The Green Lady Page 8

  He found the house without difficulty. The man was in his late fifties, a bachelor, and due to retire next year. No doubt he thought he would be able to worship his gods for the rest of his life. But he would also know that at least one of his colleagues had been murdered, so he’d be on the look out – maybe he’d been sent the photos of both previous victims. The Son, now wearing a black shirt and trousers as well as latex gloves, slipped over the wall at the rear of the property’s small garden. The oleanders were thick, giving good protection. There was a single light shining on the ground floor. A squat figure was at the cooker, stirring the contents of a pot. The Son crawled across the hard earth quickly and reached the wall. The windows were closed, the air conditioning running, but that didn’t bother him. He took the weapon from his long bag and squatted down by the door. There was no key in the lock, an old-fashioned one that allowed space for the muzzle of the tranquilliser gun. He took careful aim and fired. After a frantic few seconds trying to reach the dart in his back, the man collapsed.

  Pleased with the shot, the Son took out his tools and worked the lock. He was inside in under a minute. Now he had ten minutes before the drug began to wear off. His victim wouldn’t talk and now he was going to walk to the place of execution, he wasn’t going to carry the fool. The Son taped the man’s wrists behind his back and placed a strip of the same material over his mouth. Then he had a quick look around the house. Its owner lived on his own, his wife having run off with another man two years earlier. Maybe that had turned him to the worship of the Olympians. If so, they were doing a singularly bad job of protecting him – as with the previous two. On the other hand, these people did know how to keep their mouths shut. This one would feel the blade on hallowed ground. Would that loosen his tongue at the last?

  There was a small statue of a robed god in the wall niche usually reserved for Christian icons. The Son didn’t recognise the figure. The older male ones all looked the same to him – bearded, stern, their faces intended to provoke awe. This one was a mannequin with as much power as a Barbie doll. The worshipper obviously thought differently. There were bowls containing pieces of dried up meat and fruit beneath the statue, as well as a dark red stain which one sniff told the Son was wine. Hail, whoever you are, he said under his breath. Prepare to lose a follower.

  The walk to the top of the sanctuary was easy enough, the now conscious man stumbling along with the tip of the combat knife in the small of his back.

  ‘Open the gate,’ the Son ordered.

  His victim was a phylax, one of the numerous locals who were paid by the state to stand guard over the site. The Son closed the gate behind them and took the keys. Then he jabbed the man forward. Soon they were on the surface of the ancient stadium. The Son knew from the guide book he had read that it was 645 metres above sea level, had been started in the fifth century BC, and tinkered with by the Romans. The track was six hundred Roman feet long and up to eighteen runners could compete at any given time, watched by seven thousand spectators.

  ‘Run!’ he said to the guard. ‘Run for your life!’

  The man started muttering in what sounded like Ancient Greek. The Son had paid little attention to the compulsory lessons at school, earning himself numerous hidings from the Father, so he had no idea what was being said. Then the guard started staggering across the dusty earth. Even giving him a thirty metre start, the Son caught him well before the end. He still wouldn’t say anything about the girl’s location, sticking to his whiny prayer.

  When he had finished, the killer went to the path that led down to the main site. With the help of the strategically positioned lights, he could make out the theatre, the great temple of Apollo with its few upright columns, and the treasuries of the various city-states. It was hard to believe that this had all grown up because of the ancients’ need for the ramblings of a drugged old woman – the oracle whose ambivalent words had played such a major role in Greek history. Fortune telling. The Son smiled. He could tell the guard’s. Tomorrow his fellow worshippers would be staring at his photographs. The fucker hadn’t spoken, though he’d given the impression that he didn’t know where the girl was. They were cunning, her captors, restricting that information to a small number of people. It only meant that more of them would die. And if what he’d just done didn’t frighten them, he didn’t know what would – though he had no doubt he could think of something.

