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

by Luke Christodoulou

  ‘Go on,’ Ioli said.

  ‘You first.’

  ‘Man, woman, cockroach?’ I suggested our version of rock, paper, scissors.

  ‘On three. One… two… three.’

  The local police stood amazed, watching as I used my index fingers by the side of my head as antennas and Ioli acted as if she was scratching her balls.

  ‘Man beats cockroach,’ she proudly declared. ‘This way, sir,’ she showed me the way.

  ‘In the kitchen. To your left, Captain,’ the blond constable spoke up.

  The narrow hallway unfolded in front of us, filled with trays of kitty litter. Nothing had been cleaned for days. Fourteen bowls of different colors were by the kitchen door. The milk gone bad, smelled nasty. We walked slowly into the kitchen. The round kitchen table housed a large pool of blood. Bloody paw prints were all over the table and tiled white floor. She had provided her cats with one good last drink. Cats with bloody faces, sitting outside the window, frantically meowed to be let back in.

  ‘It took us all day to remove them from the house. That is why we did not leave any windows open to let some fresh air in,’ the constable explained.

  We hardly heard him. We were both staring up in shock. Agatha Richardson sure did use her imagination with her self-strangling. Maybe she had edited too many thrillers and horror stories. She had tied her wrists, ankles and neck with barbed wire. She passed the barbed wire round the kitchen’s two thick, cherry wood beams and connected the wire to her motorized garden hose collector. She, then, turned the machine on and it slowly gathered the barbed wire, twisting it round and round. It had no trouble, lifting the lightweight, fragile lady to the beams. The wire pierced through her skin and strangled her neck, cutting through her carotid artery. Warm blood sprang into the air, spaying the kitchen red and provided a fountain of fresh blood for her feline friends.

  ‘Where’s the note?’ Ioli asked.

  ‘Sin by sin, they gather, pray by pray, they fade… no more light for me, I linger in the shade…’ I read the bagged piece of pink paper passed to me by the local police.

  ‘She sounds tormented. What I don’t get is even if they, religious as they seem, could get past the fact that religion sees suicide as a sin, why did they feel like God would not forgive them? She wrote Sin by sin, they gather, pray by pray, they fade… no more light for me, I linger in the shade… She understood that with prayer her sins faded. So why kill yourself? And the way she chose? She wanted to feel pain. She believed she deserved pain.’

  ‘I’m lost for words,’ I answered honestly, puzzled by the case.

  ‘Well, that’s a first.’

  We examined evidence collected by the local authorities and discussed the case with the town’s only coroner. Another suicide by all means.

  All seven people dead by their own hand, by their own free will.

  I looked at my watch. Ten at night. ‘I feel drained of energy.’

  ‘Room service and sleep?’

  ‘I feel like a gyro.’

  ‘You and your junk food.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re the boss. Let’s grab a bite and head on over to our hotel.’

  An hour later, we were both feeling better. Two kebabs, fries and a couple of ice-cold beers journeyed down to my empty stomach. What helped more, was the environment. We sat in the main square, tourist watching as we ate. The well lit stone square featured everything a visitor could ask for. Souvenir shops, restaurants and ice-cream parlors surrounded it. We watched their happy, relaxed faces. Their hand-in-hand, moonlit strolls. Their carefree aura. Their happiness felt contagious. I envied them and let my mind drift to a daydream where Tracy and I would go on vacation together. In love again.

  Ioli guiltily enjoyed our street food and in a sleepy state of mind, she closed her eyes and drifted off to dreamland.

  ‘Lovely place…’ I started to say. ‘Oh, sorry. I did not realize…’ I lowered my voice.

  She waved her hand to signal not to stress. ‘Let’s go get some shut eye.’

  Our family ran hotel stood at a distance of a five minute walk. Much-needed minutes for our food to go down.

  We checked in with the jovial receptionist and took the keys to our rooms. Within ten minutes, we had showered, undressed and fallen fast asleep. For the first time in a long time, Ioli enjoyed an eight hour slumber.

  I, on the other hand, was once again tormented by my nightmares.

