The White Sea

by Paul Johnston

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘You don’t fancy arresting them?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  Mavros told him about the gangsters’ connection with Dinos Gatsos and his father.

  ‘Interesting, but what would their motive be for kidnap? They’re already supplying dope at inflated prices.’

  ‘I’ve lived a spotless life recently but unless things have changed an awful lot headbangers like the Gogols don’t shy away from kidnaps and professional hits.’

  ‘True. But they usually demand a ransom.’

  ‘Kostas Gatsos had enemies, whatever his grandchildren think.’

  ‘I know that. We’ve checked several. Oddly, they all had rock solid alibis.’

  Mavros watched the brigadier closely.

  ‘You know about the Colombian connection?’

  Nikos Kriaras had a good poker face, but the double blink gave him away.

  ‘Haralambidhi?’ he called. ‘Refresh my memory.’

  The lieutenant blushed. ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know about any Colombian connection.’

  Mavros tut-tutted. ‘Shall I enlighten you?’

  ‘If you don’t, you’ll be taking a bath under the Averof’s sewage outlet,’ Kriaras said.

  Mavros explained, without mentioning his brother-in-law.

  ‘See the benefits of having become a businessman?’ he said. ‘Obviously no one in the organised crime unit can read spreadsheets.’

  ‘I can,’ said Lieutenant Babis.

  ‘Well, it’s a lot of material and you’ve only had a month.’

  ‘That’s enough. We’ll check these people. Give Haralambidhis their names. Is that it?’

  ‘What about the Paradiso Bianco?’ Mavros asked, as the tinted window started to rise.

  ‘We’ll let you know.’

  ‘Hold on. There could be consequences if you throw the Russians in the cells.’

  ‘I’ll make sure the minister understands that.’

  Mavros watched as the window closed. Not for the first time, Kriaras had got more than he’d given. On the other hand, if the Colombians did have drugs gang links Mavros couldn’t handle them on his own.

  Lieutenant Babis drove him back to his mother’s, where Mavros dismissed him and carried away the police files. It was early afternoon. People would be heading home for lunch. Just the time to catch them.

  Jim Thomson was sitting in the park in Kensington, a copy of the Age across his thighs. The usual disasters both in and beyond Australia. He didn’t know why he kept buying Ivy’s paper. She’d always had an open mind, that was one of the things that had attracted him to her. That and her magnificent figure. And her sense of humour. And …

  He was back in Alice Springs in the early 90s. Forty years old, the sea salt long sweated out of him after two years working in a restaurant patronised by personnel from the joint Australian-American satellite tracking base at Pine Gap. What he liked most was being 1200 kilometres from the sea. He had a room in a house owned by an elderly couple who left him to himself. He drank in the bars and, once he could afford an old car, drove into the desert at night. The stars seemed different from the ones he’d seen at sea and in the Philippines, and obviously were not the same as the northern hemisphere constellations he had stared up at from Ikaria. The dry brush reminded him of his homeland, but only in terms of scent and colour. He had cut off his emotions from his senses and no longer felt a connection. Even the heat, worse than an Athenian August, didn’t bother him. There wasn’t a trace of moisture from the ocean in the air and he liked that.

  He first saw Ivy at the camel races. Her white dress was patterned with red flowers that set off her fiery hair. She was with another woman, stern and much thinner. He assumed they were lesbians as the town had a large community. Then Ivy looked back at him, as if his gaze was burning her neck, and their eyes made contact. He went across and slipped her the phone number of the restaurant while her friend was yelling at a beast that had missed its footing. He wasn’t normally forward; in fact he hadn’t been with a woman since he’d come to Alice. Doing so would have been to disrespect Pilita, even though he was the one who had left. Now he knew that he’d remained faithful because he hadn’t met the right woman.

  Ivy came to restaurant on her own and waited for him to finish. He took her to a respectable bar and they drank lager. At first she did the talking, slowly drawing him out, but eventually he found his tongue and they conversed on equal terms.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Flo. She’s just an acquaintance. I met her on the plane. She’s off exploring the lezzer nightlife, good on her.’

