Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) (34 page)

Wait. Something was coming back to her. Lethe. The river of forgetting. She’d seen the name in the recent past, not just when she was a fifteen-year-old schoolgirl. Lethe. Yes, that was it. In a bar. There was a bottle of ouzo called Lethe. She’d made a joke about it to the barman—what was he called? She’d said that was a good name for an industrial-strength spirit, something like that. Ouzo. Add water and watch it go cloudy. Water. The sea was all around. And now she remembered. She had been on an island. It didn’t have much water, the shower ran dry every evening, the stuff from the tap was brackish, you had to buy bottles or queue up at the well in the square. Water. The island didn’t have enough, you could see it in the people’s faces, lined and wrinkled, sun darkened, long suffering; their characters hard, kindness and generosity rationed not from spite towards outsiders but out of necessity.

Come on, woman, she said to herself, get a grip. Lethe. What was the barman’s name? Rinus, yes, that was it. A Dutchman who spoke perfect English, a skinny guy, earrings like a gypsy. And the other one, the big, bald man with the green sunshade on even at night? Aris. Yes, Aris. He showed me Lethe, he showed me the underworld. Didn’t he?

‘What is all this?’ the woman said aloud, her voice muted. ‘What am I thinking?’ She tried to move her arms, but found that she had no power over them. She wanted to flex her muscles, wanted at least to feel that she could fight the rope even if she couldn’t beat it. But there was nothing. She was stretched out in the darkness like a stunned heifer waiting for the spike to be pounded into her head. That’s how they do it on Trigono, the big man told her when they were driving through the fields. Trigono. Yes, that was the name of the island.

And suddenly she found herself back in the Jeep with the man called Aris, the suspension moving easily over the surface of a road that led to a large stone tower surrounded by white buildings and lines of trees, the earth smelling of water. Oh God, water, she thought. Was that a swimming pool there? Then she was in front of a great painting, a mural, parts of it ancient and other parts restored. Yes, there was the river, there was Lethe, a small boat and a figure steering it with an oar across the stream—Charon the ferryman. Other faces flashed up before her—a heavily built middle-aged man with penetrating eyes, another man of the same stock, older, with only one arm. And a woman, golden hair and golden skin, overstated nose and lips, inflated bosom and a voice that was harsh, came from deep in her throat. She had three big dogs in tow. There was another woman, this one smiling beneath dark curls, her expression kind. And someone else behind her, an old man with a stick. Yes, an old man with a white beard and an imperious air. Who was he? And who am I?

The captive woman felt herself drift away from the people who were gathering around her like mourners around a body that had been laid out. She was floating away on Lethe’s stream, unable now to remember what those people meant to her, or why she was remembering them one moment, forgetting them the next, remembering, forgetting, remembering…

And then she came back to herself, her mind clear again but her throat drier than ever.

‘Water,’ she gasped. ‘Give me water. I’m dying for the need of it. Why have I been brought here to rot? Help me.’

The words boomed in her ears as she mouthed them, but the woman knew that they had made little sound. She no longer had the energy even to scratch the rock wall.

At that moment hope was extinguished. Now all she could do was wait for the racking pains to end.

No, she told herself. There was a man’s voice near by, a different voice. Don’t give up, don’t…

The faint light faded and darkness closed in on her again.

The noise in Mavros’s head was repetitive and regular, like the clanging of a bell rung by an over-enthusiastic priest on a Sunday morning. He blinked and focused on the narrow line of light to his right, then made the mistake of moving. The pain shot through his body, causing him to keep completely still for a period of time that he couldn’t quantify. The pounding gradually reduced in volume and he realised that it was the beat of his heart. He moved his hand to the top of his cranium, feeling a familiar twinge in his side. There was a new matted patch in his hair, the blood still damp.

As Mavros sat up slowly he recognised the cave with the natural windows, the dusty tarpaulin still in place over the explosives and the other military equipment. Then he remembered who he’d been with. Where was she, where was Eleni? He turned his head, swallowing bitter-tasting liquid as the pain knifed in again. No sign of her, nor of the exquisite Cycladic piece. He fingered his head gingerly. Eleni had been behind him, she’d shouted out a warning. The blows he’d taken outside the Astrapi must have affected his judgement. He must have driven himself into the rock. He looked round and examined the jagged surface above the hole he’d been bending into. He couldn’t see any mark on the stone, though the outer area was fractured by numerous small cracks and the cave floor dotted with fragments. He touched his scalp again, but felt only drying blood—no fragments of stone came away on his hand. Was it possible that Eleni had hit him? Surely not. And what would she have used? The priceless work of ancient art? He rejected the thought. The torch was gone—she must have headed back through the caves to get help. He stumbled over to the holes in the cave wall that were letting in the light.

