The Church Murders: A stand-alone thriller (Greek Island Mysteries Book 2)

by Luke Christodoulou

  ‘What did Alex believe he had found?’

  ‘He did not reveal his sources, but he was dead certain... poor choice of words... he was certain that the monks were hiding an Evaggelio written by Jesus Christ himself.’

  ‘He sounded sure of this? A Gospel by Jesus himself? I am not a deeply religious man, but I imagine if something like this were true it would be...’

  ‘The story of the century! I had my doubts, but I built myself up based on hunches and I really liked the kid so I gave him 2000 Euro and six months to deliver the story. He walked out of my office with a wide grin and a fire in his soul. I haven’t heard from him since.’

  ‘Did he reveal how he was might about getting the story?’

  ‘No...’

  ‘Would he go undercover as a monk?’

  ‘I guess so. Those isolated monks tend to keep to themselves. They would never do something as blasphemous as to talk to a journalist!’

  ‘Do you think Alex would have spoken to anyone else besides yourself? Maybe team up with another reporter or a photographer?’ He certainly did not tell his mother or girlfriend. He lied about getting fired, probably lied about the drugs too, to isolate himself or perhaps to be accepted as a monk. Most monks leave their earthly life –as they call it- behind, most because of a haunting past such as drug abuse. It would have been a great cover for him to infiltrate the monastery.

  ‘No, no... Alex was a tiger. He hunted alone. And a story this big, he wouldn’t have told his own mother! Damn, he wouldn’t have told me if he did not need the budget and the time off work!’ He laughed and his large belly wobbled under his blue shirt. ‘Get me his killer, Captain and I will owe you,’ he said, pressing his index finger on the wooden surface of his desk. ‘The media can be really kind if it wants to be.’

  ‘I will do my best. Thank you,’ I said and stood up. Politics were never for me. I had no plans to be in charge of a department or become chief. I’m barely in charge of myself most of the time. We shook hands and I was on my way. All the way back to my office and straight to my computer. Monasteries in Salamina. Search. Three. One in Salamina, town center, dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Saint Lawrence Monastery in a small coastal village on the other side of the island from where the body was found and Saint Nicholas Monastery, isolated on Mount Maurovouni, thirty minutes away from the crime scene. Only St. Nick’s did not accept pilgrims or any sort of visitors. In a matter of minutes, I was on my way to cross the tunnel and meet up with Sergeant Jason. We were going to pay the monks a visit. After I ate, that is. Never interrogate on an empty stomach, Ioli advised me once. She was right. An empty stomach only caused a bad temper and made it difficult for the brain cells to concentrate solely on the case. She would not have approved of the oily pita bread with my fatty pork gyro that sat on my passenger’s chair next to my deep-fried fries, as I drove onto the ferry boat. My guilt pushed away by the first bite and the sensation of chopped up meat melting in my mouth.

  You haven’t eaten gyro if you haven’t eaten it in Greece.

  Chapter 7

  Death had always been a friend of his. Since childhood, death had excited him. The way the eyes went hollow, the decay of the skin, even the putrid smell was a high. The whole dying and rotting away process as the soul burned through the body and ascended to the sky to be judged.

  He carefully locked the old, wooden door behind him and descended awfully narrow mud-made steps. The candle’s light was flickering from the air below. Air running to escape and meet the free air howling outside through the pitch black night. He paused for a moment as he reached the basement below. Two doors on his left, two on his right. Two empty, two not. He decided upon the fat one. More skin should make his task easier. He unlocked the rusty door and struggled to push it open. Sobbing began before he could light the cell’s candles.

  The fat man’s eyes rushed from side to side in a frantic attempt to see who had entered the room. The only thing he could see was the crucifix on the moldy wall opposite him. He had lost sense of time. It had been two or three days since he was captured; he remembered being gagged and blindfolded, he remembered his clothes being ripped off his body and being watered down by a high pressure hose. Then, everything went blank. He awoke tied face down on a freezing cold, steel table. His whole body was aching, but the thirst was worse. Through his raggedy gag, he begged for water, he begged for mercy; the shadowy figure did not react, did not ever enter his vision. The room reeked from his bodily releases. He felt ashamed lying there in his own dirt, exposed, scared.

