A Solitary Reaper

by Rachael Wright

  Stelios held his iPhone in one hand and a notepad in the other; ever ready to take notes. "Who was it?"

  "Rallis, he wants to meet."

  "Why not in the office?"

  "He said he has information. I asked him to look into the girl."

  "The one in–"

  "Yes, her."

  "Has she said anything else?"

  "No. But she was downstairs when I got home last night and ate dinner with us. It's progress, but it might be months before she talks, and I can't wait that long."

  "Hence the information."

  Savva twisted his hands on the steering wheel. "I'm not going to sit around until someone comes looking for her."

  "How long do you think it'll take the lab if Colonel Callas pushes the DNA through?"

  "Oh, a couple of days. The tests take that long to run."

  Stelios nodded, wrote something down in his notebook, and flipped it closed. "Are we going to speak with Goldstein again?"

  "I want him to think we've dropped it. He won't, of course, forget we asked, but he might think we have bigger fish to fry than worrying about missing girls."

  "It's disgusting," Stelios spat. "You do agree, don't you?"

  Savva rolled his eyes. "Righteous indignation isn't yours alone."

  "Sorry."

  "Keep your head down and on task and get the DNA from the cottage ran. We need to solve this case before we can devote ourselves to Mr. Goldstein."

  Stelios nodded and shoved the notebook and tiléfono into his back pocket. They drove back, faces fixed on the road ahead. The Saab rattled from pothole to pothole. Savva pulled up to the station where Stelios uncoiled himself from the car. He patted the hood twice before disappearing through the revolving doors. Savva turned the car toward the sea.

  The bar Rallis told him to meet at was the most popular with the gérontas of Lesvos. Its customers were too old to fish but too young for the care homes, so they waddled down to the bar and sat, pretending to play chess, but mostly gossiping: who was still able to have sex, who's son was the laziest, and which shop had hired a pretty new assistant.

  Savva and Rallis had come here as boys: to eavesdrop on the gérontas, to learn chess, and to be ignored. It was a great thing to be forgotten around a vast group of old men. The boys would huddle together to listen to the men talk about sex and thought it the best education in the world. It wasn't until he married Shayma that Alexandros thought the gérontas might've exaggerated about quite a bit.

  Savva was close to his 55th birthday and yet he was still too young to be accepted by them. They smiled, called out a cheerful kalimera, and went right back to their games and their gossip. Savva ordered two coffees and yoghurt from the owner (surely older than his oldest customer by at least five years) and took the tray to where the courtyard met the sea and a lone table stood empty.

  Rallis collapsed into the chair and smoothed his grey linen shirt over his stomach. "You always were the first one here. Why do you look like you've lost weight?"

  "Shayma drives up to Davonna's house most days. I do a lot more walking."

  "All I do is shuffled from microscope to microscope."

  "So what did you find out?"

  "You're always so quick to get to business, Alexandros," he lamented. "Why can't we sit here and sip our coffee and then talk?"

  "When did you become such an old woman?"

  "When I started getting fat," he chuckled. "Alright, I'll tell you." Savva leaned forward, ready to take notes. "Theé mou, man, you're serious."

  "Of course I am."

  Rallis swigged his coffee. "I think I know her name and where she's from."

  "You think?"

  "My sources did not want to get involved. I had to call in a lot of favors and threaten to call a lot of mothers and yia-yias."

  "And ..."

  "Her name is Phebe Kroes from Samothrace."

  Savva wrote this down. "Anything else? Date of birth? Family?"

  "I'm sure Stelios is capable of finding out."

  "What happened?"

  "She's from a rough family, Alexandros. There was nothing happy there. One day she disappeared. She'd done it before."

  "How long has she been gone?

  "A few weeks."

  "Any news from your sources about what might have happened?"

  "It's a trafficking ring," he sighed.

  "And?"

  "I couldn't get much out of them. But I was told is it's a foreigner who's running it and apparently he hasn't been as discrete as he should be. Things like this are a lot harder to hide now that we're a part of the EU. They have more rules, more police, and more red tape. Mafía management isn't pleased about the attention this person is bringing to their other illegal activities."

