The Green Lady (24 page)

There was no one at the benches. Ourania sat down and glanced around the place she had spent much of her childhood in. When she'd been at kindergarten, she ran around the dusty playground outside the multicoloured building to her right. Ahead was the town hall, a concrete monstrosity, and next to it the church, its high dome glinting in the sunlight. She'd been there every Easter, but she wouldn't be attending the ceremony of the resurrection again. Christianity was a lie. There was no goodness in the world. She turned to her left and took in the shops and restaurants. There were some well-known franchises as people in Paradheisos – especially the pink section residents – were better off than most Greeks. Where was everyone, she asked herself. Surely they couldn't all have gone off to attend those stupid Games.

Then a dark blue sports car drove past, Ourania didn't know the make. But she did know the driver, his arm hanging out of the open window. It was him, her abuser. She watched as the car slowed to a halt outside the most expensive of the restaurants. Rovertos Bekakos got out and stretched his arms. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and his hair was in the back-brushed wave that she remembered so clearly. Then he took off his sunglasses and looked straight at her.

For Ourania, that was bad enough. Then a smile spread across his fleshy lips and he beckoned to her. Before she sprang up and ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction, she saw another car pull up beside his. It was large and gold-coloured. Men with muscular arms got out, one opening the rear door. The shorter man who emerged reminded her of someone. It was only as she was halfway to the sea front that she realised who that someone was – the girl called Lia.

Lambis Bitsos arrived in Kypseli not long after Mavros had returned.

‘Good day,' the journalist said, as he walked into the Ecologists for a Better Viotia office and ran an approving eye over Angeliki. ‘Has the bastard come back?'

Mavros got up and steered Bitsos to the door. ‘You don't have to go into detail about the Son in front of them. They claim the only reason he would be targeting them is their opposition to the HMC.'

‘Oh, right. So they're civilians.' He stared at Mavros. ‘No “Great to see you, Lambi”, no “There's a superb
taverna
I'm taking you to”, not even a ‘How do you feel after such a long and exhausting drive?”?'

Mavros laughed. ‘Tosser. I'll tell you one thing – don't eat any local produce, especially not sea food.'

The journalist peered at the HMC installation across the bay. ‘There does seem to be a lot of muck emanating from that place.'

The wind had dropped, sending the temperature towards forty degrees and leaving the pollution cloud in place above the plant.

‘Look, Alex, I need to justify being here. I'm already getting both ears bent by my editor for wasting time in Trikkala.'

‘It's not your fault the government embargoed the story.'

‘Ah, but was it the government? I reckon the Olympic security committee's running the country these days.'

The committee on which both Paschos Poulos and Brigadier Nikos Kriaras served, Mavros thought.

‘So,' Bitsos continued, ‘the Son – assuming it's him and, frankly, I don't doubt it – has done away with three people: one burned, one eye- and hairless, and the other headless.'

‘And the number of pomegranate seeds in the bodies is going down.'

‘Hm. Two points. Why did he kill those particular individuals?'

‘And what's with the seeds?' Mavros sat on a bench under the bamboo shelter that served as the village bus stop.

‘Not many people around,' Bitsos said, joining him.

Mavros told him about the cancer victims. ‘This is all linked to the HMC works, I'm sure of it. Paschos Poulos's lawyer Rovertos Bekakos has been down here frequently in recent months.'

‘And he was at the blockade yesterday – I saw the snake on TV. Why do you think he's doing anything other than his job?'

Before Mavros could open his mouth, Lykos ran out of the office.

‘It's Ourania,' he said, when he reached them. ‘She sounds terrified. Can you pick her up on the coast road in Paradheisos?' The young man shrugged. ‘I would go, but the court order . . .'

Mavros got up. ‘Stay here, Lambi, I'll be back soon. No doubt Lykos can tell you where to get something to eat.' As he left, he heard the activist telling Bitsos that he'd seen his reports on TV. That would keep them occupied – there was nothing the reporter liked better than boasting about his appearances as a crime expert, especially when there was a young woman in the vicinity. Christ, he thought. How will Ourania react to him?

