The Dead Travel Fast (11 page)

Vassilis made a gesture of blessing then followed Father John into the grove heading towards the chapel; he walked slowly but immediately disappeared amongst the ancient trees. Steve felt as if he was watching an old film that had jumped a few frames, erasing a necessary time passage.

He hadn’t eaten much and only drunk two small glasses of wine but felt pleasant lassitude creeping over him. He would sit back into his chair, listen to the drone of the insects in the wood and perhaps close his eyes for a few moments.

Two cold hands were caressing his cheeks; he pushed his head languorously back towards them, hoping to stay in the dream.

“So, you are worn out so easily that old men leave you in sleep?”

There was a murmur of laughter and cold hands transferred to his forehead, pulling his head back to rest against her breasts while she gently massaged the pressure points above his temples after having gently run her hands over his damaged left ear.

“You have slept many hours, but there is still time for you to swim before I show you the best place to eat on the island, and there you can tell me what it was that tore your ear. So get up now.”

They walked back through the gardens towards the car and he noticed she was carrying two beach towels. She drove more carefully along the coast rode from Karlovasi and after about twenty minutes pulled off the highway to follow a short dust track down to the sea. The car pulled up in a tiny bay: a few metres of fine shingle framed by two jagged rock outcrops where the water shimmered in the early evening sunlight.

“There, you have a short time to swim, to wake you up and give you big appetite.”

“Are you going to swim with me?”

“No, maybe later; afterwards. Here you don’t need swimming shorts and I have towel.”

He wondered about swimming in his boxers, but understood the implications in her words so rushed in naked. The initial cold shock of the sea was replaced by a delicious cool, restoring power and energy. He was almost disappointed when she told him it was
time to go and walked back to the car, leaving the towel spread and waiting on the beach.

The drive in the open top dried his hair while the salt prickled his skin and he began to feel hungry. They turned off to the right on a narrow road that twisted and turned up the mountain and soon the sea was glittering far below. The car veered suddenly down the narrowest of tracks, crossed a stream over a wooden bridge just wide enough to take all four wheels, turned a blind bend then braked to narrowly avoid hitting a tiny ancient chapel.

They parked in the small square shaded by species of plane tree, the trunks of which were painted with white distemper. Across a plank footbridge were a dozen rickety tables spread across four terraces on different levels. These were bisected by a noisy stream gushing out of the side of the rock. A waitress waved, and Alekka sat down at a table in a niche in the mountain where tree roots wove in and out of rock above their heads. Their view followed the spring through the groves and vines down to the indigo sea. The waitress brought them a homemade aperitif and briefly bent to fill a jug with water from the spring mouth; but no menu.

“She knows what we will eat: some local herbs and flowers in a light batter then rabbit stifado and a jug of their wine, I like the red so that is what we will drink. If when you finish, you do not think this the best you have eaten, then I have misjudged you.”

They finished as the sun passed behind the mountain and its only trace shimmered far out at sea. Alekka rose, waved to the waitress, and they returned to the car.

“Do not look so worried, Steveymou, there is no need to pay, all is taken care of here. Now we go somewhere with a lovely view where we can swim without salt; now is the best time.”

She drove along a winding track; dusk turned to twilight and they arrived at a small hotel high on a rock spur. They left the car and climbed the last thirty metres up a near-vertical path. The hotel was softly lit but deserted. Alekka led him through the vestibule and out onto a large terrace where a swimming pool projected over a sheer drop down to the sea. Twilight deepened; all they could see were isolated lights of scattered houses and a ship on the horizon.

“I have a room here where we can change, come follow.”

They entered a small suite with a large balcony. She shut the door behind her and looked at Steve.

“Now we change.”

She pulled the sundress over her head and stood shaking out her hair. She was wearing only a pair of white briefs and Steve was surprised to see her skin was scarcely darker.

“Do you not like what you look at, Stevie?”

She stepped out of the briefs and he reached for her.

He woke some time later with moonlight on his face and lay a while, unable to get back to sleep. He remembered her asking him what happened to his ear and tried not to think about it. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was back on the mound at Skendleby with Lisa’s teeth shredding his ear; the sharp pain as they met through the membrane and he waited for the sharp knife to gouge into the place where his neck met his shoulder.

