Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) (14 page)

Maro stood up and walked unsteadily to the bedroom.

‘So, Manoli,’ she said quietly, remembering what her brother had called her outside the cemetery. ‘You think I’m a
strigla
. Maybe I am. In the folk tales
strigles
are old women who turn themselves into owls and drink the blood of helpless children. Not only that.
Strigles
can bring about the deaths of the unfortunate children’s parents. Do you really believe I could do that to your precious grandson Yiangos? Do you think I want to kill you and my own nephew, Lefteris? Maybe it would be better for everyone if I could. Because you are the guilty one, you are the one responsible for the pain that has fallen on this family.’

She sank down on the bed, her eyes filled with tears. ‘What am I saying?’ she groaned. ‘They hate me but I don’t hate them. I should, after everything they’ve done to me as well as to the only two I ever really loved in my life. But hate doesn’t bring them back. The only thing that calls them, that keeps them with me, is the love that I still have for them.’

Maro got down on her knees and pulled the box out from under the bed. She opened it and, moving her eyes constantly to the photograph in the icon niche, she lifted out the blackened skull. Inaudible words were streaming from her lips, tears running down her wrinkled cheeks. Then she reached over to the small bedside cabinet and picked up a small wooden box. She placed the small shrivelled objects she took from it carefully around the skull in a circle.

And waited patiently for the pomegranate seeds that in ancient times had been sacred to Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, to bring her beloved ones back across the river of lamentation.

Mavros didn’t want to be in the village while the second funeral took place. Rena was looking so down that he kept his questions about Rosa Ozal to himself. Eleni’s mention of the Kambos, the inland plain, and the grandeur of the southern massif had piqued his curiosity. He wanted to explore the island, as well as start earning Deniz Ozal’s fee— he had rung his bank and confirmed the transfer of funds. According to the guidebook there was an asphalt road that ran down the east coast for six kilometres to the beach resort of Ayia Marina. He didn’t like the look of the hotel blocks and tourist cafés in the photos, but it was possible that Rosa Ozal had worse taste than he had, so he decided to start the search for her there. If she’d come back to the island, maybe she had her reasons for staying outside the village this time. He was pretty sure that there would be some staff on duty despite the funerals. He exchanged jeans for shorts, noticing how white his legs were beneath the hairs, and went outside.

About twenty metres beyond Rena’s house there was a small yard enclosed by a low wall, a new stone-built box of a building to the rear. Through the leaves of a well-watered fig tree, Mavros could see an engraved plaque stating that the Public Library of Trigono, built with a generous donation from Panos Theocharis, had been opened by the local prefect a couple of months earlier. He was about to walk on when it occurred to him that he might find books of local interest there. Going up the smooth marble steps, he remembered what the villagers were caught up in. The library was unlikely to be open when everyone was attending the funerals. Then he saw the key in the door.

The interior of the building was cool because of the thick walls and the closed shutters. Turning on the light, Mavros looked round the sparsely filled shelves. Either the local people were avid borrowers or funds had run out. There were more children’s books visible than adults’. Someone had taken the setting up of the library seriously as there were handwritten labels on the ends of each shelf stating the subject matter. Although there was a section marked ‘Local History and Culture’, the only book in it was a lavishly printed study of Trigono’s churches published by the diocese on Paros. He put it back after a few seconds, the air of devotion that rose from the volume stifling him.

There was a pair of rectangular wooden boxes on a table under the window, the word ‘Catalogue’ written in red on their upper surfaces. One series of cards classified the library’s books by author name and the other by subject. There were four other books in the ‘Local History and Culture’ section, all in Greek, their titles, authors and publication details neatly inscribed. Three were religious studies concerning the island’s experience of the Byzantine, Venetian and Ottoman empires, but it was the last one which caught his attention. It was entitled
Trigono 1941-1943: Endurance and Resistance,
written and apparently self-published by one Andhreas S. Vlastos of Paros in 1999. According to the card there were six copies of the book in the library. Either it was very popular or the catalogue was wrong, as it was conspicuous by its absence from the shelves. Mavros glanced around for a register of loans. There was no card or digital strip in the book he’d looked at so presumably the librarian kept a handwritten record. He caught sight of a leather-bound book on a shelf by the door and went over. Running his finger down the pages, he soon ascertained that no one had borrowed the book. He twitched his head in irritation. The war memorial with the name erased from it had piqued his curiosity. He noted down the details of the Parian author’s book then put the register back and went outside, telling himself to stick to the job in hand.

