Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) (16 page)

Then, two weeks ago, the pattern of knocks was lighter, the
sound hardly carrying into the sack-strewn hovel where I’ve
holed up. I was instantly alert, hand on my service revolver,
Ajax always came himself. He told me that he didn’t want any
of his comrades out after dark, but I was sure that he didn’t want
them to come into contact with the
xenos
; liaising with the foreigner
was his prerogative. So who was at the door now? It was
inconceivable that the hefty islander would have touched the
wood so delicately. There was a window at the back of the hut
with a loose-fitting shutter that I had prepared as an emergency
exit but, when the weak tapping was repeated, I dismissed the
idea of flight. If an Italian patrol had ended up at my front door,
they wouldn’t have been knocking so politely. I pulled the door
open and admitted my visitor into the darkened hut. It was only
when I lit a candle and held it up that I understood I was
looking at a girl. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen
.

‘To faï sas,’
she said. Your food. Her voice was low and
throaty. It made the hairs on my neck stand. She handed me
a woven bag and smiled
.

I was having difficulty speaking, my faculties stunned by
the sublime contours of her face, the shining black hair that
hung loose around it, and the lithe body that was standing
only a few inches from my own. Stepping back to break the
spell, I saw that her legs were bare under her knee-length
skirt, the thin cotton jacket that she wore on the upper part
of her body tight across her well-developed chest. She was
short, no more than five foot two, but she radiated an irresistible,
elemental power
.

I finally rediscovered my tongue and asked her where Ajax
was. She came closer to me, no sign of the shyness island
women would normally be expected to display in the presence
of a stranger. In her enchanting voice she advised me that her
brother had damaged his leg and had sent her in his place
.

I asked her name.

‘
Maro,’ she replied, her dark eyes flashing and an innocent
smile on lips that were redder than ripe cherries
.

And so I was lost, willingly and completely. To be in love
in this country, still so captivating despite the steely skies and
the bite of the wind, is more than any man deserves
.

Mavros went out into the street, shouldering his satchel that contained water, tanning lotion, guidebook and mobile phone. He’d also taken Rosa’s photo and card, as well as the diskette and photos he’d found in the chimney. The morning was well progressed and the sun was shining down the east- facing street with plenty of vigour. He put his sunglasses on and walked down the uneven surface. There was a small spray of hibiscus, already withering, lying against a bottom step. He wondered if it had come from the funeral procession as it meandered round the village, someone’s offering to the young people who had died. At the corner where the sign pointed to ‘Kambos 2 km’, he turned and walked up the gradually increasing slope.

He was passed by a succession of vehicles—battered pick-ups, white Japanese vans, ancient Rotavators towing mini-trailers and filling the air with their din. But Mavros wasn’t hitching. This time he wanted to complete the journey on foot. It wasn’t far and he felt it was time that he experienced the island’s topography close up. He often did this when he was working on a case. It was one of the reasons that he walked around Athens so much. He reckoned that only by measuring out the place you were in could you begin to decode it—and Trigono was one of those multilayered locations that needed a lot of decoding. He looked southwards to the massif, the bare flanks glowing silvery brown in the morning light and the great ridge standing between the peaks like an impenetrable wall. Beyond it the young couple had drowned in a relatively calm sea. He wondered idly if anyone could have seen what happened from the hills. But a witness would surely have come forward by now.

As he walked on up the thin layer of asphalt to the low ridge that separated the north of the island from the central plain, Mavros looked to his right. The conical hill he’d seen from the cemetery road stood out against the southern extremity of Andiparos across the waves. According to the map that prominence was called Korakas, The Crow. A vision of black birds pecking at corpses rose up unbidden before him. He twitched his head. Trigono was doing disturbing things to his imagination.