The memory was so strong and frightening that he had to get out of bed, he padded onto the balcony and began his calming down process: deep breathing and a methodical listing of the mundane things he’d do over the next few days. He’d got as far as Thursday and his breathing was more regular when he remembered that was the day Giles and Claire were flying in to tell him something they couldn’t talk about over the phone. They’d told him Tim Thompson was dead, though, and that brought the letter back and the murders on the island and what Vassilis had told him that afternoon. He’d not escaped here; he had been lured.

He couldn’t stay alone on the balcony he needed Alekka. As he approached the bed he saw her lying naked in the moonlight, alabaster or more accurately bone white, in her sleep. Beautiful like a classical figure etched on a sarcophagus, dead white. Suddenly chilly, he slid under the sheets and snuggled up to her; she was ice cold.

Again the hotel was half empty. So Tuesday early evening found Theodrakis smoking on the balcony of the same seafront room he’d taken last time. This time he was in even worse shape; how had it come to this? How had he come to this? The urbane and arrogant society Athenian with his disdain for the provincial and his well-placed connections had become an empty shell, a broken husk. The carapace of silence he’d constructed to keep away the island and the murders protected nothing.

He was lonely, frightened and unable to act. He wanted to hide somewhere and live like the slovenly peasant Oblomov in the Russian novel he’d read as a student. But even in this, he knew he deceived himself. Because deep down in some level of his subconscious, unsupported by any kind of logic, he believed that he had a better conception of what was happening on the island than anyone else. Except, of course, the killers.

He didn’t believe the Devil walked amongst them in the way that the islanders did, and he didn’t buy the official line that it was the work of a particularly creative serial killer; although if pressed, he’d admit to himself that the Devil version was probably closer to the truth. His problem was that this intuition came from his recurring dream of the pale, dark haired woman standing on the rock shelf above the sea. The dream held some message for him, if only he could decipher it. The recent evidence from Lucca and his interrogation of the madman in the police station at Vathia bolstered this belief.

The killing of Samarakis was more difficult to understand and he needed more time to think about that. This was the killing Lucca recognised as the most obviously different and it happened the day after his public attack on Samarakis. That attack had shaken Samarakis so much that he had promised to hand over all the evidence they’d been keeping from him; so his murder less than twenty four hours later seemed too close to be coincidental.

It must have been done to keep the corrupt cop’s mouth shut. Clearly whoever killed him had an insider’s knowledge of the modus operandi of the other killings. But why kill Samarakis when they could have killed him? Maybe it was intended to incriminate him, but if that were the case why had his superiors been so quick to exonerate him and keep him on the case?

He lit another cigarette from the butt of the last and gazed down at a group of local boys kicking a ball in the street between the taverna tables. He knew he was on a collision course with whatever was causing the deaths and that given time, piece by piece, he’d come to understand it.

But this didn’t help with his job; he’d no practical idea what orders to give any more than the local cops did. The confession of the madman had been an accident as much as anything else and this confirmed the study he’d read at Police College of the three celebrated English murderers: Sutcliffe, Fred West and Dr Shipman. They’d been caught through their own complacency or chance. The police could have had all of them much earlier but had failed, despite all the expense and time lavished on the cases. So it didn’t much matter whether he behaved in the way his colleagues expected or sulked in his tent like Achilles, the end would be the same; but the Achilles option took pressure off, and that helped.

He wouldn’t be able to explain this to the others. How could you explain that you felt stopping the killings depended on understanding something you didn’t yet know? But this is how it had worked out two years ago, in the kidnapping of the right wing Athenian industrialist Karamanlis. Then, he’d waited until he knew what to do, and that time had enabled him to get an insight into the mindset of the kidnappers and broker the deal that released Karamanlis alive.

The Media called it the Black Flag kidnapping after the syndico-anarchist group who had carried it out. It had made him well known for a few days and established his reputation. It also made him unpopular with his colleagues, whose more orthodox approach had been strongly criticised. Also, he reflected bitterly, it was probably why he had been sent here. Here, where he’d no idea what the next move was. He decided to shower but as the first jet of water hit him he heard his mobile chime.