He raced along the shore road, wondering where Xanthakos was. He wasn't at all sure that the cop would share information with him any more – and if he found out about the presence of the country's best-known crime hack, he'd stop cooperating immediately. Then again, it sounded like the Viotia police had been effectively sidelined by Athens. It suddenly struck him that Nikos Kriaras hadn't called him. He would know that Mavros was down here, if not from the TV then from Bekakos. If he was involved in some conspiracy with Poulos and his lawyer, why hadn't he told Mavros to get back to Athens? Then again, Kriaras was a consummate operator and he'd be keeping as many options open as he could.

As he came into Paradheisos, he passed a large gold Mercedes that had stopped on the waterfront. The rear windows were dark and he couldn't see the occupants, just a couple of steroid-crunchers in the front. Greek plates, so not tourists who'd missed the Delphi turn. He glanced in the mirror. The car had turned up the slope and disappeared.

Mavros looked ahead again. He was almost at the end of the white houses. There was a dumpster at the junction with the road that led to the HMC plant. A figure in a hoodie stepped out as he approached and he stood on the brake.

‘Ourania?' he said, staring into the sun. He heard the passenger door open.

‘Drive!' the girl sobbed. ‘Quick!' She ducked down so she wasn't visible from outside.

Mavros did a three-point turn, then headed back along the front. ‘Are you all right?' he asked, moving a hand towards her back and then stopping himself. ‘Ourania?'

The girl was weeping and gasping for breath.

Mavros approached the other end of Paradheisos, catching a glimpse of a dark blue Porsche in his mirror. It followed him and then turned up into the town.

‘It's OK,' he said. ‘We're out of Paradheisos and on our way to Kypseli.'

The crying gradually stopped, but Ourania kept her head down.

‘Did someone hurt you?' Mavros asked.

‘No. But . . . but I saw
him
.' It was obvious who she meant.

‘At your house?'

‘No, in the square. He . . . he beckoned to me . . . as if . . . as if he expected me to go to him willingly. I . . . I ran for it.'

‘Good for you.'

‘There . . . there was someone else. In a big gold car.'

Mavros reckoned that Bekakos and the other vehicle had been searching for the girl.

‘I saw a man get out.' Ourania paused. ‘He's her father, isn't he? I mean, Lia's.'

Mavros felt his heart rate increase. Paschos Poulos was in Paradheisos? In the middle of the Olympic Games? Something big was going down, but he had no idea what.

T
he Fat Man went prepared. His late mother had made sure his tool kit was fully stocked, because she insisted that all the house's plumbing, electrical and other maintenance be carried out by Yiorgos. He had moaned about that for decades, especially when the drains blocked and the ancient wiring needed fixing. He'd lost count of the number of times his shoes had been soaked in shit and his hair raised by electrical shocks. But the end result was that he was a skilled handyman and even had the boiler suit to prove it – Kyra Fedhra had found it in a rubbish bin and resewn the seams, after adding extra material to encompass her son's girth. It had the name of a long-defunct plumber's business on it and was as good a disguise as he possessed.

Parking the Peugeot three streets away from Professor Phis's apartment block, the Fat Man set off with his tool box. One street would have done for the sake of cover, but the area was packed with cars even during what was now the summer holiday. It seemed that people really had been taken in by the hype and stayed in the city to attend the Games. After he'd watched the block from across the street for a few minutes, Yiorgos went over and examined the names by the entry buttons. One was handwritten, the spidery letters those of an old woman. He pressed her bell.

‘Yes?' came a weak voice.

‘Plumber.'

‘I don't need a plumber.'

‘Yes, but there's a leak in the basement and no one else is answering.'

‘I hope you're not a burglar.'

‘Certainly not, Madam.'

The Fat Man was buzzed in. Exaggerated politeness usually won the day, not that he used it much. All he had to hope was that the old bag wasn't on the ground floor. It seemed not. There was another list of the occupiers inside, this one showing which floor they were on. Epameinondhas Phis appeared to have the whole fourth floor. Getting into the lift, which claimed it was designed for six people but barely took him, Yiorgos pressed five. When he got to the top floor, he walked down as quietly as he could, looking round the corner as he approached the professor's domain. There was a marble-tiled corridor and, at the end, a black door and frame that could have come from Fort Knox.

