant in Viotia. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I came across a reference to this place earlier today. Yes, Paradheisos – that’s the name of the workers’ town.’

  ‘Smartarse,’ the Fat Man muttered. ‘Might have know you’d—’

  ‘No, no, this is useful. What’s this about pollution?’

  ‘Seems the company’s been dumping all sorts of nasty muck into the bay as well as belching poison clouds into the atmosphere. The union was collaborating with a group of ecologists to prove their case – until the last official two hundred workers lost their jobs.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Mavros ran upstairs and found the print-out from Theophrastus. ‘Look at this,’ he said, when he came back into the saloni.

  His friend read the piece. ‘So Poulos’s lawyer’s been paying people off. That means they must have a case.’

  Mavros nodded. ‘Interesting how the big newspapers have failed to pick up on the pollution.’

  ‘Interesting? They’re in bed with the bastard.’

  ‘You’d have thought the European Union would send inspectors in if the ecologists presented evidence.’

  The Fat Man laughed. ‘Since when was the EU anything but a friend to big business?’

  Mavros looked at the papers again. ‘So what are we saying? That the Hellenic Mineral Corporation – part of Poulos A.E. – is playing dirty, literally?’ He filled Yiorgos in about Bekakos and his wife, and his client’s appearance at their house.

  ‘Kriaras?’ his friend said. ‘Wherever that dickhead goes, there’s trouble.’

  ‘True. Though his meeting with the lawyer’s wife might have nothing to with Lia Poulou’s disappearance.’

  ‘Got to check it though, haven’t we?’

  Mavros thought about the girl’s mother. He was pretty sure there had been no one else in the BMW. Had she left her driver/muscleman at home? If so, surely her husband would find out – or did he know already?

  He had the feeling his client was running rings round him. But why?

  The Son was sitting on a hotel terrace in Delphi, looking down at the sea of olive trees in the Pleistos Gorge in the last of the evening light. The port of Itea glowed to his right and, beyond, the gulf was blue-black with tints of red. He breathed in the mountain air and drank his diluted ouzo. He had arrived in the late afternoon and paid for a room in the most expensive place. It wasn’t as if he had any shortage of funds.

  There was a heap of national newspapers on the table in front of him. None of them had any
mention of the body in Trikkala. That didn’t mean it hadn’t been discovered. He had sent photos again. He wondered what the dead woman’s fellow worshippers or the police had thought about his master touch – three perfect, defrosted pomegranate seeds in each eye socket. The message was clear enough to those who knew mythology. With the Games going on, the authorities would take every step they could to protect the country’s good name and give the illusion that criminal acts didn’t take place in the land of the gods. He had been surprised the burned man had been found so quickly in an uninhabited area. No harm done. The yokel cops in Viotia wouldn’t have a clue how to proceed and the Athenians would be keeping a close watch on them. His back was covered.

  Although Delphi was in range of Athens for day-trippers, many visitors stayed at least one night to give themselves time to take in the full glory of the ancient site and museum. That meant the small modern town, which had been moved from its location on top of the site when excavations had started in the nineteenth century, was bustling. It was as well that the Son’s next victim lived in the upper reaches, away from the tourist haunts. From there, it would be easy to get him to the desired location.

  The Son had visited the sanctuary in the late afternoon. He had never been before, even though his school had run outings to many of the country’s important historical sites. He didn’t go on any excursions as the Father was too stingy to cough up the extra cash. It was curious because the old bastard was forever going on about Greece’s illustrious past, as his masters had done, the dictators who were in power between 1967 and 1974. No doubt the Father had been worried some of the teachers would have been on the left and might have filled the Son’s head with ‘perversions of history’. As he now knew, the Civil War of 1946-9 was no clear-cut struggle between the British and American-backed forces of freedom and the foul Communist brigands. Not that he cared about ideologies. His Bulgarian instructor had said that freedom was an illusion no matter who was in charge, and the average citizen was nothing more than a drone. The Son had made sure he was much more than that.