The Dead Travel Fast (15 page)

“I know Vassilis, but if I work for anyone it would be Professor Andraki.”

Steve saw a spasm of emotion distort Theodrakis face so he continued.

“Perhaps you can tell me what is going on with Andraki, there was a police cordon round his office this morning.”

“No, all I can say is that the statement of who you work for is now wrong on both counts. But I am more interested in what you have to say about bones and death in your poem.”

Steve missed most of this; Giles and Claire with their arms round each other were almost at the table. He was about to get up when Theodrakis asked him,

“Please tell me. What happened to your ear?”

But he got no answer; Giles had reached the table.

“Sorry to be so late, Steve, but we got sort of distracted and time seems to run to a different drum beat here.”

Claire giggled and Steve began introductions. Theodrakis saw her, turned his head away, gathered his things and got up to leave.

“I must go, I have an appointment but we fellow poets will soon meet again and you can give me your answers then; I will be in touch.”

With a perfunctory nod to Giles, he rushed off towards the hotel. Claire kissed Steve on the cheek and said,

“What’s wrong with him? It was like he’d seen a ghost.”

Steve noticed too but hadn’t bothered, as the detective was weird and beyond the normal conventions of social discourse, and anyway Giles was unusually enthusiastic and vocal.

“Great place, Steve, really chilled. We had a lie down and after Claire dropped off I went down to the pool and sat looking out across the olive groves to the sea, beautiful. I can’t believe we’ve got the whole place to ourselves.”

Steve was surprised at how pleased he was his friends liked the place, and gave Giles a rundown of all the hidden pleasures of the island while Claire sat staring out across the rippling waters of the bay. They finished their drinks then ambled along the quayside to Maria’s taverna to eat, stopping from time to time so that Steve could introduce his friends to the locals. Halfway through eating, as if conjured out of nowhere, Alekka appeared at the table, lightly kissed him on the forehead and demanded,
“So, Steve, are you going to introduce me to your friends about whom you tell me so much?”

She turned with a smile to Giles and he saw from the expression on his friend’s face that he was impressed; they shook hands and then she turned to Claire. It was more an impression than anything more concrete but as the two women locked eyes, the atmosphere round the table chilled several degrees. After a pause long enough to have become uncomfortable, Alekka looked away and said to Steve,

“I am sorry, I have no time tonight, but I would like you to call me later.”

She walked away from the table and into the night and before Steve thought of anything to say by way of apology Claire sniggered,

“What a real lulu; well you certainly know how to pick them, Steve.”

Later, when Claire, pleading tiredness, went back to the house to sleep and the two men were sitting over glasses of brandy, Giles leaned forwards in his chair.

“That was strange, people have started to react to her like that.”

“It was probably because of that letchy look you gave Alekka.”

“No, it’s more than that. We had a weird experience in France, stopped off at a roadside bar in the middle of the Central Massif and walked into this large room full of locals and bikers drinking. It was real noisy in there but by the time we reached the bar the whole room was silent; it was eerie, everyone watching her, but the bartender ignored us.

“After a while an old guy with a scarred face and squint walked up and said it was a private bar and we weren’t welcome. It wasn’t private and I don’t think he meant unwelcome only in there. Same thing at the hotel that night; said they’d no record of our booking but after a load of argument they put us up in a type of fixed caravan that hadn’t been used for years a couple of miles down the road. We, or Claire mainly, were made to feel like lepers. Then the car packed up and the zombies at the local garage claimed they couldn’t get the parts and we got trailered home. Tell the truth I was glad to get back, strange thing was it didn’t
seem to bother her, she just laughed. I’m glad to be here Steve, but I’m tired and I don’t think I want to talk about Tim tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

He got up and Steve hugged him, something he wouldn’t have done before Skendleby. Giles cut back through the village backstreets towards the villa, Steve watched him noticing the black shapes of birds circling his accommodation.

Theodrakis walked rapidly from the bar. Why had the shock of seeing the English woman been so unsettling? He was early for Hippolyta and needed time to compose himself, so he walked the length of the seafront then followed the harbour wall to its end. He sat on one of the concrete blocks dumped outside the wall to protect it from the winter storms, lit a cigarette with surprisingly steady hands, and tried to put events into a credible sequence.

The fight with Andraki, once it ended, gave him the least anxiety. Afterwards, when Andraki had been taken off in the ambulance and the cops had arrived, he felt calmer than he had at any time since he arrived on the island. Like he’d felt during the political kidnapping in Athens when he gained his reputation.

He was better when he took control. It was a good result; he was sure Andraki’s DNA and prints would be all over at least one of the victims, and from what he saw on the desk he was pretty certain they had one of the murder weapons. He was unhappy about the surge of anger that had led him to kick Andraki in the balls: that had been a first and he’d enjoyed it. He’d need to watch that.

He analysed his feelings for Hippolyta; was he in love with her? If he was this was also a first, at least with a woman. Not that he was sure he had ever really been in love with a man either; he was too sexually insecure for that, too worried he’d be unable to function when put to the test. He was celibate but was this to protect himself from the humiliation of failure or a genuine preference?

