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

by Luke Christodoulou

  She paid the grumbling driver and took out her camera.

  ‘The most dramatic beach in Greece,’ she read from a sign. ‘I have had enough drama, thank you,’ she joked and photographed the wooden sign.

  A well tanned boy approached.

  ‘Bed and umbrella, five Euros.’

  ‘Great. Here you go,’ she said, passing him the note. She laid her soft towel down and fell onto the blue, plastic beach bed.

  ‘Heaven,’ she whispered.

  She drifted away to the sound of the waves; waves gently crashing against the coastline. She emptied her mind from her worries, filled up her inner energy batteries and got up to cover herself with lotion. She gave her skin ten minutes to soak up part of the lotion and strolled towards the sea.

  The crystal clear waters welcomed her. The cool water lured her in. She swam amongst tourists of all ages and nationalities. She enjoyed people watching, playing her own little game show, guessing their age, occupation and country of origin.

  She swam carefree towards the shore. She stood up, recovered her balance on the ocean’s sandy floor before exiting and walking clumsily over the sun-caressed, hot pebbles. She bought an ice cold lemonade from an old man wearing a heavy, thick mustache and a T-shirt with the logo “sexy juices for sexy ladies”.

  The midday sun roamed the clear sky, burning everything below it. Ioli opened her beach umbrella and hid in the shade that covered her entire bed. She finished off her lemonade, regretted not bringing a book and sank into the soft, smooth sunbed.

  Hectic screaming made her jump.

  She sat up, looking around. People were staring towards a brunette lady leaned over a young boy. Ioli saw the red blood glisten under the Mediterranean sun. She ran over to help the distraught woman. And just like everyone else, she stopped in shock.

  Two round holes, one on each hand, pierced through the boy’s skin. Same with his feet. A scent of flowers filled the air.

  ‘Stigmata!’ an old gypsy lady, selling handmade jewelry out of a scratched wooden box, declared with a shout.

  Chapter 40

  CASE No.4: The Pale, Ashen Horse – Death.

  Sophia stood in front of her bathroom’s large, oval mirror. She looked ten years older than she really was. Thirty six and too many worry lines. Her eyes reflecting the dying glow in her soul. She hated feeling tired and drained of energy all the time. Between her two jobs, church and her 7 year old angel, time was scarce. A widow at thirty two, she struggled to maintain her household, raise her child and keep her faith in a God who deemed part of his mysterious plan to have the love of her life, Father Kypriano, die of pancreatic cancer. A tragic loss of a much loved priest.

  Her small community offered to help out financially, but she would hear no word of it. She worked the morning shift at Mister Kyro’s bakery and spent her evenings sewing and altering clothes. She’d always had a love for clothes. Not that it mattered anymore. Only black covered her body. She would mourn her husband until the day she died.

  Exhausted, at night she always made time for her little Antony. They played, talked, ate and then her favorite moment of the day came. She read from the Bible to her tucked-in boy. And not just the well-known stories and the moral teaching fables, Sophia read the entire book to him.

  Sophia took great pride in noticing how well behaved her son was. Good-hearted, kind, caring and wise beyond his years. She often joked that he was her ‘little saint’.

  Lately, she worried about him.

  Lately, he would carry around his father’s small, wooden crucifix and his Bible never left his school bag.

  Lately, a shadow followed him around. He looked distant, lost in thought.

  She decided to take him to the beach. Let him live, wild and free, like boys his age should. After all, it was summer and he should be having fun. An hour later, he fell bleeding in her shaking arms.

  ‘Stigmata,’ a filthy looking woman screamed.

  Yes, God did work in mysterious ways.

  Chapter 41

  Ioli got over her initial shock quicker than most bystanders. She fell to her knees, next to the boy who was desperately gasping for air. His constant screams as a result of the intense, piercing pain prevented the air from traveling to his lungs. He turned red and went into shock.

  Then, all of a sudden, his body relaxed. He stretched out his arm and grabbed Ioli’s hand. He stared straight into her eyes. The sand swirled around them, pushed off the pebbles by the light breeze.

