The Green Lady (6 page)

‘See you there.'

Mavros walked out into the sweltering early evening. Normally he would have walked to Omonia Square, but he hailed a passing cab. Thanks to Angie Poulou, he was in funds.

The cypress trees around the estate on Ekali pointed their green fingers to the bright blue sky as if it were guilty of stealing her daughter. Angie sat on the broad terrace by the swimming pool, a wide sunhat on her head and a towel over her legs. The two street cats Lia had adopted were sleeping in the shade, their front legs entwined. Angie blinked back tears.

What was she doing, taking on a private investigator? Paschos would explode if he found out – and, with the huge web of contacts he maintained, that would only be a matter of time. She didn't care any more. All she had to do was talk to the press and he would be revealed as the schemer he was. Why had she gone along with his insane plan to keep Lia's disappearance secret? In the beginning it seemed to make sense – deprive the kidnappers of the oxygen of publicity – but after she'd got over the initial shock, she should have stood up to him. For all his faults, he wasn't a violent man. He'd never hit her, unlike the husbands of several women she knew, and he did listen to her, although these days she only saw him when they were on parade together.

Angie took a few bites of the salad she had prepared, having given Fidelia, the Filipina cook, the day off, but she had no appetite. She felt empty inside, as if she was wasting away. She couldn't live without Lia. Every possible fate – physical abuse, rape, torture, starvation, the white slave trade, accidental death, murder and more – had kept her awake at night in recent months. The fact that she couldn't tell anyone the truth had given her migraines and driven her to the darkened room she used as a private space. After a week of that, she'd searched for a reliable investigator and found Alex Mavros.

In truth he seemed more maverick than cautious, though the big case on Crete involving a Hollywood film company and a drug-producing village had shown how effective he could be. Besides, what she needed was someone who knew how the system worked while standing outside it. His half Scots half Greek background seemed to have given him that. When they met, she had trusted him immediately.

But who was she fooling? What could one man do, when the best minds in the Greek police had failed? According to Paschos, British and American law and order professionals in Athens for the Games had also been consulted, but had got nowhere. Lia had gone to a place that appeared on no map or screen. Perhaps she'd been beneath the surface of the earth from soon after she was snatched, occupying an unmarked grave that would never be found. Angie wouldn't be able to live with that. She had sworn to herself that if Alex Mavros didn't pick up any traces of Lia, she would go public. That would probably lead to the end of her marriage, but she didn't care. Paschos had shown concern over Lia only in the first few days. After that, he got back to work and presented his usual implacable face to the world. His efforts to comfort her had been no more than perfunctory.

The cats woke up and started chasing each other around the pool. Angie thought of the countless times she had played and swum with her daughter in this very place. But now the familiar lines of the tiles and stone walls, the canvas canopies and marble benches, blurred into obscure shapes, as if her home and everything she had experienced in it had been illusory – even her husband and, worst of all, Lia.

Only Alex Mavros with his strange left eye could bring Angie back to the world she had known, the world with her daughter at its centre.

Lambis Bitsos, crime correspondent for the left-of-centre paper
The Free News
, was a man of habit. Except when he was covering cases, he occupied a corner table in
To Kazani
, a down-market taverna in a backstreet near Omonia Square. The place had no terrace or roof garden, so in summer it really lived up to its name: the Cauldron.

Mavros pulled out a chair opposite the skinny, balding journalist. ‘Jesus, Lambi, how do you cope in here at this time of year?'

‘As you see,' he replied, pouring ouzo from a carafe and signalling for another glass and place setting. In front of him was a spread of aubergine salad, octopus with pasta, anchovies, and the taverna's speciality, drunkard's stew, containing pork, sausage and red wine.

‘
Bekri-mezes
?' Mavros said. ‘How appropriate.'

‘I ordered it for you.'

‘Uh-huh. There isn't much left.'

‘You know me – hungrier than a hyena.'

Mavros dipped bread into the aubergine paste. ‘So, how have you been?'

Bitsos took a slug of slightly diluted ouzo and smiled. ‘Socialising, are we?'

‘If we were doing that, I'd have brought magazines.'

