Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) (38 page)

But Theocharis was still unable to stop himself going over what had happened on the ridge all those years ago, that night when the moonlight was bright one moment and obscured by clouds the next. There was no doubt in his mind that preventing Lawrence and his bloodthirsty men from doing more damage, bringing even more serious reprisals on the local population, had been the right thing to do. If only Manolis hadn’t mistreated his sister, beaten her and destroyed her child, whipped up feelings against her in the village. That was cruel, but the war was to blame. The worst things happen in such times and people like Manolis who are vicious by nature have their characters ruined by war. At least that hadn’t happened to him. Or had it? What he was considering for Alex Mavros was as callous as anything he’d done during the war. Was it really necessary? Oh God, was there no end to the guilt?

There was a heavy knock on the door. It was opened and Mavros was pushed through, Aris behind him.

‘Please, sit down, Mr Mavro,’ the museum benefactor said in Greek, indicating the sofa.

‘What’s this about my brother?’ Mavros demanded, fixing him with wild eyes. ‘You have news of him? What news?’

Theocharis glared at Aris. His son had a slack smile on his face. Could he do nothing right? The idiot had already told Mavros, leaving him no option but to proceed with the distasteful stratagem.

The old man nodded slowly, regaining his composure. The investigator’s agitation showed that the ploy was already having an effect. ‘Yes, perhaps it’s best if we dispense with pleasantries. I am rather busy. My proposition is very simple, Mr Mavro. I will give you information concerning the location of your brother after—’

‘What kind of information?’ Mavros interrupted. His voice was hoarse. ‘Are you saying that Andonis is alive?’

Theocharis raised a hand. ‘Please,’ he said, giving the investigator a thin smile. ‘You must agree to do this on my terms or not at all.’ He looked at him, seeing the turmoil in his face. ‘Do you agree?’

‘Before I know what your terms are?’ Mavros took a deep breath and eventually nodded. ‘All right. Tell me how it’s to be, Theocharis.’

‘That’s Mr Theocharis, you son of a bitch,’ said Aris, shoving his elbow into Mavros’s ribs.

‘Enough,’ Panos said, glaring at his son. ‘Leave him alone.’ He turned his eyes back to Mavros. ‘I know this must be difficult for you after so many years, but you will understand that I have my own affairs to safeguard.’ He smiled again, this time more expansively. ‘These are the terms, which, as you have agreed, are non-negotiable. You will leave Trigono as soon as the wind allows. After you have been back in Athens for three days, I will arrange for a file containing material about your brother to be delivered to your home. The file will be in no way attributable to me and you would be extremely foolish to disclose the provenance of the information to anyone.’ He opened his eyes wide. ‘I retain the best legal advisers, as well as numerous operatives who act on my behalf in, shall we say, less overt ways.’

Aris let out a guffaw.

Theocharis continued talking without looking at his son. ‘Mr Mavro, you are to ask no further questions about Rosa Ozal or about anything else concerning Trigono when you are back on the mainland. And there is to be no further communication between you and me, or between you and any of my family or staff. One more thing. Should you contravene any of these terms before you leave the island, our agreement will be terminated immediately and you will receive no information whatsoever about your brother.’ He raised his shoulders. ‘That is all.’

The investigator bowed his head and brought his hands to his forehead. For several anxious moments Theocharis thought he was going to decline the proposal.

‘Very well,’ said Mavros, looking up again. ‘One question. Where did you get this material?’

‘I have already referred to the people I employ to gather such data.’ Theocharis turned towards the windows. ‘If you need further convincing of its reliability, I will also say that I had certain dealings with the regime your brother was acting against. Not that you will ever be able to prove that. Goodbye, Mr Mavro.’

The tycoon watched as Mavros was led out of the tower to the Jeep. The man looked like he had been caught in an explosion, his head down and his shoulders slumped. The wind was flicking his long hair around like the mane of a horse. He wondered what it was about his eyes. There was something strange about them. But he was a beaten man now. Theocharis didn’t think there would be any more problems from him. He felt a stab of remorse at what he had done but, whatever happened, family came first. That meant his own family, for all his son’s manifest failings, and not the offspring of the communist Spyros Mavros.

