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

by Luke Christodoulou

  ‘Did he live alone? Have a girlfriend? Did he work somewhere?’ Slow down, Costa. Don’t get carried away. Let her tell her story.

  ‘He… worked at The News Of Athens. He was a reporter. Last time he phoned home, he said he had broken up with that beautiful, little thing he brought home for Christmas. Eirini was her name. I liked her. She was good for him…’ She stopped, lost in her thoughts.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I am not a bad mother.’

  ‘No one said you were, Mrs Panayiotou.’

  ‘I saw him last Easter. He seemed well and happy. I called him every Sunday and he would listen to my mindless chit-chat about the village and all my old lady’s gossip. He was a good boy, my Alex. That is why, it shocked me when he stopped answering my calls.’

  ‘When did this start?’

  ‘Around July. And then, one day in August he finally picked up and he shouted at me. He never raised his voice, not even as a wild teenager.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I was annoying him and I should finally cut the umbilical cord, and that I should stop calling him… He hung up on me and ever since his phone has been switched off. I worried, but with my hip and the farm, I could not come down to Athens. So I called Eirini.’ She paused and I could sense something was bothering her. She hesitated.

  ‘Mrs Panayiotou, anything you say, is between you and the police…’

  ‘I don’t want to blacken his memory.’

  ‘What was Alex…’

  ‘Drugs,’ she delivered the word wrapped up with despise and hatred. ‘Eirini said he got messed up with drugs and that he quit his job and kicked her out of his house. My boy would not do drugs, I raised my voice at her and hung up. It is hard for a parent to accept such a thing. You bear children, you shower them with sense and morals and let them fly away and you hope that all you taught them does not slide like rain off an umbrella.’

  ‘I will pay his boss a visit and may I have the phone number for Eirini?’

  ‘Of course. Find out who killed my boy, Captain,’ she said with a steady voice and stood up. ‘Now, may I see him?’

  ‘I will arrange for a police car to take you to the hospital. I must warn you, Mrs Panayiotou, he was stabbed to death and he suffered injuries to the face. Prepare yourself…’

  ‘I guessed that much from the sketch. I thought, why not a photograph?’ She swallowed hard and wiped her tears. ‘I will survive, Captain. Now, all I seek is justice.’

  Chapter 6

  The News Of Athens is widely known as the capital’s most prestigious and bestselling newspaper. The ‘bad tongues’ as we say here in Greece, would gossip that sales soared as the tabloid offered music CDs, nature DVDs and an array of lifestyle magazines free with every sale. Its main offices were housed in the Athens Tower, a glass wedding cake type skyscraper, occupying the first eight floors. I entered the vast, front lobby flushed from my fast-paced walk, and approached the oval reception booth. A dark haired girl with a closed, distant face and wires coming out of her ears, lifted a ‘one minute, please’ finger at me as she continued to talk into the microphone that originated from her ear.

  ‘Good morning, how may I help you, sir?’

  ‘I need to see the editorial chief, Mr Aggelou?’

  ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’

  ‘No, I am…’

  ‘It will be impossible for him to see you today. If it is urgent, I could schedule you in by…’

  ‘Now,’ I said, flashing my badge. ‘Just direct me to his office and inform him the police is coming up. Thank you.’

  I exhaled as I entered with the rest of the sardines into the glass cage that lifted us up to the eighth floor.

  I followed the receptionist’s directions and found myself up against yet another receptionist/secretary. She quickly rose to her feet, informed by the desk below, to welcome me.

  ‘Good day, sir. Mr Aggelou is expecting you. May we offer you a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ I pushed open the door and entered the most spacious office I had ever stepped foot in. The painted light blue walls were decorated either with fine art or framed front pages. A modern, wooden bar counter occupied the corner on my right, while on my left was a 70” TV, split into cells that showed the various major news channels of Greece. In front of me was Mr Aggelou’s colossal desk. Expensive wood -no doubt-with the latest state of the art laptop and tablet by his side. I walked over and shook his extended hand. The view behind him was breathtaking. All of Athens unfolded all the way up to Lycabytus Hill.

