Polina Demetriou coughed behind me. She had brought more reports from the guys working Athen’s homicides. I was starting to regret offering to help them with their workload. I meant field work, not paperwork.
‘Erm, Captain, it is… erm..’ she played with her curly hair and continued to inform me that it was Euaggelia’s, the canteen lady’s birthday and most were going to surprise her at closing time with a cake and beers. She asked me to join them.
‘Yeah…’ was the only word I managed to say. The roaring of my black, old fashioned, cheap telephone intruded upon my flow of thought..
‘Captain Papacosta… Hmmm… Ok… Aha… Yes, setting off now.’
‘Polina, call the police speedboat. Tell the driver to be ready in twenty minutes. Fuel up for Santorini.’
‘Right away, sir.’
I stood up and crashed into Ioli, who was hovering around me.
‘Dead woman, found in her home by her mother. Shot through the open window. She buried her husband yesterday,’ I spoke in police telegraph talk as we made a beeline for the elevator doors.
‘Kids?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Sad to lose both parents in a matter of days.’
We exited the underground parking, with its bad lighting and its smell of stagnant, stale air, rubbish and cigarette smoke. Ever since smoking had been banned in all public buildings, it seemed like everyone lived in the basement or the roof.
‘I’ll drive,’ Ioli said beeping open our patrol car. The one and only patrol car belonging to the Island’s Homicide Department. In the back, my black and yellow Goodyear suitcase next to her double the size, red Samsonite, already packed since last week.
Chapter 18
A good nap and some four hours later, our ferry floated at the bottom of the 400 meter cliff. The blue lagoon between Santorini and the volcanic island opposite it, lay vacant. In the summertime, some of the largest cruise ships in the world, stopped here releasing thousands for a day excursion. There are three ways up to Thira, walk the long, winding, labyrinthine road with the 600 plus steps, hire a donkey to carry you up or use the newly installed teleferic. We opted for the cable car.
‘Santorini is the most beautiful Greek island, hands down,’ Ioli declared, looking out the window; wires flying us up into the grey, winter sky.
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ I answered, remembering another life, years ago, when as a young man, I came here from New York with my now ex-wife.
A young police constable welcomed us to the island. We walked through well-maintained, rock-paved roads towards the first parking lot. Driving was not possible along the edge of the precipice. A few shops were open, with a couple of postcard stands outside their door, but most were shut, with that polite little notice hanging on the door. CLOSED FOR THE WINTER.
The crackling in the skies above gave pace to our walk and as soon as our seat belts had us buckled in, the first drops made their way back down to earth.
Constable Christina Dionysiou informed us that the house of the late Kate Spanou, age 38, was just a few minutes away, located in a side road just after the church of Agios Minas.
‘Her mother discovered the body. She was in a right state, sir, but I managed to take her statement. No idea what-so-ever about who would want to hurt her precious angel,’ Christina said, passing me a piece of paper with a few drops of rain on it.
‘How did her husband die?’ Ioli beat me to the question.
‘Heart attack. Always had a weak heart. A good man, Mario was. Loved in our small society.’
‘His wife?’
‘She kept to herself. Housewife, busy with chores and kids. Most described her as friendly and quiet.’
We parked outside the typical, Greek island, white painted house with the rose garden in front and a bricked pathway leading to the main entrance. Crying relatives and nosy neighbors had gathered and were contained under a yellow, dancing in the wind, car-less parking tent by a tall, muscular constable and the heavy downpour. Constable Christina said something about an umbrella in the back, but before she had finished her sentence, Ioli and I were out of the car, running in the rain.
A long-in-the-tooth, grizzled and decrepit man stood in the hallway, looking at us; disapproving our entrance.
‘Wipe your feet,’ the eighty year old man growled. ‘This way.’
‘I see, coroners do not retire here,’ Ioli whispered.
‘More like a doctor who is enjoying government benefits and refuses to give up his throne.’
We followed him into the cold kitchen. The window wide open, welcoming in the chilling air and a spray of rain fall. The woman’s body lying on the floor; an open wound in the middle of her face. A halo of blood around her. Blood spatter on the wall behind her and to her right.
