The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller)

by Johnston, Paul

  Mavros struggled but soon succumbed to the pull of the other world.

  The Fat Man was not happy.

  ‘Can you believe this, Alex?’ he grumbled, flicking a cloth ineffectually at the crumbs on his sole customer’s table. ‘The old woman’s insisting that I take her back to the village for Christmas. In the name of Marx, I don’t want to have my balls frozen off on that accursed mountain.’

  Mavros gave him a tight smile. ‘What will your regulars do without you?’

  ‘Screw you.’ The café owner glared at him and shifted his bulk closer. ‘Anyway, what’s your problem? If it wasn’t so cold, I’d guess a mosquito had got right up your arse last night.’

  Mavros looked around the dingy establishment, the paint blotched with mildew in the corners and the dusty windows streaked with condensation. For most of the year he sat in the small courtyard to the rear, but that was out of the question now. Not that it was much warmer inside. The only source of heat in the café was an ancient diesel somba that smelled worse than the average lorry even on its lowest setting, which was what his thrifty friend always used.

  ‘Got anything to eat?’ he asked, looking across to the chill cabinet.

  ‘All right, don’t tell me, then,’ the Fat Man said bitterly. ‘I’ve only known you since you were a snot-nosed brat, I’ve only served you coffee for decades. What do I care about your pathetic little troubles?’

  ‘Christ, Yiorgo,’ Mavros said, raising his eyes to the cracks in the ceiling. ‘For a Communist you make a hell of a fuss about personal relationships.’ He couldn’t help smiling at the Fat Man. It was true: they’d known each other for as long as he could remember. Although Yiorgos Pandazopoulos was nearly twenty years older, he’d been a loyal comrade of Mavros’s father and had always had a soft spot for the boy. Even when Mavros had shown no interest in joining the Party and had worked for the Ministry of Justice—anathema to the Left—before setting himself up as a private investigator, the Fat Man had stayed close. That didn’t mean he gave Mavros an easy time.

  ‘So, have you?’

  ‘Have I what?’ the café owner demanded.

  ‘Have you got anything to eat, idiot?’

  The Fat Man lumbered away behind the counter and reappeared with a small plate. ‘My beloved mother decided to change the routine this morning, not that she bothered to tell me. Instead of galaktoboureko she made a tray of kataïfi.’ He put the plate down with a crash. ‘You can imagine the trouble I had with the early-morning trade.’

  Mavros leaned forward and examined the portion of honey-drenched shredded wheat. He didn’t mind. All Kyra Fedhra’s pastries were delectable, but her custard pie was famed throughout Monastiraki. He took a forkful and felt the pores on his face tingle as the sweetness kicked in.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, when he had finished and drunk a glass of water to clear his palate. ‘You’re going away for the holidays, then?’

  The Fat Man raised an eyebrow. ‘Still not going to tell me what’s eating you, eh? Yes, the General Secretary has spoken and I have to close up for a week.’ He shook his head. ‘God knows what’s got into her. Maybe she thinks this is her last chance to see the family hovel before she—’

  ‘That’ll do,’ Mavros interjected. ‘Your mother’s got years ahead of her. Why do you have to bring that up, Fat Man? Some of us have just had breakfast.’ He picked up his dark blue worry beads from the metal tabletop and flicked them across the back of his hand.

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ Pandazopoulos said, nodding his bald head slowly. ‘I get it. You’ve been thinking about Andonis, haven’t you?’

  Mavros looked up and then away, his shoulder-length black hair partially obscuring his face. ‘And if I have?’ he asked, his voice almost inaudible. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  The Fat Man leaned over the table, his heavy body blocking out what little light was being admitted by the windows. ‘Nothing’s wrong with that,’ he replied quietly. ‘I knew Andonis too, Alex. I knew him better than you. And I know he wouldn’t have wanted you to be plagued by his memory after…how many years is it now? Thirty?’

