The Dead Travel Fast

by Nick Brown

  Outside the car the heat was intense. Somewhere down below he could hear the river snaking its way through the gorge, it sounded a long way off and he wondered how they’d reach it. He hated heights. The two officers dropped their cigarette butts onto the bare earth and carefully ground them into the dirt: the fear of fire cut deep here. His lack of animation seemed to puzzle the officers and after a period of silence the older man said,

  “It’s down there, sir, we’ll help you, it’s a steep path and some of the steps are missing.”

  Theodrakis nodded and followed them to the edge where a narrow path led almost vertically down through trees to the river. With one man behind him and another in front helping, they slipped and shuffled down, creaking in their waders. Theodrakis, despite his vertigo and anxiety, couldn’t help thinking what an absurd sight they made in fishing boat gear sliding down the side of a mountain in the full heat of the day.

  When they reached the river he was soaked in sweat; down in the shadows of the gorge it was almost dark and several degrees cooler. The river levels were low at this time of year, to Theodrakis’ relief; he dreaded to think what it must be like here in winter in full spate. Now it just wound its way round the large boulders that littered the narrow bed, and didn’t seem more than a metre deep in the worst bits. As if sensing his thoughts, the older cop took his arm and pointed downstream.

  “It’s about half a kilometre down there boss, not too difficult if we’re careful, half way there’s a bit where we have to use a fixed rope to get over one of the rapids. Other than that we just have to avoid a couple of deep pools, follow me and you’ll be alright.”

  Theodrakis grunted then followed him into the cool water, his footing unsure on the slippery rocks beneath the surface. They made slow progress. It wasn’t too bad, but he wondered to himself why people came on holiday to do this sort of thing. Even swinging down the rapids on the rope was easier than he’d feared, but he slipped at one point allowing cold water to pour into the waders soaking him. What waited at the bottom of the rapids drove away any physical discomfort.

  At first, all he saw was a circle of people dressed in a combination of uniform and beachwear, standing up to their knees in water with their backs to him. The circle fragmented as they turned towards the noise that Theodrakis and his minders made splashing towards them.

  Then he saw what they saw. Half submerged in the shallows by the bank, stuck, snagged by a jagged branch of a fallen tree, was a body. The group parted ranks as if expecting him to perform some act of re-animation and he heard a cop who he didn’t recognise say,

  “We’ve left her as we found her, Kyrie Syntagmatarchis; we thought that is what you would want.”

  Feeling he was in a dream, Theodrakis noted the formality of address and wondered why such circumstances made people more polite; the man went on.

  “She’s been here some time, the body’s not intact, you know, animals, fishes, Christ knows what else.”

  Theodrakis could see her now and he knew the “what else” was no animal or fish; he felt bile rising from his guts but more was expected of him. He snapped out.

  “Where’s the police doctor, we don’t want her having to lie out here all day, what have you been doing? Just standing here watching like a herd of goats?”

  He knew this wasn’t fair, could tell by the vomit-splattered rocks how affected some of the men were, but only anger and lashing out could get him moving. He didn’t want to look too closely at the body, he could already see it was some days old and had been washed downstream until it snagged in the branches. So he didn’t have a site for the attack either, it could be anywhere upstream, it could have been done somewhere else and the body dumped here.

  The only piece of luck was that the extreme dry summer meant the water level was much lower than usual so the body was part exposed above the surface. He forced himself to look closer: fair hair matted the head, so probably a foreign backpacker which would explain the lack of any missing person report having been filed. To his relief he saw the police pathologist making his way through the stream towards him and waved him over.

  “Lucca, get what you can here then take her back to the lab and call me with whatever you come up with.”

  The man grunted assent and began his grisly investigation. Theodrakis was tired, he wanted to be away from this place, he wanted more than anything else to be on his own. He told his driver he was going to follow the path down to the main road and to fetch the car and pick him up there, then splashed downstream until he reached the path where he sat on a fallen tree and lit a cigarette. The hand holding the lighter was shaking so much that it took several attempts. To his surprise he found that he wanted to cry, not out of any sense of sympathy or even horror, but because he felt alone and helpless.

  None of this made any sense, or not to him at any rate. He knew he wasn’t a weak man but on this island with no one to trust, no one to confide in, he was out of his depth. Perhaps the Devil had come amongst them as the locals believed. He ground the cigarette butt out under his foot then flung it into the stream, realising the fear of fire was beginning to affect him too.

  He began the walk to the road, stumbling along the pitted surface in the fisherman’s waders feeling ridiculous, and wondering what his Athenian friends would think if they could see him. The four by four was waiting where the path met the road. He told the driver to take him back to Karlovasi and slumped into the back seat.

  He reported his progress, or rather lack of it, and then had his car drive him back to his solitary apartment in Vathia. Inside he didn’t bother to open the shutters or turn on the lights. He was sweating and itching, the latter a legacy of the waders. Overcome with lassitude, he threw himself down on the bed fully dressed and without even bothering to take off his shoes drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  In his dream he was trying to make his way across the shallow water at the fringe of a beach towards a woman with night-black hair who was standing on shelf of rock above the shore. As he walked towards her, she flickered between wearing a long black robe and nudity. He knew she had to tell him something important but he couldn’t find her number in his phone. Then, when he managed to find it, the phone started to ring. The woman laughed and spoke.