  ‘Thank you for all my new friends, daddy,’ Gaby sang happily. She swung on a swing set built out of corpses. Agatha and Rita were the legs, Idalia and Anastasia were the top beam, while Demetris, headless Nikola and Eftychia formed the swing.

  ‘Let’s play ball,’ she screamed, throwing me Nikola’s head and waking me up in a cold sweat.

  Chapter 39

  A hot day followed the hot, sticky night. The summer was welcoming its first of many heat waves. A huge, red ball of fire sneaked out of the sea and climbed up into the sky. By ten o’clock it felt difficult to move, let alone think.

  Ioli and I exited the air conditioned breakfast room and said our goodbyes. I rushed to catch the ferry, while Ioli had hours to kill until her flight to Athens.

  ‘Even though my mood is not the greatest, I can’t miss such an opportunity. I’ve always wanted to visit Myrtos beach.’

  ‘Myrtos beach?’

  ‘You’ve never heard of it?’

  She watched, amazed, as I shook my head that I had not.

  ‘One of the best beaches in Greece.’ She took out her phone, fiddled around for a second or two and lifted it up to my eyes.

  ‘It looks beautiful. I’m happy you’re taking some time for yourself. You’re too young to get sucked in by all this.’

  ‘Don’t start grandpa,’ she giggled.

  ‘I’m just saying.’ And with that, I set off for the port.

  Ioli returned to her room to change. She undressed and put on her blue bikini. She stood in front of the mirror and forced a smile. Time had started to take its toll on her body. For the time being, it was noticeable only to herself. She could see the difference. She always kept fit and did her best to eat healthily. Sometimes, she wondered why. She lived alone, she did not wish for children and after her previous disastrous relationships she did not care much for men either.

  ‘You do it for you,’ she pumped herself up. ‘And you need some color, girl!’

  She gathered her shiny black hair into a high ponytail, wore her designer sunglasses and pulled down a short, turquoise beach dress. She picked up a hotel towel and her sunscreen and with an air of relaxation caressing her, she left the hotel for a much-deserved, half-day off. She approached the first taxi from the line of cabs outside and bargained for a local price for her day trip.

  A breathtaking view awaited her.

  She ignored the driver’s moaning about the air-conditioning going to waste and opened her window. The fresh air from the mountain road filled the green Mercedes. Down below, miles of unspoiled beaches stretched all the way to the oceanic horizon. Minutes later, the car entered the small village of Divarata. Locals marched up and down, busy setting up their souvenir shops, tavernas and ice-cream parlors. Soon, tourists would flock to their village which stood high above Myrtos Beach. A long, winding, hair-pin, dirt road led down to the white pebble beach. A stretch of round, white cobblestones lay between two of the island’s tallest mountains, Agia Dynati and Kalon Oros.

  She paid the grumbling driver and took out her camera.

  ‘The most dramatic beach in Greece,’ she read from a sign. ‘I have had enough drama, thank you,’ she joked and photographed the wooden sign.

  A well tanned boy approached.

  ‘Bed and umbrella, five Euros.’

  ‘Great. Here you go,’ she said, passing him the note. She laid her soft towel down and fell onto the blue, plastic beach bed.

  ‘Heaven,’ she whispered.

  She drifted away to the sound of the waves; waves gently crashing against the coastline. She emptied her m
ind from her worries, filled up her inner energy batteries and got up to cover herself with lotion. She gave her skin ten minutes to soak up part of the lotion and strolled towards the sea.

  The crystal clear waters welcomed her. The cool water lured her in. She swam amongst tourists of all ages and nationalities. She enjoyed people watching, playing her own little game show, guessing their age, occupation and country of origin.

  She swam carefree towards the shore. She stood up, recovered her balance on the ocean’s sandy floor before exiting and walking clumsily over the sun-caressed, hot pebbles. She bought an ice cold lemonade from an old man wearing a heavy, thick mustache and a T-shirt with the logo “sexy juices for sexy ladies”.

