Mavros glanced around the place. It was the kind of high-price, pseudo-high society gossip-shop that he avoided like the plague, but he’d had little choice about meeting here as he wanted Anna’s help. There were a couple of other people wearing jeans and leather, but the quality was a lot higher than what he was wearing. Next time he would insist that Anna go to the Fat Man’s. That would really give her something to complain about.
He sat down, running an eye over his sister. ‘What have you been doing? Appearing in a fashion show?’ Her clothes were even more cutting-edge than usual, the yellow and black trouser suit set off by a pair of sharply pointed shoes that might have been designed by the Spanish Inquisition.
‘Just the clothes that my job requires,’ Anna said with a faint smile. She was a lifestyle journalist with columns in several of the capital’s best-selling magazines. ‘So, how are things?’ She gave him a look that combined exasperation and concern. ‘Still waiting for the perfect job to come up and kiss you on the lips?’
Mavros ordered a coffee from a waitress, who responded with a supercilious flick of her long brown hair. ‘No, as a matter of fact I’ve got a case.’
Anna clapped her hands. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever get back into the groove after—’ She broke off to avoid mentioning the terrorism case. She’d been involved in it more than she’d have wished. Then her relieved expression vanished. ‘Don’t tell me, you want something from me.’
Mavros shrugged. ‘Well…’
‘Typical. I might have known. I thought we were having a get-together.’
‘Calm down, Anna. There might be something in it for you.’
His sister gave a bitter laugh. ‘How many times have I heard that?’ She waited as the waitress placed Mavros’s coffee on the table with an insincere smile. ‘Go on, then,’ Anna said, betraying interest. ‘But I’m not promising anything.’
‘Jenny Ikonomou,’ he said in a low voice.
Anna raised her eyes. ‘Our national star? What about her?’
‘Have you met her?’
‘Don’t be silly, Alex.’ She twitched her perfectly painted lips. ‘Ordinary mortals aren’t allowed into her company.’
‘Do I detect the odour of rancid grapes? What did she do? Refuse you an interview?’ He sipped his coffee and was pleased to find that it was nothing like as good as the Fat Man’s.
‘Worse than that. We set up an in-depth profile, the first for over a year. I organised a photographer, stylist, wardrobe people, the lot. At the last minute she changed her mind. Pressure of work, supposedly.’ Anna sniffed. ‘Pressure of not giving a shit, more like.’ She turned the pages of her magazine and pointed to a photograph of the actress getting out of a black Mercedes. ‘Look at her. She hates the press, she hates publicity. I reckon she even hates her fans.’
Mavros examined the shot. It showed a striking middle-aged woman dressed in a close-fitting evening gown, her hair so lustrous that it must have been dyed. She was staring into the lens with what would be described as antisocial loathing in a normal person, but was seen as wholly justified amour-propre in a successful actress.
‘She does look fierce,’ he conceded. ‘But she’s very popular.’
Anna nodded. ‘She’s supposed to represent the best of Greece. Refusal to conform, passion, self-belief, all that Mediterranean egotism.’ Although she was married to a Greek, Anna shared Mavros’s ambivalence about some aspects of the people. ‘There’s no question that she’s a good actress. Her Antigone was enough to make the stones weep. She even managed to make those turgid TV adaptations of classic novels watchable.’
‘She was good in that Hollywood movie about the German occupation, too. Christ knows how she managed to make that character who fell in love with a Nazi officer sympathetic.’
‘Yes,’ Anna said reluctantly. ‘But that doesn’t make her a good human being.’
Mavros ran his hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘Have you ever heard of her taking in aspiring actresses?’
His sister raised an eyebrow. ‘Now we’re getting to it. What is this case you’re working on, Alex?’
He told her about Katia, knowing that, unlike other journalists, he could rely on Anna to respect the confidence.
‘And you think Jenny Ikonomou goes around inviting young women into her home?’ Anna struggled to restrain laughter. ‘Forget it, Alex. Haven’t you heard of the Pink Palace?’