  This time the shadowy figure came close.

  Yes, death excited him, but he would not kill the fat guy tonight. No, he had work to do first. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow he would burn. He walked over to the small cabinet in the corner, opened it and took out a bottle with some sort of see-through liquid. He emptied the fluid all over the fat man’s back. An action that made him squeal like the pig he was.

  ‘Stay still, pig! The more you move, the more this is going to hurt!’ he whispered into piggy’s left ear.

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out his well-sharpened barber’s razor. With a smile that spread like wildfire from ear to ear, he lifted the bloody blade from its wooden home. He looked down upon his human canvas and stroked it with the sharp tip of his blade. In the darkest corners of his mind, he pictured the design and pushed the blade into the skin. He cut an inch deep and started to draw. He had to be careful. Not too deep. His Piggy had to be alive for tomorrow.

  Chapter 8

  I hoped my air freshener and the air blowing in through my car’s opened windows would kill the smell of my kebab before I reached the poor excuse of a police station. Sergeant Galanos was standing outside, waiting for me. His dark brown hair glued down, his shirt’s top button sealed, his clothes ironed to perfection, his black boots reflecting the afternoon sun.

  ‘Sir,’ he nodded and sat in the passenger’s seat. Not one for words, this one.

  ‘Good day, Jason. I guess you know the way or shall I plug in my GPS?’

  ‘Keep going straight. At the T-junction, turn right, then first right all the way up and from then on, Maurovouni mountain will always be in sight.’

  He spoke more mechanically than my GPS girlfriend.

  ‘First murder case?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted and went silent, lost in his thoughts. I filled in the silence and chatted away about my first case and a bunch of clichés of how you get used to it.

  The monastery was truly a marvel of Byzantine architecture. It occupied the entire mountain’s peak and its outer stone-brick walls continued down the mountain’s steep sides and became one with the lone pinnacle. Similar to a Venetian castle of the Dark Ages, there was just the one entrance, sealed off by a gargantuan, tongue-shaped, wooden gate. In full contrast, an electronic door bell with a moving camera were built in, next to the gate. I parked to the side, amongst vexatious weeds and wild roses. I stepped out of my Audi and gazed towards the horizon. Greece made it so easy to fall in love with the ocean. That is when I realized that I had stepped on a colony of ants, probably killing half the population with my heavy, black army boots. I also noticed that Jason was standing by the bell waiting for me to give him the OK to ring it.

  ‘Let’s see who’s home,’ I raised my eyebrows and said.

  The bell echoed in the silent, open space.

  ‘Hello?’ a scratchy, unfriendly voice came through the speaker.

  ‘Hellenic Police, open up.’ Jason’s manly voice grew even deeper.

  ‘Do you have any women with you?’

  ‘No, we are two male officers...’ I said and was cut off by the automatic opening of the gate. The inner courtyard was vast and filled with fruit trees and multiple vegetable patches. From behind the trees, rose the majestic stone-built church, dedicated to Saint Nicholas. It had two bell towers, one on each side, and in the middle a huge dome outgrew them and was home to a large, marble Tesseract crucifix. Oval, stained glass windows circulated the well-pres
erved building and through the open door, the golden iconostasis was visible. On both sides of the church, a row of ageing arcs led to the monks’ cells.

  ‘Stay here.’ The order came from the hooded monk that appeared out of nowhere. ‘The ygoumeno will be with you shortly,’ he continued, avoiding eye contact, and walked away through the labyrinth of tomatoes and lettuces. I strolled around, satisfying my curiosity while Galano stood statue still. He coughed, as he saw the monastery’s abbot approaching, to attain my attention. I was busy fiddling with the mud which filled the gaps between the stones that formed the wall. I was amazed that grass and mud could keep the large rocks together.