  The midday sun roamed the clear sky, burning everything below it. Ioli opened her beach umbrella and hid in the shade that covered her entire bed. She finished off her lemonade, regretted not bringing a book and sank into the soft, smooth sunbed.

  Hectic screaming made her jump.

  She sat up, looking around. People were staring towards a brunette lady leaned over a young boy. Ioli saw the red blood glisten under the Mediterranean sun. She ran over to help the distraught woman. And just like everyone else, she stopped in shock.

  Two round holes, one on each hand, pierced through the boy’s skin. Same with his feet. A scent of flowers filled the air.

  ‘Stigmata!’ an old gypsy lady, selling handmade jewelry out of a scratched wooden box, declared with a shout.

  Chapter 40

  CASE No.4: The Pale, Ashen Horse – Death.

  Sophia stood in front of her bathroom’s large, oval mirror. She looked ten years older than she really was. Thirty six and too many worry lines. Her eyes reflecting the dying glow in her soul. She hated feeling tired and drained of energy all the time. Between her two jobs, church and her 7 year old angel, time was scarce. A widow at thirty two, she struggled to maintain her household, raise her child and keep her faith in a God who deemed part of his mysterious plan to have the love of her life, Father Kypriano, die of pancreatic cancer. A tragic loss of a much loved priest.

  Her small community offered to help out financially, but she would hear no word of it. She worked the morning shift at Mister Kyro’s bakery and spent her evenings sewing and altering clothes. She’d always had a love for clothes. Not that it mattered anymore. Only black covered her body. She would mourn her husband until the day she died.

  Exhausted, at night she always made time for her little Antony. They played, talked, ate and then her favorite moment of the day came. She read from the Bible to her tucked-in boy. And not just the well-known stories and the moral teaching fables, Sophia read the entire book to him.

  Sophia took great pride in noticing how well behaved her son was. Good-hearted, kind, caring and wise beyond his years. She often joked that he was her ‘little saint’.

  Lately, she worried about him.

  Lately, he would carry around his father’s small, wooden crucifix and his Bible never left his school bag.

  Lately, a shadow followed him around. He looked distant, lost in thought.

  She decided to take him to the beach. Let him live, wild and free, like boys his age should. After all, it was summer and he should be having fun. An hour later, he fell bleeding in her shaking arms.

  ‘Stigmata,’ a filthy looking woman screamed.

  Yes, God did work in mysterious ways.

  Chapter 41

  Ioli got over her initial shock quicker than most bystanders. She fell to her knees, next to the boy who was desperately gasping for air. His constant screams as a result of the intense, piercing pain prevented the air from traveling to his lungs. He turned red and went into shock.

  Then, all of a sudden, his body relaxed. He stretched out his arm and grabbed Ioli’s hand. He stared straight into her eyes. The sand swirled around them, pushed off the pebbles by the light breeze.

  ‘Save me,’ he whispered. ‘Only you can save me,’ he continued with his voice trembling.

  ‘Try to relax. Breath slowly,’ she advised as she examined his wounds. You could see right through his hands. His feet decorated with round, bloody scars.

  ‘Everybody back, please,’ a brawny paramedic loudly called out. The crowd moved as one. Everyone stepped back together, giving space to the professionals. Ioli stood up, gently placing her hand on the mother’s shoulder. The woman had not stopped wailing since her cry for help.

  Soon, Ioli stood alone, watching the howling vehicle carrying the sobbing mother and her poor offspring to the hospital. The crowd had gone back to enjoying the beach, richer with a tale that would be retold by them countless times, each time becoming more exaggerated.

  Ioli did not feel like relaxing.

  The boy’s violet eyes, a la Elizabeth Taylor, lingered in her mind.

  She walked all the way up to the village. She paused and enjoyed the magnificent view one last time, before running over to the first cab and ordering the drive to step on it.

  The sight of her hotel offered no comfort to her racing heart. She felt strange being so upset. She rushed to her room, undressed in a hurry, took a quick shower and got dressed.

  In a matter of minutes, she was once again in the back of a taxi.

  ‘Hospital, please.’