  The Son slipped back the way he’d come, stepping over the parts of his victim. If he was lucky, he’d be in time to pick up a foreign woman in one of the late night bars. He had a preference for Scandinavians. They were less shocked by his demands than most.

  Mavros was lying on his bed, a fan blasting cold air over him. Although it was past midnight, the temperature was still in the high twenties and he was suffering. His Scottish genes had never been able to cope with killer heat, just as his Greek ones had taken to four years of Edinburgh weather like a duck to confit. The Fat Man was still in front of the TV, watching a dull American cop show that he claimed enabled him to know his enemy better.

  At first Mavros didn’t realise his phone was ringing – he’d put it on vibrate mode when he was tailing Maria Bekakou. He didn’t recognise the Athens number on the screen.

  ‘Oh, hello, you know who this is.’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed. Avoiding the use of names was sensible, though he assumed his client wasn’t at home.

  ‘Have you got anything for me?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Mavros replied. ‘Let me turn the question back at you.’

  There was a pause. ‘What do you mean?’

  Mavros decided to keep her in the dark initially. ‘How close are you to Maria Bekakou?’

  ‘She’s . . . she’s a good friend.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘Well . . . after Lia disappeared on Maria’s watch, so to speak, Paschos and I decided to put some space between them and us.’

  Mavros kept silent. Very few people could resist the urge to talk when they were lying.

  ‘You know, it seemed best. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Maria’s husband Rovertos does a lot of legal work for Paschos.’

  He decided to probe. ‘And Maria? Is she a lawyer too?’

  Angie Poulou laughed softly. ‘No, she has a shoe shop in Kolonaki.’

  ‘Would I know it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Are you interested in women’s footwear?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, yes.’ The pretence made him smile.

  ‘Oh. It’s called Heel and Toe, on Loukianou.’

  He knew it as his mother’s flat was only a few minutes’ walk further up the hill.

  ‘So were you talking about shoes when you visited Mrs Bekakou this afternoon?’

  ‘How do you . . .?’ His client broke off. ‘Have you been following me?’

  ‘No,’ he said, leaving her to work out how he knew. ‘What were you doing for over two hours with someone you’ve pulled away from?’

  ‘I don’t like being interrogated, Mr Mavros.’

  ‘And I don’t like being given the run-around. Here’s why I want to know what you and Mrs Bekakou were talking about. An hour or so before you went to her place, she had a meeting with Police Brigadier Nikos Kriaras. I take it you know him.’

  ‘Of course. He’s in charge of the search for Lia. But why . . . why would Maria be meeting him? She didn’t mention it.’

  ‘I subsequently heard her tell her husband that Kriaras said he was waiting for further developments. And also that your husband said he’d pay double. Are you aware of any of this?’

  ‘No! No, I don’t understand.’

  Mavros decided to spare her Maria Bekakou’s characterization of the female he presumed was Lia as a stupid little bitch who deserved what she got.

  ‘Could you answer my question, please?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘What did you and Mrs Bekakou talk about when you were at her house?’

  ‘Oh, nothing of any importance. Honest
ly. It’s true what I said about Paschos wanting me to keep away from them, but I don’t have anyone else to talk to. At least Maria knows Lia’s missing.’

  ‘Mrs Poulou,’ he said, enunciating her surname icily, ‘are you sure there isn’t anything significant you’ve omitted to tell me about Lia?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Then his client stopped. ‘You understand that I can’t go into all my family’s business.’

  ‘Anything potentially significant to her disappearance.’

  ‘I don’t think so . . .’

  ‘You’re sure she didn’t have a boyfriend.’

  ‘Positive,’ Angie replied, without hesitation. ‘She wanted one, but she also wanted the right one. She’d definitely have told me.’

  ‘All right. From the schedules you sent, I see she has very full days during term time. What about during the Easter holidays?’

  ‘We went to London for a week, but I was with her almost the whole time, visiting friends and relatives, shopping, going to the cinema and so on. Then we were at the villa in Evia for the festivities, again with family and friends always around.’

