The Whispers of Nemesis (24 page)

‘You would indeed have made a good policeman,' said Pagounis, drily. ‘
Kyrie
Diaktoros, our conclusions are the same. But thank you for taking the trouble to come and speak with me. Now, if there's nothing else . . .'

‘The taxi driver,' said the fat man. ‘Hassan. Bearing in mind, based on our logic, that the killer is likely to be an outsider who brought the body into Vrisi, doesn't it make sense to let him go?'

Pagounis laughed.

‘Let me guess,' he said. ‘The rumour is, Hassan is under arrest. What crime are they saying he's charged with?
Kyrie
Diaktoros, you surprise me. You don't strike me as a man to act on gossip.'

‘Hassan isn't under arrest?'

‘Hassan isn't under arrest. He's merely here as a potential witness, in case he can recall any strange vehicles on the road around that time. He's drinking coffee with my boys in the back. If you like, I'll tell him you're waiting to go to the funeral.'

‘I would appreciate that,' said the fat man.

Pagounis turned to leave him, but then stopped.

‘
Kyrie
Diaktoros,' he said. ‘I'm not ungrateful for your interest in this case. Plainly, you've thought about it a great deal, and the conclusions you've reached are sound, in my opinion. The fact is, we have very little to go on, and so far no hard evidence which might give us a clear lead. In short, I have no obvious suspect; so – although I couldn't say this officially, of course – if you were prepared to lend us more of your brain-power, I would appreciate it.'

The fat man bowed his head.

‘And I appreciate the compliment,' he said. ‘Of course, I will do my best to help, if I am able.'

‘Then let me give you what little more information I can. The post-mortem revealed the presence of opiates in Volakis's blood.'

‘He'd been drugged?'

‘So it seems, with a high dose. Enough to kill him, potentially. Almost certainly enough to put him in a coma.'

‘So what about the blows to the head? Why attack him so viciously, if he was already unconscious, or semi-conscious at least?'

‘An excellent question. If we put our heads together, perhaps we can find out. There's just one other thing. Your taxi driver through there.' He jerked his thumb towards the offices. ‘You're not really a man to come running in here, thinking we'd charge a man with murder without evidence. Do you know something I don't? Should he, in fact, be on my list of suspects?'

The fat man assumed an expression of innocence, and shook his head.

‘Not as far as I am aware,' he said. ‘But if I find out to the contrary, I'll let you know.'

Seventeen

‘They're not so bad, those boys,' said Hassan, as he and the fat man walked to the taxi. ‘They wanted to know if I'd seen any unfamiliar vehicles on the local roads, before the snowfall. I told them I couldn't help them. I don't remember seeing anyone I didn't know.'

He climbed into the driver's seat. The fat man got in beside him, and Hassan put on one of his cassettes: pipes and drums, and a woman's nasal voice; an irregular beat, and an upbeat melody. He didn't switch on his headlights in the mist, nor did he slow the car to allow for reduced visibility, or the fat man's nerves, as he had promised. As the music went on, he didn't speak; only when the song came to an end did he lean forward to reduce the volume.

‘She looked after you all right over there, did she?' he asked.

‘I slept well, thank you,' said the fat man.

Hassan nodded.

‘I understand,' he said. ‘Ready for something good to eat, maybe? If you are, I have a suggestion. You go to your funeral, do what you have to do. I'll stop at the
kafenion
later on, and let Eustis know we'll be coming for
mezedes
. You can meet me there when you're finished at the cemetery.'

‘That sounds a good idea,' agreed the fat man.

‘You can tell me all about the funeral,' said Hassan. ‘Who came to see him properly buried, and who didn't.'

They passed the first of Vrisi's houses. A woman with a hoe walked down the centre of the road, and stepped smartly out of the way to let them pass; an old man with a bag of loaves rested on a bench by the spring. Through the mist, the church bell tolled.

At the far end of the village, Hassan turned up a side road, and rounding a bend, pulled up at the cemetery gate. When the fat man offered him money, he declined.

‘Later,' he said.

 

Like Vrisi's houses, the cemetery was laid out in terraces, the graves distributed amongst the different levels. The stone chapel and the ossuary stood on the broadest terrace, level with the road; stone stairways with their cementing painted white linked the upper terraces to the lower. The wall around the perimeter was high, and made a barrier to the density of forest pines behind; both trees and mist enclosed the place in gloom, lit in places, above and below, by the comforting glow of candles in memorial lamps.

The fat man climbed to the uppermost terrace and walked from the steps to the outer wall, where trees overhung the graves. On a terrace below, the sexton was making tidy Santos Volakis's waiting grave, shaving the edges straight with a shovel, treading the heaped-up earth with his boot-soles to stop its trickle into the grave. Against the wall leaned the marble headstone and borders, so recently removed from the grave.

The fat man wanted a vantage point where he would not himself be seen, and he chose a tomb of white marble, close to the wall. The headstone's photograph showed a handsome young man, dressed in a suit and tie, though the inscription made the deceased over seventy years old when he died. The grave's unlit lamp had been toppled by the wind, and the fat man stood it upright; he brushed fallen pine needles from the slab covering the tomb, and took a seat there.

‘Forgive the liberty, Michaelis,' he said, patting the cold stone, ‘but you have the best view in this place of what I want to see. Your relatives seem to have neglected you for a while, so perhaps you'll allow me to keep you company instead.'

He placed his holdall at his feet, and lighting a cigarette, crossed one foot over the other to wait. As he finished a second cigarette – he stubbed the butts out carefully, and buried them in the gravel – on the road below a procession came into view. A yellow pick-up truck drove very slowly, carrying a coffin, whilst a small group of mourners kept pace behind; behind them followed a police car, and, at a distance, a battered red Fiat.

