Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) (19 page)

‘I’ll wait for you out here, Pano,’ Dhimitra called after him, her voice suggesting that she’d seen this particular passion fruit often enough.

Theocharis stopped briefly and then limped on towards the house, his weight on the stick. When Mavros caught up with him he said in a low voice, ‘Museum pieces aren’t Dhimitra’s major preoccupation.’ He smiled in a curious way, his lips twisting. ‘She didn’t always live like this.’ He glanced around the opulent terrace. ‘I rescued her from a hard life, but at times I think she resents me for it.’

Mavros gave his host a polite nod and tried to place Dhimitra Theochari. He was sure he’d seen her somewhere before, not dressed in the products of haute couture.

Theocharis led them into the cool house. Mavros took in the huge open reception rooms with their gleaming marble floors and ornate furniture that had been built around the medieval tower. The base of the original curved wall was now inside, and the great arch of the gate was protected from the elements. He suspected that the development had contravened numerous building regulations, but Theocharis clearly had enough clout—and wealth—to cut though any bureaucratic tangle.

‘The tower was in danger of collapse,’ the old man said as he led them down a broad stone staircase. ‘So we dug out the foundations and strengthened them.’ They came out into a large, dimly lit area. ‘That gave me the perfect space for the pieces I haven’t donated to the museum.’ He took a remote control from his pocket and pressed a button. ‘Behold the glory of death.’

Mavros didn’t have time to quibble at the melodramatic introduction. As soon as the lights brightened he temporarily lost the power of speech. He stepped forward and moved his eyes slowly around the display cases and the walls behind them, aware that both Theocharis and Eleni were studying his reaction. The strains of doom-laden orchestral music came from speakers in the corners.

‘It’s…it’s amazing,’ he said feebly. ‘This must be worth a fortune.’

Theocharis nodded. ‘Indeed. That’s why I have the security that you may notice.’ He inclined his head towards the closed-circuit TV cameras that were suspended from the ceiling. ‘Let me show you around. Do you recognise the musical accompaniment, by the way? No? Rachmaninov’s symphonic poem
The Isle of the Dead
. It was inspired by the famous painting by Böcklin of an oarsman steering a white- clad figure to its final resting place.’

Mavros followed his host around the display cases. There were exquisite pots and flasks from the classical period, including several lekythi like the one he’d seen on the poster for the museum in Athens; there were grave markers of all kinds, from head-high, unadorned columns to miniature statues of humans and animals; and there was a line of sarcophagi labelled as coming from the Hellenistic period, their sides carved in magnificent detail. But, as he went farther into the underground room, Mavros realised that the most important part of the collection was on the far wall. A few metres in front of the wide panel, Theocharis pressed another button to activate additional lights.

‘Do you know where you find yourself now, Alex?’ the museum benefactor said, the breath scratching in his throat.

Mavros looked at him and saw that the skin of his face was taut under the pointed, pure white beard. He looked up at the great mural, some parts with brighter colours that had clearly been restored, and made out a sylvan landscape with a river snaking through it. All around were marsh flowers and drooping trees. The music’s intense rhythm suggested the regular movements of an oarsman.

‘Is that Charon in his bark?’ Mavros asked, pointing to the figure at the stern of a small craft in the middle of the stream.

‘The ferryman of dead souls,’ Theocharis said. ‘Excellent. You appear to have more than a passing interest in Greek mythology, Alex.’

Mavros glanced at the old man and shrugged. ‘The benefits of a classical education,’ he lied. Although he went to school in Athens and the Greek system drummed ancient culture into pupils relentlessly, he’d met people at university in the UK who were much better informed than he was about the subject. ‘Where did this come from?’ he asked. ‘I presume you weren’t lucky enough to find it here.’

Eleni shook her head at him as if he were a particularly dense student.

Theocharis put a wrinkled hand on Mavros’s arm. ‘This mural dates from the fifth century BC. It is from a palace in Sicily.’ He gave a brief smile. ‘I have contacts over there who enabled me to obtain it. Master restorers worked for years to complete it and to install it here. It has been assigned to the great master Polygnotos, whose painting of the underworld in Delphi is one of the lost masterpieces of the ancient world.’