“Theodrakis, it’s Kostandin, you won’t like this but you’ve been overruled; they’ve gone public on the arrest. Are you still there? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, go on.”

“The story is that we’ve arrested a suspect who will be charged with murder in the morning. Did you get that? All the killings: the old man’s being given them all! So you need to be careful what you say.”

“I’ll remember that. Who made the call, local or national?”

“It was Adamidis; the story was hurting him and the island too much.”

“Thanks for telling me, I appreciate it.”

“What are you …?”

He got no further; Theodrakis killed the call. Telling the press was a great piece of stupidity which would lead to embarrassment in the future; however he was unsurprised, and perhaps it would give the island a couple of anxiety free nights. But for him, he thought as he got back under the shower, it brought time. Now he didn’t have to make a move; that had been done for him. All he had to do was wait for the consequences.

Twenty minutes later he was back on the balcony, washed and perfumed, in a tailored black suit and white silk shirt. He watched a moth fluttering round the electric light for some moments then went out.

He wanted to get to the taverna early, while it was still empty, so he could get a chance to talk to her, and was relieved to see only one table occupied by a tourist couple near the entrance. He chose a table near the water and waited, hoping that she was working that night. To his relief and excitement, he saw her emerge carrying a tray with drinks for the tourists. He thought
she saw him yet, for what seemed ages, she stayed and chatted at that table having served the drinks.

Then, and it seemed reluctantly, she collected a menu and brought it across. He rose to greet her with a smile, wondering whether to offer his hand or if a kiss would be more appropriate; it was certainly the more attractive option for him. He needn’t have bothered; she dropped the menu onto the table without even glancing at him.

“Will you want to eat tonight?”

The coldness of the tone drove him back into his seat. She proceeded to fix the paper table cloth under the plastic clips, ignoring any attempt he made to help.

“What would you like to drink while you wait?”

“I’ll have a gin and tonic and I thought that perhaps later we could …”

But once she had heard the drink order she turned and walked briskly back through the tables and disappeared inside. Some time later, the boy who helped the cook brought him the drink and said that someone would take his order later.

He sat nursing the gin and tonic, wondering whether to eat somewhere else or wait and try to speak to her again. He hadn’t decided when one of the sons of the family, who lived in the flat above the taverna and shared the waitering, arrived with a pad. To avoid embarrassment rather than anything else he ordered the first things that came into his head. For the next hour he sat unhappily picking at his food, gazing at her as she attended the other tables. She was wearing a simple calf length dress, belted at the waist, that accentuated her height and slim waist. She seemed beautiful and unattainable.

He sat like a pariah by the sea, almost outside the range of the electric light bulbs strewn across the branches of the overhanging trees, staring mournfully at the water. One by one the other tables emptied as the customers drifted away and, although he’d not requested it, she brought his bill, slapped it down on the table and turned away. He jumped to his feet.

“Please, may we talk just for a moment?”

“You have nerve to turn up here after leaving me waiting and foolish last time.”

She started to walk off, he grabbed at her wrist to stop her but his own wrist was grasped by a rough strong hand. He turned and saw the angry face of a man he vaguely recognised, having earlier watched him mending nets on his boat. At the time he’d thought it rather picaresque, but there was nothing quaint about the face that now confronted his.

“Never grab a woman like that in our village: understand?”

Theodrakis tried to pull away but the grip was too strong.

“Listen, this is a mistake. I only wanted to talk to her.”

“Well, she doesn’t want to talk to you it seems. Hippolyta, what do you want me to do with this man who is bothering you?”

Theodrakis had let go of her hand, it seemed a bad night had got worse. To his surprise she said,

“It’s OK, Michales, it was a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

Michales didn’t seem fully satisfied by this so she put her hand on Theodrakis’s arm to push him back into his seat.

“Sit down and I will come back to collect the money in five minutes and you can say what you want then. Honestly, Michales, it’s OK.”

The bear-like man grunted, still not sure, but after a pause during which he never took his eyes off Theodrakis’s face, rasped,

“You be careful how you treat women here in future, cop.”

