‘Wake up, brother,’ said the fat man. ‘I think this is where we part company for the time being. There are visitors downstairs.’
Dino’s voice was muffled by the blankets.
‘I don’t want visitors.’
‘These visitors are in uniform.’
Dino sat up, and leaned forward with his head in his hands.
‘I feel rough,’ he said. ‘What on earth do they put in that ouzo?’
‘It’s not what they put in it, it’s how much of it you drink,’ said the fat man. ‘Why are the police here?’
‘How should I know? You know my memory’s not good. Maybe it’s about the barrel. And the broken window.’
‘How are you for money?’
‘Cleaned out, as usual. Can you lend me something?’
‘I lent you something last time, and I’ve never had it back.’
‘Ah, come on, Hermes. You know I’m useless with money.’
The fat man found his wallet, took out several notes and laid them on the dressing-table. He looked again out of the window.
‘In your nimbler days, I’d have said go over the rooftops,’ he said, ‘but these days, I think you’d be better on the back stairs.’
‘Are there back stairs?’
‘I don’t know. If there aren’t, you’ll have to come up with something more creative.’
Dino swung his legs out of the bed, and standing in his underpants, stretched and yawned.
‘I’ll go and distract them for a few minutes,’ said the fat man. ‘But you’d better hurry, brother. They’ll soon be here.’
Dino held his arms open and they embraced, both clapping each other affectionately on the back.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ said Dino. ‘We had fun, didn’t we?’
The fat man smiled.
‘Always,’ he said, and left him.
The policemen were about to head upstairs, but the fat man blocked the staircase, and offered them an amiable smile.
‘Official business?’ he asked.
The officers didn’t answer, but stood back to allow the fat man out of their way. The fat man stayed where he was.
‘This is his brother,’ said Lefteris. ‘If there’d been any trouble, I’m sure he’d know.’
The fat man’s eyebrows lifted.
‘Trouble? What sort of trouble?’
‘Criminal damage,’ said one of the officers. ‘If you wouldn’t mind stepping out of the way?’
‘Ah,’ said the fat man. ‘But I’m afraid you’ve missed him. My brother has already checked out.’
Lefteris, though surprised, said nothing. The policemen looked disbelieving.
‘You said he was upstairs,’ the officer said to Lefteris.
‘He used the back stairs,’ said the fat man. ‘If you like, I can give him a message when I see him.’
‘Would you excuse us?’ said the officer.
The fat man bowed his head, and let them by. Lefteris had given them a key to Dino’s room.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Lefteris. ‘What else could I do? I’m afraid they’re going to arrest him.’
The fat man shook his head.
‘They won’t be doing that,’ he said. ‘As I said, Dino has already checked out.’
‘But there are no back stairs.’
‘Nonetheless, have no worries on his part,’ said the fat man. ‘Now, shall we finish our dinner?’
The policemen knocked only once on Dino’s door, and turned the handle. The door opened without the use of a key.
The money on the dressing-table and the clothes on the chair-back were gone. One of the officers crossed to the window, which was latched on the inside.
‘Back stairs,’ he said to his colleague. ‘You lead the way.’
It was growing late. The girl checked the address on the flier, and was bewildered. Stepping back into the street, she looked along it, then again at the upper levels of the buildings. In the upstairs windows of the souvlaki shop, the light of candles glowed.
Inside, the place smelled of frying and garlic. The music was a traditional song, turned down low. Behind the counter, lights blazed, but no one was there; there was no one at the tables but a middle-aged couple, one with a beer, one with a lemonade, sitting a respectable distance apart, though their forearms were stretched towards each other across the table top, their fingertips almost touching.
Dora withdrew her hands, and wiped them unnecessarily on her apron. Miltiadis sipped his beer.
‘Can I help you?’ asked Dora.
The girl was pretty, in a skirt which Dora thought a little short, and a T-shirt which read, Anarchy is the only option.