‘She stood right here,’ Ioli said and stood by the kitchen sink and stared outside. ‘Bullet came flying through the open window…’
‘It looks like a bullet from a hunting rifle. The killer could not have stood at a long distance,’ I said.
‘The roof of the house opposite, otherwise he –or she-wouldn’t have a clear shot.’ She turned around holding a picture frame. A photograph of a four member family, smiles all around, having fun at the beach. Ioli always felt for the children. ‘They are never to blame and always get screwed over by adult’s bullshit,’ she once told me.
‘Are you two going to keep staring around or can I take the body now? I’ve been here for four hours!’
‘Time for your meds?’
‘What did you say girl?’
‘Yes, you can take the body… after you tell us time of death,’ I intervened.
‘Sometime yesterday morning; can’t be dead for more than 24 hours. I’ll know more after my apprentice performs the autopsy.’
I helped the doctor and his youthful apprentice with lifting up the body and placing in on the wet, orange stretcher brought in by Kyriako a.k.a. old man’s apprentice. Ioli went upstairs to look through the house for clues. I took the ground floor.
The body was wheeled outside and neither the muscular constable nor the torrential rain could hold back her mother and friends. They escorted their loved one to the back of the ambulance; their tears becoming one with the cloudburst.
We searched through private items, unfolding the life of a typical family. Photos from vacations, school clothes, jewelry, books, souvenirs, candles, socks, USB’s, DVD’s, goldfish, ashtrays, perfumes, toys, piggy banks and the list goes on. Pieces of materials that form our possessions. Pieces of a greater puzzle called domestic life.
The rain outside decided on a break. The black sky rumbling loud, getting ready for round two. We discussed our findings on our way, across the wet, slippery road to the neighbor’s doorbell.
Please not a grumpy, uncooperative old woman. Ding-dong.
The door flew open in a split second.
‘Yes?’ the pink-haired twenty year old asked, trying to catch her breath. She had been watching from behind ripped, worn-in, beige curtains. Her cigarette, lying in the tinted glass bowl that served as an ashtray, was still breathing smoke into the untidy room, its furniture from another era. She was wearing a wide, silly grin, jean shorts as wide as my belt, black socks to knee level and a white T-shirt with some club’s logo printed on it. A T-shirt that did not leave much to the imagination.
‘Lieutenant Ioli Cara, and this is Captain Papacosta. We are here concerning the death of your neighbor, Katerina Spanou. Did you hear or see anything suspicious yesterday?’
‘Err, nope. Nothing. I work nights, at Franco’s bar and I sleep till evening after I get home.’
‘Did you hear a loud noise like a gunshot while you slept?’
‘Nah…’ she scratched the shaved side of her head. ‘I sleep with my headphones on. Can’t sleep in quiet.’
‘You live alone?’
‘Yeah, this was my granny’s house. She left it to me, so I thought, fuck it. I left Larissa and moved here. Found a job…’
> ‘What ways are there to your roof?’ I asked.
‘Just the one. From the ladder at the back of the house.’
‘Mind if we take a look?’
‘No, freaking way! You think the bitch got shot from my roof? Wow, of course you can have a look.’
‘Bitch, hey?’ Ioli looked at her.
‘Not that I had anything to do with the lady. She did not like me much. She was always looking at me funny.’
‘What about her husband?’
‘Mario? He was OK, handsome for his age. But I don’t like ladies men. I might be a bar-woman, but I’m not a player.’
‘And Mario was?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, wife at home and there he is with that Stella woman from the grocery store.’
‘And what grocery store is this?’
‘At Karouanos.’
We walked round the side of the house and took a look at the old, rusty ladder that moved like a cobra to the top of the house. The yard’s fence was ruined along most parts. Anyone could have just walked in and gone up the ladder.
‘Ioli, go tell Constable Christina and Hercule to go round the neighborhood asking if anyone saw or heard anything. Find out where Karaounos is and meet me at our car. Let’s go visit this Stella.’