Mavros was looking at the depiction of the old ferryman, his beard unkempt and his thin arms bent against the flow of the infernal river. This section of the work seemed to be original. The piece would be worth millions, its value to scholars priceless. So what was it doing in Theocharis’s cellar? And why was it being shown to him?

‘Charon was a shadowy figure in classical literature and art,’ his host said as he dimmed the lights, ‘but in later Greece, as Charos, he was equated with the ineluctability of death. In effect, he personified death.’ He clasped Mavros’s forearm again. ‘When you die, it is believed that you fight with Charos.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘And inevitably you lose.’ He turned away.

Mavros looked at Eleni and raised his shoulders, trying to understand why he’d been brought here. She gazed back at him blankly then followed the old man out. As Mavros moved off, the music rose to a strident climax. He suddenly thought he could feel the eyes of the death god burning into his back from the underground wall.

If Theocharis was making some kind of oblique threat, it was having the desired effect.

T
HE
screen flickered in the darkened room, then the image consolidated.

The woman was cowering in the corner of the cave, her bound hands clenched between her legs. She was trying to cover her breasts with her tanned upper arms. The screams she was emitting could not be heard as the sound had been deactivated. Then the light, which up till then had come only from a single torch, was increased. An oil lamp was placed by hands with varnished nails on either side of the captive, out of reach of her flailing legs. These were quickly stilled when the rope around her ankles was stretched.

The image was suddenly unsteady, the camera held now in hands that were shaking. The woman kept her eyes off the lens, as if by looking at it she would become complicit in what was about to happen to her. Now that her bonds were taut, she stopped struggling and let her head droop to one side, her chest heaving for breath.

A male figure appeared on the screen, the heavily muscled upper part of the body naked, jeans and heavy boots on the lower part. He turned to face the camera without reservation. His face was split by a vicious grin, his eyes staring and wild. After holding his gaze on the lens for a few more seconds, he loosened the rope attached to the woman’s ankles. Grabbing her by the hair, he forced her into a kneeling position. The ropes had drawn blood on her wrists and she was mouthing inaudible words, her lips cracked. Then she was hit by a series of heavy slaps on both cheeks and she slumped as far as her bonds would allow. The assailant manoeuvred her towards the wall and then calculatedly drove her head three times against the stone. She collapsed forward, her backside raised above her crumpled legs.

The position of her body seemed to enrage her attacker even more. He glared at the lens then pulled down his jeans and massaged his half-erect penis. Pushing the woman farther forward with his knees, he raised her buttocks into a higher position. Then he inserted his now stiff member between them and started riding his victim like a cowboy on a steer, one arm pulling the rope around her wrists. The camera stayed on him until he arched backwards and rammed his groin into her with quicker thrusts, mouth hanging open as he reached his climax. As soon as he withdrew, the screen went blank, dots and flashes of colour running past.

The scene gradually composed itself again, the torch beam back on the woman’s naked, motionless form. Resting against her darkly bruised knee was a square of cardboard on which the words ‘One week’ had been written in large red letters. The image faded then re-formed, this time with a sign saying ‘Two weeks’ to the fore. And so it continued until the final image with the board marked ‘Seven weeks’.

The captive woman’s skin was now black and distended. The camera moved in closer and substantial insect life became apparent, green blowflies clustering around the facial orifices.

Then the image disappeared.

‘All right, Alex,’ Eleni said as the two of them walked down the road to her house. ‘It’s time you told the truth.’

Mavros felt his stomach somersault. ‘What do you mean?’ He glanced over his shoulder at the terrace beneath the tower. The lights were still bright but there was no sign of Panos Theocharis. He had retired soon after dinner, leaving his wife to pass around liqueurs. Dhimitra had made a substantial hole in a decanter of cognac, her hands trembling as if the evening air were chill. She had made little effort at conversation and obviously wanted Mavros and the archaeologist to leave.

‘What do I mean?’ Eleni laughed and shook her head. ‘You aren’t who you say you are, I’m sure of that.’