Breathing hard as he reached the top of the incline, Mavros stopped and gazed down at the chequered pattern of fields and strips. The areas of bleached colours—pale gold, dusty green, freshly ploughed lustrous brown—were dotted with the matt white of houses and small churches. In the haze at the farthest extent of the Kambos he made out a large walled enclosure crossed by roads and tracks, a tall circular tower of dark stone rising up from a wide base against the lower flank of Mount Vigla. There was a jumble of white buildings around the old fortified structure, giving it the look of a shepherd protecting his flock. Mavros knew without consulting the map that this was Paliopyrgos, Old Tower, the estate owned by Panos Theocharis. Opening the guidebook, he read that the original tower had been built by a relative of Marco Sanudi, the first Duke of Naxos and the Archipelago way back in the thirteenth century.

The road snaked down the southern side of the ridge and soon led into farmland. In the wind-free plateau the heat was even greater, the air filled with the humming of insects and the rumble of agricultural machinery. Dry-stone walls had been built on either side of the road, hemming it in and forcing Mavros to stand on tiptoe to see around. As he passed a dilapidated, windowless building a donkey suddenly started braying close by. The sound continued, increasing in volume and becoming more high pitched. The panic and pain expressed in it were unmistakable.

Mavros ran through a rutted gateway and past a hut with a collapsed roof towards the source of the noise. He found it behind another wall, the sound of the stick that was being brought down repeatedly on the animal’s thin sides audible before he got there.

‘
Stamata!
’ he shouted, ignoring his cover as a tourist. Stop! He dropped his bag and started to climb over the loose stones of the wall. ‘For fuck’s sake, stop!’

The wrinkled man with the stick was watching him through narrowed eyes, but he continued administering the beating until Mavros grabbed his arm. Despite the man’s obvious age, his arm was strong. Finally Mavros wrestled the stick down and tugged it away with his other hand.

‘What are you doing?’ he continued in Greek, giving the donkey a quick examination. Its black eyes were shiny, its front legs hobbled and the tattered hide on its neck twitching. ‘You’ll kill the poor beast!’ he yelled, turning his gaze back on the old man.

‘What do I care?’ the islander replied, his voice loud and steady. ‘It’s only a donkey.’ He fixed Mavros with a stare. ‘And it’s mine.’

Mavros glared back at him. The concept of treating animals without cruelty wasn’t widespread in rural Greece. He knew there was no point in lecturing the old man so he tried reasoning with him. ‘I know it’s your donkey,’ he said. ‘But what use is it to you dead or seriously injured?’

The farmer was still staring at him, chin high. Then he turned his head and spat a great lump of phlegm on to the dry earth.

Mavros stood with his hands on his hips then strode off down the road, his cheeks red and his breathing heavy. ‘The old bastard,’ he cursed. He could only hope that he hadn’t made the poor creature’s situation any worse. At least the agonised braying hadn’t started up again as soon as he left. Then he remembered the farmer’s solid features and unwavering eyes. He’d seen him the previous day beside the old man with one arm who’d blocked the entrance to the graveyard and shouted at the old woman. There was a definite resemblance; he guessed they were brothers. That would make this guy an uncle of the drowned boy’s father, Lefteris, the callous fisherman who’d gone hunting the night before the funerals. Presumably they were the village’s family of violent headcases. Every isolated community had at least one.

Crossing a dusty junction in the middle of the baking plateau, he found himself in an open area that was uncultivated. A herd of goats were nibbling what remained of the pasture, the grass now tawny brown and only just protruding above the earth. A herdsman stood near the road, supporting himself on a long stick. He swivelled his eyes towards Mavros and ran them down his T-shirt and shorts. Then he raised an arm and came over, his legs taking giant strides. As he came close, Mavros realised he must be in his late teens. His eyes moved constantly and his lips were set in a slack smile. The wooden shaft of a roughly hewn wind instrument protruded from the pocket of his faded jeans.

‘
Kali mera
,’ Mavros greeted him, deciding that he might as well give up the guise of a foreigner for the time being. ‘Hot, isn’t it?’

The young man took in his words and then nodded solemnly, his eyes bright and questioning. ‘Yes, very hot. My name is Dinos. Where are you going?’

Mavros asked him if he knew where Eleni the archaeologist was working. After some repetitions and clarifications, he was told that she was up on the slope above the old tower. Mavros raised an arm in salute and walked on, feeling curious eyes burning into his back. Then the swirling notes of the herdsman’s pipe rose up into the air. It suddenly struck him that the sound would have been little different from when the island first supported livestock in ancient times.