Then he let Theodrakis’s wrist go and shambled off and Theodrakis watched him walk away with a swaying, but sure, tread. With a sigh of relief he slumped back into his chair. A few minutes later she came out; he saw she’d been crying. She stood by the table as if uncertain what she would do next, took a deep breath, then spoke.

“Before I sit down you need to listen, in this village I am a woman who is pitied. When I finished university I could have left and gone to Athens like the others but I had a boyfriend here. A man I loved, and he was an islander who worked here, so I stayed and I worked in bars and we saved for a place of our own.

“Only he didn’t save, he had other women: women that it seemed everyone on the island, except I, knew about. So, as I talked of our future they laughed behind my back. In the end it was my father who told me the truth; can you imagine that? So I put all my savings into a business to sell things to the tourists,
but I opened it as the recession came and the tourists didn’t. Well, many less came and those who did had less money and they could not afford the things I sold. People found that even funnier, as my university course had been Business and Economics; I lost everything I had. Now I am seen as a stupid girl and after I spoke to you people noticed. My friends said ‘you’re making your biggest mistake, you will not see him again’. But I thought I knew better and then you did not turn up, so the default setting of my life was renewed.”

Theodrakis hadn’t expected this, it was the first time anyone had opened up to him here and he felt a wash of self-pity tinged with relief.

“I’m sorry, just give me five minutes, please sit down and let me buy you a drink.”

She fetched two tall glasses full of crushed ice and a bottle of Metaxas and they sat drinking and watching the moon on the water. At first they said little, but gradually Theodrakis began to talk and all the words and bottled up feelings of the last weeks spilled out. She listened in silence until he was finished. Then he lit a cigarette leaned back in his chair and asked her,

“Now, I suppose you think I’m mad and you wished I had stayed away.”

“No, I do not think you are mad; I think that you are cursed.”

She must have seen the sceptical expression on his face and reached across the table to gently touch his hand.

“No, don’t say anything yet but walk with me along the shoreline and I will try to explain things to you.”

They left the table and followed the coastal track away from the village along the bay, passing beyond the range of the last village light. At the end of the bay they stopped beneath a small chapel perched on the cliffs and stood together, in the dark, looking out to sea. He put his arms around her shoulders and moved his face close to hers. She was taller, so he had to lift his head for his lips to meet hers. She responded then pulled away.

“I think you should come and meet my grandmother.”

It was such a ludicrous response that Theodrakis started laughing and couldn’t stop. She laughed as well but pressed on.

“No, listen to me, I mean it. My Grandmother has the gift of
second sight. She is known on the island, if someone thinks that the evil eye has been cast on them they go to her; she has the defence. No, do not laugh now; I can see you want to, but many of the people you work with go to her. The policeman who was killed was one; he came to see her only two days before. He was a hard man, a wicked man, but even he got frightened enough to beg for protection.”

“Samarakis? I find that hard to believe.”

“Yes, Samarakis, and do you know when they said a cop had been murdered near Marathakampos the night we met, I thought it must have been you. When I found out it was him I was relieved and very angry.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think of that.”

“Yes, just like all men; you didn’t think.”

“What did Samarakis say to your grandmother?”

“I don’t know. Do you think she would tell me? No, of course not, but she might tell you.”

He had no answer to that. She turned to walk back to the village; he waited a minute then followed, he caught her up and they walked together in silence. She gently took his hand and they ambled back towards the distant lights.

The grandmother lived in a small concrete cottage on the hillside above the coast road. When they arrived she was watching the television with the sound turned up beyond a level which Theodrakis was sure must cause permanent damage to the human ear. She was grey haired and very small, wearing the traditional village black. She greeted Hippolyta with a strange type of clucking sound then glanced towards Theodrakis asking,

“I suppose this is the next one who will bring you trouble?”

“Yaya Eleni, this is Syntagmatarchis Theo …”

“I know who he is: he’s the stuck up Athenian policeman everyone laughs at, except now he thinks he’s caught the killer, but you haven’t, have you?”

Theodrakis felt uncomfortable in this small hot shed and even more uncomfortable with the gaze of the crone; he knew there was no point lying.