Greek Island Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-2-3): Gripping, psychological mystery/thrillers destined to shock you!

by Luke Christodoulou

  Olympic Airlines flight 308 landed at nine in the morning at the small airport of Crete’s second largest town, Chania. I dislike flying as I am quite a tall guy at 6’foot or 1.84 meters as we would say here in Greece and I have broad shoulders so the tiny space these airplanes call chairs are a nightmare to me. Thankfully, this was no transatlantic flight, but a fifty-five minute ‘up-have a drink-here are some stale nuts-down’ kind of flight.

  I picked up my black Samsonite bag and rolling it behind me, I exited the building.

  Ioli Cara was not what I was expecting. Don’t get me wrong, Greece has some of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life, it’s just that you don’t find many lookers working homicide cases.

  She was tall, nearly as tall as me and that perfect kind of slim. The not too slim that turned me off, but that healthy, athletic slim. Her name definitely did her justice. Ioli was a mythological princess and Cara meant black in Turkish. She had long, shampoo advert, shiny, black hair, dark seductive eyes and sun-kissed skin. She must have been at least fifteen years younger than me, in her early thirties. As she walked over confidently in her tight blue jeans, I could see the men around us turn and look, probably thinking τι μανάρι είναι αυτό, loosely translated into a common what a babe.

  ‘‘Captain Papacosta?’’

  I nodded with a smile.

  ‘‘Ioli Cara. I’ve been waiting for you. My car is over there,’’ she said and turned towards her car.

  ‘‘No handshake?’’ I thought as I whispered a ‘‘nice to meet you too’’ and followed her, trying not to stare at her figure and come off like some dirty old man. Having tucked my luggage in the back, I sat in the passenger seat of her navy blue Opel Corsa. Ioli placed her hands firmly on the wheel and asked, ‘‘do you want to go straight to the police department or do you first want to pass by the B&B we have booked for you to… freshen up?’’ as she looked at my unshaven face, my messed up hair, my deprived of sleep eyes and my scruffy looking, grey suit.

  ‘‘Take me to where the body was found.’’

  ‘‘Straight to business. My kind of guy,’’ she said, smiling and put on her black shades from Madonna’s D&G collection.

  Chania was a fifteen minute drive away. We drove through town and headed towards the beach and the luxurious, five-star hotel of Antlantica Kalliston Resort and Spa.

  ‘‘This is where Eric Blair stayed. The body was found five minutes away, over those hills.”

  ‘‘Let’s go to our crime scene then.”

  Just a few moments later, we were in front of an enormous, thick-trunk oak tree. There were no buildings in sight, a hardly used dirt road led to the spot and as the murder occurred at night, the killer must have had Eric to himself.

  I ducked under the police tape, took a few short steps forward and stopped to process the scene. My eyes started to scan the area. Stains of blood were scattered all over the ground and spatter from the blow to the head had painted part of the oak dark red. Besides the blood, there was nothing really else to imply that some wrongdoing took place here. Ioli stood patiently, a few steps to my side, examining my method or so I hoped. I closed my eyes, rebuilding the area in my head as I tried to picture the killer’s movements. He must have been quite strong to have lifted Blair’s body and then carried it up to the oak tree. Did he give a sedative to the victim or did he make him walk up to the tree and then tied him up?

  I turned towards Ioli. ‘‘So Lieutenant Cara, you were the first officer to arrive to the scene, walk me through everything that you saw. Leave no details behind. There are no insignificant details when it comes to murder.” I did not intend on sounding so uptight.

  ‘‘The body was found early Thursday morning by an elderly couple passing by on the way to their farm. The poor old woman broke down in shock and had to be hospitalised for the day. Thankfully, the old man had a cell phone and found the courage to call it in. I arrived ten minutes later. It was like nothing I had ever seen before…’’ She paused as to gather herself emotionally and then started to describe what she had seen. I just stood there, taking everything in and scribbling down the main facts in my small black notepad. I did not want to interrupt her at the moment with questions. I needed her to be my eyes to something that I did not witness.

  ‘‘… the man was completely naked and tied to the oak by two pieces of thick rope. One piece was around his legs at knee height and the other piece was around his chest.”