Mavros was running through the events of the evening, trying to remember when he might have given himself away. After the viewing of his host’s collection, they’d been served dinner on the terrace. Dhimitra had been difficult, directing a series of complaints in Greek at her husband and the waiters as well as complaining about Aris’s continued absence, but Mavros was pretty sure he hadn’t shown any understanding of what had been said. He also made sure that he didn’t eat the head of the grilled bream he’d been served. Few Greeks would pass up the opportunity of gnawing and sucking that part of the fish, but a bona fide Scotsman would be much more reticent.

Eleni stopped outside her house and turned to face him. ‘You’re in the antiquities trade, aren’t you?’ she said, her tone unequivocal. ‘The criminal side of it.’

‘What?’ Mavros responded, relief rushing through him. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’

She stood there with her hands on her hips. ‘No, I’m not. Theocharis knows your sort better than anyone and he was convinced. Why do you think he showed you the contents of his cellar? He was laughing at you, my friend. He was saying, “See what I’ve got—and you can’t have it.”’ She frowned at him. ‘Didn’t you understand the threat, Alex? He’s daring you to take him on, to try to steal from him. He’s like that. But not all his people are as careless as Mitsos up at the site. Theocharis has this island in his pocket. Don’t even think of trying to get your hands on any of his pieces. Even if you manage to get past the alarm system, the locals will tear you apart before you can get off the island.’

As Mavros stood listening, Deniz Ozal came into his thoughts. Unlike him, his client really was an antiquities dealer, one who was possibly involved with Tryfon Roufos, the most notorious smuggler and fence in the country. He wondered why he hadn’t heard from the Turkish-American.

‘Look,’ he said, opening his arms wide. ‘I’m not a dealer. How can I prove it? Try out my knowledge of ancient pots or statues, if you want. I don’t know a red-figure vase painter from a black-figure one.’

The archaeologist turned towards the house. ‘I think you’re an expert at concealing things, Alex,’ she said over her shoulder.

Mavros followed her in and caught sight of the photograph album above the desk. It struck him that asking Eleni about Rosa would be a good way to distract her, but he would have to find the right moment—and calm her down first. ‘I’m not concealing anything,’ he said, going into the main room after her. ‘But I admit I am interested in your work.’ In his experience, nobody could resist talking about their ruling passion for long. Maybe that would make Eleni more amenable to questioning.

The archaeologist laughed. ‘I’m sure you are.’ Then she turned towards him, her expression suddenly avid. ‘You don’t know how important these excavations might be. If I can establish a pattern, a systematic mode of burial that matches the style of the Cycladic sculptures, it will be a major breakthrough.’

Mavros was trying to keep up. ‘A breakthrough in what way?’ he asked.

Eleni led him over to her worktop and took a handful of photographs from a file. ‘See these?’ she asked, spreading out on the table shots of blank-faced marble figures with their arms crossed. ‘Nobody has ever been sure if they represent the dead or the culture’s deities, nor if they are lying down or standing up. I hope my work will prove that they are people who have passed away rather than gods.’ She looked up at him, her face bright with enthusiasm. ‘That would have a major effect on the way the Early Aegean Bronze Age is viewed. A concentration on real men and women rather than supernatural beings might even be said to prefigure classical Greek civilisation’s human values.’

Mavros was following her line of argument, but he had allowed his eyes to stray from her. It had just struck him that there had been no Cycladic objects in Theocharis’s collection. Surely he must have some. But where were they? Had he consigned them all to the museum?

Eleni’s expression lost its ardour. She presumably thought that she was boring him. She moved towards the bedroom.

‘That’s…that’s fascinating,’ Mavros stammered as he went after her.

‘Of course it is.’ Eleni’s tone was ironic. She turned as he reached the door, her dress slipping from her shoulders. She gave him a taunting smile and let it fall farther, exposing her breasts. ‘Are you sure you don’t see anything you like? You with your strange left eye?’

Mavros gave a sigh and bit his lip.