  "The man I met with in Athens said much the same. Is it Goldstein?"

  "Yes and no."

  "What does that mean?" Savva growled.

  "It means my friend wouldn't use the name, but he didn't deny it. So Goldstein is doing it, but nothing they say can be taken as evidence."

  "Gamóto," Savva cursed. "So we have nothing."

  "They did suggest someone you could talk to."

  "Who?"

  "The head of the UK's Border Force Police–well former. Sir Charles Montgomery. He was replaced in June."

  "Why do I need to talk to him?"

  "He's after the same person you are."

  Savva wrote down the name. "Does he speak Greek?"

  "Don't you speak English?"

  Savva shrugged. "Gives me a headache."

  "I just pretend I don't speak it."

  "Unless she's pretty."

  Rallis smacking the table with a sun spotted hand. "Sure, then I'll say just enough."

  Savva stuck his notebook into the breast pocket of his suit coat. "Efaristo."

  "We're old friends, Alexandros. It's what we do." Rallis stood, embraced Savva, and crossed the courtyard to be swallowed by a mass of milling tourists.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Savva sat at his desk repeatedly hitting the refresh button on his email. Twenty-four hours had passed without a word from Petros. He glanced from the bright computer screen to the silent phone and back again. Just one call: then he would know–but at the expense of looking like an idiot. So he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed.

  An image of Phebe as she sat at the dinner table, between him and Shayma, the sleeves of the oversized sweatshirt rolled up to expose her thin shaking hands, came unbidden to his mind. Her eyes darted from the door to the window to the stairs and back again. She resembled a timid caged creature: once beautiful and free.

  To be reduced to fear and trembling and to spend the rest of one's life checking the windows and the locks for the captor to return? Savva buried his face in his hand and inhaled the soft scent of Shayma's rosemary soap, which clung to his fingers. He couldn't displace the reality of the situation he'd found himself in, how right she was–they were all in danger.

  If it was Goldstein at the center of this trafficking web, he might not be mafía, but he was all the more dangerous for it. There was nothing and no one to keep him in check. If he sensed Savva getting close, he'd pack up shop, only to reemerge again, but this time underground in the broad expanse of Europe. How was it that Phebe'd managed to come ashore at an island where Goldstein and his daughter lived? What terrible, horrible luck. But then she had also miraculously stumbled upon (he wasn't being egotistical here) one of the few policeman in Greece who was unblemished by association or scandal.

  The phone rang. Savva lunged with delirious hope that it was Petros. "Savva."

  "Sir, I have a call for you, from The Loriet Hotel; Mr. Adam Harris," the front desk sergeant said, pronouncing the English name slowly.

  Savva took a deep breath to summon his English. "Put him through."

  A deep cough. "Hello?"

  "Good morning, Mr. Harris."

  "Good morning, Captain Savva."

  "What may I do for you?"
>
  "I wanted to call you and let you know that we are leaving today at noon."

  "It was kind of you to call, Mr. Harris."

  "Is there anything you need from me?" he asked reluctantly.

  "No, of course not. Unless your wife's remembered anything new?"

  "She hasn't."

  Savva could almost imagine Adam shaking his head from side to side, his eyes downcast. "That's alright, Mr. Harris. I hope your stay was enjoyable."

  "As much as it could be."

  "Did you ever get the shower fixed in your hotel room?" Savva bit his lip. Where'd that come from? Where'd he heard that comment? He'd been looking for someone at the time and stumbled across something else.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  In the moment it took Savva a moment to place the English phrase, he remembered. "I heard Ms. Iliadou tell your wife that she'd get the shower fixed in your room."

  "My shower wasn't broken, Captain. I think I'd remember that."

  "I must have it confused," Savva said with a small self-depreciating laugh. "I am sorry. It's been a long week."