  Argostoli’s hospital encompassed a group of modern buildings built around the old premises. Some tasteless architect had the idea of painting every other wall red. Ioli rushed between two yellow old ambulances and in through the main glassed door.

  The emergency room was vacant. A quiet hospital in a quiet town. Its regular customers -old folk with multiple pill prescriptions-entered from the side entrance that led to the pharmacy and appointment desk.

  Ioli paced up to the reception. A nurse sat there, busy chatting on the phone to a girlfriend with boss-related problems. She was stunningly beautiful with her curly hair, a rich shade of mahogany, her full cherry lips beneath her high cheekbones and her eyes a dark emerald green.

  ‘One minute, Toula,’ she told her friend to wait. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A boy was brought in half an hour ago with wounds on his hands and legs…’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘His aunt,’ she lied.

  ‘Room 212. The doctors are with him. You can wait outside with your sister. She is in a real state.’ She smiled politely.

  Ioli stormed off and the nurse went back to hearing how Toula had once again been overlooked for promotion.

  Ioli pushed the call button and tapped her right foot as she waited for the flickering light to confirm the elevator’s movement from the 5th floor on its journey down to her. The elevator doors finally opened, unleashing an unpleasant smell of cheap bleach. One of the few smells Ioli could not stand.

  Ioli opted for the stairs, cursing about the seconds lost. The wooden door creaked as she pushed it aside and sprinted up the stairs. She exited onto the second floor corridor, in front of door 202. She looked down the corridor. The brunette from the beach was pacing outside the door; behind which doctors cared for her son.

  Ioli hesitated for a minute, took a deep breath and walked over.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs?’

  Red shot eyes turned to see her.

  ‘I am Ioli Cara. I am with the Hellenic Police…’

  The woman took a step back. ‘The police? Why are you here?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not here as a police officer. I was at the beach when the…’ She searched for the right word. ‘When the incident happened. I just wanted to make sure your son was OK.’

  The woman’s facial muscles relaxed.

  ‘That’s nice of you. No one is telling me anything. I’m his mother, I should be in there with him. He must be so scared right now.’ She covered her mouth, sat back down in one of the cold, rusty chairs and cried.

  Ioli sat beside her, her hand gently comforting the woman.

  ‘I’m sure they will be out any moment now with good news.’

  The woman extended her hand and laid it above Ioli’s. Thr
ough her running tears, she forced a sincere smile.

  ‘Is there anyone I could call, Mrs…?’

  ‘Call me Sophia. No, don’t call anyone.’

  ‘Your husband? Mother? It helps to have…’

  ‘Both dead,’ Sophia bluntly replied. ‘But, you’re here,’ she continued. ‘God always sends the right person.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Ioli started to say and paused, having noticed a lanky doctor towering them.

  ‘Mrs Antoniou, I am doctor Papadopoulos.’ He read her expression, an expression witnessed in every mother’s face. She was ready to interrupt him. He rushed and added ‘your boy is fine.’

  ‘Oh, praise the Lord, He is OK.’ She squeezed Ioli’s hand. ‘Can I see him now?’

  ‘He is resting. The ordeal has worn him down. The poor little lad is exhausted. Give him some time. We have cleaned and closed his wounds. May I ask how did he get them?’ the doctor asked rather casually. He always tried to sound indifferent. Parents did not take kindly to being accused of hurting or neglecting their children.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Sophia answered softly.

  The blinds of the indoor window in room 212 were lifted by a tired looking nurse. Sophia rushed to look through the window. Her Antony looked peaceful. His hands and legs were wrapped in white bandage. She touched the glass window and looked at the floor.

  It was in that position that Father Kyriako found her, followed by four reporters, an elderly man wearing a crying-for-an-iron security uniform and the beautiful nurse from the reception.

  ‘You cannot be here. I am calling the police,’ the stunning girl shouted.

  ‘Out now,’ the security man said with no power in his voice.

  Sophia turned her head slightly towards the direction of the commotion. She took out a black headscarf and covered herself. She turned towards the priest.

  ‘Father…’ The only word she managed to say before breaking down in tears. The young priest brought her tenderly to his shoulder.