The Dead Travel Fast (25 page)

In the garishly illuminated Devil's playground of flickering light, burning torches and street lamps, Theodrakis could see his face clearly. Bruised and blood smeared, he'd taken some rough handling, confused and lost like a child. A man behind him pulled his head back forcing him to stare up at the window. Once the sack had been pulled off, people around could clearly see the ravaged remains of his ear and began to murmur that he'd been marked. Kostandin asked,

“Who is it? Why him?”

“It's an Englishman, an archaeologist called Watkins; I‘ve met him, he writes poetry and had the misfortune to love Alekka Vassilis.”

The memory of Alekka gave him a griping sensation in his gut, she'd died trying to purge the island of this evil, now she was blamed. He felt himself hating Watkins: if he'd handed over the bones to him or Vassilis when he'd found them, none of this would have happened. He should ring Hippolyta, he'd promised to let her know when he got to police headquarters. But as he reached for his phone he heard a scream below him; Watkins was pulled to his feet and dragged towards a large municipal sign supported on two steel poles. It was obvious from his screams of fear that he knew what would happen next, even though Theodrakis didn't.

“Oh Christ, they're going to do it here.”

Kostandin's voice was loud in his ear.

“Do what here?”

“They're going to string him up and flay him like Antonis.”

“Not here in front of all those people, there's women and children there.”

“They're doing it, they've got ropes, see.”

Theodrakis was sweating, could feel his heart's irregular pumping. Even here in the police headquarters he couldn't get away from Vassilis and his alternative universe. It was the new normality and everyone danced to its demonic beat.

“How can they do it?”

He knew Kostandin didn't expect an answer, but he needed a logical thought process to keep himself focused.

“Because once they've come this far, reality disappears, people see what they want to see, whether it's there or not like Braque's squirrel, or believe that something can both be dead and alive like Schrödinger's cat.”

Kostandin's expression told him to cut out the philosophy and act.

“Get the men together, we're going out there to stop this.”

“They won't go anymore, Theodrakis; not for me and certainly not for you. And even if they did, that crowd out there would chew us up and spit us out. We've no tear gas left; no water cannon and the men won't use guns.”

Theodrakis believed him and in any case, didn't like the idea of street fighting.

“OK, but the officers who watched as they strung up Antonis, where are they, here or Pythagoreio?”

“Here, you know one of them: Costas.”

“Get them.”

Costas and a younger cop, Antoniou, who Theodrakis didn't know, duly arrived. They looked terrible, both had dark rings round their eyes and a bluish five o'clock shadow covered their slippery jowls. They were like men walking through a nightmare. Neither seemed pleased to see Theodrakis and his first words reinforced the impression.

“I want you to go out there and arrange for me to meet the leaders.”

“You can't be serious, they'll kill us.”

“I very much doubt that, Costas: from what I've heard they see you as sympathisers, if not helpers.”

The two exchanged glances, then Costas trying to look confident said,

“They might until they knew what we were going to ask them.”

“Nevertheless, you will both go out.”

“You can't make us go out there.”

“No, but I can charge you with being accomplices to murder and have you locked up in the cell where the old man killed himself. Leave the lights off with you two alone in that block with whatever it was that made him do it. Tell me, how do you like the sound of that? From what I remember you didn't enjoy the time we spent interviewing him, so I don't imagine a long time in the dark with his ghost will be too appealing.”

“You wouldn't do that.”

“Try me, but first listen to what I want you to tell them out there. About the deal I've got to offer.”

Minutes later, the front door of the police headquarters opened just enough to let the two men with a megaphone out onto the steps; they were greeted by a hail of abuse, some objects were thrown. Costas began to shout through the megaphone while Antoniou took a direct hit to the head and slumped to the floor. Costas was hit and staggered, but he must have got his message across as some of the mob's leaders stopped the stone throwers. Then a small group including the bank clerk approached the steps.

Theodrakis watched from the first floor window as they talked. There was shouting and waving of arms, a shaven-headed man who looked like a night club bouncer leaned forwards and slapped Costas across the face. For a second Theodrakis worried he'd get dragged into the crowd and lynched next to Watkins, but the bank clerk intervened and after what seemed an eternity but couldn't have been more than a couple of minutes, Costas squeezed back through the narrow gap left by the door into the building. Once inside he fell to the floor in a dead faint. Kostandin threw a plastic beaker of water into his face and had him
pulled to his feet. By the time Theodrakis had got down the stairs he was able to speak.

