Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) (12 page)

Mavros shook his head and wondered what was he going to do about Niki. Then again, she’d called him a fugitive. Maybe she’d already realised that he was trying to break free.

Before he spoke to her, he rang the airline and tried to find out whether Rosa Ozal had flown in or out in the past three months. He wasn’t surprised to be told that such information was confidential. He considered taking the boat back across the straits and flashing his investigator’s card at the woman who’d brushed him off, but he suspected she’d only laugh at him and demand an official request. The man who answered the phone in the travel agency actually did laugh at him, wondering if he had any idea how many people travelled to and from Paros every day in the summer. When Mavros pointed out that the ferry companies were legally required to record the names of all passengers on their tickets, the connection was cut. He might have been able to bribe the information out of a more compliant clerk, but it looked like a waste of time— passenger names were often omitted, and even if he found confirmation that Rosa had arrived or left at some stage, she might easily have done so again. Collating information on Trigono would be a better bet.

Taking a deep breath, Mavros returned Niki’s call.

‘There you are at last,’ she said hurriedly. ‘To hell with you, wanker.’

‘What?’

‘I’m in the car. Some lunatic just cut me up.’

‘Maybe I should call back later.’

‘No, I want to talk to you now, Alex. Where are you?’

‘Em, on an island.’

‘What?’ she screamed. ‘Which island?’

‘A tourist island,’ he prevaricated.

‘Which island, Alex? Tell me or I swear I’ll accuse you of rape.’

‘Niki, for God’s sake…’

‘I was joking,’ she said with a bitter laugh. ‘So, which island?’

Mavros felt bad about what he was about to do, but he didn’t want to give Niki the chance to land on him out of the blue. ‘Em, Zakynthos,’ he said. ‘I had a case a couple of years back, a farmer who shut his wife up in a cowshed. It looks like another guy has done the same thing, except this time no one knows where.’ The fluency of the lie depressed him.

‘That’s men for you,’ Niki said. ‘Come on, Alex, isn’t that a job for the police?’

‘Yes. But I’m acting for the woman’s parents, trying to avoid any mistakes… Look, Niki, I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ve got to go now, my clients are here. I’ll talk to you soon.’ He broke the connection before she could remonstrate further.

So much for
his
private life. Now for the private life of Trigono.

October 21st,
1942

At last I’m organised. The last few days have been hard, but now
everything is in place. The explosives and the wireless along
with its batteries are in a well-hidden cave, and I’ve taken up
residence in a hut on the ridge that even the goatherds have
abandoned. I thought I was beginning to turn into a nocturnal
creature like a follower of Bela
Lugosi
in that ridiculous film as
all the work had to be done under the light of the moon. There’s
an Italian post on the southern slopes of Paros and I couldn’t
take the chance of them spotting me in their binoculars. It’s five
miles or more, but the visibility here is so good that you can make
things out from incredible distances. Now I’m ensconced, I
don’t need to skulk about so much. I have my peasant clothes
and my heavy
shepherd’s
cloak so I shouldn’t attract much attention
during the day. And I have finally made contact with the
locals, or rather they made contact with me. I was beginning to
get concerned and wondered if they’d had second thoughts
about working with me. But on the third night Ajax came up to
the ridge with a couple of burly companions, relatives judging
by the resemblance they bore to the resistance leader
.

Things were a bit sticky at first—I think they feared I was
going to start ordering them about—but when they heard me
speak Greek, they loosened up. We drank some of the local
spirit, which made my eyes water but I suppose you can get
used to anything, and went over the plans for the base. As I
experienced, Vathy inlet is the perfect hidden landing point
and the brass in Beirut were right to single it out. As soon as
a regular kaïki link is established, we’ll be able to stockpile
supplies and forward them to underground groups all over
the central Aegean and eventually, I hope, to the mainland.
That’s not all. I mentioned my ideas about sabotage on the
neighbouring islands to Ajax. He was keen, telling me he’d
already given the Eyeties
—makaronadhes,
he called them,
spaghetti-
eaters—a beating on the Albanian front and would
enjoy a repeat performance. He didn’t seem unduly concerned
about the threat of reprisals, unlike some of the Greek
officers in Egypt. As long as we did as little as possible to implicate
the people on Trigono, he said. That was very encouraging
.