The girl smiled.
‘Am I in the right place for the vigil?’ she asked.
Dora looked at her.
‘I am in the right place?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Dora, as she got to her feet. ‘Please, come through here. The stairs are at the back of the kitchen. Mind yourself on that hot grill. Would you like a drink to take up with you?’
‘Thanks,’ said the girl. ‘An iced tea would be great.’
Dora grabbed a can from the fridge and put it in her hand.
‘On the house,’ she said. ‘Help yourself to a straw. Just go straight up the stairs. You’ll find my son up there.’
Xavier was sitting on the floor, changing the cassette in his player to one of Maria Farantouri’s songs of protest. The room was ablaze with candles. On the walls were militant posters, and letters from officials and politicians with Xavier’s comments scrawled across them. There was a scatter of correspondence and a pile of ironed laundry on his bed, and by his feet, the plate and wrapper from a gyros.
When he looked up at her, she smiled.
‘Yassou,’ she said. ‘I’m Arethusa. I’ve come to join your vigil.’
Downstairs, Miltiadis drained his beer.
‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I think we should go out. Shut up shop, and let’s go.’
‘I can’t do that!’ said Dora. ‘There might be customers.’
‘It’s a quiet night, and life is short. Close the shop, and come with me. There’s somewhere I want to go.’
As they walked through the streets, they kept a respectable distance between themselves. Miltiadis had his hands in his pockets. Dora wore her outdoor coat and a slick of lipstick, and had run a wet comb through her hair.
At the gelateria, Renzo had customers. A family of four crowded round a table, the children dipping spoons into confections of ice cream, whipped cream and syrup. They were silent in their pleasure; their parents watched them covetously, their own small dishes already empty.
Miltiadis approached the counter, and risking an uncertain smile, took his hands from his pockets and offered his right to Renzo.
‘How’s things?’ he asked.
Renzo took his hand, and squeezed it hard.
‘Kalos tous, kalos tous!’ he said, in his accented Greek. ‘Good, I’m good. How are you, my friend, how are you? Dora, how are you doing?’
‘We were just passing,’ said Miltiadis, ‘and Dora thought she might like some ice cream. So I said, why not?’
Dora’s face was impassive at the lie.
‘So,’ said Renzo, spreading his arms across the freezers, ‘what will it be? Dora?’
She considered the subtle rainbow of ice creams, from the creamy vanillas and lemons at one end, through the pinks of berries to the greens of pistachio and mint, the caramels and chocolates at the dark end of the spectrum.
‘Take your time,’ said Renzo. ‘Take your time.’
He settled her with a scoop of chocolate chip, and one of caramel swirl; Miltiadis chose a double scoop of strawberry. They sat, and ate, whilst Renzo hovered over them, wondering how it was.
‘Strawberry was always my favourite,’ said Miltiadis. ‘A real taste of summer, that is.’
‘I’ve been working on some new flavours,’ said Renzo. ‘Next time you come in, you must try those.’
H
e was suddenly silent, thinking he had presumed too much.
But Miltiadis nodded agreement.
‘There’s something I want to ask you,’ said Renzo, doubtfully. ‘This ice cream will never be what it was until I get back my best suppliers. Would you consider letting me have some eggs?’
Miltiadis filled his spoon with pink ice cream.
‘Same as usual?’ he asked. ‘I’ll bring you two dozen in tomorrow.’
Nineteen
During the night, rain replaced the almost gale-force wind, though the rain, too, had passed through, leaving the morning fresh, with the last clouds dissipating on a clear sky.
It mattered to no one what time she arrived at the newspaper’s office, but Esmerelda Dimas was on time, carrying an almost empty briefcase in one hand, a paper bag containing a doughnut in the other.
There was a package at the door: a cardboard box, wrapped in a carrier bag to protect it from the weather. She picked it up, and carried it inside.