  Mavros met his eyes. ‘Thirty next year. He disappeared in ’seventy-two.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Yiorgos said, suddenly distracted. ‘Of course he did.’ He twitched his head and came back to himself. ‘You have to let him go, Alex. You have to move on.’

  Mavros ran his fingers along an eyebrow, then stood up. ‘That’s what everyone says. My mother, my sister, Niki—’

  ‘And how is the delightful Niki?’ the Fat Man said, a wicked grin appearing on his thick lips. ‘As even-tempered and unselfish as usual?’

  ‘Lay off, Yiorgo,’ Mavros said. ‘Niki has her own problems.’

  ‘Yes, she has, Alex. And you’re the biggest of them.’ The café owner grabbed his arm. ‘Get rid of her before she does you some serious damage.’

  Mavros shook himself free. The Fat Man had only met Niki once—she’d appeared at the café one morning in a flaming temper because Mavros, entangled in a tricky blackmail case, had failed to show the night before. She had given Yiorgos several original ideas about what to do with his customer and his pastries.

  ‘Go to the good, my friend,’ Mavros said, as he headed for the door, unwilling to discuss the tribulations of his love life any further.

  ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ the Fat Man called. ‘I almost forgot to tell you.’

  Mavros turned, a nervous look on his face. ‘You almost forgot to tell me what?’ It wouldn’t have been the first time that Yiorgos had omitted to mention something significant to do with Mavros’s professional activities. He didn’t like potential clients coming to his home, so he told them they could find him in the café. Sometimes his contacts sent them to the Fat Man’s direct. ‘You haven’t antagonised a juicy capitalist by any chance, have you?’

  The Fat Man was grinning again, a lascivious look on his slack features. ‘Certainly not, Alex. Though I think she was American.’ His eyebrows moved like a pair of lively caterpillars. ‘And she wanted you, only you.’

  ‘Jesus, Yiorgo, what age are you? Who was she?’

  The café owner shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t leave a name.’ He licked his lips in an exaggerated fashion. ‘What I can tell you is that she was a real knockout. Tall, blonde and perfectly arranged. Lovely smile too, and…’ He paused for the coup de grâce. ‘…and there was no trace of a temper whatsoever.’

  Mavros gave the Fat Man the moutza with both hands, his palms open in the traditional gesture that consigned the recipient to hell. ‘So what happened to her?’ he asked.

  Pandazopoulos extended his chin. ‘Don’t ask me. You know how much English I have. I think she said she’d be back later.’

  ‘A blonde American?’ Mavros said to himself, as he moved off. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Give her my number if she shows up again, will you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, you can be sure I’ll do that,’ the Fat Man said, nodding avidly. ‘Bye, Alex.’

  Mavros raised a hand and went out into the cold.

  *

  The woman had been standing by the French windows for a long time, taking in the hull-like form of the Acropolis as it crested the waves of office and apartment blocks. The Parthenon was sublime—she’d gone up to it after she made the unsuccessful visit to the café Tou Chondrou—but she preferred the smaller Erechtheion at the side. It was a confusing complex of cellars and vaults but the Caryatids were what made it for her, even though they were replicas. Six women supporting the weight of the roof instead of columns. She had been captivated by the slender but powerful forms, left legs slightly bent at the knee to give an impression of paradoxical repose, their bodies outlined under the folds of their tunics. Strong women in this city of macho men—she’d provoked stares and whistles from the moment she walked out of the hotel, but there was nothing new about that.

