The White Sea

by Paul Johnston

  People gathered around as he was lifted on to the jetty and carried off like a prize catch. There were scantily clad children, women with long black hair wearing T-shirts and sarongs, old people cackling. He was taken to a wooden hut and laid carefully on a mattress of leaves covered by a brightly coloured sheet. He heard himself croak but, like the fishermen had done, he was given only a sip of water at regular intervals. The woman who shooed all the others out and looked after him was slim and beautiful, her eyes deep brown pools and her fingers soft on his tender skin.

  They married and he stayed with her for seven years. The settlement was on the coast of Sulat in the east of the Philippines island of Samar; that much he learned from the local schoolteacher, who knew some English. The people wanted to know where he came from, but he had started another life and wanted the one that had ended on the Homeland to fade, as had those with Marigo and before. His childhood and university years were completely gone now. He said he had fallen from a yacht. Nobody showed any surprise when he made it clear he wanted to stay. There was a bus that went to the neighbouring towns, but the village looked towards the sea and its inhabitants had little interest in the land. The heat was that of the tropical rainforest, but he endured it – another way of driving out his previous life. Rebirth by sweat.

  He fished with his brother-in-law, Levi, one of the men who had rescued him. When tourists came, they paid little attention to him, his Mediterranean skin having darkened like that of the natives. Pilita had lost her first husband to the sea and couldn’t conceal her anxiety every time they went out. He was nervous himself the first time, but once they were beyond the jetty the water didn’t frighten him – only on the infrequent occasions that he fell in. Sharks often circled the boat, waiting for the guts from the catch, but he felt strong. Life was good.

  Jim still saw Pilita’s face as she leaned over to kiss him, her fingers moving slowly over his skin. When the past succeeded in breaking through his carefully constructed defences, he still felt stabs of guilt about leaving her.

  ‘Jesus, is that the time?’ Nondas struggled to his feet. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’

  ‘I’m sure our host can provide you with fresh clothes.’

  The Cretan looked at the Fat Man. ‘Er, no thanks. I’ve got a spare set in my office.’

  ‘Here,’ Mavros said, handing him the CD-ROM. ‘See if you can sniff out anything that Pavlos Gatsos might have been up to behind everyone else’s backs. And make sure no one catches sight of it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, this is worth its weight in platinum. I’ll talk to you tonight.’

  ‘Great chops,’ Yiorgos called after Nondas, who raised an arm as he left. ‘Coffee, Alex? No pastries – that cop ate the last of them.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Mavros said distractedly.

  When the Fat Man came back from the kitchen, they drank glasses of water before the coffee. After Mavros had sipped his sketo, he felt the day fall into shape.

  ‘Right, Yiorgo, I’m going to talk to Evi’s mother Eirini and her supposedly sleazy husband Vangelis. You have the pleasure of putting the fear of Lenin into their son, Dinos. Here’s his address.’

  ‘Might have known. Kolonaki. I’ll have to take a gas mask.’

  ‘Riot central.’ The rich area was near Syndagma Square, where there had recently been several anti-austerity demonstrations that ended in tear gas.

  ‘No, fool. Because I don’t like the stink of stolen money.’

  ‘You seemed to be pretty keen on the Gatsos family fee.’

  ‘Of course.’ The Fat Man glared at him. ‘Have you lost your tavli counters? We’re relieving them of their ill-gotten gains.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Squeeze Dinos hard. He’s a junkie so there might be a connection with the Colombians. Though obviously you aren’t going to mention them unless he does.’

  ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  Mavros laughed. ‘More of a rampaging rhino. Though your hide’s getting a bit slack.’

  ‘Eat more chops, that’s what I say.’

  ‘But still walk to Kolonaki.’

  ‘What, no expenses for a taxi?’

  ‘Choose life, Yiorgo.’ Mavros gave him one of his old business cards and wrote on the back ‘As approved by Loukas Gatsos’. He’d considered telling his employer about Yiorgos and the interviews that were about to take place, but decided against it. He didn’t want the subjects to receive advance warning.