Now I have only to wait for the team from base. I’ve signalled
that all is ready here. I’m expecting a small squad of
Greeks, members of the
Ieros Lochos,
one of the so-called
Sacred Band units modelled on the Theban warriors who died
for each other on the battlefields of the ancient country. They
should have been here with me from the beginning but there
was some wrangle in Cairo and they’ve only recently been
given the green light by Greek high command. Fortunately I
wasn’t delayed and here I am, holed up on a ridge in the Aegean
like an Olympian god surveying his domain. Ah, this country!
The sun-scorched fields, the dun-coloured hillsides mottled
with bushes like the flanks of gigantic leopards, the hum of contented
bees. And around it all, the endless blue deepening into
the distance. If anything is worth fighting for, it’s this place
.

Now I must sleep. Tomorrow Ajax will be back with bread,
olives and wine, the
soldier’s
simple fare. What more could
I ask?

The procession moved slowly towards the square, headed by three old women in black carrying the wine that would be poured into the grave and the food that would be distributed to the mourners later. Alongside were three boys bearing a cross and staffs surmounted with round metal representations of cherubim, their eyes flicking from side to side nervously. Behind them came the priest in his round black hat, a decorated golden cape over his robes, and then the coffin borne by male relatives with tear-stained faces. The women around them had their heads bowed, many unable to restrain their wailing.

Mavros was standing in an arched passage that led into the
kastro
, trying to keep out of the way as the multitude moved across the square to the church. Earlier he’d overheard a conversation between two women. The boy Yiangos was to be buried first; the girl Nafsika’s service would follow in the afternoon. It had been many years since there had been two funerals on the same day in Trigono. Not since the war, they thought, not since the hard years. ‘Ach, Yiango, ach, Nafsika,’ one moaned. ‘Say farewell to these streets that you played in only a few years ago.’

As the priest began to chant over the open coffin inside the crammed church, his voice amplified by speakers on the roof, Mavros went into the old castle and climbed worn steps to a vantage point that took in the village and its surroundings. The great massif of the southern hills was shimmering in the haze. Then he saw a large vehicle come down the street at speed past Rena’s house. He’d noticed ‘No Entry’ signs on all the central roads when he arrived, but the locals didn’t seem to pay much attention to them. He recognised the car. It was the Jeep that had delayed the ferry yesterday. It pulled into the square and parked outside the
kafeneion
. The bald- headed Aris, his face grim, helped a tall old man with a full white beard get out. Then he went round to the other side and opened the front door for a statuesque woman wearing a dark blue ensemble and wide hat. Eleni the archaeologist stepped out from the rear, her hair pulled back from her face.

‘Look at Aris. Do you think he’d rather be somewhere else?’

Mavros looked over the edge and realised that he was standing above a small wooden balcony set into the wall. He stepped back but kept listening.

‘Of course he’d rather be somewhere else, Barbara.’ The voice was that of the barman Rinus. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be somewhere else right now?’

‘I’d rather be on the beach,’ said the tight-faced German woman Mavros had seen in the corner of the bar. ‘But I didn’t have the nerve to swim this morning. It didn’t seem right after the drownings.’

‘It’s unlike you to lose your nerve,’ Rinus said sardonically. ‘Why aren’t you down in the church if you feel so bad about it?’

‘I’m not Orthodox, am I? And anyway, Yiangos, well, Yiangos was a—’

‘Never mind what Yiangos was,’ interrupted the Dutchman. ‘Some more wine?’

‘A funeral libation?’ Mikkel’s voice was more faint. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t pour it on the ground.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ demanded Rinus.

‘Don’t mind him,’ Barbara said derisively. ‘He’s been reading too many ancient history books. Look. Isn’t that a touching scene? Eleni listening obediently to her master’s every word.’ Her words were harsh but her voice wavered, giving the impression of barely controlled tension.