  The abbot was a medium height man in his seventies, with crow’s feet around his eyes and a deep scar on his left cheek that journeyed all the way up and became one with his forehead wrinkles. He was underweight, same as most monks, due to strict fasting and lack of meat. His head had long since said its goodbyes to most of its hair and the silver lines originating from the side and stretched to cover the top were fooling no one.

  ‘Welcome to our monastery, gentlemen,’ he spoke in a whispery manner that forced you to stretch your ears and wish you could turn up the volume on the old man. His hands were steadily interlocked with each other, mostly covered by his two sizes bigger, brown monk overalls, and he bowed slightly as he welcomed us. ‘To what do we owe this visit?’

  ‘I am Captain Papacosta and this is Sergeant Galanos. We are investigating a murder case. The murder of this man, Alex Panayiotou,’ I said and flashed the photograph of the youth beneath the abbot’s thin almond eyes. He moved no facial muscle, but the pupils of his eyes moved around his green irises, similar to annoying flies hovering above your Sunday roast.

  ‘I am abbot Serafim,’ he, in turn, introduced himself with a cold smile. ‘No, I have not seen this man before. Was he a pilgrim here? I do not meet them all and even if I did, at my age, my memory is not what it was.’

  ‘No, not a pilgrim. I believe he came here to be a monk.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Three months ago...’

  ‘Impossible. We haven’t had a new monk in our order for over two years now.’

  ‘Is there anyone else I could ask? As you said, your memory is not all what it used to be.’

  His eyebrows came down a few degrees and his smile turned into a line.

  ‘You believe I am lying to you, Captain?’

  ‘Lying is such a harsh word. I know how these orders work. You are a brotherhood and brothers protect each other. You take in many with questionable pasts. I think that if Alex showed up here, trying to get away from his drug addiction, you would have taken him in.’

  ‘Yes, I would. However, he never came here, did he?’

  ‘Maybe not. Can I ask for your cooperation with a list of the monks and their names? Their real names.’ Monks left behind their birth name and entered the monastery, reborn, with a new Christian name. No surnames were used.

  ‘Sorry, but no. We are not a part of your world, Captain, and we cherish our privacy. I have answered your questions and now I must be going. God’s work awaits. Brother Rafael will escort you out,’ he said and pointed to the monk standing behind the motionless Sergeant. Then, he turned and slowly strolled off through the lemon and orange trees.

  ‘I could easily come back with a court order,’ I shouted with slight anger mixed with several parts of annoyance.

  ‘Raise your words, Captain. Not your voice. It is rain that grows the flowers, not the thunder,’ he spoke up, but did not turn to face me. He continued his stroll, until he vanished into the citrus forest. I counted to ten, breathing through my nose, exhaling from the mouth. While my body temperature lowered down to normal, Brother Rafael had opened the gate and Galanos was already sitting in the car. I was sure this was the place. No way did Alex go to the other monasteries; though I did send cops to ask there, cops who later reported that no-one had recognized the man in question.

  I marched past the monk and a murmur was heard. I had to quickly turn off every single one of my inner voices and focus to put the murmur into a sentence. The gate closed behind me. I stood there puzzled. What did the monk mean?

  ‘Not all can be grown here,’ Rafael had said.

  With the blessings of the silence provided by Jason -I speak when spoken to- Galanos, the sentence kept on playing on repeat in my mind’s jukebox.

  Not all can be grown here. Not ALL can be grown here. First, the monk spoke to me. Proof that something was going on there. Proof that Alex Panayiotou had been there. The monk was there during the whole conversation with the abbot. Second, they grew all kinds of fruit and vegetables. He could, also, be referring to their livestock. But, they ate fish and rice... they needed medication... hmm... electricity, phones...

  ‘Jason?’

  ‘Yes, Captain?’

  ‘Do monks ever come down to the village and buy groceries and stuff?’

  ‘No, sir. They never leave their monastery.’

  ‘How do you think they attain fish, rice and various stuff they may need?’

  ‘Oh, the supermarket’s owner’s son is an altar boy. He brings them everything they need. But they do live with as little as possible. It is a brave choice to lock yourself away from the world.’

  ‘Brave?’

  ‘Well, yeah. They give up so much and pray for the rest of the world. Don’t you agree, Captain?’