“They will hear you, but it has to be out there. You alone, no one else.”

Theodrakis had half expected this, but he felt the blood drain from his face as fear swallowed his soul. Would he ever see Hippolyta again? He wanted to ring her, hear her voice. He'd promised to keep in contact but what could he say? And if he did get through to her, would he still have the courage to go out into the crowd? He felt Kostandin's arm on his shoulder.

“Don't go out there, Alexis: they hate you, they'll tear you to pieces, you'll end up like Antonis, a bleeding lump of meat hanging from a net. We can hold out in here.”

“And what about Watkins?”

“Forget Watkins, he's dead anyway.”

“I can't.”

He forced himself to move, found himself by the door then through it and outside. The noise cut out like a light switched off, and the lull of quiet he faced was curiously worse than the cacophony that preceded it. He couldn't have felt more exposed if a spotlight were trained on him. He froze like a rabbit in the headlights: why was he out here? It was a mistake, his confidence had led him to his death.

But maybe not quite yet.

A channel opened up in the crowd leading to the street sign where Steve lay, trussed, waiting to be strung up. Standing round him, he recognised the group of men who interrogated Costas. He followed the channel moving through a sea of hostility, he was jostled, cursed, spat at and one great, bearded, mad-eyed brute in a sweaty T-shirt punched the side of his head. He felt the man's rings break his skin, the pain helped, made him angry, he wished he'd told Kostandin to shoot the ringleaders if they killed him.

Now in front of him, they stood in a circle of torches with Steve on the ground as an altar piece. The flickering light of the flaring torches lent the scene an unworldly atmosphere from an early surrealist movie; it felt no more real than the Vassilis demesne.

But the breath of the man confronting him was real enough: raw spirit and onion.

“You have two minutes to live, Athenian.”

The man was stressed out of his head, why had he been stupid enough to imagine that a rational conversation was possible? These people were driven beyond reason: economically ruined by bankers and tax-avoiding politicians. Burnt out by fires fuelled by global warning, deserted by tourists seeking cheaper deals elsewhere and stalked by demonic killings. It was no wonder an atavistic relapse into the Middle Ages was the modus operandi.

“Tell us what you came to say, Athenian.”

A softer, more humane voice: Theodrakis peered through the torchlight and saw it belonged to the bank clerk.

“But it'd better be good. As you see, we've gone too far to stop now. Why do you want to save this Englishman?”

Theodrakis made his move, hoping his voice wouldn't betray his fear. He could feel warm blood trickling from the cuts on his head down the side of his face.

“Listen to me; we're all on the same side.”

There was rough laughter at this and the bank clerk replied,

“Most of your men maybe, but not you, Athenian.”

Theodrakis tried to focus all his attention on this man; it wasn't comforting. He was looking into two small black eyes, irises little more than pinpricks sunk beneath puffy lids. He was dealing with someone who felt that life owed him, owed him more than he'd got and now he could revenge years of being slighted and put down by superiors. People like Theodrakis. Unless he got what he wanted it wasn't only Watkins who'd die here.

“You've killed Antonis but what about the others? You haven't got them.”

The bank clerk chuckled at this, and the others laughed after he did. Theodrakis noticed this:
so there's a hierarchy here, win him and I get them all
.

“Don't be so sure, two minutes after we string him up and start with our knives we'll certainly know where the Devil's bitch is.”

“I can promise you that won't work.”

Theodrakis felt more confident now there was dialogue; it was similar to negotiating with the anarchist death squad kidnap units.

“And why is that, Athenian?”

The man had a mocking look on his face, but he was interested.

“Because there are only two people on the island who know where she is, and he's not one of them.”

He saw out of the corner of his eye Watkins listening too.

“And who would they be, Athenian? Let me tell you that if you're wasting our time then you will beg for death before we finish skinning you.”

“One of them is another Englishman.”

He paused to let them take this in.

“And I am the second.”

Watkins was struggling with his ropes now, trying to sit up. He managed to say,

“Don't tell them.”

He was silenced by a blow across the head then thrown back in the dust. The bank clerk looked at Theodrakis; he wanted to believe, but didn't want to be tricked in front of men who deferred to him. He didn't want to lose power but Theodrakis also guessed that he was less keen on violence than the others because he understood that cop killing, even one as unpopular as Theodrakis, was a rubicon other cops wouldn't cross. After that there'd be no way back, no forgiveness. So he kept talking.

“And how can you be so certain of this?”