The problem was that it was now past midday and the sun was blazing down. Walking six kilometres in this heat was the kind of thing that only demented foreigners did, especially as the light wind was blowing on to the far side of Trigono. He wondered if there would be a bus. A quick perusal of the roughly painted sign at the parking space on the outskirts of the village told him that he had a two-hour wait, and even then he wasn’t convinced. His experience on Zakynthos had taught him to beware all signs concerning transport even under normal circumstances, when there wasn’t potential disruption by general mourning. There was a car and bike hire place at the end of the track that led to the Bar Astrapi, but it was closed.

Mavros decided to try hitching. The road snaked away into the haze, its black strip separated from the sea by rocky uncultivated land and, about fifty metres to his left, by the dusty tamarisks that marked the edge of the beach. After a few minutes he came to a junction with a signpost pointing towards ‘Psili Ammos Beach—Rooms, Bar and Souvlaki House’. He made a cross on the margin of his map to remind himself to show Rosa’s photo there on the way back and kept going. So far not a single car or motorbike, not even a donkey, had passed in either direction.

The southern hills rose up sharply, the ridge between them standing against the blinding blue sky like a great fortified curtain. The wall that followed its contours reinforced that impression. Mavros was amazed that at some time in the island’s history the locals had transported stone up to the windswept saddle, presumably to separate grazing land. It was a magnificent, almost surreal achievement—and all for a few goats. To the south-east the white patch of buildings that made up Ayia Marina danced in the heat like a mirage. It was then he realised that he hadn’t brought any water with him.

He cursed under his breath. In Athens there were refrigerated cabinets attached to almost every kiosk, but in the Cyclades you obviously needed to plan ahead. He considered turning back but dismissed the idea. According to the book there was a beach called Makroyiali about halfway to Ayia Marina that had a café.

Shortly afterwards he heard the noise of an engine. He turned his head and saw a silver Suzuki four-by-four that glistened in the sunlight. It stopped when he stuck out a thumb.

‘I thought I recognised you,’ the man in the front passenger seat said. ‘You were in the bar last night.’ He gave Mavros a tentative smile.

‘And in the
kastro
above Rinus’s flat this morning,’ the female driver added, her voice markedly less friendly than her companion’s. ‘Well, get in then. We’ll melt if we stay here for long.’

The fair-haired man stepped out and collapsed his seat to give Mavros access to the back. ‘It’s Alex, isn’t it?’ he said with a smile.

‘Thanks,’ Mavros said. ‘Yes, I’m Alex. I’m afraid I don’t know your names.’ He had picked them up in the Astrapi, but he didn’t want to reveal that he’d been listening to their conversation with Aris Theocharis or to the one with the barman Rinus in the
kastro
.

‘I’m Barbara,’ said the woman as she pulled away. ‘He’s Mikkel. Where were you going? It’s dangerous to walk in this heat if you’re not used to it.’ She glanced at his legs. ‘And I can see you’re not.’

‘I was going to Ayia Marina,’ Mavros said, glad that he didn’t spend his weekends on the beaches of Attiki and the neighbouring islands like many Athenians. The smog kept even the exposed parts of his skin unburned and the lack of tan fitted in well with his cover story.

‘Oh, you don’t want to go there,’ Barbara said firmly. ‘It’s a horrible tourist trap. If you want a beach, Makroyiali is much nicer and it’s empty at this time of year. It’s nearly a kilometre long. The name means Long Beach.’

‘Does it?’ Mavros said, letting the woman hold sway. The low profile the man was keeping suggested that she was used to running conversations. Close up, her appearance was marginally less severe than it had been under the lights of the bar. Her hair was pulled back from her face, emphasising the prominent cheekbones and an incongruous button nose, and her body, sheathed in an expensive-looking long-sleeved blouse and linen trousers, was amply proportioned. ‘Do you live here?’ he asked. ‘You seem to know the place very well.’

His remark brought a satisfied smile to Barbara’s face. ‘I should do,’ she said, driving over the carcass of a rabbit. ‘I’ve lived here for over ten years. All year round, unlike the other foreign homeowners.’ She announced this as if it were a notable achievement. ‘Even the Athenians who’ve built houses here only come at Easter and for a few weeks in the summer.’