What he saw made him draw his arm across his eyes and blink even harder than he’d done when he came round.

There was a motionless body on the hillside about ten metres away from him.

‘I think you will have to stay the night,’ Panos Theocharis said to his visitor. ‘The helicopter is grounded. The wind is very strong now and I don’t think it will drop for some time.’

Tryfon Roufos shrugged. ‘I took a chance, given the weather forecast.’ He nodded at his host, a grim expression on his sallow face. ‘I hope it’s going to be worth it. You are serious about selling the two Cycladic pieces?’

‘Yes, Roufos, I’m serious all right.’ Theocharis leaned on his stick and looked out over the northern point of Trigono. ‘Unfortunately. That idiot son of mine has lost the family a fortune over the last two years in New York. Even the overpaid lawyers I employ have been unable to keep him under control. If the museum is to remain open, I must dispose of pieces that would otherwise have raised its profile immeasurably.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘I suppose there is an irony in that, but it’s not one that gives me any pleasure.’

The antiquities dealer smiled, his mouth twisting and giving him the look of a hungry carnivore. ‘Ah, what it is to have children,’ he said, his tone light. ‘I have made sure that I avoid the creatures.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ Theocharis said with a knowing glance.

‘I meant children of my own,’ Roufos said, meeting the old man’s eyes. ‘Other people’s I am happy to use in whatever ways please me.’

Theocharis sat down, despair swamping him. That it should come to this. Aris out of control, the business floundering because of him, the museum’s funding threatened. Was this what he was reduced to? Hiding the first Cycladic figurines to be found on Trigono for decades from the authorities and selling them illegally? He had played hard in business, operated beyond the law whenever necessary, driven more scrupulous operators to bankruptcy, even to suicide, more times than he could remember. But the Theocharis Foundation had always been above board, he had never done anything to blacken its name. What would happen if the deals that Roufos was setting up ever became public knowledge? Arrests. Law suits. Ridicule. He wouldn’t last many more years, but he didn’t want to spend that time fighting a losing battle against imprisonment.

He watched as the antiquities dealer moved to the window and took in the windswept central plain. Apparently the jackal already had a couple of clients lined up for the unique pieces. He felt his breath creak in his lungs as he leaned back in the sofa. Oh God, how was it going to end? There was too much to think about. Why did he have to be the one to fix everything? If only Aris had been more reliable, if only Dhimitra could restrain herself. What had they been doing? What happened to the seductive Rosa Ozal, the woman that the undercover investigator Mavros had been asking about? And the other one, the one who came asking about George Lawrence—what had happened to her? In the space of a few months Trigono had become a foreign land to him. Was this what it was like to go senile, to lose your wits? He would soon be crossing Lethe. He’d been preparing himself for that passage since he was a boy. The river of forgetfulness would claim him and wipe his memory clean. But when? And would the corrosive emotions that had been eating into him since he’d started reading Lawrence’s diary be washed away at the same time?

‘Pano? Pano?’ Roufos’s voice had risen in volume. ‘The phone,’ he said, pointing at the instrument on the table in front of the old man.

Theocharis came back to himself and picked it up. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s me.’ Aris sounded very uneasy.

‘What’s happened?’ the old man demanded, instantly alert.

‘We can’t…we can’t find the archaeologist. We lost her and Mavros in the caves. There must be another way out.’

Eyes on his guest, Theocharis covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Fool,’ he hissed. ‘Where are Mitsos and the other guards?’

‘On the hills. Don’t worry,
Baba
, we’ll find them soon.’

‘You’d better. Get back to the site. I’m giving you another hour. After that Lefteris will take charge.’

‘No,
Ba
—’

Theocharis put the phone down and wiped the sweat from his upper lip. ‘A drink, Roufos,’ he said, indicating the well- stocked bar. ‘Please help yourself. I don’t want the servants listening to our conversation.’