  What kind of person puts the view behind them? The sunsets must be majestic to watch from here.

  ‘Have a seat… Mr?’

  ‘Captain Costa Papacosta.’ I situated myself opposite him in a strange-looking, black and white armchair. Sitting down, I realized that the chair’s patterns were different photographs from around the world.

  ‘And to what do I owe this visit?’ he asked with apathy. A man used to knowing everything and whose every guest took up less than two minutes of his precious time.

  ‘Alex Panayiotou.’

  ‘What did that fire cracker get himself into, this time?’ he smiled with admiration and a quiet chuckle.

  ‘He was murdered three days ago.’

  The corners of his smile took the road downwards, his broad shoulders fell and his blue eyes seemed to turn a pale shade of grey. He opened the top draw on his right and lifted out a thick cigar. He mumbled a ‘Do you mind?’ to which I shook my head that I did not. He lit it and smoke spread out into the room. As he blew out the dense smoke, it danced its way over to my nostrils. I breathed in the polluted air, took it down to my lungs and reinforced my opinion that smokers never really quit.

  ‘Can I offer you a cigar, Captain?’

  Oh, yes, please do. ‘No, thank you. I quit years ago.’ And have smoked at least thirty cigarettes since then…

  ‘Murdered? By whom?’

  ‘That is what I am trying to figure out. I realize he used to work here. When did he quit exactly?’

  ‘Quit? Alex never quit! He never quit anything in his life. Stubborn little one he was. One of my rising stars!’

  ‘His mother had a different impression. So when was the last time you saw him? When was he last at work?’

  ‘Last July.’

  ‘That’s four months ago.’ I tilted my head slightly to the side and assumed my pose of inquiry.

  Did he quit or not?

  Mr Aggelou leaned forward and started to narrate the events of their last encounter.

  ‘12th of July it was, I am sure of that. I was up to my neck with coverage of the UK Prime-Minister’s visit and Alex came barging in with that hot-shot look all over his face. He was sweating with excitement as he declared that he had the story of a lifetime. If I had a penny every time I heard that line! He was certain that a monastery in Salamina had… a document.’

  He paused.

  ‘A document?’

  ‘Captain, I do not know if he was right or wrong. However, in the case that he was right, I must request that anything said here between us, stays between us. Especially now. If he’s dead, he might just have been right. That crazy boy who I thought crazier, could well have been right. Well, I’ll be damned…’ he said and turned to face the crucifix hung on the wall, up high. His three fingers met and he did his cross as we say here in Greece.

  ‘What did Alex believe he had found?’

  ‘He did not reveal his sources, but he was dead certain… poor choice of words… he was certain that the monks were hiding an Evaggelio written by Jesus Christ himself.’

  ‘He sounded sure of this? A Gospel by Jesus himself? I am not a deeply religious man, but I imagine if something like this were true it would be…’

  ‘The story of the century! I had my doubts, but I built myself up based on hunches and I really liked the kid so I gave him 2000 Euro and six months to deliver the story. He walked out of my office
with a wide grin and a fire in his soul. I haven’t heard from him since.’

  ‘Did he reveal how he was might about getting the story?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Would he go undercover as a monk?’

  ‘I guess so. Those isolated monks tend to keep to themselves. They would never do something as blasphemous as to talk to a journalist!’

  ‘Do you think Alex would have spoken to anyone else besides yourself? Maybe team up with another reporter or a photographer?’ He certainly did not tell his mother or girlfriend. He lied about getting fired, probably lied about the drugs too, to isolate himself or perhaps to be accepted as a monk. Most monks leave their earthly life –as they call it-behind, most because of a haunting past such as drug abuse. It would have been a great cover for him to infiltrate the monastery.

  ‘No, no… Alex was a tiger. He hunted alone. And a story this big, he wouldn’t have told his own mother! Damn, he wouldn’t have told me if he did not need the budget and the time off work!’ He laughed and his large belly wobbled under his blue shirt. ‘Get me his killer, Captain and I will owe you,’ he said, pressing his index finger on the wooden surface of his desk. ‘The media can be really kind if it wants to be.’