  She stepped back from the glass and looked around the spacious suite. The hotel had been a mistake. She’d booke
d herself in because she wanted a central location with an international name, but this place was a monstrosity—a pair of wide panels at a slight angle to each other, taller than the unexpectedly low buildings of the city and as unsightly as a freestanding wall in the middle of a park. It was about to close for refurbishment in advance of the 2004 Olympics and it had the run-down air of a beach resort at the end of the season. That wasn’t all that was wrong with it. As soon as she’d got in from the airport the previous day, she’d gone for a stroll around the neighbouring streets. It hadn’t taken her long to realise that she was in the middle of the embassy district. The American compound, guarded even more obviously than usual in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks of 11 September, was further up the avenue that ran past the hotel. The embassy had brought everything back to her like a hammer blow to the heart.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t known what to expect. Her father’s death was why she had finally returned to Greece after twenty-five years. But being here, walking past the buildings where Trent and Laura would have been frequent visitors for receptions and dinners, had made the sweat pour off her despite the clear, chill skies. And tomorrow was the anniversary of his death. Oh, God, she thought. What was she doing?

  She had to get out of the soulless room. Glancing out of the window again, she reckoned she had a couple of hours of daylight left. A run would bring her back to herself before she tried to find the private investigator Alex Mavros at the café again. She hoped he had more going for him than the fat guy’s dump but she wasn’t too optimistic, despite the pitch she’d been given by the police commander the embassy had put her on to. Pulling on a sweatshirt, she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror. Long legs that looked okay even in the loose jogging pants, tanned face with the cheekbones emphasised by the ponytail she’d made of her blonde hair. Yeah, Grace, she thought. You’ll do.

  Outside, the cars and taxis roared down the wide avenue in a blur; they only stopped reluctantly when the lights changed, the front vehicles blocking the pedestrian crossing. Grace Helmer gave the drivers a resigned smile as she strode over, her legs moving effortlessly on to the uneven paving stones. She had soon ascended the steepening street that led up the flank of Lykavittos, the largest hill in the centre of the city. Skirting pensioners with small dogs and noisy teenagers, she took off up the concrete pathway that led away from the highest point. She could see people around a small church and in a bar up there, and she wanted to find a more secluded place to do her exercises. As she loped along, she wondered if her parents had ever been up here. She felt sure they had, and that brought a sudden tightness to her chest.

  The ground sloped away to the north beyond a theatre that had been erected against the hillside and she found herself alone. The light was fading and the sound of animated voices was suddenly fainter than the underlying rumble of the traffic from below. Now the path ran through trees, the scent of conifers strong. Traversing the ridge, she slowed her pace and stopped beside a dense thicket. She guessed she was on the north-west side, looking towards a high, snow-capped mountain. Her breath was still coming easily.

  But someone else’s wasn’t. Turning quickly, Grace saw the dog and smiled in relief. It was a skinny mongrel, its dark hair scratched away in parts and its eyes wary.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ she said, registering its sex. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ She knelt down on one knee and clapped her hands lightly. The dog approached slowly, his head moving ceaselessly from side to side as if at any second he expected an attack. ‘There you are,’ Grace said, smoothing her hand carefully over the pitted skin on the creature’s head. ‘Poor thing. Nobody’s been looking after you, have they?’

  Then the dog jerked his head round and let out a low growl. Before Grace could move, he hurtled away into the darkening undergrowth. She stood up quickly, her senses alert. She saw the man before he came out into the open.

  He was tall and wiry, quite young, his face partially hidden by a thick black beard. He came towards her and stopped, seemingly aware of her alarm. ‘German?’ he asked, a loose smile on his lips. They were scabby, as were the hands that protruded from an ill-fitting and filthy denim jacket. ‘You German?’

  She rolled forward on to the balls of her feet and shook her head.

  ‘Sveedish?’ he asked, drawing out the first vowel. ‘Here,’ he said, stepping forward suddenly. ‘I got something for you.’ He held out a hand and laughed.

  Grace took in the unwrapped pink condom that lay on the cracked skin. She was pretty sure it had been used. ‘No, thank you,’ she said evenly. ‘I have to go now.’ But she didn’t move her legs.

  ‘No, no,’ the man said, now less than a metre from her. He let out a harsher laugh. ‘We fuck now. We fuck, yes?’