‘Shit,' the Fat Man said, under his breath. It was then that the fundamental flaw in Mavros's idea revealed itself to him. Phis knew Maria Bekakou. What if she had told him about the man who had been tailing her? What if Tryfon Roufos had told him about the hit he'd arranged? Then again, maybe the immigrants had gone into hiding and kept their cock-up to themselves. But still, how was he to talk his way into the apparently hyper-secure flat? Maybe that wouldn't be necessary – maybe the old man was out. In which case, all he had to do was call one of the comrades and get him to bring round a bucket of TNT.

‘Thanks a lot, Alex,' he muttered. ‘Oh well . . .' He slid a screwdriver into one pocket and a chisel into the other, then set off down the hallway. He put his ear to the door, but it was so thick that he couldn't hear a thing. There was nothing for it. He had to ring the bell.

‘Who is it?' The high-pitched voice made him jump. It came from a small speaker he hadn't noticed.

‘Any jobs to be done?' he said, in his most ingratiating voice. ‘I tighten taps, I clean out drains, I fix plugs—'

‘How did you get in?'

The Fat Man went into full mendacious mode. ‘I was in Mrs Manelli's replacing a U-bend so I took the opportunity of trying the other doors. I hope you don't mind, sir.'

‘Mrs Manelli, eh? She needs more than her U-bend replaced.' There was a harsh cackle. ‘As a matter of fact, there is something I need done.'

There was a series of loud clicks and the door swung open like the entrance to a tomb. There was very little lighting inside and the floor was of black slabs.

‘My, you're a big one.'

Yiorgos looked down. More than can be said for you, he thought, nodding at the wizened hunchback with the Einstein hair in front of him. He ran his eye around the place. Several doors were closed. He was led into a large sitting cum dining room. Almost every part of the wall space was covered by glass-fronted display cases.

‘Christ and the Holy Mother,' the Fat Man said, under his breath.

There was nothing wrong with Professor Phis's hearing. ‘On the contrary, my dear man. They are unrepresented in my collection, but every Olympian god is. Look.' He pointed to a red-figure vase with a bent finger. ‘Zeus in his splendour, thunderbolts in each hand.' The old man turned to a small bronze statue. ‘Poseidon with his trident.' Then he moved towards the other side of the room. ‘And Hades in his helmet of invisibility. Do you know how rare that is?'

‘Er, no.'

‘It's the only one that's ever been found.'

‘Really?' The Fat Man decided playing dumb would be the best way of eliciting information – not that much playing was necessary regarding ancient pottery. ‘Where did it come from?'

‘Ah, that would be telling,' Phis said, with a crooked grin.

Yiorgos shrugged. ‘Doesn't work anyway.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘The helmet of invisibility. I can still see him.'

The old man blinked. ‘Anyway, what I need you to do is check the wiring behind that cabinet over there. The lights keep flickering.'

‘These are all women,' the Fat Man said, peering at the statuettes and pots.

‘Demeter and Persephone,' the professor said. He pointed at a black figure vase. ‘Only on this piece can you see a male figure – Hades again, in his role as husband of Persephone.'

Yiorgos stared at the pieces in as bovine a fashion as he could manage. ‘Who's Persephone, then? There was a song about her, how did it go?'

Epameinondhas Phis laughed harshly. ‘The public education system really is a disgrace. Demeter is the goddess of crops and fertility. Her daughter Persephone was abducted by Hades. You do know who he is?'

‘Em, Death?' Yiorgos hazarded.

The professor sighed. ‘Lord of the underworld. Because Persephone ate pomegranate seeds – three, four, five, six or seven, depending on which source you believe – she was condemned to spending every winter beneath the earth, but her return in spring signals the beginning of the earth's annual flowering.'

The Fat Man knew most of that, but he was interested in the reference to pomegranate seeds. Did that mean there would be more murders, the future victims containing three and four seeds? As he unscrewed the case from the wall, he pressed the old man casually.