The Dead Travel Fast (24 page)

Theodrakis sat on the ground watching the taxi bump its way over the stony track towards the road; he couldn’t go with them, he had to see Vassilis. The birds were back, spread out on stumps and rocks; they were watching him, expecting something. Whatever it was, they weren’t going to get it. He’d nothing left to give. Something desperate had happened; they’d found nothing, the fetish had gone and whatever Alekka was trying to do, failed. There was, though, still enough of the detective in him to make him think about Claire’s performance before she got in the taxi.

She’d been triumphant and taunting as earlier, but there’d been something else. Something that kept cutting across her thought pattern, interfering with her wavelength. She was laughing and gloating. Then mid-stream she’d falter like a dementia sufferer suddenly gone blank as if something she couldn’t control was pulling her back.

He sat mulling it over and staring at the supermarket bag with the bones that lay by his feet. His phone was ringing but he ignored it; Alekka didn’t come back. He was thirsty and looked for the water bottle, it was empty. He noticed the shadows were lengthening, the day was fading; soon the sun would dip behind Mount Kerkis. He climbed stiffly to his feet and picked up the bones. He stared for a moment at Alekka’s car; knew she wouldn’t be coming back.

The path up to Vassilis house was steeper and longer than
he’d imagined and by the time he’d sweated and stumbled up it, twilight had softened the landscape. As the archaic housekeeper showed him through to the terrace he entertained a brief hope that Alekka might be here, but the first glance at Vassilis banished any hope.

“Welcome, Theodrakis, no need to say anything, your face tells the story. I’ve been reflecting that although Aeschylus was the greatest ancient poet, Sophocles was perhaps the closest to truth when he said the best a man could ever wish for was never to have been born.”

Theodrakis said nothing; he’d no heart for poetry. Vassilis didn’t expect a reply anyway.

“I know you failed; you and Alekka. I felt her departure some hours ago and for her, as Aeschylus put it, ‘life’s sentry watch is over’.”

He walked across to Theodrakis, took the bag of bones out of his hands and threw it over the terrace, down the rock face.

“The one we needed is gone. If Watkins had brought these to me when he found them, then things could have been different. Thank you for what you have done, even though it has come to nothing all we can hope is that the necklace is lost and she has not possession of it.”

Theodrakis noticed there was someone sitting on a chair in the shadows by the wall. He was wearing worn black robes and broad brimmed hat like a priest in an ancient sepia photograph.

“So, now you can see Father John. I fear this indicates that you too are changing.”

Before Theodrakis could think of anything to say, Vassilis indicated a tray with a flask of wine and one glass, which had appeared on the table even though no one had brought it in. The glass was half full of white wine. He picked it up, drained it in one go and refilled; the wine was chilled, aromatically scented and honeyed; he could feel it restoring life to him as it icily slid down his throat. He was tired and his head began to spin; he sat down.

Vassilis sat watching him with a look akin to sympathy.

“Take one more glass, Syntagmatarchis, then listen to what you must do.”

Theodrakis refilled his glass; everything was a dream now, he was so far out of his comfort zone. Somewhere in his jacket he heard his phone break into its ringtone then die. The battery must have finally given up the ghost. How would he contact Hippolyta and what could he tell her if he did? He drank the wine, emptied the glass. The priest was now sitting next to him; he’d not noticed him move. Outside it was dark; three ancient and battered-looking crows perched on the terrace railings blending into the night.

“Theodrakis, may I call you Alexis? My time here is ended; the curse has come upon us. The ‘Throat of Ages’ is lost, or worse. I have failed. However it is not the end, the game moves on but the odds have worsened. What happens next will take place somewhere else, England perhaps.”

Vassilis paused, stood up and walked across to the edge of the terrace; the oldest, most battered of the crows hopped onto his shoulder. Theodrakis couldn’t resist a shudder of revulsion. There was a touch on his own shoulder, he flinched and turning round saw himself looking into the face of the priest. His eyes were struggling to focus; under the shadows of the wide-brimmed hat he thought he was looking at a black, beak-dominated face, similar to a crow. He shut his eyes and when he opened them, saw the features had reassembled themselves into the corpse face of Father John.

“You must find Watkins then bring him to the monastery of St Spiridon on the mountain. You must be there at five o’clock by your time. Do not be late, the journey will cost me greatly.”

Theodrakis was disturbed by a flapping of wings as the crows rose into the air and flew off; when he turned back the priest too had gone. Vassilis beckoned him over to the terrace edge.