  "No need to apologize ... the whole situation is embarrassing to say the least." Adam cleared his throat. "My wife and I have been having marital problems. When we arrived, the hotel was fully booked. The next day, another room opened up and my wife took it, although the shower didn't work. I believe that's what you heard."

  "I am sorry to hear about your marriage, Mr. Harris. I wish you the best of luck."

  "I appreciate that, Captain. Although, I think Jane and I are finished. This trip has opened my eyes. We don't want to try anymore. There's no hope after that, is there?"

  "No."

  "You have my contact information, if there's anything else you need."

  "Safe travels, Mr. Harris."

  "Thank you, Captain."

  Adam Harris was the first to hang up. Savva stared at the handset. His contemplation of the hotel shower and the Harris' disintegrating marriage was broken by a soft ping from his computer. With flying fingers, Savva clicked on an email that read: 'DNA Results - Papatonis Cottage.'

  "Booras," he shouted from his desk. The door was open and Savva felt the reverberation as Stelios' gangling legs hit the carpet. He catapulted across the room to come to a wobbling half in front of his superior. "We have the DNA results. Matthias and the unknown female are the parents of two boys."

  "Well that's one question answered. Did Colonel Callas say anything else?"

  Savva turned to the computer. "No, there weren't any database hits."

  "Rallis emailed his findings. The only fingerprints they found at the cottage were Matthias'."

  "We know they were all there," Savva said slowly. "So he wiped the house clean of his family's prints, then presumably went back, but he didn't bother to clean his own fingerprints? Why did the house need to be wiped in any case? And why didn't it matter if his prints were left behind?"

  "He missed the hairs though, Sir."

  "Hair falls from our heads all the time and ends up in the most unlikely places imaginable. That’s much harder to keep track of then what people touch."

  Stelios fell backwards into the chair opposite Savva with a groan. "So what use is the DNA? Every time I think we've made progress, we hit a dead end."

  "Adam Harris phoned; he and his wife are leaving Lesvos today."

  "He didn't do it, Sir," Stelios blurted.

  "Of course he didn't. The man's a wreck, and anyways, we've never uncovered a connection between him and Matthias. But, when I went to interview the Harris' at the hotel, I overheard Kupía Iliadou telling Jane Harris, she would fix the shower in her room: there was a look between the two of them–like a point understood."

  "Could it be code, Sir?"

  Savva grunted. "Code? Don't be ridiculous."

  "No, let me explain: my mom used to have these little covert looks or words with her friends when I or my sisters would walk in on them unexpectedly. They pretended they were talking about cooking, but you could tell."

  "Perhaps they were talking about cooking," Savva said dryly.

  "No. One time I was listening by the window and they were all discussing ... the ... ah various things to do to get your husband to respond more to your needs in bed."

  Savva smiled as a thick red blush blossomed across Stelios' cheeks. "I don't think that's what Kupía Iliadou and Jane Harris were talking about, but call Maria and confirm that Mrs. Harris’ shower wasn't working."

  * * *

  Savva turned his attention back to the email with the definitive, and yet distinctly unhelpful, DNA results. Stelios grunted 'efaristo' and put his tiléfono back in his pocket.

  “Maria's taken a week of bereavement leave, Sir."

  "Ti?" He stared intently at Stelios whose face had suddenly gone pale.

  "Remember when I told you I met her at the taverna?"

  "Yes?" Where was this was going?

  "She said a friend of hers had passed away. A friend from university."

  "A friend?" Savva said. "When did you see her?"

  Stelios contemplated the ceiling tiles. "I think it was the day we released Matthias' name to the press. I didn't want to go home to an empty house."

  "She was crying in a taverna the same evening?" Savva frowned. Wheels clicked into gear.

  Stelios waved his hands dismissively. "Oh no, she said it was a woman who died."

  "Did she actually say it was a woman?"

  "Of course she did."

  "Think."

  Stelios leaned back and closed his eyes. His hands drifted and wafted through the air. Savva watched with narrowed eyes. The clock on the wall ticked by the seconds and still Stelios' eyes remained closed. He'd look up and say he couldn't remember. If he couldn't, then they'd find receipts or talk to the barman or ... Stelios popped up–his eyes were wide with horror.