  ‘But you …’

  She laughed and he felt a weight lift. There hadn’t been enough laughter in his life.

  ‘No, mate. I like men. Especially since my husband passed away.’ She told him about Mick the slaughterman and the fun they’d had; and about the house in Kensington.

  ‘What about you? Where are you from?’

  He hesitated. ‘Many places.’

  ‘The Mediterranean? You a Greek? Plenty of those in Melbourne.’

  He was going to lie but with her that didn’t seem right, even then. ‘Yes. I had some problems there. I don’t like to talk about it.’

  Ivy smiled. ‘That’s all right. We all have our secrets.’

  And he never disclosed his, even though she often tried to get him to do so over the years. Hers were minor – a boyfriend she’d two-timed, an affair Mick never found out about. What she really wanted were children, but she was resigned to that never happening.

  ‘I’ve been in many places,’ he said, ‘all over the world.’

  ‘So you’re either a pilot or a sailor.’

  ‘They have men serving drinks on planes too.’

  ‘You’re too much of a hunk for that.’

  He smiled. ‘You’re right. I was a cook on the ships. A useful trade on land too.’

  ‘What brought you to the back of beyond?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question.’

  ‘I’m a tourist, lover. I go to a different place in this magnificent country every year. Come on, why are you out in the desert?’

  He raised his shoulders. ‘I don’t like the sea.’

  Her sharp eyes picked up his discomfort. ‘More secrets? Don’t worry, we’re only talking.’

  His heart sank. Not only did this stunning, happy woman make him feel alive again, but he desperately wanted to take her clothes off. It was if she read his mind.

  ‘Or maybe we aren’t. Let’s go.’ Ivy got up and pulled him out of the bar.

  The clerk at her hotel ignored him as she took him up to her room, hand tight around his wrist.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I do this with every man who buys me a beer.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  She laughed loudly, then put her hand over her mouth. ‘We’ll get thrown out.’

  He thought of his room with the old people. ‘Not a good idea. Here, let me.’ He pulled down the zip of her dress and slipped his hands round, having unclipped her lacy bra. She moaned as he touched her nipples. His fingers tingled and he was consumed by curiosity. He had to see her breasts; he’d never felt others like them. In the light from the street he turned her as her dress dropped. He pulled off her bra and examined the hard nipples. The brown circle around them was large and the breasts themselves were heavy, though they stood proud without support.

  ‘Kiss me,’ she said, panting.

  He did so, on each nipple and then on the lips. They staggered sideways to the bed and she ran a hand over his groin.

  ‘Big man,’ she whispered. ‘Time you were set free.’

  Their lovemaking was relaxed, the passion somehow controlled so that the climax would be all the better. And it was for him. For Ivy, he wasn’t sure – until she slammed her hands against the headboard and let out a long shriek.

  People started banging on the walls and ceiling, and the clerk phoned up to ask for
restraint.

  ‘Too late, mate,’ Ivy said, making both of them laugh hysterically.

  Four days later Jim gave his car to an Aborigine he used to drink with, packed a single suitcase, dumped the rest of his gear and bought a ticket to Melbourne on the same flight as Ivy. He had hitched his way across the country so seeing it from the air was a revelation. Ivy was right. It was a magnificent country. She was magnificent too. He didn’t care any more about going to Melbourne with its large population of Greek descent. He would keep his background to himself. After all, he had a non-Greek name now.

  And then, as the plane circled to land, he saw the sea and his heart was pierced. It was his fate to cross water again, he was sure of that – but he would resist it as long as he could.

  He worked in restaurants for three years, spending his free time crafting wood, a new-found passion. Ivy knew a picture-framer who took him on and he escaped the tiresome hours of the kitchens.

  And all was well until Ivy, who’d kept her own Greek background secret for fear of scaring him off, asked him to take her back to the old country. He’d finally made his mind up. He was leaving the next day.

  Mavros was glad to find that his mother had applied the chain and dead bolts.

  ‘Honestly, dear,’ she said, rubbing her hands. ‘Isn’t it time we gave up these precautions?’