He looked at her blankly. ‘You know I don’t follow society gossip.’
‘Well, maybe you should,’ she said sharply. ‘It would stop you wasting my time.’
Mavros raised a hand to placate her. ‘The Pink Palace?’
‘That’s what she calls her house in Kolonaki. It might be pink, but it’s like a prison. She never invites anyone there. She hires hotel ballrooms for her parties.’
‘It’s like a prison,’ Mavros repeated.
Anna stared at him. ‘Not like that, Alex. She’s just the most private person in Athens.’
‘Does she run a stage school? Some actors do.’
She laughed. ‘Only the ones who don’t get enough work. La Ikonomou is very much in demand.’
La Ikonomou. That made Mavros think of the gang boss Rea Chioti. Some of the papers gave her the French definite article too. Powerful women put journalists’ backs up, especially those belonging to male crime reporters.
‘I wish you luck if you’re thinking of trying to talk to her,’ Anna said, gathering her things together. ‘Jenny Ikonomou doesn’t like opening her mouth unless she gets well paid for it.’ She put a banknote on the table. ‘What kind of expenses can you get from your client?’ she asked with a mocking smile.
‘He’s a working man,’ Mavros said, giving her an irritated look and then relenting. ‘Sorry. Thanks for taking the time.’
Anna leaned forward and kissed him. ‘Take care, Alex. I tell you what, I’ll fax you the most recent feature that I saw about her.’ She smiled and headed for the door.
Mavros watched her go, only realising as she disappeared down the street that he hadn’t told her he was giving up the search for Andonis. Somehow he felt that the decision wasn’t official until he’d let his sister know. Too late.
The noise, insistent and regular, eventually got through to Sifis Skourtis. For once Katia wasn’t in his thoughts. At first it seemed the tapping was in his dream, a branch hitting the window of the bedroom where he spent summers as a kid. His grandfather’s house was in a clearing surrounded by oak trees, high in the northern mountains. He used to lie there waiting for the morning to come, waiting for the old man’s shout. Then he would escape the rattle of branches on the pane that made him think of demons and unquiet spirits, going downstairs to help with the goats. The smell of their milk, sweet and rank at the same time, stayed with him for years.
Then Sifis realised that he was alone in the flat in Athens. He hadn’t been back home for years, and the only smell in his nostrils was of the smoke and muck that had impregnated his clothes. He was in the flat, his stash gone and his gut heaving, but still the tapping went on.
‘What the fuck?’ Sifis mumbled and rolled off the bed. He managed to get to his feet and stood still, trying to locate the source of the noise. It was coming from the door.
‘Who’s there?’ he said from the hallway, his voice low and unsteady. ‘Who is it?’
No reply.
He went to the spy-hole and peered through it. He couldn’t see anything. Rubbing his eye, he realised that something was covering the tiny circle of glass.
‘No,’ he whimpered. ‘Leave me alone. I’ll get…I’ll get the money.’
Still there was no reply.
Sifis went back the main room, banging against the walls. He scrabbled on the table, knocking aluminium wraps and syringes, spoons and lighters, to the floor.
‘No,’ he gasped. ‘Leave me alone.’ But the tapping continued, rising in volume.
‘No!’ Sifis screamed, running to the door and undoing the chain
with twitching fingers. ‘No!’
‘Yes,’ said the figure that barrelled into him, knocking him flying back down the hall. ‘Yes, you shithead.’ The arm came up and aimed the black pistol with its matching silencer at Sifis’s forehead.
The last sound the young man heard was the scream that died prematurely in his throat.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT SEEMED TO Mavros, as he stood in the square looking up at the Parliament building’s neoclassical facade, that he had two choices. Either he rang the bell of the so-called Pink Palace and refused to leave without an interview, or he called in advance. Given the amount of security he was sure the star would have, he decided on the latter. His mobile phone’s directory service put him through.
‘The Ikonomou residence,’ said a male voice.