He knew from private practice that he was in good working order but this had deserted him in the few fumbling failures that constituted his sex life with a consenting other. He knew he’d reached the fumbling stage with her, and that worried him because she was special and he didn’t want to screw it up through being unable to perform.

The uncertainty over one woman conjured his fear of the other: the English woman. She’d flashed him a look of distilled hate. There was something terrible hiding inside her which recognised and hated him. Yet no one else seemed to feel that, she’d been giggling with the Englishman, Giles, who’d obviously just been doing with her what he feared to do with Hippolyta.

Something in her frightened him so much he’d given up questioning Steve and run off. He’d seen the English woman before, but only at night in his dreams standing on the shelf of rock above the sea taunting him. Things were changing; her presence had shifted the balance.

The cigarette burned down to his fingers. He stood up, flicked it into the water and set off back down the sea wall. The walk to her apartment took about five minutes and he saw no one else on the street except the boat captain he’d met in the bar, who scowled at him. He rang the bell and waited, wondering how he would play what happened next. She opened the door wearing a long bath robe, her hair was still damp and hung limp over her shoulders. He started to speak but she stopped him.

“No talk; come.”

She took his hand and led him into the flat and he saw a small, sparsely furnished but very clean living room which incorporated a compact kitchen area. The room spoke of thrift, effort and hard times, but it was a brief glance, as she led him through to a smaller room half filled by a three quarter bed. Perhaps it was better this way; what could they have talked about? He’d nearly been killed and the shadow of the blanched and sea-damaged cadaver hanging above the boat would haunt any attempt at conversation.

The fumbling wasn’t as problematic as he’d feared and when she touched him he was hard. The earth didn’t move for either of them, but life changed and he lay awake afterwards with one of her legs spread across his and an arm over his chest. The night
was hot and their sticky bodies adhered; she slept, he didn’t. He felt cramped but secure and happy. In bed she seemed bigger than when standing up. Her body was better muscled and her powerful legs seemed to dwarf his, and to his surprise he liked this.

His mind was working; he made decisions. In the morning he’d go to see Vassilis, he’d go unannounced. It was time to move the game forwards now he understood enough to have some cards to play.

Sometime before first light he drifted into an untroubled dream-free sleep, and only woke late when she entered the bedroom with a tray of coffee, fresh bread and honey. She swept back the curtain over the small window to reveal the view of a concrete wall. He thought that whatever the flat lacked in space and comfort, it also lacked in location, despite being within spitting distance of the sea. She sat on the bedside and they shared breakfast, neither knowing what to say about the change in their relationship. Then he called for a squad car to drive him to the Vassilis estate.

“Will you come back here tonight?”

“If I can; I hope so. I will ring you.”

In the car he thought of what his father would think of him staying in such a poor flat with such a woman, if his father now thought about him at all these days, which he doubted. As the car turned onto the track leading up to the house his phone rang.

“Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, it’s Lucca. You were right about Andraki, you can put him down for Samarakis. There’s traces of him all over that one and I think maybe the body in the water too, but that’s trickier and we’ll need more time. What’s happening to us?”

“We’re drifting through the underworld, Lucca. Once you accept that, everything becomes clear and easier to deal with. Thanks for the results but I also need an estimate, as accurate as possible, of how many killers we’re dealing with and I want to know the moment you have it. I also need to know when Andraki can be questioned, get Kostandin onto it please. Let’s hope that our great leaders don’t have any bright ideas for a press release this time.”

“You’ve obviously not picked the rumour that Adamidis has
been removed from his position; gossip of strange behaviour has attracted attention.”

Theodrakis laughed at that, it would need to be very strange to attract attention here at present, but before he could reply the squad car swept round a corner and into the compound of Vassilis’s house.

“Thanks Lucca, keep me informed.”

His first impression of the Vassilis estate, compounded during his visit, was that it was unreal; like a fairytale version of the lair of a sinister recluse. It was nothing like the villas and palaces of the vulgar rich he’d experienced visiting his father’s friends as a boy. The homes of the wealthy Athenians were not like this; it made him more curious about the occupant and the first sight of his host confirmed the conjecture.

Vassilis was in full magus mode when he was ushered through to the terrace and introduced. It took Theodrakis some time to adjust his vision sufficiently to the sharp contrast between the gloom of the corridors and the glare of the terrace, but when he could focus without blinking, his first impression was that there was some elaborate and subtle game being played. His host was wearing a type of long-sleeved, deep blue, silk kaftan which reminded Theodrakis of the illustration of a wizard in one of the books from his childhood. It only needed a pointed hat to replace the skull cap Vassilis had opted for and the illusion would be complete.

Was this some type of practical joke? But that was impossible; Vassilis had received no forewarning of his visit. Only he and the driver knew the destination, and the driver only knew once they’d turned off the main road onto the track a few minutes back. It wasn’t a joke and up close there was nothing remotely risible about Vassilis.

“What an unexpected pleasure you bestow on us, Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis; but I fear perhaps its purpose is not strictly social.”