  ‘Did she spend a lot of time on her computer?’

  ‘No more than any other fourteen year old.’

  ‘Do you know what she did on it?’

  ‘The usual sort of things, I think – the Sims game, fashion sites, music.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t monitor her, apart from during homework time.’

  ‘So she could have got involved with unsuitable people.’

  Angie Poulou sighed. ‘You think I haven’t considered that – boys, cults, porn, even paedophiles. But I doubt it. Lia’s an innocent fourteen, trust me.’

  Not any more, Mavros thought.

  ‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘the police would have told us.’

  ‘Would they? I imagine your husband knows Nikos Kriaras pretty well.’

  ‘With the Games, you mean? Yes, of course.’

  ‘And do you know him well?’

  There was a long enough pause to make him prick up his ears. ‘No, only from functions. Why?’

  ‘I’m trying to build a picture.’

  ‘That’s becoming obvious. Tell me, Mr Mavros, how well do you know Brigadier Kriaras?’

  ‘We have history. If you want me to stay on this case, you’d better make sure he doesn’t find out about my involvement.’ It occurred to him that her husband might have had the phones near their home tapped. ‘Tell me that you’re using a public phone at least two kilometers from Ekali.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m in Ayia Paraskevi. Paschos is doing a TV interview.’

  ‘Don’t use the same phone again.’ He paused. ‘One last question. Where was your driver-bodyguard this afternoon?’

  ‘I . . . I paid him and dropped him off in Kifissia centre.’

  ‘Are you sure he won’t tell your husband?’

  ‘As if Paschos would care. He’s got far too much on his mind.’

  ‘So he wouldn’t be concerned that you were with Maria Bekakou and her husband?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘And if Mr Bekakos tells him?’

  ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. Find some other way to get Lia back.’ Angie Poulou rang off.

  Mavros lay on his bed, tossing away the notebook in which he’d been scribbling as they talked. He’d often heard expressions involving canines and mistaken wooden growths from clients. They were almost always misleading.

  He’d seen how conspiratorial Maria Bekakou had looked, both with Kriaras and her husband. She was the nearest thing to a lead he had, not least because she had expressed something akin to hatred for the girl who had gone missing and because Rovertos had said there was too much at stake. Meaning what, exactly?

  EIGHT

  Brigadier Nikos Kriaras stepped out of the helicopter at the far end of the ancient stadium at Delphi and walked towards the gaggle of uniformed personnel. It was nine-thirty in the morning and he was feeling bilious from the flight between the mountains – Parnassos’s bulk to the north had been particularly distracting – as well as apprehensive about what he was about to see. Scene of crime technicians had marked out lines of footprints that he avoided. As he approached, his tame inspector at his heels, a bulky figure in full dress uniform approached and saluted. Although the local chief was technically in command, there was no pretence about who was really calling the shots.

  ‘Is the area completely sealed off?’ Kriaras demanded, looking around. There were officers along both stepped sides of the stadium, and he saw men further up the mountainside.

  ‘Yes. Fortunately another of the phylakes came up early in the morning because the victim owed him money from a card game.’

  ‘Have you made clear to your personnel and to the site staff that this is a matter of national security and that anyone speaking to the press will lose both their job and pension?’

  The chief nodded. ‘Everything you told me on the phone has been carried out. But I don’t understand—’

  ‘Correct,’ the brigadier said. ‘You don’t understand and that situation is not going to change.’

  The uniformed officer accepted the rebuke without comment. He was two years from retirement and he wasn’t going to mess with a big gun from Athens. Though what the murder of a phylax, gruesome though it was, had to do with Greece’s national interests was beyond him.

  ‘Where’s the victim?’

