The Feast of Artemis (Mysteries of/Greek Detective 7)

by Anne Zouroudi

  ‘I don’t mean your relatives. And it’s about your father I’m here.’

  Sakis became still.

  ‘My father’s dead.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. It’s about his death I’m here. Please, stop what you’re doing and come down. All I ask is a few minutes of your time. It is important, truly.’

  Sakis ran the back of a glove over his eyes as though he might be wiping away tears, and briefly went back to his dismantling; but then he flung what he had just extracted back on to the untidy mass, and descended an old ladder wedged under the guttering. Resentfully, he stood before the fat man, pulling off his gauntlets and his dirty hat.

  ‘You’re a customer, so I don’t want to be rude,’ he said, ‘but since you know I’m in mourning, I respectfully ask you to leave me in peace.’

  The fat man seemed apologetic.

  ‘If I could, I would,’ he said. ‘But regretfully, matters are such that it isn’t possible to let them lie.’

  ‘Matters, what matters? What are you talking about?’

  From behind his back, the fat man produced a bottle of brandy.

  ‘I brought this to toast your father, if you will allow it. What I have to say will go down better with a drink. Do you have glasses?’

  Sakis was reluctant.

  ‘Sit,’ he said, at last, and gestured to a table and chairs left out from the summer. He went inside, and quickly returned with two tumblers, which he placed without good grace in the middle of the table. ‘I’d be a poor son who’d refuse to drink to his father’s memory.’

  The label on the bottle was handwritten, copperplate in Indian ink.

  The fat man poured out generous measures of brandy.

  ‘From my father’s own barrels,’ he said. ‘I thought it a fitting tribute to your own father.’ He held up his glass. ‘May his memory be eternal.’

  They drank, Sakis downing the spirit in a single draft.

  ‘No offence,’ he said, slamming his glass on to the table, ‘but why have you made such effort to pay tribute to my father?’

  The fat man took a second sip of his drink.

  ‘Two reasons. Firstly, I hold all fathers in esteem if they manage even the basic essentials of bringing up children, that is providing food, clothing, a level of education and instilling a measure of respect for others. The job is difficult, and even a modicum of success deserves credit. Secondly, I think your father was a man of vision. He had an idea that this business – this small farm – could be transformed into something which might thrive in this difficult modern world. I think his vision – his dream, if you like – was to benefit both his own family, and to fly the flag for Greece. He saw your well-being and prosperity as benefitting the nation as a whole. So it is most unfortunate that his desire to do well by you was what overwhelmed him, in the end.’

  ‘Overwhelmed him? In what way was he overwhelmed?’

  The fat man poured more brandy – a little for himself, more for Sakis.

  ‘I remember what your father told me about his aims for this business – to provide wholesome oil for Greek families, and stem the tide of imports from Italy and Spain. A heritage oil, an oil for the Hellenes, as he put it. And yet at the wholesalers in Neochori, what do I find? That the whole of your last year’s production went for export! And not just your own oil – a considerable amount in itself – but over and above that amount, an amount bought in to fulfil a contract.’ Sakis was silent, and drank more brandy. ‘That made no sense to me. So perhaps you could explain it to me now. Why did he – why did you – abandon those principles?’

  Sakis shrugged.

  ‘What can I say?’ he asked. ‘We were offered an excellent price. Money is money.’

  ‘Really? That’s not what your father said to me. What he said was, some things money can’t buy.’

  ‘My father was an old man, and stubborn in his ideals. Blame me. I talked him into it.’

  The fat man shook his head.

  ‘Do you know, Sakis, I don’t believe that. I don’t think you ever talked your father into anything he didn’t want to be talked into. Not even getting rid of that old stork’s nest. You were a dutiful son in that regard. You respected him and his decisions, or made a pretence of doing so, at least. In some instances, maybe against your better judgement.’

  ‘You’ll forgive me,’ said Sakis, preparing to rise, ‘and I thank you on behalf of my family for paying your respects. But I think it’s time you left.’

  The fat man bowed his head.