‘Ah, yes,’ Mavros said, waving away an insistent lottery-ticket salesman. ‘Could I speak to Mrs Ikonomou, please?’
‘Your name, sir?’
‘Mavros.’
‘Well, sir, as your name isn’t familiar, might I suggest that you contact Mrs Ikonomou’s public relations—’
‘No, you may not,’ Mavros interrupted. He’d learned that the gatekeepers employed by rich people only responded to a heavy hand. ‘This is an urgent matter. I need to speak to Mrs Ikonomou in person.’
There was a pause. ‘I see. I’m afraid I’ll need more information.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll be looking for a new job if you don’t co-operate.’
‘Sir, I can’t help you unless you tell me what this concerns.’
Mavros saw that he’d have to be more forthcoming. ‘All right. It’s about a young woman called Katia Tratsou.’ There was a longer pause. ‘That name means something to you, does it?’
‘Please hold the line.’
Mavros started walking towards the upmarket area of Kolonaki. It looked like he was making progress. He was pretty sure that the guy on the phone recognised the missing girl’s name. As he crossed the road, narrowly avoiding a taxi running the light, he heard the voice again.
‘Very well, sir. Mrs Ikonomou will see you now. Is that satisfactory?’
‘Give me the address.’ He recognised the street name. It was one of the city’s most exclusive. ‘All right, I should be there in ten minutes.’ He cut the connection and raised his fist in triumph, provoking a languid stare from the heavily armed policeman outside a ministry. Then he wondered why the famously reclusive actress would have agreed to see him without hesitation.
As he walked up the steepening hillside, the traffic noise began to fade. The apartment blocks here were faced by high-quality marble and the parked cars were in better condition. The ones on the street were only the residents’ second vehicles, those they used in the city centre; the cars they kept to show off to their friends and to drive to their seaside villas were safely stored in basement garages. Even the roadside orange trees seemed cleaner in this niche of luxury. The locals probably paid squads of immigrant workers to polish the fruit and leaves every night.
Jenny Ikonomou’s house was on the highest street, backing on to the tree-covered hill. He could see how the building had got its name. It was tall and wide, its balconies festooned with plants, and the front wall had been painted in a pastel shade of pink. For all the ostentation, the Pink Palace smacked of good taste rather than tackiness. The actress had obviously thought carefully about how to project her image. The house would appeal both to her uncritical fans and to the design-obsessed intelligentsia. Mavros had to admit he was impressed. At the same time, the building had an air of impenetrability. The windows were shuttered in steel, as were the balcony rails and the door-frame that was surrounded by opaque glass bricks.
He pressed the single button on his left when he reached the top of the pale grey steps. Looking up, he saw a camera above the steel door and mugged to it.
‘State your name, please, sir.’ The voice was modulated by the electrics, but Mavros recognised it as belonging to the man he’d spoken to earlier.
‘Mavros by name and by nature.’
There was a pause as the guy took in the witticism, ‘mavros’ meaning ‘black’. Then there was a loud buzz and the door swung open. Mavros walked in and found himself in a large but minimalist entrance hall, the marble floor gleaming and the white walls hung with small abstract sculptures in green bronze. The effect was markedly different from the building’s exterior. A door at the rear opened and a man in a grey suit came forward. Dark eyes shone beneath heavy eyebrows and a completely bald head. He placed his feet delicately on the ground, more like a ballet dancer than a butler.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said, taking in Mavros’s hair, leather jacket and jeans. ‘I’ll need to see some identification.’
Mavros held his eyes for a moment, then slipped his laminated ID card and a business card from his wallet.
‘You’re a private investigator?’ the bald man asked, walking to the door at the rear. ‘You don’t mind if I photocopy your ID?’
‘Be my guest,’ Mavros called after him. ‘But mind the edges, they’re sharp.’
The man ignored that. When he returned to the hall after several minutes, he beckoned Mavros forward with a movement of his fingers. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, handing back the plastic card. He was carrying a cardboard folder under his arm. ‘I’ll take you to Mrs Ikonomou. She’s on the roof garden.’ He pressed a button on the wall.