  “Now you have spoiled it, your shoes will be wet.”

  He jerked awake: the room was dark but the ringing continued and he recognised the tone of his mobile. By the time he fished it out of his jacket it stopped and was flashing “missed call” at him. He groped in the darkness for the light switch and pressed dial back and heard Lucca’s voice.

  “Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, thanks for getting back to me, I’ve not got a full report for you but I’m pretty sure the instrument used on her was similar to the one in the other attacks, the marks and patterns match. You know how we’ve never been able to identify the type of murder weapon? Well, it could be we’ve been looking in the wrong direction, I don’t think it’s any type of metal at all, I think its flint, obsidian or something like that. I thought you’d like to know. I’ll give you a fuller report tomorrow.”

  Theodrakis mumbled his thanks and rang off. He sat with his head in his hands, it didn’t make any sense or perhaps it did; only be in a place like this would a serial killer use prehistoric technology.

  Chapter 4:

  Two Invitations

  Late Saturday morning, Steve was shaving when the phone rang. He answered it with one side of his face masked in foam, just managing to grab it before it switched to messaging.

  “Hello Dr Watkins, it’s Professor Andraki here, I’m sorry to disturb you at home but do you think you would be able to come and see me at the department? There’s something I’d like to consult you about. I hope that Monday about ten would be convenient.”

  Steve agreed, hoping this might lead to a more fulfilling role at the university: Andraki ran all the archaeology on the island. After thanking him Andraki hesitated for a second and then said,

  “Oh, and I passed on your con
tact details to Vassilis, I hope you don’t mind.”

  After the call Steve walked back to the bathroom, more cheerful at the prospect of some interesting work and his ego boosted at being acknowledged an authority. He’d just made the first downward stroke of the razor when the phone rang again.

  “Hello Doctor Watkins, is secretary to Kirios Vassilis here. I ring to thank you for what you did to save the life of the boy Antonis. Tomorrow there will be a little gathering to give thanks for how he survives and you, you of course, are guest of honour. I send car for you in the morning.”

  Steve finished shaving; it looked to be turning into a pretty good day. But late that night, as he sat nursing a final drink with Captain Michales, he told him about the calls. The captain’s expression gave nothing away as he replied, “The first concerning dead people; well, that I would not like but it’s your work I think: so perhaps it will be good for you. The second with Vassilis; that is not so good. You will need to be very careful with that one. I go to bed now: fish in the morning you understand. Perhaps tomorrow you should go to church.”

  He got up and slouched off towards his house. Steve watched him go. There was something reassuring about the steady rolling walk: something almost graceful for such a strong and weathered man. The bar lights went out; he leaned back onto two legs of his chair and sat for a moment watching the reflection of the fat yellow moon as it stretched and shifted over the gently rippling waters of the Aegean.

  Next day, not more than half an hour after waking, Steve sank back into the rich leather upholstery of the limo. The shaven-headed driver accelerated out of the steep bends leading up into the hills. It was before eleven and outside the day was already hot, but in the back with the air-con at full blast it was refreshingly cool. Despite the refusal or inability of the driver to reply to the remarks Steve had addressed to him in his best practised Greek, he felt a pleasurable anticipation. Once up amongst the vineyards, the car left the road to take the hidden entrance of a dirt track that he’d not noticed before.

  The track twisted and turned up away from the road towards the mountains. Steve lost all sense of direction; since taking the track they’d passed no houses, only one dilapidated shepherd’s hut. Yet the track was in surprisingly good condition and so, he guessed, must be privately maintained. Then, as the road seemed in danger of running out of mountain to climb, they crested a sharp rise and there was the house.

  Steve couldn’t tell where the rock ended and the house began, so cleverly had it been designed: it seemed to grow straight out of the mountain spur and hang over a sheer drop towards the sea. The limo drove through elaborate iron gates into a spacious courtyard. The car stopped and the driver, with surprising grace and lightness of foot for such a big man, got out and held open Steve’s door.

  “You get out here.”

  It was only the second thing he’d said since picking Steve up. Opposite him, standing in an open doorway, an ancient woman in the uniform of a maid from a previous age was waiting. She beckoned him to follow her into a marble-floored atrium with a high and exquisitely sculpted two storey high ceiling.

  “Wait here and Kirios Vassilis will see you when he is ready.”

  The walls were hung with oil paintings, none of which were less than three hundred years old and two of which Steve thought he recognised, although due to the lack of natural light he couldn’t be sure. The only furniture in the large space was two Second Empire chairs either side of an ivory inlaid escritoire on which stood an exquisite black figure-ware wine jar which Steve knew, from his work in the new museum at Pythagoreio, was finer than any exhibit on display.

  He decided not to risk sitting on either of the chairs, so wandered from painting to painting becoming increasingly uncertain of the nature of his visit. Then, after what seemed an age, the woman returned, opened one of a pair of double doors and indicated that he was to follow her. He followed through a long passage with a number of turns to another pair of doors at which she knocked and then, hearing a voice shout, opened.