‘I am someone. You are someone. She is someone.’

The bound woman was fighting to bring up an image of who she was, but the words achieved nothing. I am someone. But who am I?

She stopped and tried to take a deep breath, to fill her lungs, but couldn’t. She managed only short, gulping swallows of air, her throat wrenched in agony. Go on, she told herself. Continue the recital. We are someone. She broke off, a burst of hoarse laughter erupting from deep inside her, making her choke as the pain bit into her airway. We are someone, she whispered, blinking hard but not managing to squeeze a tear from her eyes. The royal we, the we that self-obsessed politicians sometimes used, the we that didn’t mean more than one person at all, the we that meant I’m in charge and the rest of you are going to do what I say, the rich man’s we.

Christ, woman, she thought. Get a grip. You can’t even think straight any more. She pulled weakly at her bonds, the ropes no longer hurting her wrists and ankles. They’d been numb for a period of time that she couldn’t determine. She wondered when the end was going to come, wished the last darkness would swallow her up. But it wouldn’t, it refused to. She knew she was still in her place of captivity because, although it was dark, there was still the faint blur of light ahead that had been tantalising her, the blur that told her when the sun was up. But no water, no food. She was more convinced than ever that she’d been abandoned, left to rot away. At least she wasn’t being filmed any more.

Jesus, she stank. The whole place stank. The smell had got worse recently, the dampness under her thighs rubbing her skin raw. But she knew that they weren’t only coming from her, the waves of corruption. Deep in her consciousness was the glimpse she’d caught of the ravaged body when she was first brought to the place. She had tried to blot it out but it was still lurking inside her like a ghoul preparing to pounce.

Take me away, she pleaded silently, take me back to the real world. Is that the wind outside or the rush of blood in my veins? The blood that’s keeping me alive pointlessly. Please, take me away.

And then her memory recovered something else and she slipped into another dimension, her nostrils suddenly clear of the cloying stench. She looked down and saw her body as it was that last evening, sheathed in the green dress that ended above her knees, her feet in the slingback shoes she’d paid far too much for. She raised her eyes and took in the mural in front of her. Faded colours, patches that had been replaced, but the scene was still vivid enough—the underworld river, the ferryman with his burning eyes, the souls on the banks with their hands outstretched, imploring the living to save them.

The old man with the sculpted beard and the stick was by her side, his lips moving but his words inaudible. All she could hear was the wind, loud in her ears now, a continuous flow of air over stalks of corn or the surface of the sea. Who was he? And then the others crowded round, the woman with the golden skin and hair, Aris, the overweight bald man, and the other woman with the dark curls and soft smile. What did they want from her?

Then, without warning, the noise in her ears stopped and she found herself in a large room, a study with a broad antique desk and high windows, distant lights twinkling through them. She was on her own with the old man and his name came back to her. Theocharis, Panos Theocharis. The wealthy businessman, the museum benefactor. They were sitting on a plush sofa and he was asking her questions, his head bent forward and his eyes focusing on hers.

‘How do you know about George Lawrence? How do you know about his activities on Trigono? What is your interest in these matters?’

The questions went on, the next one posed as soon as she stuttered out her answer. She was nervous, intimidated by the tower and its owner, who had suddenly become very serious, almost hostile towards her. She didn’t mean to mention the diary but Theocharis was a skilled interrogator; he’d quickly extracted the admission that she had obtained it in an auction of memorabilia in London.

‘And does this diary mention me?’ he asked, his eyes hooded and his expression stern. ‘Does it mention the code-name Agamemnon?’

She prevaricated, mumbled something about Lawrence being unstable when he wrote the entries, but she could see the old man wasn’t convinced.

‘And does the great British hero George Lawrence describe the consequences of his actions?’ Theocharis asked, his tone bitter. ‘Does he express any regret for the people of this island who suffered as a result of his petty acts of sabotage?’