Now everyone within the circle of weird light was listening, Theodrakis was the focus, and outside the light of the torches the murmuring of the mob sounded like a swarm of bees as the message spread incrementally to the circumference. This was his moment.

He looked in turn into the faces of each of them, ending with the bank clerk. Like with hostage negotiations it came down to the one thing he was good at: judging the opportune moment. He paused for effect, forced a half smile of confidence across his lips and then,

“Because we killed her this afternoon.”

There was a groan of soul-shredding anguish from Steve on the ground and Theodrakis could have kissed him for it; he believed him. An amazed muttering spread; some believed him, others didn't, there was confusion. He kept his eyes fixed on the bank clerk.

“So, we're all in it together.”

The man wanted to believe him and before anyone could shout him down he changed his pose, stood straight, one leg slightly in front of the other and said, in a stronger voice intended to reach well beyond the inner circle,

“And to prove it I offer you something even better.”

Everyone was listening now, heads thrust forward, desperate to hear. Now he could sense they wanted him to deliver. They didn't want to fight the police. These weren't the hated Athenian riot police; these were their own people relatives, sons, fathers, husband's brothers and sisters. They didn't even really want to skin the Englishman. He drew out the silence for as long as he thought it would last, then took a deep breath.

He threw his arms into the air like a classical actor ready to bring the curtain down and shouted with all the power of his lungs.

“I can give you the Devil himself. I can give you Vassilis.”

The square slowly emptied, leaving only the homeless and the protest camp contingent who arranged themselves in groups round their pitiful bedrolls. Some small fires were lit, bottles were passed round. Theodrakis watched from the first floor window as groups of his officers patrolled the now quiescent square. His hands shook and he almost spilled some of the ouzo that Kostandin was pouring into the plastic beaker.

“What happens now, Alexis?”

“First, I try to stop shaking, then I ring my girlfriend, and if I can manage that I’ll begin thinking about how to get the Englishman to the monastery of St Spiridon.”

He could tell by the look on Kostandin’s face that this wasn’t the answer he’d expected. But then Kostandin hadn’t been out in the square: didn’t know what it felt like to be centimetres from death.

“No, I mean what do we do about Vassilis? Tomorrow they’ll go up there and burn him out.”

“Nothing.”

“We can’t do nothing, they’ll kill him.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible.”

“Be serious, we can’t let it happen.”

“We have to let it happen: it’s the deal I made.”

Kostandin’s hands were on his shoulders and he could see the desperation in his face; the look of a man pushed beyond his limits, the beginnings of breakdown and tears. He removed the hands, then said as calmly as he could,

“Please just give me a couple of minutes to make a call and get my thoughts in order. Then I’ll explain; remember I’m running this, you’re absolved of responsibility, just trust me.”

He didn’t wait for a response but walked out of the room onto the corridor and leaned over the stair rail to make the call. Some of the men below in the office saw him and cheered. Somehow he’d become their hero, more he suspected from his claim to have killed Alekka than anything else.

He couldn’t suppress a burst of giggling: he was one of them now, he’d crossed a line and joined them in the Middle Ages. When he got through to Hippolyta he was surprised that she knew what had happened; Yaya Eleni had told her, he didn’t even wonder how the crone had found out. But she told him she loved him. No one had ever said that to him before, now all he had to do was stay alive; avoid Hell and then maybe they could get out of all this. Someone had come up to him while he was talking; he looked round and saw Costas, he was holding a mug which he offered to Theodrakis.

“I thought you could use this, boss; proper coffee with two shots of Metaxas. I treated myself to some. I don’t think the others know how hard it was for us out there. But we pulled it off, didn’t we?”

Theodrakis felt like kissing him, it might be for all the wrong reasons but for the first time in his life he was on the inside, now it was his island too.

“Yes Costas, we pulled it off and we’re alive, strange isn’t it?”

The coffee tasted good, he could feel the smooth fire of the brandy coursing through him and knew he had to harness this new burst of energy. He shouted for Kostandin.

“Come down with me, I’m going to make an announcement, after that I’m leaving you in charge for a bit.”

He recognised the look of panic flash across Kostandin’s face, but knew he could trust him to keep things going in his absence. The pressure was off the police now, everyone was in this together.