Roufos took the lid off a crystal decanter and sniffed. ‘When do I see the pieces?’ he asked.

‘Shortly,’ the old man replied. ‘The final preparations are being made as we speak.’

It looked like he might have to do the presentation without Eleni. Maybe that would be just as well.

‘Fuck this phone!’ Aris threw the handset against the wall of Dhimitra’s bedroom and watched it shatter. ‘I can’t get hold of Mitsos. We have to find the bitch Eleni and Mavros. Lefteris is taking over in an hour.’

‘It’s the hills,’ his stepmother said, applying the final touch to her extended lips. ‘You can never get a good signal south of the estate. You’ll just have to hope that the watchmen track them down.’ She smoothed her skirt over her hips and glanced at him. ‘You have to go and take charge.’ She caught the lustful look in his eye. ‘Not again, you fool. You’ve got other things to worry about.’

Aris nodded slowly. ‘You’re right. If Lefteris comes looking for me because of what happened with the
Sotiria
, I’m dead meat.’ He stared at her again, this time his eyes cold. ‘And if the lunatic tells my father, the dirt will land all over you too, be sure of that.’

Dhimitra walked up to him, a smile on her crimson lips. ‘Ari,’ she said, her voice even more throaty than usual. She grabbed his crotch and met his agonised look. ‘Don’t ever threaten me. We’re in this together. Act like a grown-up and we’ll inherit a fortune.’ She squeezed harder. ‘Act like a spoiled child and your stepmother will be very unhappy.’

She wiped her hand slowly down his chest and walked past him to the door.

Aris shook his head and wondered how he was going to get out of this shit storm. He was a betting man and he’d always liked long odds, but he wasn’t attracted by this game at all. It was time to cut those odds. The best way to do that was to lower the number of people who could talk. He knew where to start. The information his father’s people in Athens had gathered on Mavros would get him off their backs for good, even though the old man had so far held off using it. He must be going soft.

But he didn’t know where the dick and the dyke had got to. He had to find them fast.

Straining forward, his heart pounding, Mavros took in the scene. The body was on its left side, facing away from him. The legs were drawn up and all he could see of the lower half was khaki shorts and a pair of thick-soled trainers. The torso was covered in a short-sleeved white shirt, but it was the head that drew his attention and set off stabs of pain in his own cranium. He was pretty sure it was a man from the dense brown hair on the outstretched arm, but the length and colour of the hair on the head were hard to make out. The skull had shattered into a mass of blood and other matter. He looked down, breathing hard, and tried to get a grip on his thoughts. He’d seen those shoes before, he knew he had, but he couldn’t place them. Christ. He sank to his knees and retched up a great gush of sour vomit, then spat out as much as he could of what remained in his mouth. He pulled away from the mess on the cave floor and felt his mind clear. Move, he heard himself say, move, Alex. There’s a chance the guy outside is still alive.

Feeling his way blindly through the caves, Mavros touched rough walls before he located the obscured corner that led into the excavation tunnel. He slid through and headed towards the yellowish light from the corrugated roof outside, glancing into each grave chamber as he went. There was no sign of the archaeologist. He raised his head cautiously from the trench and looked around. Mitsos the guard was also nowhere to be seen. Mavros ran unsteadily across the bare ground. The wind was blowing hard, making the damaged parts of his head ache even more. The gusts were stronger than they had been earlier.

‘Mitso!’ he shouted, eager to get to the body and no longer concerned about concealing himself. ‘Come and let me out.’

There was no reply, no heavy form appearing from the watchman’s tent. He yelled again, then took a deep breath and started to clamber over the fence. It was difficult as there was nothing to get a grip on and the points of his shoes kept slipping out of the spaces between the strands of wire, but eventually he managed to swing himself over the top. The barbed wire caught his T-shirt in several places without cutting into his skin. Turning to gauge where the cave system extended inside the hill, he estimated the position of the body he’d seen and headed up the slope. As he came into the open round a steep rock face, the wind blasted into him from the north and nearly knocked him over. Looking out to the sea between Trigono and Paros, he saw a maelstrom of white wave tops and a complete absence of boats. There wasn’t any doubt about it. The island and everyone on it were cut off from the outside world.