  ‘I will do my best. Thank you,’ I said and stood up. Politics were never for me. I had no plans to be in charge of a department or become chief. I’m barely in charge of myself most of the time. We shook hands and I was on my way. All the way back to my office and straight to my computer. Monasteries in Salamina. Search. Three. One in Salamina, town center, dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Saint Lawrence Monastery in a small coastal village on the other side of the island from where the body was found and Saint Nicholas Monastery, isolated on Mount Maurovouni, thirty minutes away from the crime scene. Only St. Nick’s did not accept pilgrims or any sort of visitors. In a matter of minutes, I was on my way to cross the tunnel and meet up with Sergeant Jason. We were going to pay the monks a visit. After I ate, that is. Never interrogate on an empty stomach, Ioli advised me once. She was right. An empty stomach only caused a bad temper and made it difficult for the brain cells to concentrate solely on the case. She would not have approved of the oily pita bread with my fatty pork gyro that sat on my passenger’s chair next to my deep-fried fries, as I drove onto the ferry boat. My guilt pushed away by the first bite and the sensation of chopped up meat melting in my mouth.

  You haven’t eaten gyro if you haven’t eaten it in Greece.

  Chapter 7

  Death had always been a friend of his. Since childhood, death had excited him. The way the eyes went hollow, the decay of the skin, even the putrid smell was a high. The whole dying and rotting away process as the soul burned through the body and ascended to the sky to be judged.

  He carefully locked the old, wooden door behind him and descended awfully narrow mud-made steps. The candle’s light was flickering from the air below. Air running to escape and meet the free air howling outside through the pitch black night. He paused for a moment as he reached the basement below. Two doors on his left, two on his right. Two empty, two not. He decided upon the fat one. More skin should make his task easier. He unlocked the rusty door and struggled to push it open. Sobbing began before he could light the cell’s candles.

  The fat man’s eyes rushed from side to side in a frantic attempt to see who had entered the room. The only thing he could see was the crucifix on the moldy wall opposite him. He had lost sense of time. It had been two or three days since he was captured; he remembered being gagged and blindfolded, he remembered his clothes being ripped off his body and being watered down by a high pressure hose. Then, everything went blank. He awoke tied face down on a freezing cold, steel table. His whole body was aching, but the thirst was worse. Through his raggedy gag, he begged for water, he begged for mercy; the shadowy figure did not react, did not ever enter his vision. The room reeked from his bodily releases. He felt ashamed lying there in his own dirt, exposed, scared.

  This time the shadowy figure came close.

  Yes, death excited him, but he would not kill the fat guy tonight. No, he had work to do first. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow he would burn. He walked over to the small cabinet in the corner, opened it and took out a bottle with some sort of see-through liquid. He emptied the fluid all over the fat man’s back. An action that made him squeal like the pig he was.

  ‘Stay still, pig! The more you move, the more this is going to hurt!’ he whispered into piggy’s left ear.

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out his well-sharpened barber’s razor. With a smile that spread like wildfire from ear to ear, he lifted the bloody blade from its wooden home. He looked down upon his human canvas and stroked it with the sharp tip of his blade. In the darkest corners of his mind, he pictured the design and pushed the blade into the skin. He cut an inch deep and started to draw. He had to be careful. Not too deep. His Piggy had to be alive for tomorrow.

  Chapter 8

  I hoped my air freshener and the air blowing in through my car’s opened windows would kill the smell of my kebab before I reached the poor excuse of a police station. Sergeant Galanos was standing outside, waiting for me. His dark brown hair glued down, his shirt’s top button sealed, his clothes ironed to perfection, his black boots reflecting the afternoon sun.

  ‘Sir,’ he nodded and sat in the passenger’s seat. Not one for words, this one.

  ‘Good day, Jason. I guess you know the way or shall I plug in my GPS?’

  ‘Keep going straight. At the T-junction, turn right, then first right all the way up and from then on, Maurovouni mountain will always be in sight.’

  He spoke more mechanically than my GPS girlfriend.