“See down there in the darkness is the cricket pitch, such a strange game, a pity you never got to see it. Well, there will be no more games here.”

Theodrakis had no idea how to respond to this; he needn’t have bothered. Vassilis hadn’t finished.

“My responsibilities were never to the island; still, I have grown fond of it over the millennia. So I want you to finish your work here. You have closed your case: there will be no more murders,
well, not related to these anyway. The purpose of the murders has been achieved. Father John too, after tomorrow’s appointment with you, is finished on the island; he has changed greatly since he arrived here in the fifteenth century. Back in those days he was called Davenport and was not a good man. Take one more small glass of the wine.”

Theodrakis went back to the table to pour but found the glass already full.

“Pouring that wine was the last service you will receive; I have released the staff back to their souls. Things will presently become too hot here, if you will forgive a little joke that only the passage of time will permit you to understand.”

Vassilis touched him on the forehead as if bestowing a blessing and Theodrakis could feel the cold contact of the fingers stinging his skin and a tingle of something working its way into his brain.

“Now, listen very carefully. Carry out Father John’s instructions exactly, there is no room for slippage, we may still need to work with Watkins. But first, purge the island of the murders. You have a freehand to expedite this; the mainland is on the verge of civil war, no one will be interested in what happens here. Use whatever scapegoats you think necessary, let them know that the Devil no longer walks among them. No, don’t question, when the time comes you will know what to do. Remember what Malraux said: ‘Heroes are people with a certain power that does not belong to them’.

“This hasn’t ended for you; look to receive advice from a most unexpected quarter. When you leave here, follow the track to the road, there you will find George’s taxi, he will drive you back.”

Vassilis turned as if to leave, then hesitated; Theodrakis had the impression he was suppressing a smile but in the dark it was difficult to tell.

“You may even find yourself in a place where you can make up for your failure to see cricket on the island, inspector.”

Theodrakis started to ask him what he meant but realised he was alone: Vassilis was gone, if he’d ever been there at all. Behind him, the great mirror on the wall by the table cracked from side to side.

He groped his way along the unlit interior passages of the mansion to the entrance; the place was deserted, long deserted, it smelt dank and musty. The walls were crumbling, the compound was empty and overgrown. It reminded him of Sleeping Beauty’s chamber. The glamour creating the illusion had faded.

The taxi was at the end of the track as Vassilis had promised, George pulled away as soon as he was inside but before he’d managed to close the door.

“This is the last time I will ever collect anyone from here, policeman.”

Theodrakis didn’t bother to reply, he knew neither of them would be coming back. He was dropped off at the bar. Hippolyta wasn’t there. She wasn’t at the apartment either, so he set off up the hill to the crone’s shack. Yaya Eleni was sitting outside the door by the road on a battered kitchen chair in her faded black weeds, resembling a sinister glove puppet. She appeared to be sleeping but he knew she was watching and as he drew close she stood up and gestured behind her towards the shack with her thumb.

“She’s in there.”

Before Theodrakis could get past her she reached up and touched his face but as he was bracing himself for a repeat of the spitting routine she snatched her hand away as if his skin was burning.

“You’re marked, changed. He has laid hands on you.”

Then she began to shriek like the chorus in an ancient tragedy.

“Aiee, aiee, it has moved on. It has come back to our door.”

She slumped back onto her chair. The shout had brought Hippolyta outside. She greeted him with a sharp stinging slap across the face.

“All day I have worried and called you. Not once have you answered and now here you are frightening my grandmother.”

Then she threw herself at him: a mixture of assault and embrace, which as she was physically stronger than he was meant that they struggled for a while before he managed kiss her to silence and make his apology.

“I need to get to a phone charger, is yours here?”

“No, at my place, so that is why you did not answer?”

“Yes and no, but I need to ring headquarters.”

“OK, but first I must see to Yaya.”

There was no need, the old woman was on her feet; she walked into the shack and slammed the door on them, so arms wrapped round each other they headed for her apartment.

Seconds after connecting to the charger his phone began ring.

“Theodrakis, its Kostandin, where the fuck have you been, I’ve been after you all day.”

“Sorry, my phone was …”

“You have to know what’s going on here! Where are you?”

“Across the island in the village, look, I can be with you in an hour, send a car.”

“No, listen, I can’t cope with this any longer, get a taxi, come now, I need every man we have. We are losing the island. Where have you been?”