  ‘The medical examiner has had him removed, as you requested. They’ll be in the hospital in Amfissa by now. My men have taken numerous photographs.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Kriaras followed the chief into the shade and watched the stream of images on the technicians’ cameras. The victim, Vangelis Gilas, was in his late fifties, a former merchant seaman from Itea who had sustained an arm injury in his twenties and been taken on as a phylax, no doubt because he’d promised to vote for someone. His service record was clean and he was popular with his workmates, though some of them found him rather dour. This much the brigadier knew from conversations when he was in the air. There was nothing to explain why he had been found sitting naked behind the start lines, his clothes in a pile beside him, stabbed in the heart. His head was five metres away at the top of the path that led to the main site, eyes wide open and reflecting the sun.

  ‘Very well. Hand over the memory cards to the inspector here.’ The brigadier frowned at the commissioner. ‘All of them!’ He turned to his subordinate. ‘Talk to the scene of crime people and call me when you’ve finished. I’m going to check the victim’s house.’

  The chief caught up with him as he walked down the stadium. ‘The ME just called. Do you want to talk to him?’

  Kriaras took the phone and ordered the man to report.

  ‘These are initial findings, you understand?’

  ‘Of course. A team from Athens is on its way to pick up the body. This is a code red case, so keep everything about it to yourself.’

  ‘I’ve already been told that by the Public Order Ministry,’ the ME said, with a hint of resentment.

  ‘All right. What have you found?’

  ‘First, there’s a puncture mark in the victim’s upper back. Without doing a toxicology analysis I can only speculate, but I think the man was drugged with a needle, I estimate gauge twelve. The effect was probably not prolonged, as I understand there are two sets of footprints leading from his house to the stadium. The head was removed with a single blade, extremely sharp – the same weapon that was plunged into the dead man’s heart. I’d say the killer is experienced. He waited till his victim bled out – there’s a large patch of blood on the seats behind the starting lines – then cut off the head cleanly.’

  ‘Time of death?’

  ‘The ambient temperature was twenty degrees at midnight and the body is still in rigor. I’d say your man was killed between then and three a.m. The post-mortem should narrow that down.’

  ‘Very well. Thank you.’


  ‘There’s something else, Brigadier.’

  There always is, Kriaras thought gloomily.

  ‘Inside the victim’s mouth are five pomegranate seeds, bright red and apparently fresh.’

  ‘Five? You’re sure of that?’

  ‘In the oral cavity, yes. Obviously there could be more in the oesophagus, stomach and so on.’

  Kriaras handed the phone back. There had been seven of those objects in the burned man’s gut. Now five. Did that mean there was an unknown victim somewhere with six seeds? He turned to the chief.

  ‘I take it no witnesses have come forward since we first spoke.’

  ‘None. Nothing much goes on in the upper town at night, according to the resident officers. There are no bars or tourist attractions, just houses. As you’ll see, the victim’s isn’t overlooked.’ They stopped at the open gate. ‘The phylax would have had a set of keys for all the site entrances. We haven’t found them.’

  ‘So the killer retraced his – or her – steps to this gate, having led the victim up here.’

  ‘It looks that way.’

  The chief stopped outside a single storey house, the red roof tiles faded.

  ‘I see what you mean about it not being overlooked,’ the brigadier said. ‘The dead man can’t have touched these bushes in decades.’

  ‘Maybe that was deliberate.’

  Kriaras frowned. ‘Don’t speculate. That’s my job. Have the technicians finished here?’

  ‘They’re still going through the rear rooms. So far, there are no prints except the victim’s. Obviously the killer was wearing . . .’ The chief broke off as his interlocutor walked away.

  Kriaras went in the open door. He was glad to see there was no obvious police presence to get the neighbours talking, though the chief and his uniform weren’t helping. They would soon come up with a story about the dead man being involved in antiquities theft, but the manner of his death would not be made public. He went back to the door. Could the victim have opened it to his killer? He kneeled down outside and saw fresh scratches around the wide keyhole. The lock had been jemmied. The murderer must have immobilised Vangelis Gilas, perhaps before gaining access. Could he have used a tranquilliser gun? That wasn’t beyond his capabilities.