Mavros followed him into the steel cubicle after the doors parted noiselessly. ‘So, do you know Katia Tratsou?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, you haven’t told me your name.’
The bald man looked at him as if he’d asked for the code of Jenny Ikonomou’s safe. ‘My name is Ricardo,’ he said with a thin-lipped smile. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you with the other one.’
Mavros watched him impassively, trying to work out if he was telling the truth or playing dumb. It was hard to believe that Katia could have been in the house without him knowing. Then again, it was hard to imagine Katia getting anywhere near the country’s leading thespian.
‘Over there,’ the man said as the door slid open. He pointed to a profusion of greenery beyond a swimming pool.
‘You aren’t coming?’
‘Mrs Ikonomou wishes to see you privately.’ The bald man nodded punctiliously and vanished behind the door.
‘Thank God for that,’ Mavros said under his breath. He was hoping the actress would be more forthcoming than her servant.
He walked past the pool, the water glinting in the sunlight. Bushes in large pots and fruit trees in beds laid into the concrete roof were growing against a bamboo windbreak that would keep the paparazzi and the actress’s adoring fans at bay. Further on, beneath a vine-covered pergola, a circle of plush chairs had been drawn up around a low table. A woman was sitting with her back to him.
‘Sit down,’ she said, neither turning round nor getting up. Smoke rose in a cloud about her. The voice, low and throaty, was instantly recognisable.
Mavros entered the circle of chairs and extended his hand. Jenny Ikonomou looked up at him and declined to take it. She nodded across the table, keeping him at a distance. She was wearing a pale yellow silk robe that completely covered her body, her dark hair swept back in a matching band.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Ikonomou.’
‘At such short notice. Help yourself to coffee.’
Although she must have been in her fifties, the actress was in good condition, at least above the collar. Her face was largely wrinkle-free, although Mavros couldn’t tell how much makeup had been applied or whether she had been under the knife. Her famous brown eyes, the ruin of more than one rich man including her late husband, had lost none of their power and, close up, he wasn’t sure if the mane of raven-coloured hair was dyed after all.
Mavros filled a cup from the flask on the table. ‘I think your man Ricardo has told you why I wanted to see you.’
Jenny Ikonomou blew out smoke and laughed. ‘Ricardo doesn’t work for me. He’s my b
rother. From time to time it amuses him to play the servant.’
‘So acting runs in the family?’
‘No, Ricardo isn’t part of my world,’ the actress said, looking away. ‘He told me that you’re a private detective. Have you been engaged to find Katia?’
‘That’s right. By her parents.’
‘Is what you’re wearing the uniform of your profession?’ she asked drily.
Mavros looked into the dark eyes. ‘Mrs Ikonomou, I think it would be better if you answered my questions first. Can you confirm that Katia stayed in this house?’
If the woman across the table resented the way he’d taken control of the conversation, she didn’t show it. She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, of course she did. She was here for a weekend—two nights—and then she left. In fact, we both left the same morning. I was going to Thessaloniki to discuss a production we’re putting on in the autumn.’
‘I see. When was she here?’
Jenny Ikonomou leaned forward and opened a leather-bound diary. ‘She left on Sunday March the twenty-fourth.’
That squared with the last time Katia had been seen by her parents. ‘Have you heard from her since?
She looked at him and shrugged. ‘No. I suppose she could have sent a note, but I know she’s busy with her studies.’
‘What exactly did you do with Katia when she was here?’
‘We talked about acting and its relationship to life. I gave her an idea of how she should develop her talent and we ran through some scenes. She was very promising.’
‘Can you tell me how Katia found her way here?’
Jenny Ikonomou lit another cigarette. ‘I saw her walking down the street and I told my driver to stop the car.’
‘What? You’re telling me that you can spot someone with talent just like that?’
Her gaze was unwavering. ‘Of course. In the same way you can tell when people are speaking the truth, I imagine. It’s instinct, it’s years of experience.’
The Golden Silence Page 12