At her desk, when she had brewed coffee, she opened the box, and found a tissue-wrapped bottle of wine from the Lachesis vineyard. She was puzzled, but grateful for the gift. But as she put the box aside, it rattled with something left inside. A matchbox.
Inside the matchbox was a single ripe olive, and a strip of paper with one typewritten line: By way of apology, there’s a story here if you look.
A truck loaded with barrels pulled into the Papayiannis yard. Two youths jumped out, rigged a plank ramp off the back, and began to roll the barrels on to the yard.
Amara ran out from the house. Her face was drawn from lack of sleep, her eyes swollen with crying.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘We haven’t ordered these.’
The youths stopped what they were doing, and faced her. She knew them both; they were Kapsis men. One was Dmitris Kapsis’s brother.
‘Marianna sent us,’ he said. ‘She calls it a peace offering. We took your olives, and put them through our mill. She didn’t want a neighbour’s crop to rot in the yard. We didn’t take any commission. It’s all here, filtered and ready for sale.’
They rolled another barrel off the truck. With tears in her eyes, Amara watched.
‘Thank you,’ she said, when they were ready to leave. ‘Tell Marianna I said thank you. Yiorgo, how’s your brother?’
‘He’s doing better,’ said the youth. ‘Someone’s put the money up to take him to Geneva. My mother’s going with him.’
‘Tell her I send my best wishes,’ said Amara. ‘And tell him all the Papayiannis family wish him well.’
At the gelateria, several of the tables were taken. Over the counter, the fat man offered Renzo his hand.
‘I couldn’t leave town without another taste of your ice cream,’ he said.
‘Are you leaving, then?’ asked Renzo. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘Business seems much better.’
‘It is, much better, yes. What’ll you have?’
The fat man considered the display.
‘I’ve introduced a couple of new flavours,’ said Renzo. ‘There’s cherry walnut, here. And a lemon parfait. I think it’s a big improvement on the regular lemon. I double whipped it, and used extra cream.’
‘You make it difficult to choose between them,’ said the fat man. He felt the waistband of his trousers, where he had a little room to breathe. ‘Happily, your tailor’s given me a few centimetres in my trousers. So – though I absolutely shouldn’t – I think I’ll have a scoop of both.’
Epilogue
Stavroula returned from the market laden with shopping. At the kitchen table, Lefteris was plucking down from a partridge’s breast. Stavroula laid the shopping on the floor, and hung her coat on a hook behind the door.
‘I was talking to Sofia at the bakery,’ she said.
A pale feather rose up, and caught in Lefteris’s moustache. Putting out his bottom lip, he puffed it away.
‘Manolis’s Sofia?’ he asked.
‘No, Harris’s, the policeman’s wife. She says Meni Gavala’s in a bad way.’
Lefteris paused in the rhythm of his plucking.
‘A bad way how?’
‘She had a fall, down in the cellar, and was there alone for days. Her daughter came to the house twice, and never found her. A broken hip, and a nasty bang on the head, according to Sofia. All she had to keep her alive were a few bottles of wine. Cut to pieces, she was, and broken glass everywhere. Imagine it, down there in the dark, with nothing for comfort but a box of matches. Makes me shudder to think how it must have been.’
‘Poor woman. You should go and see her.’
‘I’ll light a candle for her, this afternoon. Kakomira! On her own all those years, and now this. Are you nearly finished with those birds? I need to make a start on lunch.’
In bed B14, Meni Gavala was sleeping. Fluorescent lights leeched the colour from her skin, and with the bandages around her head, her face seemed small as a child’s. Scabs had formed on the cuts around her mouth and on an ugly graze on her elbow.
Out in the corridor, behind the glass, Meni’s daughter’s eyes were swollen from crying. Her husband held the little boy on his hip, teasing him with a toy rabbit to stave off his boredom.
‘What are you saying?’ asked the daughter.
The young doctor’s face was grave.