  ‘Not until we find the Son.’ There was also the small matter of the Gogol brothers. Dinos might tell them about the Fat Man’s visit and they wouldn’t take long to track Mavros down; but he wasn’t going to tell Dorothy about them.

  He made himself a sandwich, declining her offer of help, then called Yiorgos.

  ‘Get round to my mother’s,’ he said ‘Sharpish.’

  ‘I’ll have to take a cab then.’

  ‘Yes, you will. Get him to wait and ring the bell.’

  He went back into the saloni. Dorothy was leafing through a pile of typescript in Greek.

  ‘That old academician’s treatise on the Byzantine navy? We’re not publishing it.’

  ‘It might do as an e-book.’

  ‘If he pays for it to be scanned and set up.’

  ‘You’re turning into a capitalist running dog, Alex.’

  He laughed. ‘It’s the company I’ve been keeping lately.’ He had a thought. ‘You don’t know the Svolos family, do you?’

  ‘I’ve run into them from time to time. Not so much since old Tefkros died.’

  ‘He was a rival of Kostas Gatsos.’

  Dorothy blinked at him. ‘That would be putting it mildly. They hated each other. The story is that Kostas had an affair with Tefkros’s wife – she was much younger. They were caught in flagrante and the same night the poor woman fell down the stairs and broke her neck.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I don’t think so. There were rumours that her body showed marks of a bad beating and that her death was no accident.’

  ‘Lovely people. What about the old man’s descendants?’

  ‘He had a son, but he died flying his own plane. I think there’s a granddaughter.’

  ‘Nadia.’

  ‘That sounds right.’

  ‘Evi Gatsou sent me her address. We’re off there now.’

  ‘I can’t come, dear. I have to finish this.’

  He laughed. ‘No, Yiorgos and I.’

  ‘He’s working with you again?’

  ‘Yup. So far he’s been very effective.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ Unlike Anna, Dorothy didn’t dislike the Fat Man; she’d known him when he was a trusted comrade of her husband. But she did feel he rather lowered the tone.

  ‘How about the Pyrsos, Houklis and Tzakos families?’

  ‘Theo Houklis is a hairdresser, one of those celebrity types. Awful man. I think there’s a sculptor called Dhimitris Pyrsos. And I sat on a charity committee once with Liana Tsakou – she runs one of the private TV channels, I can’t remember which. She was widowed when she was quite young. Her husband was an industrialist. Anna will know more.’

  The doorbell rang.

  Mavros kissed her on the forehead. ‘See you later.’

  ‘This Gatsos case,’ she called after him. ‘It isn’t dangerous, is it?’

  It was for Pavlos, he thought. ‘Not so far. You know shipowners. All … urine and wind.’

  ‘Alexander Mavros!’

  ‘Sorry.’ He left the flat and ran downstairs. A taxi driven by a well built middle-aged woman with a sweet face was waiting, Yiorgos in the back passenger seat.

  ‘Politeia,’ Mavros said.

  ‘Excellent,’ responded the driver. ‘A decent fare for a change.’

  The suburb was at the far northern edge of the city, on the lower western slopes of Mount Pendeli. It had become exclusive from the time that the statesman Konstandinos Karamanlis lived there and there were numerous MPs, business people and artists in the area.

  ‘Who are we going to see?’ asked the Fat Man.

  ‘Nadia Svolou.’

  Yiorgos grinned. ‘Dinos’s friend.’

  Mavros patted him on the knee. ‘Yes, good boy, you did very well.’ He rang his sister, watching as they went past the Evangelismos Hospital. Crowds of family and visitors were milling around outside the building. It struck him that their faces were more strained than usual and their clothes less fashionable, even in the upmarket heart of the city. The financial crisis was definitely taking its toll.

  He called his sister.

  ‘I’m busy, Alex.’

  ‘Just a couple of things.’

  She groaned. ‘Now?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘What did you and Nondas get up to last night?’

  ‘He cooked.’

  ‘That explains his non-appearance, does it? What do you want?’

  ‘What can you tell me about Agamemnon Pyrsos?’