  ‘Save me,’ he whispered. ‘Only you can save me,’ he continued with his voice trembling.

  ‘Try to relax. Breath slowly,’ she advised as she examined his wounds. You could see right through his hands. His feet decorated with round, bloody scars.

  ‘Everybody back, please,’ a brawny paramedic loudly called out. The crowd moved as one. Everyone stepped back together, giving space to the professionals. Ioli stood up, gently placing her hand on the mother’s shoulder. The woman had not stopped wailing since her cry for help.

  Soon, Ioli stood alone, watching the howling vehicle carrying the sobbing mother and her poor offspring to the hospital. The crowd had gone back to enjoying the beach, richer with a tale that would be retold by them countless times, each time becoming more exaggerated.

  Ioli did not feel like relaxing.

  The boy’s violet eyes, a la Elizabeth Taylor, lingered in her mind.

  She walked all the way up to the village. She paused and enjoyed the magnificent view one last time, before running over to the first cab and ordering the drive to step on it.

  The sight of her hotel offered no comfort to her racing heart. She felt strange being so upset. She rushed to her room, undressed in a hurry, took a quick shower and got dressed.

  In a matter of minutes, she was once again in the back of a taxi.

  ‘Hospital, please.’

  Argostoli’s hospital encompassed a group of modern buildings built around the old premises. Some tasteless architect had the idea of painting every other wall red. Ioli rushed between two yellow old ambulances and in through the main glassed door.

  The emergency room was vacant. A quiet hospital in a quiet town. Its regular customers -old folk with multiple pill prescriptions- entered from the side entrance that led to the pharmacy and appointment desk.

  Ioli paced up to the reception. A nurse sat there, busy chatting on the phone to a girlfriend with boss-related problems. She was stunningly beautiful with her curly hair, a rich shade of mahogany, her full cherry lips beneath her high cheekbones and her eyes a dark emerald green.

  ‘One minute, Toula,’ she told her friend to wait. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A boy was brought in half an hour ago with wounds on his hands and legs...’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘His aunt,’ she lied.

  ‘Room 212. The doctors are with him. You can wait outside with your sister. She is in a real state.’ She smiled politely.

  Ioli stormed off and the nurse went back to hearing how Toula had once again been overlooked for promotion.

  Ioli pushed the call button and tapped her right foot as she waited for the flickering light to confirm the elevator’s movement from the 5th floor on its journey down to her. The elevator doors finally opened, unleashing an unpleasant smell of cheap bleach. One of the few smells Ioli could not stand.

  Ioli opted for the stairs, cursing about the seconds lost. The wooden door creaked as she pushed it aside and sprinted up the stairs. She exited onto the second floor corridor, in front of door 202. She looked down the corridor. The brunette from the beach was pacing outside the door; behind which doctors cared for her son.

  Ioli hesitated for a minute, took a deep breath and walked over.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs?’

  Red shot eyes turned to see her.

  ‘I am Ioli Cara. I am with the Hellenic Police...’

  The woman took a step back. ‘The police? Why are you here?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not here as a police officer. I was at the
beach when the...’ She searched for the right word. ‘When the incident happened. I just wanted to make sure your son was OK.’

  The woman’s facial muscles relaxed.

  ‘That’s nice of you. No one is telling me anything. I’m his mother, I should be in there with him. He must be so scared right now.’ She covered her mouth, sat back down in one of the cold, rusty chairs and cried.

  Ioli sat beside her, her hand gently comforting the woman.

  ‘I’m sure they will be out any moment now with good news.’

  The woman extended her hand and laid it above Ioli’s. Through her running tears, she forced a sincere smile.

  ‘Is there anyone I could call, Mrs...?’

  ‘Call me Sophia. No, don’t call anyone.’

  ‘Your husband? Mother? It helps to have...’

  ‘Both dead,’ Sophia bluntly replied. ‘But, you're here,’ she continued. ‘God always sends the right person.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Ioli started to say and paused, having noticed a lanky doctor towering them.