  She stepped up close to me and placed her index finger on my stomach. ‘‘He was cut wide open from here to here,’’ she said as she ran her finger all the way across my beer belly. ‘‘It was revolting. His guts were hanging out. Pieces from his insides had fallen to the dirt and were already filled with flies and a few worms. But the worst was the head. It looked like it had taken a blow from an axe. It was cut right open and you could clearly see that the brain had been carved in half. This is one sick fuck of a killer if you ask me.”

  She stopped and looked at me to catch a reaction and as I did not move a facial muscle, she took in a small, soundless breath and continued.

  ‘‘We found nothing else. And I mean nothing. It was so fucking frustrating. Not a single hair, not a single fingerprint, not even a goddamned footprint in the dirt.”

  I looked down and noticed many footprints around the scene. Ioli quickly remarked that when she arrived the whole area from the road to the tree had been raked to perfection. The footsteps belonged to fellow officers and the paramedics that took away the body.

  ‘‘I obviously took pictures of everything and checked the grounds for evidence before allowing them near,’’ she continued and went on to state that she had a fellow officer working on a list with tourist rental cars, but so far nothing suspicious had come up.

  ‘‘Good job, Cara. Did you personally speak to the girlfriend?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Yeah, I questioned the girlfriend,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Girlfriend?’’ I repeated, imitating her tone and rolling of the eyes.

  ‘‘Well, I wouldn’t call her that, to be honest!”

  ‘‘And what would you call her then?’’

  ‘‘His poutana! She was a slutty, young, would-have-been-a-whore if not so gorgeous, woman. Clearly with him for his money. I mean, the guy wasn’t that great looking, he was married until last week and was old enough to be her father.”

  This girl sure did have a tongue on her. I realised that even though I had just met her, I liked this girl’s attitude. We Greeks do swear a lot, but I never really did. Mama’s training had worked well. Whenever a ‘‘gamoto’’ used to slip from my adolescent mouth, a firm strike from mama’s right hand would find me on the back of my head, followed by the line ‘‘no need for language, young man.” I remember sitting on the stairwell of our apartment block in Astoria, telling my mate Jimmy about mama’s views on swearing. Jimmy looked at me like I was from another planet. ‘‘Fuck. It’s just a fucking word. It’s even in the fucking dictionary, if you don’t fucking like it, then fuck off,’’ he said and we both burst out laughing. Quite the character that Jimmy. He was also, like most kids in our neighborhood, the proud offspring of Greek immigrants. We grew up together and both of us joined law enforcement. Jimmy was now an FBI agent; ‘‘just like in the movies,’’ as his mother Toula proudly announced to everyone she met.

  ‘‘His escort, one Lizzie McAdam, aged 21, reported that Eric had gotten out of bed after sex, had a shower, got dressed and said that he was going for a walk down at the beach to smoke a cigar. That was the last time she saw him. She woke up the next morning and realised that he had never returned.”

  I flicked through the crime scene photographs that Ioli had given me as we exited her car. I looked at the close up of Eric’s hand and noticed the faint yellow colour on his fingers and nails. Clearly a smoker. ‘‘Is she still here?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘No, we let her go after questioning. The security cameras from the hotel showed them both entering thei
r room and only Eric was recorded leaving a couple of hours later. The suite was on the top floor. She could not have left the room from the room’s balcony. Anyway, she hardly knew the guy, was too petite to have carried him and to be honest we all found her irritatingly dumb. She could not have planned this. As nothing, though, is unlikely in this world, we kept all her contact details and checked that she arrived in New York after leaving Greece. Eric’s sister is coming today to escort the body back to the states tomorrow. Hopefully, she will be more helpful.”

  ‘‘Let’s get going to the body then, before questioning the sister.”

  *****

  Chapter 4

  Alicia Robinson could not believe her luck. Winning Miss England two years ago was still her greatest success, but this came as a close second. She was in Cyprus soaking up the hot, sizzling Mediterranean sun, browning up her white pale skin with the rest of the youthful and glamorous models by the pool of the prestigious Columbia Beach Resort in the small, coastal village of Pissouri. They deserved a good bake in the sun after a morning-long swimwear photo shoot down at the beach of Pissouri Bay.