  ‘Where does the couple you’re going after live?’ the Fat Man asked, trying unsuccessfully to smooth down his shirt collar.

  ‘Philothei.’

  ‘Ha. No doubt you’ll be walking there.’

  The unusually green northern suburb was about six kilometres to the north.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘See you later. Let me know if anything juicy comes up.’

  ‘Juicy?’

  ‘Interesting, suggestive, I don’t know, Yiorgo. Haven’t you learnt anything?’

  ‘We’ve been out of business for five years, remember?’

  Mavros stopped at the door. ‘True. Look, the son’s a junkie and he doesn’t live with his parents. There might be some tension you can exploit.’

  ‘Ah, tension. I like it.’

  Mavros left the apartment block and picked up a cab on the nearest northbound street. The driver had GPS so there was no problem finding the house. Traffic on Kifissias Avenue was quick-moving in their direction, but gummed up southbound as usual in the morning. They turned off and were almost immediately in a different world, the exhaust fume-ridden air clearer under cover of the tree-lined streets. The taxi dropped him outside an imposing house with high steel rails around it. There were no names on the gate.

  Mavros pressed the entry buzzer, aware of the camera above him. A female voice answered.

  ‘Alex Mavros. I need to talk to Mr and Mrs Myronis.’

  The buzzer sounded and he pushed open the heavy gate. The marble path that led to the entrance of the house was about thirty metres long and passed through beautifully kept flower beds. Tall pines along the edges of the property prevented it from being overlooked. The house had originally been a neo-classical mansion, but a smartarse architect had been let loose on it. On one side there was an extension with oddly angled walls and a roof that undulated like a wave, and on the other a tower leaning almost as much as that in Pisa, though this one was covered in tiles of numerous – and to Mavros’s eye, clashing – colours.

  A middle-aged brown-skinned female servant in a black uniform – probably a Filipina – was waiting for him under the columned portico.

  ‘My employers do not receive without appointment,’ she said.

  ‘But they will receive me,’ Mavros said, smiling. ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have been allowed in the gate.’

  The woman nodded gravely. ‘Follow me, please.’ She led him across a wide hall with tiling even crazier than the tower’s. In front of him was an elegant staircase that split halfway up.

  ‘His and hers?’ he asked.

  The Filipina ignored that, heading for a tall wooden door with green panels.

  ‘The breakfast room,’ she said, as she knocked and entered.

  At the far end of a long table, that Mavros suspected was mahogany, sat a couple in their dressing gowns. He knew he was being put at a disadvantage, but he wasn’t going to apologise for the disturbance. Instead he went towards them and stopped by a chair, looking at the puffy-cheeked woman and then the slack-jawed man.

  ‘Very well, sit down,’ the latter said gruffly. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘Coffee, then.’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Mavros wasn’t going to accept any hospitality. He had found that made people uneasy. He felt their eyes on him and occupied himself with his notebook.

  ‘This really isn’t a convenient—’

  Mavros didn’t look up. ‘Fine, Mr Myroni. I want to speak to your wife in private anyway. But if you could make yoursel
f available in, say, an hour?’

  ‘I do have a job, you know.’

  Mavros glanced at his watch. ‘It’s nine thirty. Obviously you don’t keep normal business hours.’

  Myronis threw down his napkin and stalked away.

  His wife put her hand to her mouth. Mavros knew she was in her late fifties, but she looked older. She’d obviously spent a lot of time in the sun and her complexion had suffered. No doubt she would look more presentable with her make-up on – and she’d also be more sure of herself. Things had turned out well so far.

  ‘So, Mr Mavro, Evi told me about you late last night. How can I help?’

  He looked into her pale brown eyes. ‘Do you in any way benefit from your father’s disappearance or death?’

  Eirini Myroni’s head jerked back as if she’d been slapped. ‘How dare you—’

  ‘Please answer the question.’

