The Dead Travel Fast

by Nick Brown

  He pulled out an automatic hand gun from his holster and began to wave it in the air while pointing with his other hand towards the line of the firebreak. Steve noticed that there were two smudgy streaks running from below the boy’s eyes down his face. Michales gave a shrug of resignation and turned to the volunteers.

  “Better do as he says before he wets himself.”

  He picked up an axe and walked towards the start of the fire break pausing only to say to the officer as he walked past him,

  “After this is over, boy, make sure you stay out of my village because gun or not, I’ll teach you some manners.”

  Steve saw that the line had been well chosen; it cut through a patch of thin stony ground that only supported isolated trees and scrub, with forest on either side. He guessed it was not the young officer who had picked this site. Michales deployed the villagers and they began to clear the scrub and trees. It was hot and hard work, made worse as the acrid smoke crawled down the slope and began to sting their eyes and rasp in their throats.

  After fifteen minutes his arms and back ached and his body ran with sweat. More volunteers arrived to help and gradually, a bare strip of earth and rock was created that split the vegetation like one swipe of a razor across a bearded face. Behind them three of the volunteer fire tenders and their crews were damping down the woods, while two helicopters were flying over them dumping bucket loads of water on the blaze. The man working next to him told Steve that planes and copters from other islands, and even the mainland, were on their way to help which was reassuring as whenever the wind shifted and dispersed the smoke he caught a glimpse of a ten metre high wall of advancing flame. His neighbour, a volunteer from Koumadrai higher up the mountain, stopped work to take a swig from a water bottle and then passed it to Steve saying,

  “But soon it will go dark; the planes and choppers will go back to base until first light and if we cannot hold the fire at this line until then the island is finished, it will be worse than 2000. No tourists will come, we will be ruined, perhaps we will all leave the island like we did in the old days. For who would want to stay in a place with no jobs or money, just arsonists and the Devil murderer?”

  Steve wasn’t quite sure that he understood the speech fully, or translated it correctly, but the passion behind the words was compelling. He was about to pass the bottle back with a word of thanks when he saw people in the trees ahead moving towards the fire, they appeared to be dragging someone. He handed back the bottle and pointed to them.

  “Look over there, those people are going towards the blaze, we should warn them.”

  “Let them go, they know what they’re doing well enough; a pity they could not have done it a few hours earlier.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Work it out. Who would you be dragging towards the fire if you lived in that village?”

  Steve realised the question was rhetorical and waited for the answer with a growing sense of anxiety; the man paused for a moment to drink from the bottle, rinsed some water round his mouth and spat it out before speaking again.

  “They have caught the fire starter, a foreigner, immigrant, a man who lives off us and then tries to burn our island. Well, now he will be able to enjoy his work at close quarters, fitting don’t you think?”

  He laughed and slapped Steve on the back.

  “Good that sometimes there is justice, now forget that bastard, we must work more.”

  Steve picked up the scythe he was using to clear the scrub and roots and started back to work, but couldn’t do it; he ran to where Captain Michales was working.

  “Did you see them drag that man towards the fire?”

  Michales ignored him and just grunted.

  “Get back to work.”

  “We have to do something, it’s murder.”

  “Listen, we have to stop this fire here otherwise plenty more will die.”

  “Well, at least call the police.”

  Michales laughed.

  “Where you think to find police? They do nothing when there is no fire, what you think they will do now the whole island burns. It’s not your business, either you work with us or go home.”

  He went back to swinging his axe, and Steve realised he meant it and no help was going to be offered; he didn’t understand; it was one of the locked doors that island society lived behind. He hovered for a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, then started to run uphill towards the approaching wall of flame. He heard shouts for him to stop but kept going. Ahead, above the grove where the man had been dragged, he saw the tops of some of the taller trees catch light as the wind swept the fire down across the mountain onto the lower slopes.

  As he reached the grove the group of men were coming out of it, blood splatter staining their clothes. He rushed past them into the trees, the crackle of the leaves on the boughs above bursting into flame loud in his ears. At the centre of the grove, swinging like the hanged man in the Tarot, a figure hung upside-down, a leg strapped to the overhanging boughs of two trees. Steve recognised him as an Albanian who helped out in one of the village bars at weekends. His shirt was ripped off and streams of blood ran down to the dry earth from his battered face and wounds carved into his chest. Like Flaying of Marsyas by Titian, except here there was no dog licking at the blood: every living thing that could had run.