  ‘I understand. But before I go, I think I should explain what is likely to happen next, in case you decide it would be better avoided.’

  Sakis scowled.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you take no action now, before long the police will come, and they’ll bring an exhumation order. It would be both distressing and unpleasant, but it will become necessary for a pathologist to take a closer look at your father’s corpse.’

  ‘What!’ In a rage, Sakis stood. ‘What the hell are you talking about? Mama!’

  ‘Don’t call her yet,’ warned the fat man. ‘Let’s you and I talk first. It isn’t what you want to hear, Sakis, but I’m afraid there’s every likelihood your father was poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned? Poisoned with what?’

  ‘That would be for the pathologist to confirm, though I have a good idea what he would find.’

  ‘Papa, poisoned?’ Sakis seemed bewildered, and sank back into his chair. ‘But how?’

  ‘Most obviously, through something he ate. Do you have any idea why someone would deliberately poison him, Sakis?’

  Anger rose in Sakis again, spreading a carmine glow over his neck and face.

  ‘Those bastards!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Those malicious, murdering bastards! I’ll kill every last one of them! I’ll wring all their necks with my own bare hands!’

  The fat man was watching him.

  ‘You assume a deliberate act,’ he said, ‘but not all poisoning is deliberate. You have some failing trees in your orchard. Have you noticed them?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ve tried everything to revive them, but so far, nothing’s worked. Papa thought there must be some parasite in the roots. Mama thinks it’s the evil eye, curses from – wherever curses come from.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the cause is more down to earth than curses. Someone has been poisoning your trees with copper nails. Plainly, that can be nothing but intentional, and your assumption of malice on someone’s part must be correct. I take it you’d assume the Kapsis’s are the guilty parties, but why would you assume that?’

  ‘They resent our success,’ said Sakis, bitterly. ‘As for Papa, of course it’s all about Dmitris Kapsis. They’ll never believe it was an accident, and now it sounds like they picked on my father for pay-back. But I’ll teach them all about pay-back! Let the police come! I’ll be happy to see them.’

  His eyes flickered over the brandy bottle. Hesitating for a moment, the fat man poured him more.

  ‘I think you’re right, to a degree,’ he said. ‘This is about revenge, and punishment. But I don’t think the Kapsis’s are guilty. Not directly. And I suspect the punishment wasn’t for any recent offence, not within weeks, or even months. My suspicion is that this is connected to the food-poisoning outbreak in Dendra. The outbreak when your oil caused four deaths.’

  Sakis’s expression was of astonishment.

  ‘Our oil? Papayiannis oil? Are you mad? Papayiannis oil is a pure and natural vegetable product, containing nothing but olives straight from the tree. The infection which caused that outbreak was of animal origin. That much was proven.’

  ‘I understand that, and I don’t say the oil itself was the outbreak’s origin. I should be more accurate, and say that whatever was introduced into the oil made it deadly. Your oil became the medium which carried the lethal bacteria. It wasn’t discovered at the time, because as you say, the bacteria were of animal origin. How could such bacteria be in your oil? B
ut of course the answer to that is simple. Someone put it there. And so now I suspect we come to another act of malice. Do you want to tell me how it was?’

  Sakis took a drink, and remained silent. Unhurriedly, the fat man took his cigarettes from his pocket, and offered them to Sakis. When he declined, the fat man found his gold lighter, and lighting one for himself, drew in smoke, and exhaled.

  ‘I want you to appreciate that I’m giving you a choice,’ he said. ‘If you give me answers to my questions, it may be that I can go away, and no one need ever know that we have spoken. But without answers from you, I shall seek them elsewhere, beginning – and I’m sorry to be brutal – on a mortuary slab. As I’ve said to you, the police will come, and the crisis you have recently been through with your father’s death will be superseded by one far more devastating. The press will return to Dendra to report on your father’s exhumation. The coroner will report his findings, and the police will start looking for your father’s killer. And their search won’t take long, because I shall point them in the right direction. I’m afraid I have little faith in policemen. To be sure, there are exceptions, but generally I find them lacking in imagination and hidebound by rules, which tends to mean they miss the bigger picture, and consequently reach erroneous conclusions. They look for simple solutions which will bring them the verdicts they want in courts of law, whereas I am interested only in seeing justice done. So often, the two things are not the same. Anyway, if you like, I can save you the wait, and tell you who killed your father, how it was done, and why.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Sakis, ominously. ‘What business have you asking for exhumations? Whatever you think of them, that’s a police matter. What authority do you have?’