  Her gaze was icy. ‘I … I have no idea of the contents of my father’s will. As you might have noticed, we aren’t exactly badly off.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been given details of the group and its financial status.’

  ‘You have? What in God’s name does Loukas think he’s doing?’

  ‘Enabling me to find your father. Surely you must approve of that? Do you know of anyone else who would benefit from his disappearance or death? How about your husband?’

  ‘How …’ A smile spread slowly across Botoxed lips. ‘You’re deliberately trying to get under my skin, aren’t you?’

  ‘If you could answer the question.’

  Her eyes grew cold again. ‘Not that I’m aware of. Vangelis is not a Gatsos. He looks after some of the non-family companies I own, but I keep him on a tight leash.’

  ‘How about competitors, enemies?’

  ‘There’s no shortage of people who would cheer for business reasons if Father was never found – or found deceased. Some of them are bastards, but I can’t see them organising a kidnap.’ She paused for thought. ‘I don’t know, maybe they would. But you can be sure it would be done through layers of intermediaries so they could never be traced.’

  ‘Nobody’s publicly declared their hatred?’

  ‘I told the police all this,’ Eirini said, pouring herself more coffee.

  ‘Tell me as well. Please.’

  ‘All right. The Svolos family has been at daggers drawn with us for decades. My father takes great joy in outbidding them for shipping contracts every chance he gets. Tefkros Svolos was ten years younger, but Father always claimed he’d driven him to an early death. That was back in the 80s. We and his children ignore each other at functions.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t see them doing this, I really can’t.’

  ‘I’ll look into it. Your husband doesn’t come from a shipping background.’

  ‘If you know that, why are you saying so?

  Mavros caught her eye. ‘You know why, Mrs Myro—’

  ‘Please call me by my family name.’

  ‘Mrs Gatsou,’ he said, not missing a beat. ‘Did he marry you for love?’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘That wasn’t something our kind did back then, though Vangelis was handsome enough when he was young. No, his father was a textile manufacturer. Old money – at least, older than my father’s. He had a successful war.’

  ‘You mean he was a collaborator.’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘Your words. He brought us a degree of respectability in Athenian society. That was about all as the family business collapsed two years after his father died. Vangelis is no captain of industry.’

  ‘Couldn’t your father have helped?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ she said coolly. ‘I didn’t ask him. There was no point. He did … does what he wants.’

  ‘Wasn’t your husband bitter?’

  She laughed as she lit a cigarette. ‘Not for more than a week. Vangelis has the attention span of an infant.’

  Mavros smiled tightly. ‘And plenty of other interests.’

  ‘You have been doing your homework. Yes, he likes chasing women, drinking, racing cars down the coast road, anything that prevents him using what few brain cells he possesses. We have to pay people to be quiet on occasion, but that makes no difference to our financial well-being.’

  ‘Happy marriage, then.’

  ‘Are you always this insolent? Yes, as a matter of fact it is, at least in the sense that it still functions.’

  ‘Which means you have your own interests.’

  Eirini Gatsou stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I run several charities, I ride and I sail, as well as being on the boards of several large companies.’

  ‘Any young men?’

  She stood up. ‘This interview is over, Mr Mavro. What are you doing?’

  ‘Calling Loukas.’

  ‘Mother of God.’ She sat down. ‘Get it over with.’

  Mavros put his phone back on the table. ‘I’m not interested in your private life unless it could have any connection with your father’s kidnap.’

  ‘You mean, am I screwing Tasos Svolos, aged nineteen?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No. If I was idiotic enough to play games with that family, I’d prefer his sister, Nadia.’

  ‘I see. How about your father?’

  ‘Fortunately incest isn’t a family tradition.’

  At another time Mavros would have laughed. ‘Did your father have sexual relations with the mother, aunt, wife, daughter, sister or any other female relative – or male, for that matter – of anyone who could have taken major offence?’

  ‘You’re asking about his girlfriends. No, I don’t think so. Recently his tastes have run to blonde young women with long legs and inflated bosoms. He met them at nightclubs. None of them lasted more than a month.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know which nightclubs?’