‘The scans show damage to the brain tissue,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to say, at this point, what kind of a recovery she’ll make. Given the severity of the fall, and the length of time she was left without treatment . . .’
‘When she’s awake, she doesn’t know me,’ said the daughter. ‘She doesn’t know any of us.’
‘That’s not uncommon,’ said the doctor. ‘And you may find her memory will improve, with time. The motor functions, too, may well get better.’
‘And if they don’t?’
For a few long moments, the doctor didn’t answer.
‘Let’s all just hope for the best, shall we?’ he said.
In a village far from Dendra, the fat man laid his cigarette down in the ashtray, and took a sip of his coffee. Through the steamed-up kafenion windows, there was a view of the sea, and of snow-capped mountains beyond. At the next table, a man redealt cards to his companions. Behind the counter, the patron’s wife poured bird seed into a desultory canary’s cage.
The fat man opened his copy of Ta Nea and browsed the news, picking up his cigarette from time to time, spending no time on the political news or the sport, but taking more of an interest in the items beyond the front pages. On page fifteen, the advertisements began. He stubbed out his cigarette, and folded the paper to review the property for sale.
The entry was insignificant – a small, bordered box in a lower corner – but the heading in the box caught his eye. Dendra. He peered closely at the grainy photograph.
The advertisement offered for sale as a going concern a vineyard, a tower house and surrounding land.
The fat man laid down the newspaper. For a few minutes, he was thoughtful.
Across the bay, an incoming ferry blew its foghorn. The fat man paid for his coffee, and wandered down to the quay to catch his boat.
Acknowledgements
To all, past and present, at CLLA – your unwavering support is always appreciated.
A Note on the Author
Anne Zouroudi was born in England and has lived in the Greek islands. Her attachment to Greece remains strong, and the country is the inspiration for much of her writing. She now lives in the Derbyshire Peak District. She is the author of six Mysteries of the Greek Detective: The Messenger of Athens (shortlisted for the ITV3 Crime Thriller Award for Breakthrough Authors and longlisted for the Desmond Elliot Prize), The Taint of Midas, The Doctor of Thessaly, The Lady of Sorrows, The Whispers of Nemesis and The Bull of Mithros.
By the Same Author
The Messenger of Athens
The Taint of Midas
The Doctor of Thessaly
The Lady of Sorrows
&n
bsp; The Whispers of Nemesis
The Bull of Mithros
Also Available by Anne Zouroudi
THE MESSENGER OF ATHENS
Shortlisted for the ITV 3 Crime Thriller Awards
When the battered body of a young woman is discovered on a remote Greek island, the local police are quick to dismiss her death as an accident. Then a stranger arrives, uninvited, from Athens, announcing his intention to investigate further. His name is Hermes Diaktoros, his methods are unorthodox, and he brings his own mystery into the web of dark secrets and lies. Who has sent him, on whose authority is he acting, and how does he know of dramas played out decades ago?
‘Powerfully atmospheric … Zouroudi proves a natural at the dark arts of writing Euro-crime’
INDEPENDENT
THE TAINT OF MIDAS
For over half a century the beautiful Temple of Apollo has been in the care of the old beekeeper Gabrilis. But when the value of the land soars he is forced to sign away his interests – and hours later he meets a violent, lonely death. When Hermes Diaktoros finds his friend’s battered body by a dusty roadside, the police quickly make him the prime suspect. But with rapacious developers threatening Arcadia’s most ancient sites, there are many who stand to gain from Gabrilis’s death. Hermes resolves to avenge his old friend and find the true culprit, but his investigative methods are, as ever, unorthodox ...
‘More transported Agatha Christie here ... Hermes is a delight. Half Poirot, half deus ex machina, but far more earth-bound than his first name suggests ... A cracking plot, colourful local characters and descriptions of the hot, dry countryside so strong that you can almost see the heat haze and hear the cicadas – the perfect read to curl up with’
The Feast of Artemis (Mysteries of/Greek Detective 7) Page 24