  ‘First murder case?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted and went silent, lost in his thoughts. I filled in the silence and chatted away about my first case and a bunch of clichés of how you get used to it.

  The monastery was truly a marvel of Byzantine architecture. It occupied the entire mountain’s peak and its outer stone-brick walls continued down the mountain’s steep sides and became one with the lone pinnacle. Similar to a Venetian castle of the Dark Ages, there was just the one entrance, sealed off by a gargantuan, tongue-shaped, wooden gate. In full contrast, an electronic door bell with a moving camera were built in, next to the gate. I parked to the side, amongst vexatious weeds and wild roses. I stepped out of my Audi and gazed towards the horizon. Greece made it so easy to fall in love with the ocean. That is when I realized that I had stepped on a colony of ants, probably killing half the population with my heavy, black army boots. I also noticed that Jason was standing by the bell waiting for me to give him the OK to ring it.

  ‘Let’s see who’s home,’ I raised my eyebrows and said.

  The bell echoed in the silent, open space.

  ‘Hello?’ a scratchy, unfriendly voice came through the speaker.

  ‘Hellenic Police, open up.’ Jason’s manly voice grew even deeper.

  ‘Do you have any women with you?’

  ‘No, we are two male officers…’ I said and was cut off by the automatic opening of the gate. The inner courtyard was vast and filled with fruit trees and multiple vegetable patches. From behind the trees, rose the majestic stone-built church, dedicated to Saint Nicholas. It had two bell towers, one on each side, and in the middle a huge dome outgrew them and was home to a large, marble Tesseract crucifix. Oval, stained glass windows circulated the well-preserved building and through the open door, the golden iconostasis was visible. On both sides of the church, a row of ageing arcs led to the monks’ cells.

  ‘Stay here.’ The order came from the hooded monk that appeared out of nowhere. ‘The ygoumeno will be with you shortly,’ he continued, avoiding eye contact, and walked away through the labyrinth of tomatoes and lettuces. I strolled around, satisfying my curiosity while Galano stood statue still. He coughed, as he saw the monastery’s abbot approaching, to attain my attention. I was busy fiddling with the mud which filled the gaps between the stones that formed t
he wall. I was amazed that grass and mud could keep the large rocks together.

  The abbot was a medium height man in his seventies, with crow’s feet around his eyes and a deep scar on his left cheek that journeyed all the way up and became one with his forehead wrinkles. He was underweight, same as most monks, due to strict fasting and lack of meat. His head had long since said its goodbyes to most of its hair and the silver lines originating from the side and stretched to cover the top were fooling no one.

  ‘Welcome to our monastery, gentlemen,’ he spoke in a whispery manner that forced you to stretch your ears and wish you could turn up the volume on the old man. His hands were steadily interlocked with each other, mostly covered by his two sizes bigger, brown monk overalls, and he bowed slightly as he welcomed us. ‘To what do we owe this visit?’

  ‘I am Captain Papacosta and this is Sergeant Galanos. We are investigating a murder case. The murder of this man, Alex Panayiotou,’ I said and flashed the photograph of the youth beneath the abbot’s thin almond eyes. He moved no facial muscle, but the pupils of his eyes moved around his green irises, similar to annoying flies hovering above your Sunday roast.

  ‘I am abbot Serafim,’ he, in turn, introduced himself with a cold smile. ‘No, I have not seen this man before. Was he a pilgrim here? I do not meet them all and even if I did, at my age, my memory is not what it was.’

  ‘No, not a pilgrim. I believe he came here to be a monk.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Three months ago…’

  ‘Impossible. We haven’t had a new monk in our order for over two years now.’

  ‘Is there anyone else I could ask? As you said, your memory is not all what it used to be.’

  His eyebrows came down a few degrees and his smile turned into a line.

  ‘You believe I am lying to you, Captain?’

  ‘Lying is such a harsh word. I know how these orders work. You are a brotherhood and brothers protect each other. You take in many with questionable pasts. I think that if Alex showed up here, trying to get away from his drug addiction, you would have taken him in.’