‘How about port checks and planes?’
‘I don’t think planes fly here during the winter. International, that is. Maybe a weekly flight to Athens. Check it. We could send a message to the ports, for them to be alert and check people’s IDs and reason for traveling, but no way the chief would agree on a lockdown.’
She nodded in agreement and walked off. My eyes made sure Ioli had turned out of sight.
‘Can I have a cigarette?’
‘Sure, police man dude. She your lady or something?’ the girl asked, taking out her abused pack of cancer sticks. ‘Here,’ she said, placing the cigarette between my lips with her right hand and lighting it with the left. She lit one for herself, too.
‘I’m trying to quit,’ I informed her for no apparent reason, enjoying the feeling of smoke traveling down my throat.
‘How’s that working out for you?’ she mocked me. Her giggle followed me up the ladder to the roof. No evidence to be found.
Chapter 19
Karouanos supermarket was a large, sprayed-white building with big red neon lights. On every window, the sign BUILDING FOR SALE OR RENT, gave off the desperation of the owners who were hit hard by the economic crisis that plagued Greece. Inside, the shelves were half full – or half empty, depending on how you view the metaphorical glass.
Two girls, dressed in black trousers and red shirts, worked the checkout counters. An obese man, in his fifties, was complaining for not finding his favorite brand of cereal.
‘I don’t drive and I’m not going to take the bus all the way to Carrefour,’ he muttered on his way out.
‘What’s his problem, Stella?’ The question came from a head that popped out from behind the shelves of the food aisle.
‘Nothing, Mister Karouano. Just Mr. Gianni being Mr. Gianni!’
‘Stella?’
She turned and stared at me. She studied me for a quick second and asked how she might help me.
‘I am Captain Papacosta and this is Lieutenant Cara,’ I pointed to Ioli, standing by the entrance, reading the shop’s leaflet with the weekly offers.
‘Yes?’ she drawled the question, accompanying it with wide eyes.
‘We are here regarding the death of Kate Spanou. If we could have a moment of your time, if you are not busy,’ I said and looked around at the deserted store.
‘Don’t know how I can help you, but…’ she lifted her hands up and shouted out to her boss that she would be going outside for a cigarette break. She got up and walked out, throwing looks at her co-worker who had already started texting friends that Stella had been taken away by the police. Nothing like good gossip to start the day in a small society.
We followed her fake purple nails and comfortable, black, flat shoes to the side of the building. It had shade and was out of sight. The red bricked wall reminded me of my high school in Astoria. Against such walls, bullies like Franklin Carter and his gang tortured skinny, nerdy, foreign little me on a daily basis. Until I punched him hard in the face and broke his nose, that is. Sent home, suspended for a week, yelled at by my mother, smacked by my father and frowned upon by my teacher, Miss Jenny. But it was worth it. I had earned myself the tag of being a hard-ass. A name I maintained all the way up to police academy.
Stella pulled her deep copper hair into a high ponytail and with trembling fingers, the thirty year old brought a cigarette to her lips. She offered us one, receiving a stern no from Ioli and a fake one from me.
‘So, what have you heard?’ The question came out with alluring smoke.
‘What was the nature of your relationship with Mario Spanou, Mrs…?’ Ioli asked.
More trembling. More smoke.
‘Listen, I am a married woman and you know how islands are. I… I…’
‘That is why it is best for you to answer our questions here than down at the station. You can just say, we are checking up on everyone who knew them. We already have a team, going door to door. Whatever you say will be in confidence.’
‘It’s Mrs. Georgiou by the way, but call me Stella,’ she forced a flat line smile. ‘Mario and I were close. Intimate, if you know what I mean.’
I nodded my head to show that I did. Ioli smiled and gently touched Stella’s shoulder. A woman on the verge of breaking down in tears. For the moment, we were both playing good cop.
‘It just happened. We were both unhappy in our marriages, not that that’s an excuse. He shopped here and was so kind and handsome. He made me feel special. And now, he’s gone. I never knew Kate well. I had nothing against her. I feel bad that someone shot her, but I don’t see why you are here.’