  Grace had been weighing up what to do. Her training and experience had told her from the outset that the guy wasn’t going to take no for an answer, but she was holding back. There had been an incident in Zaire when she hurt a local who turned out to be a harmless simpleton. But it wasn’t just that. Since she had turned thirty earlier in the year, she’d become more critical of herself, more inclined to give the other person a chance.

  ‘We fuck, no,’ she said, leaning forward at an angle to take the weight off one leg. ‘Goodbye.’ When she saw the man’s eyes narrow, she knew her instincts hadn’t betrayed her. They never did. Before he could raise a hand, she brought her right elbow up swiftly into his jaw then, as he dropped, she drove her knee hard against his chin.

  She was away through the trees in a few seconds, the points where she had made contact with her assailant numb but moving freely.

  So much for giving the other person a chance, she thought as she ran. It seemed she’d learned nothing from the dispossessed people she’d encountered all over the world. She was still as much of a hard-nosed bitch as she’d ever been; it was just that she’d got better at hiding it beneath a caring exterior. Christ, she should never have got on the plane to the country she’d been avoiding for so long. Even if she found what she was looking for there could be nothing but bitterness and pain for her in Greece. But, like the gun-slingers in the movies, there were things you couldn’t say no to, there were things you had to do.

  She headed back to her single room, wishing someone was waiting for her there.

  *

  Mavros decided to go the long way round to his mother’s. She had asked him to come to lunch and, although he’d seen her only a couple of days before, he wasn’t playing hard to get. It wasn’t as if he had any urgent business to detain him. Besides, he’d been wanting for years to meet the special guest she’d invited.

  He slid between two ramshackle lorries stuffed with cartons of merchandise on Ermou and headed up Athinas. The pavements were filled with traders’ goods, chainsaws and crates of padlocks sharing space with garish novelty toys and kitchen gadgets. The traffic noise was interspersed with the salesmen’s raucous cries, their slick lines provoking laughter from the passers-by.

  ‘Our prices are the best,’ yelled one vendor. ‘We sell for free.’

  ‘We sell for free,’ countered another, ‘and we throw in a pension.’

  Unable to resist smiling, Mavros turned into the recently renovated Varvakeio, the hall containing the central market named after a sea captain who’d made good in the nineteenth century. He often came in here when his spirits needed a lift. The butchers in their bloody tunics diverted him, as did the fishmongers tossing prawns and whitebait into cones of paper. He wasn’t the only one to fall under their spell. There was always a crush of price-conscious Athenians exchanging quips with the traders even though the place was the front room of a slaughterhouse, its walls hung with skinned animals, their innards heaped on open tables. But the market was a typical Greek paradox: it was full of life.

  Cutting through the back, past restaurants with the most gruesome views in the city, Mavros found himself on Sofokleous. He walked towards the main avenue of Stadhiou on the opposite side of the road from the Stock Exchange.
The grimy façade was even more forbidding than usual because of the presence of numerous policemen in Kevlar tunics carrying snub-nosed machine pistols. Security around business centres had been increased since the murder of a prominent investor at the beginning of December. The Greek government, already suffering the global economic effects of the terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, was now close to full-scale panic. Like everyone else, Mavros had been transfixed by the catastrophe at the time but more recently he’d begun to lose interest, even though it was the biggest law-and-order issue since he’d been an investigator. He’d been finding it hard to care about his profession. The high-profile case he’d been involved in on the island of Trigono in the early autumn had knocked him off-course and he’d only taken a few bread-and-butter jobs since then. He’d even been struggling to keep on his brother Andonis’s faint trail. What had once been an obsession that took up much of his free time was now becoming a nagging family duty. After years of failure on that case, Mavros was beginning to lose heart and the regular flashes of Andonis’s smiling face were getting even harder to live with.

  ‘Shift your arse.’ The roughness of the voice was only slightly muffled by the black motorcycle helmet.

  Mavros turned to see a guy in leathers trying to mount the pavement with his machine. Bikers, the bane of his life. And this one was as bad as it got—a courier. No doubt he was carrying urgent documents to some slob of a speculator in the Stock Exchange.