She told him that he did, that Lawrence had been plagued by doubts even though his commitment to the struggle prevailed. She thought it would not be sensible to mention the local woman Maro. But why was the Greek so interested? Could he have had something to do with Lawrence’s wounding and his sudden departure from Trigono? The official records were incomplete. It seemed he was incoherent for months after his evacuation by
kaïki
. The diary ended with the entry leading up to the Naxos mission.

‘He was a coward, you know,’ Theocharis said. ‘He wrote feeble poetry after the war.’

She tried to defend Lawrence, saying that as far as she could tell the poems were accurate in their depiction of Trigono, even if they were melancholic and filled with obscure references to a tragic love affair. They were also dripping with regret, and the writer seemed to have experienced a terrible disillusion. She wished she had been able to talk to the woman Maro. Someone had told her she was still alive.

Her host had got to his feet unsteadily and loomed over her. ‘The diary, my dear. I must have the diary. I will double what you paid for it.’

It was then that she knew she was on to something, when she knew she was on the brink of a breakthrough. The diary was the key. So she refused to sell it, shaking her head even when he offered ten times the price. He accepted this with surprising good grace, saying that he understood she had her book to write. It was only when the Jeep that was supposed to be taking her back to the village turned towards the dark mass of the southern hills that she realised the cost of her refusal. Although she had hidden her back-up diskette and a few photographs, the diary was easy enough to find.

And then everything turned to black.

The woman opened her eyes and took in the blurred line of light again, realising immediately that she was back in her own filth. There was still no release from the pain. But something had stayed with her from the scenes in the tower, something that made her shiver. The Jeep had been driven by a man. She couldn’t bring his face back but she remembered the thick arms on the steering wheel. But the person in the other front seat was a woman, a voice that she’d heard before. She frowned, then felt tears finally flood her eyes. Could a woman really be involved in tying her up in this hole, in filming her and abusing her, in leaving her to die? Who was she? Why couldn’t she summon up a face? Suddenly she remembered the animated conversation that had taken place when she was first in the cave, the hoarse voices. Her captors had been arguing and, yes, one of them was a woman.

A noise. She blinked, alert in a split second, trying to comprehend what was going on in front of her. The faint light had been obscured. There was a sound, a dragging sound, as if someone or something was scuffling along the rough rock walls and stony floor. Her heart leaped. Was this water, was this food? Oh God, was it freedom at last?

Then she was forced to blink as a bright light came on and was shone in her eyes. For a few moments she couldn’t see anything. The noise she had heard continued, getting closer. The light moved erratically around what she could now see was a cave, stalactites hanging from the ceiling, the walls roughly formed. Glancing from side to side, she felt her heart stop. No, it couldn’t be. A figure she was unable to make out in the flashes of light had dropped a naked female body near her and was busy attaching a rope to the wrists.

But that wasn’t what made her shrink back against the jagged rock. A few seconds earlier the random movements of the torch had lit up another form at the far end of the cave. She saw the blackened, tattered corpse, teeth and bones glinting, that she had been fighting to keep out of her mind. And she saw the familiar ropes around the body’s wrists and arms.

She let out a desperate, croaking cry. She had realised that she was only one of a growing collection of victims.

*  *  * 

‘This isn’t a taxi,’ Aris said, pulling up outside the Bar Astrapi. ‘You can walk from here.’

Mavros opened the door, trying to ignore the mocking faces of the big man and the watchman Mitsos.

‘You get the first ferry that leaves Trigono after the wind drops or the deal’s off, right?’ Aris gave a hollow laugh. ‘Safe journey, wanker.’

Heading down the track past the spot where he’d been attacked and blinking as the wind blew dust into his eyes, Mavros thought about what he had done. Andonis. His brother had been with him since he was a boy, had accompanied him everywhere. Andonis was often invisible, always silent. When he did appear it was only as flashes of memory, evanescent images that had supplanted flesh and blood. But Andonis was still his guardian spirit, the figure he always tried to take as an example and measure up to. He couldn’t ignore Andonis. He couldn’t consider prioritising the Ozal case and passing up a chance of finding him. What if he were still alive? There was very little hope after so long, but any hint was worth investigating.