The truck drove through the cemetery gateway, and the mourners gathered round, close enough now so the fat man could hear the sound of their voices. The coffin was unloaded on to the shoulders of four men, one of whom was Attis Danas. Father Tomas was helped down from the truck; he straightened his robes and replaced his hat, then asked amongst the men to borrow matches to relight his censer. When the coffin bearers were comfortable with their burden, Father Tomas led the way to the chapel, where the elderly custodian caused some delay as he struggled to turn the iron key in the lock.

The red Fiat pulled up beyond the cemetery gates, and two men got out; one – dressed in slacks and a sheepskin jacket – carried a notebook, the other had a professional's camera slung round his neck. The man in sheepskin seemed keen to follow the mourners, but the photographer pointed out the police car and held him back to wait in the road.

Ten minutes went by. The cortège emerged from the chapel, and moved slowly to the waiting grave. As the coffin was lowered into the ground and handfuls of earth were thrown on to the lid, the photographer took pictures through a telephoto lens – of Leda and Frona, of Attis and Maria. No one else stepped forward from the small gathering; there were no laments, and no weeping. Father Tomas said the last necessary words, and wiped the dirt from his hands.

The mourners walked away; only Leda and Frona stayed at the graveside. Attis paid Father Tomas his fee, and went to meet the men from the press, greeting them cordially and clapping the photographer on the back. As he spoke, the journalist began to write.

By way of farewell, the fat man patted the tomb on which he had sat and brushed a few pine needles from the back of his coat. Carrying his holdall, he made his way down the terraces; he avoided the paths and stairways, and picking his way instead between the tombs close to the cemetery walls, descended in a direct line towards the open grave where Leda and Frona still stood.

The sexton leaned on his spade, the pipe in his mouth producing clouds of fragrant smoke. He watched the fat man's approach with an interest which caught Frona's eye, and she looked up from the coffin at the grave's bottom. There were no tears on her face; she seemed more tired than afflicted by grief. With the fat man's intention to address them apparent, she touched Leda's arm.

‘Time to go,' said Frona.

Her contemplation interrupted, Leda too looked up from the grave.

‘Let's go,' urged Frona, and without another glance at the fat man – who was now drawing very close – she walked away, towards Attis and the journalists.

But Leda didn't follow. She gave a last look at the coffin, and nodded to the sexton, who dug his shovel into the banked earth and dropped the first spadeful into the grave. Stones and dirt spattered the coffin lid.

At the grave-foot, the fat man rooted in his pocket and brought out a coin the size of a 500-drachma piece, though highly polished and more gold than bronze in colour. He tossed the coin into the grave. Intrigued by the glint of the metal, the sexton peered after it and looked over at the fat man, who gestured to the sexton to continue.

‘He must pay the ferryman, and I am happy to provide his fare,' said the fat man. A shovelful of dirt covered the coin. ‘We've met before, I think,' he said, to Leda.

Leda's face was wan, and dark circles beneath her eyes showed lack of sleep; but like Frona, her cheeks were dry of tears.

‘Have we?' she asked.

‘At the chapel of St Fanourios. You have other matters on your mind, so let me remind you. I had an interest in the shrine with seven skulls, and you, I think, were making a request for the return of some lost property. So tell me: has the saint answered your prayer?'

Her eyes went to the slowly filling grave.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Yes, he has.'

‘I should formally introduce myself. I am Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens. Attis Danas may have mentioned me to you. We fell into conversation when I was last here, and he asked me to look into the circumstances regarding what was, as we thought at that time, the disappearance of your father's mortal remains. That mystery seems sadly solved, though the solving of it has generated others, perhaps more serious. May I ask your name?'

‘They call me Leda.'

‘Leda. That's right: Attis told me. Such a pretty name. May I walk with you, as far as the gates? Attis and the woman who was with you . . .'

‘My aunt, Frona. My father's sister.'

‘Your aunt, of course. They are waiting for you, I think, so I won't keep you long, but I'm afraid I must ask you some questions, if we are to untangle the circumstances of your father's death.'

They began to walk towards the gates, where Attis, with Frona at his side, was still talking to the press.

‘Why?' Leda seemed weary; her head hung down as they walked. ‘Why must there be questions? Questions won't bring him back. Nothing will. Attis is only worried about the money. That's why he hired you.'

‘Do you not want your money, then?' asked the fat man. ‘You may face another four years now, before you get your legacy.'

She pressed a fingertip into her eye, as if to stem a tear.

‘I don't expect you to understand,' she said. ‘I don't expect anyone to understand. But my father's legacy, as far as I'm concerned, has nothing to do with money. His legacy is his work and his standing as a poet, as a national treasure. I'm the proudest woman in Greece, to be his daughter. And that is much more valuable than money.'

‘Is it easy, then, to be proud here, where the people must know a great deal of your business?' The fat man indicated the sexton, who was leaning on his shovel, watching them. ‘How common is the knowledge of the conditions put on your legacy? I know how small communities can be, and my guess is, they assume here that the conditions were put in place as some kind of punishment. Is that what they think?'

‘I've no idea what they think, nor do I care. I live in the city now, where people don't know our business. I haven't lived in Vrisi for years. Let them gossip all they like. Their opinions are of no interest to me.'

‘There's just you and your aunt, is there? No other relatives?'

‘There's just us, yes. Frona's been like a mother to me. I owe her so much.'

‘And your birth mother? I'm sorry to press you, but I need to understand the background to this affair.'

‘My mother lives abroad. She and my father are divorced. I never see her.'