Probably because they had jobs to go to, Mavros thought. ‘How interesting,’ he said. ‘So you decided to move to Greece, did you? What made you choose Trigono?’

‘I first came here in 1972,’ said Barbara. ‘The place was so different then. I fell in love with it immediately. There was no electricity, no roads like this, no tourists.’

‘Apart from you,’ Mavros put in with a slack smile.

‘I am not a tourist,’ she said, looking at him in the mirror.

‘Barbara was collecting ideas for furniture,’ Mikkel said, turning round. ‘Her designs are sold all over the world.’

‘Hoeg,’ she said. ‘I’m Barbara Hoeg. Do you know the name?’

Mavros shrugged, feigning ignorance. He’d seen Hoeg designs in a shop patronised by his sister—tall, thin, tubular steel chairs with wicker bases, dressers that were a weird combination of folk carving and stainless steel—but he wasn’t going to give the woman the satisfaction of admitting that. Her abrasive nature repelled him, but there was more to it than that—he had the impression that she was concealing something that disturbed her more than she could admit. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about furniture,’ he said, wondering how she would react. ‘I don’t pay much attention to it.’

‘Are you here for long, Alex?’ Mikkel asked quickly. He was clearly concerned about the effect Mavros’s words might have on Barbara. She narrowed her lips but didn’t speak.

Mavros shook his head. ‘A few days. I’m travelling from island to island.’ He decided to take a chance. ‘A friend gave me the idea. She went island-hopping in the early summer and she sent me a card recommending Trigono. I don’t suppose you happened to meet her. Rosa Ozal?’ He took the photo from his bag and showed it to Mikkel.

The German looked at it, his head bobbing as the car went over bumps in the asphalt. Barbara’s arm banged into his. ‘No,’ he said, suddenly blinking his eyes as if to block out the sight of the image. ‘I don’t think I remember her.’ He held the photo up in front of Barbara.

‘I’m trying to drive, Mikkel,’ she said in an irritated voice. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, I never saw her.’

Mavros was watching them carefully. ‘It doesn’t matter. I just wondered, since you know the island so well…’

Barbara pulled up outside a high stone wall surmounted by a bamboo fence. There was only a restricted view to the large house beyond. ‘You’ll have to get out here, I’m afraid. The beach is a few minutes’ walk farther on.’

Mikkel let him out. ‘Well,’ he said apologetically, ‘maybe we’ll see you again.’

Mavros nodded, pretty sure that the man would have invited him in if left to his own devices. But Barbara’s face was set hard, her fingers tapping the steering wheel and her eyes away from Mavros. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ he called to her.

She didn’t respond, but that didn’t bother him. He was convinced that she’d nudged Mikkel to shut him up. His nervous eye movements and the way she’d suddenly closed up had convinced him that they’d both seen Rosa Ozal in the flesh earlier in the year. Hitch-hiking had been a lot more productive than he’d imagined.

Walking on past the fence, he looked towards the sea and saw a fishing boat close to the shore, its winches turning but no net on them. He narrowed his eyes and read the name
Sotiria
, then recognised the hefty frame of Lefteris, the son of old, one-armed Manolis and father of the drowned boy. Not only was he staying away from the young woman Nafsika’s funeral, he was staring with frightening intensity at the house belonging to the German woman and the man she kept firmly under her thumb.

Barbara Hoeg strode into the large living room that featured many pieces she had designed. ‘I don’t like him,’ she said, opening the French windows that led on to the terrace. The water in the swimming pool reflected the sky, while the sea lapped dark against the low cliff thirty metres beyond. ‘There’s something about the guy that gets my back up.’ She took a step outside, her eyes fixed on the fishing boat, and raised a hand briefly.

‘Alex?’ Mikkel said, bringing her a glass of white wine. ‘He’s just a tourist,
agapi
mou
.’ He used the Greek term of endearment— ‘my love’—that Barbara had liked ever since she’d heard it from the local boy she got involved with on her first visit to Trigono. Mikkel hadn’t known her then. He was an accountant by profession and had met her when Hoeg Design took off in the early eighties. ‘He’ll be gone in a few days.’ He sipped from his own glass. ‘We probably won’t even see him again.’