  The startling change in lighting temporarily dazzled him, so his first impression of Vassilis was tonal rather than visual.

  “Welcome, Doctor Watkins, we are in your debt and in my family such things are not taken lightly.”

  The voice bore the hallmarks of an Oxbridge education spoken through a near eastern filter. Steve took the proffered handshake: the hand was large and fleshy, the cold grasp almost nonexistent. As his eyes adjusted to their surroundings Steve took his first clear sight of his host.

  Vassilis was tall, fleshily built with a sallow complexion, his face fat-lipped with a strongly aquiline nose and jet black hair slicked back from his forehead. His eyes were heavily lidded and almost lazily half shut, part concealing the striking green of the iris. The room was a cross between a richly furnished study and a highly selective archaeological museum, with a vibrantly patterned mosaic floor. At its far end were French windows leading to a vast terrace. Following the direction of Steve’s gaze at the floor, Vassilis said,

  “Yes, you would be correct in your surmise, Doctor Watkins, the floor is genuine, although obviously re-laid, and the same applies to all the other artefacts that I see you find so fascinating. Later I will allow you time to study them at your leisure: a privilege afforded to few of the current rather primitive inhabitants of our island. Come follow me to the terrace.”

  Steve followed, wondering what he meant by current inhabitants; Vassilis continued,

  “We tend to keep them at a distance as far as social intercourse is concerned; such company as merits engagement is supplied from the ranks of the expatriates, augmented by a few local savants of discerning taste. But there are compensations as you can now see.”

  They’d reached the terrace which projected over a shelf of rock overlooking a series of terraced levels as the land fell away to the Aegean glistening hundreds of feet below. To the right of the terrace, steps led down to what appeared to be a private park. Vassilis gestured to some comfortable rattan chairs circling a table in the shade and sat down.

  “You will have gathered from my observations that my ancestry and tenure rather pre-dates the current denizens of the island, who only re-settled here a couple of centuries ago. We have therefore to take especial care of our bloodline, which is of course why my family is so much in your debt, Doctor Watkins.”

  The maid silently glided on to the terrace and placed a tray with a terracotta jar and two richly glazed beakers on the table.

  “Ah, a cool jug of sherbet, it wets the appetite I find. I trust you will take some with me, you must be parched in this heat.”

  The maid returned with some small plates of meze for the table, poured and handed Steve a beaker, Vassilis motioned her to leave. The drink was wonderfully cool and trickles of condensation flecked the surface of the jar. For a while they picked at the delicacies and looked out across the mountain over towards the sea as Vassilis told Steve about the house and the archaeological exotica it contained. Then he became formal.

  “So, on behalf of my son, I would like to thank you. He at present is recovering in a private facility, not in the hospital where he was taken of course. But he will be here next week for the cricket match and you will receive his thanks then. No need to look so surprised, Doctor Watkins, you must understand that things are different in my demesne than they are on the rest of the island. We look at things differently here, it gives experience a particular savour. As my friend Pico della Mirandola once said, ‘Magic calls up the living forces of nature.’ But I talk too much, your guide is here already.”

  Steve followed the direction of Vassilis’s gaze and saw a young woman standing behind his chair. She was tall, amply fleshed, almost heavy featured, yet at the same time strikingly beautiful, thick black hair tied back with a red ribbon. She wore a simple long white dress split to the knee and gold sandals. Steve, who hadn’t said a single word to Vassilis, was even more overawed by her and felt so out of his comfort zone that he wouldn’t have be
en surprised if a Lapith or Centaur followed her onto the terrace.

  “Permit me to introduce my daughter, Alekka, Doctor Watkins, she will show you some of the surprises our little estate contains and generally keep you entertained until we gather for our feast of thanks and celebration this evening. I must apologize for the moment; there are matters to which I must attend. But I think you will find Alekka a livelier and certainly more attractive companion.”

  She held out her hand which was firm and cold, smiling with her eyes as well as her mouth, and when she spoke her breath carried the trace of mint.

  “I also thank you on behalf of my brother Antonis, and I think that as an archaeologist you will find much to interest you on our walk round. Very few on this island get to see what I will now show you. Come, we will start with what is most recent.”

  He followed her to the steps leading from the terrace and along a path sloping gently down through an area of lawn and flower-beds. Steve wondered how much of the island’s precious water was needed to transform this barren mountainside into the facsimile of an English garden. But there was a greater surprise waiting for him. They passed through a fringe of orange and lemon trees and onto an area landscaped flat with, at its centre, a cricket square on which a series of sprinklers were playing. Before he could express his surprise, Alekka gave way to a shout of laughter and clapped her hands.

  “It was almost worth all the effort and expense wasted on this silly toy of my father’s just to see the expression on your face. It reminds him of his time in England, it is one of the few in Greece and I think the best, even though we use it only twice a year. Next Sunday there will be a game and you will be here, I hope.”

  Steve, struggling to come to terms with his surroundings, asked her who played here.

  “There are some rich countrymen of yours who live here, because it would not be good for them to remain in their own land, and also some special people from other islands. It is easy for them to get here, look: over there is where they land their helicopters.”