“Try and calm down, tell me what’s happened.”

He turned to Hippolyta.

“Get me a taxi.”

Then returned to listen in horror as Kostandin ranted down the line.

“There’s been another but worse, some of our men saw it.”

“What do you mean, our men saw it? Calm down, you’re not making sense.”

“The mob did it, we have no control anymore. You were meant to deal with this.”

“OK, OK, tell me what’s happened.”

“From a tree, they hung him from a fucking tree about thirty minutes ago.”

Theodrakis felt a terrible sense of premonition; he took a deep breath as Konstantin’s breaking voice rose in pitch and volume.

“They hung him from a fucking tree and then they …”

There was a pause at the other end and some garbled voices; it was apparent Kostandin was giving orders. Then he was back.

“They hung him from a tree and then they skinned him alive and and …”

“Go on, Kostandin, tell me, I’ll be there soon.”

“And we watched. Our men just fucking watched; they agreed with it. They were complicit. We’re nothing now, we’re part of it. I’ve had enough, you can have it all, I’m going home.”

“Kostandin, just tell me who was it. Who did they hang from the tree?”

But the question was rhetorical; he already understood who it was. So Konstantin’s answer when it came was only corroboration.

“Antonis. Vassilis’s son. The one you ordered us to release.”

George the taxi driver grumbled all the way from the village to the police department. The fact that Theodrakis ignored him made no difference; he continued to spout his interior monologue about the island’s woes with particular reference to the inadequacies of the police, who he saw as agents of corrupt Greek politicians and, surprisingly, the Germans.

Vathia simmered as they arrived, the streets heaved with a brooding volatile crowd. Once it became apparent that the taxi was headed for the police offices, people began to bang on the sides and roof. Theodrakis was almost used to this now and slumped back in his seat with his eyes closed.

But as they entered the square he saw one ominous change: the place was littered with sleeping bags and grimy bedrolls. This had become an occupation, common enough in the volatile and violent chaos of Athens but not here. It was hot, perhaps the hottest night of the year, which intensified the promise of imminent combustion.

But there was no violence, that at least was something, and he was able to leave the cab and walk up the steps to the office unimpeded apart from a murmured swell of complaint and the odd curse. No one even spat at him for which he was grateful.

Inside he walked into a febrile atmosphere. The mood in the central open plan office made him think of the last days in the Führer’s bunker or fighting for places on the last helicopter out of Saigon. He saw Kostandin cascading down the central staircase
to meet him, panic etched into every line of his face. This wasn’t leadership. What had happened?

“Theodrakis, there are things you need to hear, terrible things, my God you should hav …”

“OK, but not in front of the men, think about setting an example; go to your office.”

He followed Kostandin to the stairs, then turned to address the staff, all of whom had turned to stare at him.

“Get back to work. It’s your job to keep this island safe, not to stand around like panicked goats. Think yourself lucky that unlike those poor bastards out there you still have jobs. And anyone I see making the sign to ward off the evil eye gets sent right out there on patrol in the square. Understand?”

He noted with satisfaction that they started to shuffle back to their desks and duties, even seemed relieved to be bossed about, happy that someone seemed to be in control. He followed Kostandin up the stairs, feeling better. After the metaphysical horrors of Vassilis this was comfortably normal; it almost felt good to be back. Things changed once he shut the door of Konstantin’s office behind him.

Kostandin embraced him kissing him on both cheeks.

“Thank God you’re back, Alexis.”

Theodrakis flinched at the contact and winced at the use of his first name. But then he’d left the man to cope on his own; like Theodrakis he had no family, no one to go home to. He wondered for a moment if it wouldn’t be better to have Samarakis back.

“OK, Kostandin, sorry to have been out of contact, now give me a situation report, a calm considered one.”

“If you’d been here you wouldn’t be calm or considered.”

“And if you’d been where I’ve been you’d have wet yourself with terror. Now give me the fucking report.”

Theodrakis saw that Kostandin was relieved; it hadn’t been said but he was now in sole command and Kostandin could just follow instructions like the others: he’d cope better with that.

“The report please, Kostandin.”

“Yes, sorry, you’re right of course, it’s just I’ve been trying to run the whole Island. Since the coup in Athens it’s anarchy right across the country. On this island with economic collapse, the
murders and fires, people are pushed beyond their limits: it’s too much to take. Just look down there, and it’s the same in Karlovasi. But in Pythagoreio we appear to be dealing with something much worse, unlike anything else, it’s like the whole town’s gone mad.”