  ‘Son of Dhimitris? Not much. His father was the one in the limelight. I seem to remember stories about Agam – that’s what they call him – being gay and a junkie. Dhimitris made a lot of money from his weird sculptures – all sharp points and bulging eyes – but he doesn’t feature much these days.’

  ‘OK. What about Kirki Houkli?’

  ‘New money. Her father Theo, the hairdresser, is as camp as it gets, but he must have been married some time in the past since she exists. I’ve heard it costs at least 200 euros at his salon.’

  ‘You’d never pay that much to get your hair done.’

  ‘I certainly would not. If you’re going to be—’

  ‘Only kidding. Jimmy Tzakos?’

  ‘His mother Liana owns Alternative TV. Trash for the masses, but she’s surprisingly nice. I think Jimmy’s a wannabe actor.’

  ‘You mean he’s unemployed.’

  ‘He gets the odd role in sitcoms, not only on ATV, but generally he’s a layabout.’

  ‘You’re a walking database. One more – Nadia Svolou.’

  ‘Shipping family. There was a feud between her grandfather and Kostas Gatsos, but you probably know about that.’

  ‘I do. Keep going.’

  ‘Doesn’t she hang out with Dinos Gatsos?’

  ‘Take another bow.’

  ‘Do you want a Christmas present this year? The only other thing I know is that her mother’s an alcoholic. She hasn’t been seen in public for a year or more. The family company’s almost bankrupt.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Amelia, known as Meli.’

  ‘A taste of honey,’ Mavros said, playing on the meaning of ‘meli’.

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend applying your tongue to any part of her. Now I’ve really got to go.’

  The taxi was moving up Kifissias Avenue in heavy traffic. There was no shortage of empty shop windows and offices with ‘To Rent’ signs on them.

  ‘Ordinary people’s livelihoods gobbled up by the banks,’ the driver said.

  ‘Capitalism eats itself,’ said the Fat Man.

  ‘You a Communist?’

  ‘Would that be a p
roblem?’ Mavros interjected. Plenty of people were still rabidly anti-Communist because their forebears had been killed or maltreated during the vicious civil war in the late 40s.

  ‘Not particularly,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t love the KKE but I can see it has a purpose.’

  ‘Checks and balances,’ Mavros said.

  ‘Someone has to stand up to the big parties in parliament and on the news programmes.’

  ‘Let alone protect workers’ rights,’ Yiorgos mumbled.

  ‘I don’t like the way unions are attached to parties,’ the driver said. ‘They shouldn’t have to be.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have studied politics?’ Mavros asked.

  The woman looked at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘As it happens, I did. Married a bastard who left me with two kids and went back to the ships when they were in their teens. Then my father had a heart attack where I’m sitting and I had to take over this heap.’

  ‘It’s better than plenty I’ve been in.’

  ‘That’s because I care. But I’m not one of those sharks who overcharge old ladies and tourists, so I could never afford to upgrade. And now earnings are down with the economic crash. If you ask me, we should get rid of the euro and go back to the dhrachmi. We’ve been ripped off in all directions since the change of currency.’

  ‘You’ve got that right,’ said the Fat Man. ‘The German banks have sunk their claws into us.’

  The conversation continued in that vein until they reached the far northern suburbs, only ending when they pulled up outside a house that was by far the shabbiest in its street.

  ‘Do you want me to wait?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Sure.’ Mavros handed her a twenty Euro note. ‘In case we don’t come back.’

  She smiled. ‘What’s in there? A knocking shop?’

  ‘Anything’s possible. What’s your name?’

  ‘Marianthi. Take your time. I’ve got the paper to read.’ She took a left-of-centre daily from beneath her seat.

  ‘Nice woman,’ Mavros said, as he pressed the bell by the rusty gate.

  ‘Think she’ll go out with me?’ Yiorgos asked.

  ‘No, but you could make a fool of yourself by asking.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Who is it?’ came a scratchy voice.

  ‘Friends of Dinos for Nadia.’

  There was pause and then the gate unlocked. They walked up to a door that had once been white. It opened on the chain.