Mavros watched as the group from the Jeep moved slowly—reluctantly, it seemed—towards the church. He recognised the old man as Panos Theocharis, the museum founder, although he looked much older than he did in newspaper and magazine photos. The pointed beard gave him the look of an ancient god, Zeus or Poseidon, but this effect was marred by the stick that he was leaning on heavily. Eleni was at his side, her head inclined towards him. The woman in the designer clothes—he couldn’t make out her face under the brim of her hat—stepped across the flagstones elegantly, shod in high-heeled shoes that made a clicking noise he could hear from the top of the
kastro
. Barbara was right about Aris. He was slouching along behind the others, a look of distaste on his fleshy face. At least he wasn’t wearing the green sun visor.

‘I thought Eleni said she was going to the excavations today,’ Rinus said.

‘Her orders were obviously amended,’ Barbara said. ‘It’ll do her good to get out of those holes she spends her time in. And to follow orders. It makes a change from her ordering everybody else about.’

Rinus laughed. ‘You’re too hard on her. She’s an educated Greek woman. They have to impose themselves whenever they can. You know how chauvinist most men are in this country.’

‘That doesn’t mean she’s entitled to treat me like dirt.’ Now Barbara’s voice was sharp, full of what struck Mavros as extreme loathing. He remembered the way she’d looked at the Englishman in the bar.

‘She has a problem with foreigners who inflate the price of land and tempt the locals into selling off their family plots,’ the barman said. ‘You can’t blame her. After all, that’s what happened on the east of this island, isn’t it?’ He laughed. ‘Where your house is.’ Although Rinus was a foreigner himself, he was being uncomplimentary about his fellow strangers. Mavros was struggling to grasp the dynamics of the barman’s relations with the German woman.

‘Stop it, Rinus,’ Barbara snapped. ‘Eleni’s a loudmouthed bitch and you know it. Anyway, you used to have a house on the east coast. Until your ex-wife took it away from you.’

‘And sold it,’ Rinus said bitterly. ‘The cow. And now she’s making a fortune from her fucking tapestries back in the UK.’

Now Barbara was the one to laugh. ‘While you pretend to write the great novel during the day and provide the tourists with whatever they want at night.’

A flock of pigeons soared over the square towards the
kastro
, the sudden clatter of their wings making Rinus move forward on the balcony and look up into the sky. Mavros, one eye on the church, wasn’t quick enough to change position.

‘Alex!’ the Dutchman called. ‘Good morning. Watching the local customs?’

Mavros shook his head. ‘I just got here. What’s going on?’

‘The funeral of the boy who drowned. Come down and have a drink.’ He put his hand over his eyes and smiled. ‘It’s open house.’

‘No thanks,’ Mavros said. He didn’t intend to miss the procession to the cemetery.

‘See you in the bar later, then.’

Mavros nodded and stepped back.

Barbara’s voice rang out. ‘I hope he wasn’t listening to what we were saying, Rinus.’

‘Why should you care, darling?’ came the sarcastic reply. ‘He’s not your type, is he? Not exactly a muscle-bound peasant with a…’

Their voices faded as they went inside.

When Mavros got back to the archway, the church service was finishing. Space had been found for Theocharis and his female companions inside but Aris had stayed in the square, his hands in his pockets and a sour look on his face.

The priest was chanting one of the final prayers, inviting the gathered brethren to kiss the departed farewell, and suddenly Mavros felt his own losses knife into him. Although as a communist his father had been a dogged atheist, an Orthodox funeral was the only practical option in 1960s Greece. So the family had followed the coffin to the vast
Proto
Nekrotafio
, the First Cemetery of Athens, and let the priests perform the rites. A large crowd of banned Party members had clapped their comrade to his final home—a home, as one of them said zealously to the numbed family, that was shared by all men, rich or poor. The junta of colonels had not yet come to power and forbidden public displays of opposition, but the politics of the time were turbulent and the gathering had an air of protest because of the dead man’s record of imprisonment. The applause as Spyros was carried to the grave was a moral victory over the stony-faced policemen and security operatives who were in attendance.