  Columbia Resort was located upon the slope of a verdant hill that headed down to the clear waters. Tall palm trees and green gardens surrounded it and the view was breathtaking. The resort offered every luxury imaginable and the girls, all young and most never having left their home country before, were enjoying the feeling of royalty. At night, all the girls came down together after spending hours on make-up applying, combing their hair and picking out dresses. They gathered around the pool area and were faced with a mile-long buffet dinner. All tables were set perfectly with expensive porcelain plates and exquisite silverware. The tables were spread out under the night sky; a sky filled with countless stars that seemed to shine so much brighter in Cyprus. The buffet had everything your heart –or stomach-could desire.

  Alicia mostly wanted to try the Greek-Cypriot cuisine she had heard so much about. Delicious, steamy kleftiko, wine-marinated pieces of pork called afelia, mousakka, golden oven-cooked potatoes and the freshest salad she had ever seen, soon filled her plate. Even Londis grocery store back home in Canterbury did not have tomatoes this red. As she walked over to their table, her plate drew a few looks from the rest of the models who had mostly placed a few olive oil marinated croutons and some lettuce on their plates. She could sense the envy building up.

  ‘‘What? I have a good metabolism. Anyway, I’m not going to keep it all in!’’ she joked in an attempt to break the tension. Most girls smiled and the drop-dead-gorgeous, crazy Italian girl laughed out loud as they all sat down to enjoy their salad feast.

  Pissouri was a quiet village and it literally stood up to its name. Pissouri in Greek meant pitch black and after ten o’clock it was exactly that. Visitors soons realized that the tranquil village had no nightlife. Most models did not care as they needed their beauty sleep. After many air-kisses and wishes for sweet dreams, they scattered to their rooms.

  ‘‘Living clichés,’’ Alicia thought. She did not feel like sleeping.

  ‘‘I am young, on top of the world, with so much energy from my youth or is it perhaps from the kleftiko?’’ she joked to herself.

  She decided to take a walk down to the beach, but thought to buy a triple-chocolate Galaxy ice-cream before heading down to the bay for a moonlit stroll in the sand.

  Just a few minutes later she was walking into Pepi’s mini-market, ice-cream in hand. No one was to be seen behind the scratched wooden counter. She then heard a screeching noise coming from the rear end of the shop. The owner was busy with his closing up the shop for the night duties.

  ‘‘Excuse me?’’ she called out discreetly.

  ‘‘Well, hello there,’’ the owner said and quickly walked towards the counter, dusting off his hands upon his blue shirt. He offered Alicia a generous smile that lifted his heavy moustache.

  ‘‘Just this, please,’’ Alicia said and placed her ice-cream on the counter.

  ‘‘That will be 1.95, thank you,’’ he said, with his thick Cypriot accent.

  ‘‘Oh, what an idiot I am,’’ she automatically thought to herself as she realised she had left the hotel without any money.

  ‘‘I’m so sorry. I seem to have forgotten my money at the hotel. I’ll be right back,’’ she apologised.

  ‘‘It’s ok. I’ll pay. These too,’’ said the gentleman behind her as he placed his bottle of Evian water and a Mars ice-cream on the counter.

  ‘‘No, no. No need for that. I’ll just pop back to the…’’ Alicia rushed to say.

  ‘‘I insist! Come on… Can’t a guy buy a beautiful girl an ice-cream anymore?’’ he interrupted as his right hand pushed through his shiny black hair and awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. He had amazing green eyes and that voice, ‘‘oh that voice, so smooth yet so masculine,’’ Alicia thought.

  ‘‘Thank you,’’ she whispered gently as they exited the shop together and stood on the bricked road that led down to the beach.

  ‘‘Sam Newton,’’ he said, and offered his hand.

  ‘‘Alicia Robinson.’’ Her hand entered his.

  ‘‘Care for a walk, Alicia? Before these melt?’’ he asked, ice-creams in hand.

  Alicia nodded and smiled in reply. They walked downhill along the path, side by side, with the silver moon serving as their only light. Soon, they had reached the narrow stairs that led down to the sandy beach.

  ‘‘Ladies first,’’ Sam said. He stepped aside and with his hand stretched out he showed her the way. Alicia smiled and thought, ‘‘does chivalry still exist or does he just want to check out my ass?’’