  ‘I act on behalf of the highest Authorities, who task me, as I have said, in seeing justice done. It is irrelevant to them how that justice is dispensed. Sometimes, the law courts and the prisons are appropriate. Often, however, they are not. And any exhumation would not be performed on my whim, but at the request of a medical professional. I have discussed the case with a senior doctor, and I’ve managed to persuade him – for the time being, at least, though I think somewhat against his better judgement – to hold off on filing the paperwork, on the grounds that we might get the desired result without any exhumation. The desired result being, of course, suitable justice for your father’s killer. Happily for you, the doctor is a humanist, and is prepared to give me a little time so your family might avoid further distress.’

  The fat man drew again on his cigarette, and flicked off a length of ash. The wind picked up a downy stork’s feather, and carried it to the eaves before releasing it to float capriciously back to the ground.

  ‘But if my father died by anything other than natural causes, how come the doctors didn’t know before now?’ asked Sakis.

  ‘Very simple,’ said the fat man. ‘Because the cause of his death was very unusual, and doctors, like everyone else, expect the normal. His symptoms mimicked heart failure, at least in part, and your father told them he suffered from that condition, having done his self-diagnosis. It is regrettable, but after his death, the doctors who had seen him at the hospital were happy to put that cause of death on his death certificate for very good reasons. Unfortunately, their conclusion was wrong.’

  ‘So now they’ll come and disturb him in his grave. It’ll kill Mama.’

  ‘If you choose that route, you may be right. You would have to spare her as much of the drama as you could. Are there relatives she might stay with?’

  ‘You don’t know my mother. She would never leave here, with my father not properly buried. What will happen after the autopsy?’

  ‘Cause of death would be proven, and your father’s killer would be arrested. There would be a trial, and the whole story would come out, regardless.’ The fat man’s cigarette was almost finished; he drew on it one last time, ground it out under his foot, and placed the butt on the table for later disposal. ‘The way I see it, you have a chance to spare your mother and the rest of your family significant distress. The truth about the outbreak will come out now, anyway. You must simply decide whether you want your father exhumed in the interim. But if you’ll co-operate with me, I have information which will be of interest to you. So tell me your side of the story, and I’ll tell you what I know. Do we have a trade? Or shall I go and find the doctor, and tell him to start on the necessary forms?’

  Sakis laid his head on the back of his chair and sighed deeply.

  ‘All my fault,’ he said. ‘All my fault. I never stood up to him. I was raised to respect him, both by tradition and by the strap, and I learned young not to argue, though I grew out of that, in the end.’ He wafted a hand towards the debris from the stork’s nest. ‘We argued over everything, and yet he always seemed to win. But he was my father, and I loved him.’ His eyes held tears. ‘I loved him, and I couldn’t have borne it, to see him disgraced and shamed, to see what it would have done to my mother. He was old, and I couldn’t see him brought low in his last years. But he’s gone now, and it’s right that I should take the consequences for what we did. I should have stood up to him at the right time, and I didn’t. And then it was too late. But it wasn’t our fault! We were pushed too far by those . . . Those . . .’

  He closed his eyes.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  Sakis sat back up to the table to pour himself more brandy, and the fat man made no move to stop him.