  "Maria didn't say. I know I said "she" and Maria didn't correct me."

  "What else did she say?"

  Stelios shook his head with the sudden crashing realization he'd missed a vital step. "She has two boys, Sir. Nine and seven." Savva dropped his head into his hands. "I'm sorry, Sir. It's my fault. If I hadn't been so cut up about Theia, I wouldn't have gotten so drunk, and I would've paid more attention.

  "It's not your fault. If you hadn't have gone we wouldn't know anything. The next day you told me she had two sons. I didn't place it either; there was no reason to."

  "Do you think it's her?"

  "What did she say about the boys' father?"

  "Not much. She said she wanted him to be more involved but he worked a lot. They went on trips abroad together. She mentioned Norway and the northern lights."

  "Where did she attend university?"

  "University of Athens," Stelios whispered.

  "We need to talk to her."

  "I know where she lives, Sir."

  Savva raised his eyebrows.

  "I dropped her off at her house after we left the taverna. I didn't go in!" he added hotly.

  "Anything else I need to know?"

  "I think her father lives with her. She said he takes care of the boys when she's at work."

  "Does he know?"

  "Do you mean does he know that a former mafía hitman is his grandsons' father?"

  "And his daughter's–partner? I guess you'd call him."

  "I don't know."

  "Alright then, we err on the side of caution, and assume he doesn't know."

  Stelios leapt to the door. "Do you want to go now?"

  "Yes, but get Kaikas." Savva watched Stelios hesitate. "She can keep the grandfather and the kids occupied so we can talk to Maria."

  Stelios nodded. Savva turned back to his computer and pressed print. He pulled a lone sheet off the printer and stuffed it into a black folder with the General Police Directorate of North Aegean insignia, stamped on the cover, in gold.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Savva drove up steep roads, past packs of teenagers, past houses where white towels snappe
d in the bleaching sun, as he followed Stelios' directions to the white house with the orange roof. In the back seat, Kaikas called the Land Registry Office and confirmed the house was in Maria's name. It was purchased nine years ago and was owned outright. They turned onto Dedalou Street; Stelios pointed to number 32. Savva slowed the car to a stop a few houses away. He removed the keys from the ignition, gathered his thoughts, and turned to face his officers.

  "If Maria's the woman from the cottage, her sons have lost their father, and she can't tell anyone. We treat her with respect and deference. If her father and the boys are here, Kaikas, I want you to take them outside while we talk to her. On no account are you to let them in while we're with Maria."

  "Understood, Sir."

  "Booras, you've built a rapport with her, so you'll take the lead, but remember–softly.”

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Ok, ladies and gentlemen, let's go."

  Savva arranged his features into a benign mask, set his feet on the cracked and repaired street, and walked toward the cottage with his hands intertwined behind his back. In the heat of the late morning, nothing moved, not a single cicada thrummed, and the olive trees hung limp with exhaustion. Walking was an exercise of moving in an oven. Savva trudged down the street, with sloped shoulders, a man overburdened by the weight of bureaucracy. His previously carefully combed hair had been long since mussed, and a general air of exhaustion surrounded him like second-hand smoke.

  Stelios and Kaikas walked on either side of him. At the gate, Savva motioned for Stelios to go ahead. Stelios crossed the vibrant garden in three long strides and rapped lightly on the door. Savva took one last look at Kaikas. She met his eyes and nodded once. He turned back around in time to see the door open.

  Maria Iliadou looked as though she'd aged a decade overnight. Sunken eyes, a strangely vacant expression, and an oversized sweatshirt with holes on the shoulders replaced her poise and elegance. The veneer of public refinement was gone: her greasy hair was braided haphazardly back, the careful manicure was destroyed, the nail beds had split, and dried blood pooled in the corners.

  "Stelios, Captain Savva, what are you doing here?"

  "We wondered whether we might ask you a few questions in private, Maria," Stelios said softly.