  ‘Mrs Antoniou, I am doctor Papadopoulos.’ He read her expression, an expression witnessed in every mother’s face. She was ready to interrupt him. He rushed and added ‘your boy is fine.’

  ‘Oh, praise the Lord, He is OK.’ She squeezed Ioli’s hand. ‘Can I see him now?’

  ‘He is resting. The ordeal has worn him down. The poor little lad is exhausted. Give him some time. We have cleaned and closed his wounds. May I ask how did he get them?’ the doctor asked rather casually. He always tried to sound indifferent. Parents did not take kindly to being accused of hurting or neglecting their children.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Sophia answered softly.

  The blinds of the indoor window in room 212 were lifted by a tired looking nurse. Sophia rushed to look through the window. Her Antony looked peaceful. His hands and legs were wrapped in white bandage. She touched the glass window and looked at the floor.

  It was in that position that Father Kyriako found her, followed by four reporters, an elderly man wearing a crying-for-an-iron security uniform and the beautiful nurse from the reception.

  ‘You cannot be here. I am calling the police,’ the stunning girl shouted.

  ‘Out now,’ the security man said with no power in his voice.

  Sophia turned her head slightly towards the direction of the commotion. She took out a black headscarf and covered herself. She turned towards the priest.

  ‘Father...’ The only word she managed to say before breaking down in tears. The young priest brought her tenderly to his shoulder.

  ‘There, there. Relax.’

  The reporters clicked away. Flashes of light bounce around the narrow corridor. Questions followed.

  ‘Is it stigmata?’ one of them finally asked.

  ‘Hey! Give the woman some privacy. You heard the security guard. Get out,’ Ioli stood up and walked towards the reporters who took an unsure step back.

  The security guard smiled at her, but his smile quickly faded as he witnessed the disapproving look of the doctor.

  ‘He just hurt himself playing down at the beach. That’s all. Please go, my boy is sleeping and...’ Sophia seemed to lose her balance. She wobbled from side to side and fell into the priest’s arms. Blood appeared to be running down her covered forehead. Rivers of blood snaked down her porcelain skin. Father Kyriako pulled off her scarf. Deep scars graced her forehead. More shocking, they formed a pattern. Two lines of dotted scars.

  Two nurses rushed to her while the doctor wheeled a bed towards them. Two of the reporters froze, while the others kept on taking photographs. The police, called in by the girl at the reception, arrived to escort the reporters off the premises while the hospital personnel took Sophia away. Ioli was left with Father Kyriako whose hands were shaking. He sat down and prayed. Ioli waited patiently.

  ‘You’re a friend of Sophias?’ he finally asked her.

  ‘I was at the beach. Thought I could offer my help.’

  He smiled warmly at her.

  ‘Father, if you don’t mind me asking. I have heard of stigmata before, mostly in horror movies...’

  He waved his hand. ‘Junk words by junk reporters.’

  ‘You can say that after what just happened? The boy has marks from the crucifixion and now his mother bleeds from her head... where Jesus wore his thorny crown. I might not be a regular church-goer, but all this,’ she waved her hands around ‘is not normal.’

  ‘The church does not officially recognize stigmata...’

  ‘Just saying the word officially like that, makes me believe that unofficially it does.’

  ‘There have been quite a few cases over the years. Some explained, some not. But, the bottom line is, the press is going to have a field day and I will not allow that to happen to poor Sophia and Antony. They have been through enough.’

  Chapter 42

  Athens

  The following morning, I awoke next to Tracy’s warm body. My right leg tangled between hers, my arm wrapped around her. The bed sheet kicked to the floor by two naked lovers; every cell of our body, enjoying the cool, chilling air provided by the air conditioning unit. The sun’s first rays were sneaking in through behind my thin peach curtain and were dancing around the room. I stared at the mean old clock standing guard on my bedside table. Many fights were fought between me and my morning arch enemy. My nemesis always won.