“Yes, I understand it must have been very difficult, now go on.”

“A few hours ago we had reports of an outbreak of mob rule in Pythagoreio. There was a lynching; our men couldn’t stop it, didn’t even try. Vassilis’s son, they skinned him alive and now the town’s out of control. Our reports say there’s a crowd of them marching on Vathia, on us. They’ll join the demo here. You won’t have heard but it’s a permanent camp out there, we can’t disperse them, we haven’t the men. We’ll be swept away.”

“Why didn’t you contact the army, get them to send men from one of the bases? There are two within fifteen kilometres.”

“You don’t understand; all the ones who will obey orders have been shipped to Athens, the rest, the conscripts, either won’t do anything or have deserted and gone over to the people.”

“We represent the people, Kostandin, remember?”

“If that’s what you want to believe, but there’s worse. They have a hostage, a live one who they aim to skin out there.”

“Come on, that’ll just be rumour …”

He got no further; there was a tumult of noise, shouting and screaming from outside in the square. Kostandin moved across to the window.

“Well, it looks like you’ll be able to judge for yourself, seems like they’re here, and one last thing: Andraki and the old man are dead, Andraki looks like a heart attack, the old man hung himself in his cell.”

“What with? Wasn’t he searched?”

“These aren’t normal times. But think about it, all the suspects we have for the murders are dead.”

Theodrakis joined him at the window in time to see the advance guard of the march from Pythagoreio sweep round the corner and into the square. It was like a scene from Hell. The leaders carried torches and burning brands which created a hideous chiaroscuro straight from the underworld. They were greeted by waves of cheering from the Vathians. The cheering came nearer to the building and he saw that a small knot of the marchers were carrying
something, stopping to show it to the crowd as they marched. A single chant now replaced the fragmented shouts: after a couple of iterations, Theodrakis caught it.

“We have cut the Devil. We have cut the Devil.”

Near the door, a man detached himself from the crowd and carried the object towards the steps leading up to the building. It wasn’t a bearded wide-eyed brigand in a torn shirt screaming imprecations, it was a neat man of about forty, could have been a bank clerk, someone’s husband or dad and for Theodrakis, this made it worse. When he reached the building he tossed the package up onto the top step then melted back into the crowd to prolonged cheering. Kostandin looked at Theodrakis then rushed out of the room and shouted down to the office.

“Get out there and bring that in.”

Moments later the door opened and a sergeant brought in the package to the accompaniment of wild cheers from outside. He brought the slimy packet to Kostandin, who brought it to Theodrakis.

“Shut the door.”

Kostandin complied and they inspected what the crowd had delivered: a package the size of a pack of butter wrapped in brown paper. A leaking package. Kostandin placed it on his desk.

“Open it.”

Kostandin hesitated.

“What about procedures: preserving evidence?”

“Fuck that. Open it.”

He began to unwrap the unwholesome mess very gingerly. It wasn’t easy, the reeking liquid had stuck the layers of paper together and Kostandin had to tear through the whole wet mess. It was difficult to be clear when he reached the content, as the texture of the brown paper had melded stickily with some other wrapping which was part of the content. When Kostandin realised what this was he gagged and threw up over the package, the desk and his shirt front.

Theodrakis tried to control himself but couldn’t; he gave way to waves of barking laughter.

“Once we couldn’t find any bones, today I’ve seen enough to sink a battle ship.”

He slumped onto the sofa wiping his eyes, recovered his composure and said,

“But not the ones we needed.”

He saw Kostandin staring at him in horror.

“Sorry, Kostandin, I’ll take a proper look now.”

He moved to the table where amongst the vomit he saw two severed fingers wrapped in several layers of human skin, freshly stripped from a body. He couldn’t think of an appropriate comment: what a sick comedy life was.

“No word of this to anyone yet, understand?”

He walked back to the window wondering if the other marchers carried the rest of the body; what should he do? It was something he didn’t have long to worry about.

There was frenzied shouting outside: the square was packed but a small group were forcing their way towards him. In their midst was a figure with bound hands and a grain sack pulled over its head. There was a new chant now and he caught part of it; something about a she-Devil. The rest he couldn’t work out and he didn’t get time to. They’d dragged the figure to the steps where they pushed it to its knees. He and Kostandin watched in speechless anticipation as the sack was roughly yanked off its head. In that split second he finally got and understood the chant.

“Now we’ll skin the she-Devil’s lover.”