  ‘I don’t know, Jason. I prefer the Mother Teresa types. That live in the world and help out till they die. But hey, who am I to judge?’

  He did not reply. He seemed to be processing my opinion, but made no remark.

  ‘Show me the way to the supermarket.’

  ‘It will be closed now. It’s half past six; it closes at six.’

  ‘Where does the family live? Don’t they live in the village?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s get going to their house then.’

  We drove in silence, with the windows down. The cool, autumn breeze swirling around in the car. The air so much purer than back in foggy-land Athens. An orchestra of crickets, mosquitos and birds replaced the radio.

  We entered Kaki Vigla village through the one artery that connected the double digit population with the rest of the island. As with all villages in Greece, the only place with any sort of movement was the local coffee shop, known as the kafeneio. Every kafeneio around Greece was the same. Housed in an outdated building, begging for a splash of paint, traditionally decorated, filled with wooden chairs and as you entered, you lowered the average age to 70. Galanos drove by slowly, scanning the senior men that stopped playing cards and tavli and turned to see the foreigners.

  ‘The supermarket owner is not here,’ he said and drove off to a small house at the end of the road. I smiled at the thought that he knew everybody on the island. Small communities would never work for me.

  The last light of the day playfully bounced upon the house’s front garden. Fully-blossomed, red and white roses were a treat to the eyes, while the Greek variety of the jasmine plant was a treat to the nose.

  No beware of the dog sign.

  I opened the freshly painted gate and walked up to the front door. All windows were shut. No response to the ringing of the bell. I cautiously walked around the house. The sound of the old lady from next door made me jump out of my skin. And I have thick skin.

  She had crept behind me and shrilled ‘Who are you? This is not your house. Go! Get away! I’m calling the police!’ she threatened and waved her walking stick at me.

  ‘I am the police, calm down and...’

  ‘Mrs Ioannou?’

  She turned to face Sergeant Galanos, calling her by her name.

  ‘Jason? Little Jason. My Holy Mary, you have grown up well boy. How is your lovely mother?’

  I stood aside, waiting patiently for the mindless chit-chat about various relatives to come to a halt. I had crossed my arms above my beer belly and opened my eyes wide, trying to catch the Sergeant’s attention. T
he old lady continued with her interrogation about aunts and neighbors and sighed out loud every time Jason informed her that someone had passed away.

  ‘May God bless their souls,’ she said once again and finally Galanos caught a glimpse of me. Embarrassed for leaving me waiting and for forgetting his mission, he turned a nice shade of red.

  ‘Mrs Ioannou. Where is the Leontiou family?’

  ‘They are away tonight. Had a christening on the mainland. Don’t know if they are staying for the night, but he did say that the shop will be open first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Do you know where the christening is?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ she snapped; her sweet tone used with Jason faded away. ‘Just because I’m old, doesn’t mean I know all the village’s gossip!’

  I threw my head back and laughed. ‘Of course not. Good night, Mrs Ioannou,’ I said and walked off to the car.

  ‘Good night to you. I’m not off to bed! Celebrity Games Night is on!’

  She kissed Jason tenderly on his cheek and sent her regards to all his living relatives. At least I had a chance to see Jason smile.

  ‘May God be with you,’ she wished him and closed her net door behind her. Mindless commercials were still on. She had time to warm her herbal tea before the show began. She felt so relaxed, now her kids had all married and her husband was a permanent citizen of the graveyard, two fields down. Nowdays, she served her own wants.

  We would have to wait until morning. Wait. One of my least favorite words in the English language. Now, I was the silent one.

  ‘She is a good old lady, Mrs Ioannou. She was my kindergarten teacher, my mother’s too!’

  I nodded and assumed a facial expression of ‘really?’

  ‘I know many people can’t wait to leave their villages and their islands to live on the mainland, in one of the big cities, but I love that I lived my whole life here. I know everyone and everyone knows me. People here are closer to their roots, their land, their church, their traditions. And it is so close to Athens, that I even stayed at home, while enrolled in the Academy.’