The journalist lifted his battered briefcase. Underneath was a brown paper bag, the garish jackets of the triple-X publications he favoured poking out. ‘I'm already well supplied.'

‘
Nazi Vampire Lesbians
? Jesus, Lambi, how low can you sink?'

‘Very low indeed.' Bitsos grinned. ‘Any sign of Niki?'

‘Watch it,' Mavros warned. ‘No.'

‘Pity. I always fancied her.'

‘The feeling wasn't anywhere near mutual.'

‘That's what made it even more exciting.'

Mavros gave him the eye. ‘How are your daughters?'

‘All three of them on to their second husbands, as you very well know. I think Ritsa's shagging around, as well.'

‘You must be very proud. Do you want more to eat?' He knew the answer. The journalist might have been skeletal, but he ate like a large quadruped. Mavros ordered another serving of wine-stewed pork and a slab of melted cheese. He also opted for the taverna's own wine rather than its brain-melting ouzo.

‘Busy?' Bitsos asked.

‘Sort of. You?'

‘“Sort of”, as in you need help from old Lambis?' He laughed when Mavros nodded. ‘Me? Haven't you noticed? With the Games on and the cops all over the city in force, the criminals are being good boys. They've put off killing each other to concentrate on fleecing the visitors.'

‘I hear the Albanians and Serbs have imported hookers to cover the increase in demand.'

‘True,' the journalist said, making space for the new plates. ‘But they're keeping a close watch on them and there have been no cat fights.'

‘All of which means you must be at a major loose end.'

‘Ah, now we get to it. You want me to drop everything and become your sidekick.'

Mavros choked on a piece of sausage. After he'd recovered, he assured Bitsos that wasn't the case. The idea of working in close proximity to the most notorious newspaper ghoul in Athens had little appeal. ‘No, I just need a pointer or two.'

‘What's in it for me?'

Mavros laughed. ‘
Now
we get to it. The usual. Exclusive on the story when everything's wrapped up.'

Bitsos started to laugh, an unpleasant sound. ‘How many times have you promised me that and failed to deliver, Alex.'

‘I gave you an inside angle on the Crete case.'

‘True. That makes once.'

Mavros knew he was on shaky ground, given the extreme confidentiality of Lia Poulou's disappearance. ‘All right, I will say this. Even if the case is blacked out from above, I'll tell you all about it. Knowledge is power, even if you can't print it.'

Bitsos finally finished eating. He mopped his brow with a paper napkin and lit a foul-smelling unfiltered cigarette. ‘We'll see. What's the angle?'

Mavros stifled a groan. A frizzy-haired young man had started setting up a sound system. The last time he'd played, he sounded like Bob Dylan on laughing gas.

‘Have you heard of anyone important going missing in recent months?' he asked, with as much insouciance as he could manage.

‘Well, there was that ship-owner back in June, remember? His family coughed up a couple of million and he was set free on Mount Olympos with his hands tied to his ankles. Nearly died of exposure.'

‘Russians, wasn't it?'

‘Right, though I heard a rumour that one of his competitors paid for the kidnapping and was less than impressed when he reappeared alive.'

‘Anyone else?'

Bitsos stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘With your fine law degree from . . . where was it again?'

‘Edinburgh.' Mavros had studied at the university there after going through the Greek primary and secondary system.

‘Of course, the Athens of the North – with substantially worse weather. Anyway, you're familiar with the term
quid pro quo
, yes?'

Mavros considered it. On the face of it, Bitsos hadn't heard about his case, but that didn't mean he might not have information that would be helpful.

‘A hypothesis only. Rich man. Daughter missing for some time. Kidnapping?'

The journalist put on the gold-framed glasses which were hanging round his neck. ‘Interesting, Alex. Very interesting.' He raised his hand and ordered more drink. ‘But I haven't heard a thing.'

Shit, Mavros said to himself. What now? If he set Lambis loose with the Poulos name, anything could happen. On the other hand, the hack knew people in all sorts of dubious places. Still, he needed more time to figure the pros and cons.

The singer broke into Theodhorakis's
Sto Periyiali to Kryfo
, mangling the Nobel winner Seferis's poem.