  They slowly strolled further down and having finished their delectable and refreshing ice-creams, they sat down on a wooden bench and gazed at the sea. The waves were the only sound breaking through the silence and the darkness.

  ‘‘Are you here on holiday with family, friends? Boyfriend?’’ he asked with a cheeky smile and a double raise of his eyebrows.

  ‘‘Co-workers. I work for a London-based modelling agency,’’ she replied, trying not to sound pompous.

  ‘‘That’s fantastic! I should have guessed,’’ he said, and his eyes scrolled down her face and started to scan her body.

  ‘‘You?’’ she quickly asked as to retrieve his eyes back to eye level.

  ‘‘Oh, I’m a writer. I’m writing a book at the moment,’’ he stated, and pulled out of his backpack a red notebook with a silver pen clipped to it.

  ‘‘It’s a thriller,’’ he proudly announced, with a mischievous grin.

  ‘‘Here, let me read you a passage.’’

  *****

  Chapter 5

  I stood outside the coroner’s lavatory having a much-needed smoke. I had seen my fair share of bodies during my career, but this was atrocious. Atrocious. I always liked the ring of that word, and with that thought, I walked outside to avoid disapproving looks by medical examiners passing by.

  Official cause of death was bled out after a strike to the lower abdomen by a sharp object, most likely a knife. The cutting of the skull and the carving of the brain into two happened post mortem. The small carved lightning bolt on his forehead puzzled me the most. I gave the demure coroner a good laugh when I first gazed upon the marking and asked her, ‘‘what’s this? Are we looking for some freaky Harry Potter maniac or what?’’

  Ioli, on the other hand, was not amused. It bothered her that we were stuck at square one. She had, so far, a perfect record. Solved every single case she had ever worked on. No wonder she became a lieutenant so young.

  ‘‘Didn’t know you smoked,’’ she commented as she pushed open the beige aluminium door and ambled out to the small parking lot.

  ‘‘I don’t,’’ I replied as I dropped the cigarette I had gotten from the coroner and stepped on it. ‘‘Well, I used to but I quit years ago,” I admitted.

  I’ll never forget the day when Gaby came back from school -she must have been six at the time-with a sad look upo
n her face. I asked her if something was wrong, to which she firmly replied, ‘‘you are going to die.”

  It took a while to get the whole story about how little Andrew’s uncle died of a heart attack and Andrew repeated to his fellow pupils that his mama said that smoking killed him. The kids then asked their teacher about smoking and she described as PG as she could about all the terrible effects smoking could have on your health.

  ‘‘And if you are going to die, I don’t want to play with you anymore,’’ Gaby continued, and just like that I had been blackmailed into quitting.

  ‘‘Good for you, ‘cancer in a box’ my grandma used to say,’’ Ioli remarked as her phone rang.

  ‘‘Ioli Cara… hmm… yeah… ok, we’ll be there in five.”

  ‘‘Sister’s here,’’ she said, and started to stride towards her parked car.

  As we drove down Irakliou Street, where Chania’s police station is located, Ioli pointed to an old building on our left with tiny little balconies that made you wonder if they could fit two chairs on them.

  ‘‘That’s your hotel, Captain.’’

  ‘‘Lovely,’’ I answered sarcastically, and won myself one of her Julia Robert’s smiles.

  The police station was quite small, just the one floor and a few police cars and motorcycles parked outside. Above the white door the proud symbol of the Hellenic Police was hanging while all windows were shut.

  ‘‘Air-conditioning,’’ I thought with a smile as I wiped the sweat away from my forehead. Sometimes I wondered what made the first settlers to these islands stay. Did they not complain as often as I about the heat?

  As we entered the building all eyes turned to see the New York detective turned Greek Police Captain who was with Ioli. Their curiosity was not fed as Ioli did not bother with any form of introduction but led me straight to the questioning room.

  Jenny Blair was in a terrible state sitting there with tears gathered in her eyes, ready to fall, and with an untouched coffee in her hands. She could not have been over forty, ladylike manners, dressed in a plain black dress that could not hide her stunning figure. Blonde and with beautiful characteristics, she had a warmth about her that made you relate to her pain. As I introduced Ioli and myself, I could see that she was glad to hear an American accent, but she made no comment of any sorts.