  ‘We’d had an excellent harvest,’ said Sakis. ‘The season had been good, with plenty of rain over the winter, and the trees cropped well. It was our second year with the machinery. The first had been difficult – we were learning, and there were teething troubles – but this time things had run beautifully, and we weren’t on the phone every day to the manufacturer asking advice, adjusting settings. Everything went smoothly, and we had a record yield, almost double what we’d expect from the old stoneground way. We were getting ready to ship to the wholesalers. We’d taken what oil we needed for ourselves, and distributed some around friends and family, sold a few bottles. My father had arranged with the wholesaler a verbal contract with a bottler in Kalamata, a company whose reputation my father admired. You were right about that. He was a patriot, and it was known round about that Papayiannis oil is labelled Greek and sold to Greeks. That had always been our way.

  ‘So a couple of days before shipping, I went to check on the vat. As soon as I took off the lid, I knew something wasn’t right. You work around oil for a long time, you develop a sensitive nose. Straight away, I smelled something was wrong, but I couldn’t work out what it was. It wasn’t the usual bad smell from poor quality oil. And I thought I could see something in there. I fished around, and something was in there, all right! A dead cockerel! And not just any dead cockerel, a well-rotted one – seemed to me it had to be pretty well rotted when it went in there. Now you tell me – how did a dead cockerel get itself into our vat, and close the lid behind itself?

  ‘Well, of course I knew the oil was ruined. I wanted to call the police there and then. But Papa wouldn’t have it. How could we? he said. Of course we knew who was guilty.’ He spat on the ground. ‘But how would we prove it? And how would the business stand the loss of our crop? We had no insurance – the premiums were expensive, and we’d ploughed all our money into the machinery. So Papa said we should just filter the oil again, and trust in its own properties to make it OK. The oil’s a natural antiseptic. He said if there were germs in there, the oil itself would kill them. And I let myself be persuaded.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘I look back now, and I think, why? In my heart I knew it was dangerous. We both did. I offered him a dish of the oil and some bread. I said, if you’ll eat this, we’ll sell it, and he just walked out on me. There’s a difference between knowing and not knowing, he said. No one would ever know. The oil would be diluted when it was blended at the bottlers. But it got worse. When we filtered the oil and cleaned the vat, we found a couple of handfuls of chicken dung thrown in
there for good measure. But he still persuaded me. He insisted if the oil was diluted with other oils, there’d be no risk. And I went along with it.’

  ‘When did you find out what the consequences had been?’

  ‘Not straight away. A couple of people were ill, and we thought nothing of it. Then there were a couple more, and those that were ill weren’t getting better. Of course, none of us suffered. We poured away what oil we’d got in the house. I bought new in a supermarket and replaced it, and if anyone noticed the rotten quality, they never said. Then someone in Dendra died, and all hell broke loose. There were officials everywhere. And Papa and I could see the pattern no one else could see – that what the households where people were ill had in common, was that they were all buyers of our oil. I said we should speak up, but Papa was desperate. He knew we’d go to jail, and he couldn’t face it. I could have faced it for myself, but not for him. I was so worried about him! We did at least get rid of the ruined oil. We gave the wholesaler some story about a foreign contract. He was surprised, but I think he assumed we were seeing ourselves as a fish that had grown too big for his pond. No doubt he wasn’t pleased. We’d worked with him for years, and now we were going up in the world, it looked as if we were cutting him out. We fetched the oil back here, and bought some in to cover our domestic needs – walk-in customers like yourself. How could we be an oil mill with no oil?’

  ‘You bought in Kapsis oil – did you know that?’

  Sakis gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘How ironic,’ he said. ‘They poisoned ours, and we bought theirs at a premium. I did wonder. It was a very close match to ours. Perhaps the wholesaler was more annoyed than I thought, and it was a bit of sweet revenge on his part. He knows if we’d known, Kapsis oil would have choked us.’

  ‘That’s what put me on the trail of this little mystery,’ said the fat man. ‘The day I bought a bottle from you, I bought a bottle from Kapsis’s, too. I did a blind tasting, and no one – not even I, and I do know my oils – could tell them apart. And I began to wonder, can I not tell them apart because actually, they are one and the same? Which, of course, they were. But you did more than that, didn’t you? You deflected any possibility of discovery by foisting suspicion on to someone else.’ Sakis was silent. ‘I mean Renzo, the ice-cream maker. That strikes me as very unkind.’