‘God, how can you stand it, Lambi? It's hotter than hell and Hades is on lead vocals.'

Bitsos laughed. ‘I never liked that old bore Seferis. Come to think of it, Theodhorakis is a wanker too, commie one moment, ultra-nationalist the next. They deserve all they get.'

That was double sacrilege as far as Mavros was concerned, but he kept a grip on himself. ‘Tell me, have you ever heard of a rich man's daughter going missing for several months?'

The journalist thought about that. ‘Occasionally. They usually turn up in Brazil with their riding instructor or the like. Most of the time, the family pays the cops to put their best people on it and offers a hefty reward. One or both of those does the trick.'

‘What about kidnappings that go wrong?'

‘You read my reports, don't you? If the crooks are idiots, they can't take the strain and kill the victim to save their skins. Almost always, the body's found and the kidnappers are nailed, either officially or by contract killers.'

Mavros pricked up his ears. ‘Interesting. You mean the families have underworld figures on the job as well as the cops?'

‘Of course. Would you trust the ELAS, even if you were paying them under the table? A bigger bunch of banana-brains has never existed.'

It made sense. Paschos Poulos would have hired a pro to find his daughter, but he wouldn't have told his wife in case the pressure got too much for her and she blabbed. The question was, who was that individual? Or was it more than one man? And how would he or they react if Mavros's involvement became apparent?

‘You're looking very thoughtful, Alex.'

‘What? Er, yes. Well, it's been fun as always.' He took out his wallet and put down a fifty-euro note.

‘That's it?' Bitsos said, glaring. ‘You pick my brains and give me nothing in return?'

Mavros smiled as he got up. ‘Nothing? Are you sure, Lambi?' He headed for the door, giving the singer a suggestive look. Bitsos would start asking discreet questions of his contacts, he was sure of that. If the hack came up with anything, he would tell him more about Lia Poulou.

As he walked through the unusually festive square, the police having moved the junkies, hookers and beggars on in the interests of Olympic harmony, it struck him that he was on a serious hiding to nothing. Then he remembered the look on Angie Poulou's face, the look of utter desperation, decided he would see the case through, no matter how bitter the end was.

His phone rang and he saw it was Bitsos.

‘In all the excitement,' the journalist said ironically, ‘I forgot to tell you what I heard this afternoon.'

‘Spit it out.'

‘Some of it'll be in the paper tomorrow, but you might as well know now. The cops in Viotia found someone burned to death in an old farmhouse on the top of a hill in the Kithairon range.'

‘So?'

‘The victim had been tied to a chair with wire before going up in smoke.'

Despite the heat, a very chill shiver ran all the way up his spine. Could that be Lia Poulou?

T
he Son had driven overnight to Trikkala in Thessaly, having sprayed paint over the scrape down the pickup's side. He had lost control as he accelerated away from the farmhouse on the hill. It wasn't as if he was afraid of being discovered up there, even though the flames were bright. No matter. On to the next target. The people on his list were being clever, trying to delay him by scattering all over the country. He was prepared to play their game because he knew that eventually one of them would talk. He didn't have the slightest doubt of that.

Trikkala in central Greece was a pleasant and prosperous town built around the River Lethaios, with the Pindos Mountains standing high to the west and, in the east, an open plain leading to the provincial capital Larissa. Beneath the bell tower on the hill were the oldest houses, many of them renovated with grants and cheap loans. Even here, three hundred plus kilometres north of Athens, the Olympic Games had extended their tentacles and there were hoardings and posters all over the place. But the narrow streets of the medieval and Ottoman Varousi quarter were quiet, especially now that night had fallen.

Flicking on a torch, the Son looked at the street plan he'd been provided with. The area was confusing, the lanes often turning into dead ends and street names few and far between. Still, he found the house without difficulty. It had enclosed wooden balconies in the Turkish style and money had been spent on reconstruction. He was reminded of the lakeside town in the far north of Greece where he had grown up. Technically, the Father still owned the house since no one knew what had happened to the old fucker. But he had no intention of going back. It was a place of suffering.