Downstairs it was crowded, expectant like they knew what he was going to say. He saw the men who should be patrolling the square squeezing through the doors and pushing their way into the packed room to listen. He recognised the significance of the
moment, decided not to join them on the floor, unobtrusive, but to compensate for his lack of height and stay three stairs up, visible like an orator. He stood silent looking down, thought for a moment what an advantage height was, one that the tall take for granted. He opened his mouth to speak when out of nowhere he remembered reading in Quintilian at university in Athens that to speak well, an orator needs to feel emotion himself before he can rouse others. Yet now he felt no emotion at all: he felt calm.

But the pause for thought had worked. In the dead, expectant silence below him he saw the hundreds of eyes waiting, silently pleading for his words, for deliverance. It was the early hours, the darkest hour before dawn and the coolest, yet he felt the heat rising from the packed bodies waiting below like a physical barrier.

“I know how tough these last months must have been for you, but while Greece needed you in her darkest hour, you stood firm.”

He paused, thinking to himself
where the hell did this crap come from
?

“And now I can tell you that your courage has been rewarded.”

A swell of murmuring like surf on the beach. He raised his hands for quiet and the surf died.

“The case is almost over. I can promise you there will be no more murders. By our prompt action these last few hours, we have uncovered the criminals. Those that confessed have taken their own lives and two others died whilst resisting arrest.”

He wanted to choke on this hypocrisy but carried on.

“This has been a great example for the rest of Greece, of the police and the people acting together. While Athens burns, here on Samos there has been unity. There is one more arrest to make and later today I will prepare the necessary papers for the arrest and questioning of the Devil himself: Vassilis.”

There was an interruption, a young trainee cop spluttered,

“But the crowd will have got him b …”

He was silenced by an elbow in his ribs from Costas. Theodrakis carried on.

“I understand your point but we are police officers, we are bound by the correct procedures, by our Grafficocratia.”

Some of the more cynical started to smirk at this, but remembering this was inappropriate, restored their solemn expressions.

“But the killings are over; the Devil no longer walks amongst us. I would like to congratulate you on behalf of the whole nation. This has not been without cost and we must remember the sacrifice of our heroic colleague, Syntagmatarchis Samarakis. Today we will concentrate on restoring normality to our towns and communities that is our priority. I am issuing a press release to this effect. Later we will deal with Vassilis. Once again, dear friends and colleagues, I thank you for your magnificent dedication and courage.”

There was a prolonged outbreak of cheering; some of the men even began to chant his name, like a football crowd. Ninety percent of him felt sick to the stomach, the other ten per cent was thrilled. He turned to Kostandin and read the look of contempt in his eyes. He felt he owed him a full explanation but felt suddenly too weary. Back in his office he tried.

“Kostandin, believe me, this will not have the consequences you think it will, and even if it does it will not be in a way you would understand.”

All he got back was a look of blank misunderstanding tinged with disappointment. He tried once more.

“But I promise you the killings are over, now all this island faces is …”

He tried to stop because it had suddenly become a joke.

“Is just the same as the rest of Greece: complete economic ruin and probably revolution.”

He slumped onto the sofa, covered his face and gave way to hysterical laughter. Laughter that he couldn’t control; he knew it was just a reaction to what he’d been through, but he couldn’t stop. When he gained enough control to take his hands from over his face Kostandin had gone. Then he remembered Watkins.

He wasn’t easy to find; eventually the desk sergeant remembered that he’d been put in one of the cells for his own safety, a logic that defied Theodrakis. He didn’t look particularly safe: his faced was etched with suffering like Christ’s in the final Stations of the Cross. He was sitting on the hard bench, rocking back and forwards muttering to himself. But he recognised Theodrakis and asked,

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“Yes, I think so, I’m sorry.”

“But you didn’t kill her?”

“No, I wish I could have saved her.”

“I knew she’d gone, I felt it.”

Theodrakis said nothing. The cell stank. Standards were slipping.

“Who was with her?”

Again he said nothing.

“It was Claire, wasn’t it?”

Theodrakis nodded.

“Oh God, poor Giles.”

Then, to the watching Theodrakis, it seemed that Watkins just slipped away; his body was still there rocking backwards and forwards but his mind was elsewhere. He tried to match what he was looking at with the man whose poem he had read just a few days ago sitting in the sun outside the bar. He should have questioned him there, found out about what had happened to him in England. What had ripped his ear and turned his hair white, what had made him write that horrific verse about living death in an ancient tomb.

Were there things he’d missed; things that would have avoided some of this? Too late for that now, but Vassilis wanted Watkins saving, repairing, knew he would be needed in whatever grotesque events were going to happen in some other place. He sat on the bench next to him took out his phone and called Giles.