Vassilis extended a limp hand and as Theodrakis took it he was surprised that such a large and powerfully built man would practise such a weak and cursory handshake. It was as if he detested human contact. However there was nothing else weak about him; rather the hooded, deep green eyes and fleshy features were
intimidating and for the second time in minutes Theodrakis was reminded of an illustration in one of his books: a picture of the notorious magician Aleister Crowley.

“My apologies, Kirios Vassilis, but I have an urgent problem which I hope you will be able to help me solve.”

Vassilis made no reply but motioned to Theodrakis to sit at a large marble table at the far end of the terrace under the shade of a gnarled and ancient vine. He had a moment to look at his surroundings and the breathtakingly beautiful view across the mountain to the shimmering sea far below. Vassilis made no visible sign but an old woman brought a tray to the table. She set down a pitcher of cool wine and a bowl of olives. The pottery was so distinctive that Theodrakis recognised the beautiful decoration of leaping goats from a visit to the new museum in Pythagoreio. Vassilis noticed.

“I see you are a man of discerning taste, Syntagmatarchis. Yes, they are original, in the Wild Goat style imported here in the 6th century B.C., and rather better than the ones in the museum I’m sure you will agree. We tend to do things in style here, but I know you are not paying a social visit. However before your questions, let me pose you one.

“Why has it taken you so long to come to me?”

“Because it’s only been in the last twenty four hours that I’ve come to suspect that my murder investigation is merely a symptom of something else, something much more frightening.”

“Things are usually not what they seem, Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis: for instance would you be so kind as to direct your gaze towards our chapel over there beyond the formal garden, and tell me what you see.”

“I see gardens, the chapel, a statue and two old Cyprus trees.”

“So you see a statue, but you do not see our friend and protector, Father John?”

“No, there’s no one there.”

“But of course there is no reason why you should see him, rather like Schrödinger’s cat.”

“I’m sorry I’ve lost you, Kirios Vassilis, are you being metaphorical?”

Vassilis paused.

“A metaphor, yes, that would be an informed way of describing him.”

Vassilis was regarding him with interest and when he continued it was in a more intimate way, and Theodrakis felt he’d passed a test.

“Forgive me if I have confused you, Syntagmatarchis, let me begin again. You are baffled by these murders, they make no sense, in fact they defy the possible. You are an unusual man to be a police officer, you think too much and you have reached the stage where your logical mind is being overruled by your instinct because you are an intuitive thinker, aren’t you. Do tell me if I am mistaken.”

“No, you’re not mistaken, when I look at this case from a procedural perspective it makes no sense as a murder enquiry. Looked at with an open mind it seems more like contagion, the type of thing that spreads plague.”

“Good, another good metaphor. Please indulge me for a few minutes: I am going to tell you some things that your logic will reject but which your intuitive mind will recognise. But first, do take some of our excellent wine while it is still cool.”

Theodrakis took the goblet and drank, the wine was cool and exquisite. He sat back to listen, aware of another turning point in his life.

“You are, of course, correct in your hypothesis that your murders are merely a symptom, although admittedly a terminal one, of the contagion sweeping this island. To prolong the medical analogy, we have reached the crisis. It is in fact a contagion that occurs in various parts of the multiverse and for a time I hoped we had seen the last of it here. But, like the plague with its rats, it inhabits hosts which enable it to spread.

“This island has experienced several outbreaks and in most cases it has only ended when the entire population emigrated. You will be aware of course that our history books record several such evacuations and there were others before the invention of writing. You will find the gaps in the archaeological record substantiate what I say.

“Now listen to this with an open mind; whoever said that the
past is a foreign country where things are done differently was closer to the truth than he realised. You cannot escape the past because it does not go away. When your scientists finally come to understand time and existence they will appreciate the tangible reality I describe, unfortunately that is unlikely to be for centuries. A ripple in the multiverse is a cataclysm in your primitive one.

“The escalating situation here is a consequence of archaic destructive forces on the move: things the peasants here would see as the Devil, and they are almost correct, even though their reasoning is of course the credulous superstition of children.”

He refilled Theodrakis’s glass.

“I think you should drink a little more, Syntagmatarchis, it will help you cope with what I am about to tell you.

“The dead travel fast but they need assistance: evil gathers, it aggregates and fashions conductors of power. There is only a thin membrane between this world, which you of course think is the only one, and all the others. But, and pay great attention to this, there are certain gruesome fetish objects that contain elements of all these worlds and which become more powerful as each age adds its own particular contribution of evil. They cannot be destroyed, and have therefore to be separated from their owners and kept hidden. That way their power is limited to a psychic pollution of their immediate environment. You can use your primitive understanding of radioactive material to fashion an analogy.”

He paused for a moment, favouring Theodrakis with an expression close to a smile which the policeman found disconcerting.

“You will, of course, think this nonsense but try and regard these murders as part of a process to create something worse. The bones, which you have so clumsily attempted to keep secret, are central to this. They will become the next link in a pre-existing chain which, at present through our stewardship, luckily is hidden. But something searching for this link is now very close.

“I don’t expect you to understand this but I have shared a truth with you of which very few of the living are aware. Now it’s your turn tell me the truth about your investigations.”