Before Mavros had gone more than a hundred metres, he heard the roar of a powerful motorbike. It came over the rise in a cloud of dust and skidded to a halt in front of him. The engine was cut.

‘Alex! What are you doing here?’

‘Hello, Eleni,’ he said. ‘Looking for you, actually.’ He wasn’t going to mention the conversation he’d just had with the local. He was hoping that the weak-minded Dinos wasn’t a friend of Eleni who’d give her to understand that Mavros spoke Greek. ‘I was looking around the Kambos and thought I’d come to see you at work.’

The archaeologist gave him a sceptical look and drew a dusty forearm across her face. ‘See me at work?’ she repeated. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to be on the beach?’

Mavros grinned. ‘Later, maybe. I don’t want to get burned.’

Eleni looked up. ‘There’s sun in the Kambos too, you know.’

‘Yes, but at least I’m vertical rather than horizontal out here.’

She shrugged. ‘All right. I’ll show you around. I was going for lunch but that can wait.’ Her dark eyes held his for a moment. ‘Since you’re so interested.’ She kick-started the bike and turned it back up the hill. ‘Come on then,’ she said, looking over her shoulder and indicating the seat behind her.

Mavros swore under his breath at the prospect of mounting the bike. The way it had come down the hill suggested that Eleni was as reckless as any Athenian kamikaze rider. ‘How far is it?’ he asked, raising his voice over the noise.

‘Get on,’ Eleni said impatiently. ‘I’m not wasting any more time than I have to.’

Mavros bit his lip then swung a leg over the ripped plastic seat. He managed to shove the footrests down but couldn’t find any handholds.

‘Put your arms round me!’ Eleni shouted. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t bite.’

Mavros slung his bag over his back and slid his arms round the archaeologist’s midriff. Her shirt was damp with sweat and he felt her loose breasts on his forearms. Then the engine was revved and he was forced to close his eyes by the cloud of dust that rose immediately. The wheels started to slam up and down on the rutted track and more than once he thought they were going to cant over. The thought of his unprotected legs hitting the bone-hard ground at speed made him close his eyes even tighter. After what seemed like a long time, Eleni slewed the bike round and killed the engine. He loosened his grip on her and dismounted, his legs weak.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘You look like a ghost. Was my driving that bad?’

‘No, no,’ Mavros said, blinking to clear his eyes. ‘I just don’t like two-wheeled vehicles.’

‘Really?’ she said dubiously. ‘Don’t you have them in Scotland?’

He finished beating the dust from his T-shirt. ‘What? Oh, yes. But I don’t ride one. Too wet, too cold.’ He looked around, taking in the panorama of scorched slopes then, beyond them, the islands and fishing boats dancing on the shimmering blue. ‘Unlike here.’

The archaeologist moved away towards an outcrop of rock surrounded by a small plateau. The ground all around was steep, the flanks of Vigla scored by fissures and small watercourses that had been dry for months. The area surrounded by a barbed wire fence was the only flat one in the vicinity. Mavros followed Eleni and, as he got closer, he saw a low roof of corrugated plastic beneath a perforated cliff-face. He didn’t need to take out the photo he’d found in the chimney to be sure that it was the same place.

Eleni undid a pair of heavy padlocks on the barred gate in the fence and led him in. ‘Mitso! Where are you?’ she called in Greek. ‘Wake up, you lazy slob!’ She turned to Mavros, shaking her head. ‘I’ve told Theocharis a hundred times that we need electronic security, but he insists on using his own people. They’re ex-sailors and they spend most of their time drinking.’

A heavily built man in his late thirties appeared from under the shelter, scratching his groin and regarding Eleni with a grin. ‘I thought you’d gone to lie down,’ he said, his eyes moving to Mavros. ‘Or is that what you’re going to do with your friend?’

‘Screw you!’ the archaeologist yelled. ‘Go back to your dirty magazines.’ She pointed towards an orange tent beneath the rocks.