  ‘No. Does it matter?’

  Mavros shrugged. ‘Dinos,’ he said starkly.

  Eirini scowled at him. ‘Leave my son out of this.’

  ‘Not possible. How does he get on with his grandfather?’

  She looked away. ‘All right.’

  ‘So he doesn’t. What happened?’

  ‘What have you read in those lying scandal sheets?’

  ‘Not much. Tell me more.’

  There was a long sigh. ‘Dinos has been doing drugs for over ten years; grass at school here, then cocaine and heroin when he was at college in New York. Father gave him a job when he graduated – though he had to make a substantial contribution to the university to get Dinos even the worst class of degree. But my son isn’t cut out for office work. He’s a film maker.’

  ‘How does he finance that?’

  ‘With difficulty. Father cut him off and told me not to pay him anything. Which, of course, I disregarded.’

  ‘That must have made Dinos hate his grandfather.’

  Eirini stared at him. ‘Unsurprisingly it did. But he couldn’t have organised—’

  ‘A kidnap, let alone the murder of your step-brother.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘You don’t seem overly concerned about either your father’s disappearance or Pavlos’s death.’

  ‘You presume too much. I try to keep my emotions to myself.’

  ‘How would you characterise your relationship with Pavlos?’

  ‘Not close. A nice enough man, but weak. Father thought so too.’

  ‘How was he CEO of the group? He must at least have been good at his job.’

  She laughed sharply. ‘Father ran the company, never mind Pavlos’s title.’

  ‘What about his wife, Myrto?’

  ‘In it for the money, pure and simple. Her own people lost everything. All she cares about is art dealing. She bled Pavlos terribly. Father despised her.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t have been in her interest to have her husband killed.’

  ‘I don’t know. She’ll inherit money and property.’

  Mavros stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gatsou, that’s all for now.’

  ‘You mean y
ou’ll be back?’

  ‘I’m going to interview your husband. I may have to cross-check information with you.’

  Eirini lit another cigarette. ‘Whatever you like. The day’s ruined anyway.’

  Mavros turned away, suppressing a smile. He didn’t believe her day was ruined in the least, but her saying so gave him a warm feeling.

  TEN

  The Fat Man found the street door of the apartment block on Patriarchou Ioakim propped open. He had already scoped the entry phone panel. There was no name on the top space and no Myronis anywhere else, so he reckoned Dinos had the penthouse. Typical spawn of a shipowner. He thought of copying Mavros’s old trick of walking up any flight of stairs he found, but dismissed that in a nanosecond. He’d already walked round the Lykavittos ring. That was enough exercise for today.

  The lift took him to an unlit hallway and he fumbled for the time switch. When he found it, the light revealed a single door. Again there was no name by the bell. He decided that main force was the way and started pounding on the door. It opened after his hand had begun to hurt.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ said a skinny guy with rat’s tail hair and stubble that designers wouldn’t have touched with a jousting lance.

  ‘On behalf of Alex Mavros.’

  ‘Oh, him. What’s my sister getting so het up about? The old fucker’s been gone for over a month. He’s not coming back.’

  ‘Maybe you’d like to take the chain off so we can discuss that.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Yiorgos took a couple of steps back and rammed his shoulder against the door before it could be closed. The chain was wrenched from its base.

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Want me to call your step-brother Loukas?’

  ‘You bastard.’ Dinos retreated down the dimly lit corridor of his flat, clutching one arm.

  The Fat Man closed the door as best he could and walked into what could have been a nice place – if the floor hadn’t been covered in bits of charred aluminium foil, pizza boxes, soft drink bottles, souvlaki wrappers and cigarette butts. There were cameras of varying sizes in the corners, as well as a dead cat under a tripod.

  ‘You should get rid of that, Dino. It could give you something you haven’t already caught.’ Yiorgos picked up the stiff animal by the end of its tail, walked on to the balcony and dropped it over the edge.