  With great satisfaction, I realized that I had awoken two whole minutes before its menacing eruption. I slowly pulled away from Tracy. She grunted gently and rolled to her side of the bed. I stood up naked and hit the turn-off button on my alarm. I stretched, I scratched and I peed. Every man’s first ritual of the day.

  I tiptoed to the kitchen to prepare a surprise morning coffee for my wife. I smiled reminiscing the previous night. The years apart had made us stronger. We talked like best friends, romanced as newlyweds and screwed like teenagers in a world with no tomorrow. Maybe the late forties were the new late twenties or some bull like that.

  ‘Baby? Baby, wake up. It’s seven.’

  ‘Five more minutes,’ she managed to say. It was always five more minutes with Tracy.

  ‘I’ve got coffee!’ Now, that caught her attention. She struggled to rise and sit up straight. Her hand asked for its mug. Soon, the hot drink ran down our throats and the caffeine flew to our brains.

  ‘Another hot day. I should be off. Got seven families to visit today and Ioli hasn’t called me back yet. I hope she arrived well last night. Are you going to take the metro to work or do you want me to...’

  More awake due to coffee, she placed a full-lip kiss on my talking mouth.

  ‘Mmm, yep, that shut you up. It’s too early to talk,’ she said and giggled. ‘I’ll take the metro,’ she added after another couple of sips. ‘You look all shiny and new. Had a good night’s sleep?’

  ‘I wake up like this because of you. You are my life’s detergent.’

  She managed a sleepy laughter that ended in a yawn. ‘You do come up with the weirdest crap when you’re trying to be romantic.’

  ‘At least, I try.’

  ‘And succeed,’ she replied and placed another kiss on my lips.

  ‘Are you happy here, baby?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course, I have you.’

  ‘And you don’t miss anything from back home?’

  ‘I miss my therapist.’

  Now, it was my turn to laugh.

  ‘Don’t laugh. I’m serious. Susan helped me a great deal with... through it all.’ Tracy avoided mentioning Gaby. ‘And we became great friends, she was a joy to open up to.’

  ‘Why don’t you pay Ariadne a visit?’

  ‘You think that would be wise?’

  ‘Why not? It’s not like she is allowed to talk about me.’

  ‘Yes, because that is all I talk about!’ she said, then got up and ran to the bathroom.

  The sound of running water echoed through the room. Steam escaped from below the door. I never und
erstood how this woman could have a hot, steamy shower in one of the hottest countries in the world. In the summer, too. I shower with cold water, all year round. And with that last thought, I got dressed, shouted a goodbye and was on my way.

  The concrete jungle of Athens sizzled under the huge fireball in the sky. And it was still morning. At least, my car’s steering wheel was cool enough to be handled. I took out my notebook and read the names of the seven victims and their next of kin, and set off for a long day.

  The first of many red lights brought me to a halt. I dialled Ioli’s number; still no answer. That is when I noticed the tiny envelope flashing in the top right corner of the screen.

  ‘Costa, I won’t be catching my flight out. Long story. I am fine. I will fly out as soon as I’ve handled a situation that came up here. Sorry, for leaving you alone on such a day. I’ll call when I can and explain,’ I read and was both puzzled and intrigued. What was this girl up to, now?

  Absent minded, I turned left onto a one way street, from the exit end. A white delivery van screeched before me. I slammed on the brakes. The two tire-burning vehicles stopped inches from each other.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I shouted to the angry driver. ‘My bad,’ I continued and reversed. He honked as he drove slowly past me and flipped me the finger.

  The case file had fallen from the chair. Photographs from the scenes had scattered around. I parked to the side and picked them up. Agatha, Rita, Idalia, Anastasia, Demetris, Nikolas and Eftychia all stared at me. All with a story to be told.

  Demetris lived with his younger sister, Louiza, in a two bedroom apartment in the prestigious area of Kolonaki, in the heart of Athens. I had decided to start interviewing those closest to me and work my way to the outskirts of Athens.

  I drove around the park opposite the modern, grey painted apartment block. Kids were busy being kids. A football was being kicked around, swings were swinging and slides welcomed bottoms with laughing heads. If only I was still a father...