December 12th, 1942
 

An extraordinary day. We are still waiting for the Greek contingent
to land—all I’ve been told on the radio is that ‘operational
delays’ have occurred. Ajax has been laid up with
his leg for weeks now, though he’s apparently started to
hobble around, shouting at the women in his family if they
try to get him to lie down again. This I know from my beautiful
messenger, my lover, my Maro. She has come every
evening. She has managed to stay late by telling her mother
that I am ill and need nursing, though how much longer that
excuse can continue I don’t know. I don’t care. I love her so
much that I have had to resist the temptation to run out of the
hut in daylight and profess my infatuation to anyone I might
meet in the Kambos. Fortunately the more restrained, British
side of my nature prevailed. Ah, but I love her! When she is
gone I feel that part of me has been ripped away. But when
she is here I am whole again, lost in her soft arms and the
scents of her perfect body
.

It was after midnight when Maro left and I sank into a
sweet dream in which I was following her through a field of
tall corn, the wind tossing the ears from side to side and the
sea running away towards the neighbouring islands. It was
well into the morning when I was woken, the loud cries of
women jerking me out of my enchanted world. I stumbled to
the slats over the window, grabbing my service revolver as I
went. The noise was terrifying, the screams of agony making
me think that a massacre was taking place outside the hut. I
put my eye to the wood and peered out towards the source of
the disturbance. About twenty yards away is a small cemetery.
The church of
Ayios Dhimitrios
that used to serve the abandoned
village of
Myli
is a little farther off, and in all the weeks
I’ve been here, I’ve never seen anyone worship at it. But this
was different. There must have been dozens of islanders inside
the uneven wall of the graveyard. The majority of them were
women in black clothes, their heads shrouded in scarves
.

I moved my ear to the slats and tried to understand what
was going on. My Greek has improved enormously in recent
weeks owing to my lengthy conversations with Maro. But
there was such a confusion of cries and what sounded like
discordant singing that I struggled to follow what was happening.
Then the tight grouping of people moved apart and
the noise grew weaker, only a few cracked voices carrying on
a kind of chant. Looking between the black-clad figures, I
caught sight of a bent old woman. I felt my heart pound in
my chest. She was holding up a human skull
.

What were they doing? Digging up a body? I watched in
horror as the skull was wiped with a cloth, what looked like
remnants of hair coming away in the old woman’s hand.
Now there was a wild shouting, the watchers bewailing the
fate of the
grave’s
occupant. I heard the word eirene, which
means ‘peace’, being repeated over and over again, then
some other words I couldn’t understand. And then a cloth was
placed on the bare cranium and the old woman kissed it reverently
.

‘
My daughter, why did you leave us?’ screamed a middle-
aged woman, her eyes red. ‘Why were you walking on the
mountain when you should have been at home?
’

The lament was taken up by other women, some of whom
were putting coins into the rectangular metal box that was
being filled with the earth-stained bones. Then a larger gap
appeared in the crowd and a priest walked forward. The
smell of incense drifted across to my hut through the still air.
I heard the divine pronounce words in ecclesiastical Greek.
These I could mostly make sense of as that form of the
language is closer to the ancient Greek that I studied
.

‘
May your memory be everlasting, sister,’ he recited. ‘May
the holy, the mighty, the immortal God have mercy.’ Then he
upturned a bottle of wine over the box containing the bones,
making the shape of the cross three times. ‘You shall wash
me and I shall be whiter than white,’ he said, taking on the
dead woman’s voice. ‘Dust are you, and to dust you will
return,’ he concluded, reverting to the role of priest
.

I watched as the crowd began to break up, the old woman
carrying the box off to a small building at the corner of the
cemetery. People moved towards the church and I could see
wine and food being handed out. To my relief no one came
towards the hut, and soon I was on my own again. I was surprised
to find myself quivering, my eyes damp. Who was the
dead woman and what had happened to her? The emotions
displayed by the islanders, the heart-rending screams they’d
let out, had shaken me badly
.

This evening Maro came again and I asked her about the
ceremony. She apologised that she hadn’t warned me about
it and told me that it is the Orthodox ritual to dig up the bones
of the dead after some five years and to transfer them to the
ossuary. As I witnessed in part, people run through a mixture
of sentiments. Initially they are almost joyful to be in close
proximity to the departed one, and then they are torn apart
by the ravages of a grief even worse than that they experienced
after the burial as they realise that bones are now all
that remain
.