Two hours later, having released the press statement and grabbed some sleep on a sofa, he was drinking a black coffee when Giles was shown in, looking pale, in poor shape and worried but pleased to see Theodrakis.

“Thank you for agreeing to help out with this, Dr Glover.”

“It’s OK, I would have been at a loose end anyway, Claire’s got to go back to England, she got a call from a friend who’s in trouble. She’s flying out later today.”

“A bit sudden.”

Theodrakis wondered why she had to leave so quickly; she’d seemed to be enjoying herself, acting as if she was untouchable. Which she was he supposed, he could hardly have arrested her without evidence for the murder of someone who never really existed with no motive and no body. So why leave the island?

“Yeah, but in a way it’s a relief, she’s been through a lot in the last few months and was getting a bit hyper here. I’m not sure the place suited her and Greece doesn’t seem a safe place to be these days.”

Theodrakis could only agree with this. He felt awkward with Giles and knew the feeling was reciprocated; there were things they couldn’t trust each other on, or rather one thing: Claire. He left a message with the duty sergeant for Kostandin who’d gone home for a few hours’ sleep, and had a squad car pull up by the back door. Then he and Giles got Steve to his feet and hustled him into the back seat. They sat either side of him as if he was a prisoner, driving through the square. No one threw anything or shouted: Kostandin would be all right.

Once round the other side of the island they got stuck behind a snaking convoy of pickup trucks packed with armed, wild-looking men. They were headed for Pyrgos and beyond that the Vassilis estate. The driver didn’t need to be told that this wasn’t part of their script. At the first opportunity he turned off onto a barely adequate track that cut across country. Giles must have noticed something but had the sense not to ask. Steve sat slumped and mute between them, like a collapsed concertina squeezed of air.

They rattled along the track, vision obscured by dust thrown up by the tyres, until after about forty minutes they crested a rise and saw the sea shimmering below them and in a natural fold of the land above it, the monastery. St Spiridon didn’t look much: drab, weathered brick surrounded by a wall that seemed too high for a monastery. It wasn’t an easy place to find and at first glance appeared abandoned; the vegetable gardens surrounding it had run wild through neglect and an air of melancholy decay presided as it languished under the pitiless Aegean sky. Steve was oblivious, but not Giles.

“What are we doing here? It’s like the end of the world.”

“This is where they’ll look after him.”

“You’re joking, there’s no way we’re leaving him here, it’s deserted; no one’s been here in years.”

Theodrakis looked round. Giles was right, there was something wrong about this. In the front of the car the driver crossed himself.

“Nevertheless, this is …”

Giles cut him off.

“No way, I’m not leaving him here, I’ll take him back to England, Claire can heal him, she’s done it before.”

Theodrakis was wondering how he could explain that Claire was the last person he needed when Giles sat upright and began to stare out of the window, as if he’d just recognised somebody or something he wished wasn’t there. Then, without warning, he got out of the car and walked towards the monastery gate. Half way he stopped and appeared to be talking to someone. Someone only he could see. Next to him in the back of the car, Steve seemed to have come round; he was staring out of the window towards Giles and fumbling at the door handle.

In the front, the driver had his hands over his eyes mumbling a half remembered prayer for protection. Then Giles was back by the car opening the door and helping Steve out. Theodrakis was in a dream; he started to get out but Giles spoke to him, soft, yet authoritive.

“No, it has to be me, better if you stay in the car. I’ll take him, you were right, this is where he belongs.”

He watched as, with Giles supporting Steve, the two men stumbled towards the monastery gate. It appeared to Theodrakis that they thought someone was with them, at least they seemed to be listening to someone and Steve was replying. As he watched for an instant Theodrakis caught a fleeting glimpse of something ragged and black with a dead white face, then it was gone; Father John. He saw Steve was at the door, going through the door and looked back at Giles.

The door slammed: Giles was outside. Theodrakis watched as he tried the handle but the door wouldn’t open. Then he appeared to be listening again but only momentarily, then with a shrug of his shoulders he turned and walked back to the car. He got in and said one word to the driver.

“Drive.”

No second invitation was required.

Some time later, Theodrakis and Giles sat on the terrace of a bar in Koumadrai looking over the sickening drop down towards the sea. Just below them, an aircraft was making the terrifyingly steep turn to avoid the mountain and land at Pythagoreio airport. They drank raki, the strongest, and sent one to the car for the
driver. When the glass was empty, Theodrakis asked the question filling his head since the monastery.