‘We have to explore all leads…’ I started to say.
‘You think I shot her?’
‘No one is saying that…’
‘Since Mario died, I have only been here and at home. Anyway, why would I want her dead? Mario is dead, what would I have to gain from her death? And those poor little angels, left orphans!’ She fell into Ioli’s arms and wept. She had been brave enough to hold her tears for a lost lover, but now, overwhelmed with buried emotions surfacing fast and away from non-understanding eyes, especially her cheated-on husband’s, she collapsed. Ioli had no sympathy for the adulteress. Always a firm believer that if you are unhappy, you leave and move on. She gradually pushed the woman away, holding her by the shoulders. She looked straight into Stella’s watery, red eyes.
‘Maybe you blamed her for Mario. He did die during sex. She fucked him to death,’ Ioli said, hoping anger would provide answers.
‘Don’t say that! He did not sleep with her anymore!’
‘Not only with her, but we heard he was quite the ladies-man.’
‘Shut it! You know shit! Mario loved me! And yes, if she killed him, I would have killed the bitch, but he died of a heart attack. My Mario had a weak heart! Now, if I am not under arrest, I have to get back to work. Haven’t got all day, to stand around and listen to your rude mouth!’
‘You’re free to go,’ I said and watched the woman storm off, while bringing to life one more cigarette.
‘That went well,’ Ioli smiled.
‘You do have your way with women! Anyway, I doubt she did it.’
‘What if Kate did kill her husband? Or what if someone killed them both? I think we need to dig up dear Mario and get that dinosaur doctor and his help to perform an autopsy. If his wife or anyone killed him, it will be poison. A scorned woman’s favorite murder weapon.’
‘Especially, knowing he had a weak ticker.’
Chapter 20
Days later, the autopsy results confirmed that poison brought Mario down. Large amounts of antifreeze were found in his blood stream. Kate had managed to feed it to him. A housewife can learn a lot from internet articles and
YouTube videos.
Not that it mattered anyway, in terms of solving the case, that is. The very next day, after our talk with Stella at the supermarket, we had two more dead bodies on our hands.
After leaving the closing-down supermarket, we visited the one-foot-in-the-grave medical examiner and asked for an autopsy. I had already contacted our people in Athens to get the paperwork going and sent Constable Christina Dionysiou to Mario’s mother. The widow, dressed in black, signed the exhumation papers.
‘Never trusted that bitch,’ she hissed; her face shrivelled up by a cocktail of pain and hate. For a dead Greek, Kate Spanou got cursed a lot after life. No sugar-coated tales that normally come after death.
Our next meeting brought tears that never fell, to our eyes. We parked the patrol car, provided by the local police department, outside of Kate’s mother’s house. A well-preserved, one floor bungalow, built in the sixties. The wooden fence was freshly painted and the pathway from the gate to the front door had been renovated with shiny looking, beige bricks. Rose bushes welcomed us, with that wild, winter scent of theirs. The aluminium door flew open before we reached the two steps at the end of the beige brick road.
A petite woman in her late sixties, dressed from head to toe in pitch black clothing, with silver hair falling around her elfin face, waited for us to approach.
‘Good evening, ma’am. I am Captain Papacosta and this is Lieutenant Ioli Cara. We are here…’
‘What’s good about it?’
‘Our sincere condolences for your loss…’ Ioli started to say.
‘Come in. Come in.’ She waved her wrinkly hands with difficulty, inviting us in.
The living room spread before us a ghost of its once spotless glory. A cloak of house dust covered the cherry wooden furniture and the countless photo frames. Small or large, silver or plastic. All dusty. Opposite the frames, a TV tuned to a cartoon network and two girls sitting in silence on the terracotta sofa. Kate’s mother sat between them and switched off the TV. Neither girl retaliated. She gestured for us to sit on the two armchairs opposite her, next to the TV set.
Greek Island Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-2-3): Gripping, psychological mystery/thrillers destined to shock you! Page 30