  The Albanian waiter was mewling like a wounded animal and had wet himself. Steve stared at him, shaking with fear and disgust; he didn’t want to have to touch this awful ruined thing. He couldn’t make himself either cut it down or turn and run back out of the grove.

  He did neither; he was seized from behind and thrown backwards against a scrub oak tree. Several men crowded round him, the point of a sharp knife was pricking his throat and he felt the trickle of blood oozing down the skin of his neck. The face of the man holding the knife was close up against his and he could smell ouzo breath as the man spoke.

  “You have no place here English, if you love this foreign bastard you can join him, you can talk about how much you love each other as you cook.”

  Then the man was pulled off him and the grove was filled with scuffling men; he saw Captain Michales knock down the man with the knife then shout to the others. He spoke rapid Greek. Steve couldn’t catch all of it, but the gist was if they left the man to die the army would hand them over to the police and if they killed the Englishman they’d have to kill Michales and every other man from the village as well.

  It seemed to work; the men shuffled sullenly out of the glade. Michales cut the Albanian down and someone passed him a hip-flask of rough brandy. When he managed to get to his feet, he was told that if he wanted to live he should get off the island on the first boat out. Steve watched in a daze. The Albanian thanked the Captain but not him and then disappeared limping into the woods below. As they returned to the firebreak Michales took his arm in a firm grip.

  “You make enemies yourself and now you make enemies for me I think; you must hope that your friend Vassilis will put word round the island that you are not to be hurt because you are in a bad moment. Go to the trucks and bring us up some water to drink then go back to your place in the line and work.”

  Steve stumbled back to the pickup, his hands shaking so much he kept dropping the bottles. His legs felt weak and he had to sit in the lee of the truck to pull himself together. He’d seen the side of island life the tourists don’t and he wished he hadn’t. He felt he had done the right thing, but again maybe he’d got it wrong.

  He felt alone here, alone and very vulnerable. He’d run from Skendleby for safety and peace, but the veil obscuring the real nature of life had been ripped and he’d glimpsed things that put him outside the protection of the natural world. He took some deep breaths to settle himself then collected a pack of water bottles and made his way back to the line.

  By nightfall the firebreak was finished and it was quieter; the planes and helicopters returned to their base in Pythagoreio for the night. Now they’d try and stop the fire fr
om crossing the break and hope to extinguish any sparks the wind carried across. He looked down the pitifully thin line of men and fire tenders entrusted with this.

  Then, for the first time in hours, he remembered the other blaze across the bay threatening his village. When he turned to look back towards it he saw, through the dark, a thin straggle of light from the fire tenders and army trucks that defended a line snaking down the mountain. It was breached by a series of breakthrough fires, which were the advance guard of the huge wall of flame creeping inexorably down the slopes towards the village.

  Chapter 9:

  A Voice From Hell

  The prominent Adam’s apple bobbled in Adamidis’s throat as he spoke. Theodrakis knew it was impolitic to stare, but the sight exerted a morbid compulsion he couldn’t resist. They were back in the claustrophobic windowless room of the new police station in Karlovasi. This time, for obvious reasons, Samarakis was not present but his death hung heavy over the meeting. Andraki looked even worse than he had when Theodrakis last saw him.

  He had never really understood Andraki’s role in all this; he didn’t hold any position of real importance on the island and now that his archaeological background may be of some use, he seemed to have mentally disintegrated. Adamidis must have realised he didn’t have their full attention and snapped out.

  “Perhaps this will be of more interest to you then, Theodrakis; there have been messages of concern from Athens. Yes, I thought that would grab your attention; it must be a great deal of concern for them to turn their precious attention to our backward little island, particularly when the whole of Greece is drifting towards economic ruin and civil disorder. But here, it seems, they think things are even worse and for once they have judged accurately. Do you realise how close we are to a breakdown of law and order? Riots and demonstrations in the towns and half the island on fire.”

  He lost any pretence of self-control and began to shout.

  “Fire that has been deliberately started! Do you know that a suspected arsonist, an illegal, of course, was almost killed by a mob over near Spatherai yesterday? And do you know what most people on this island, not just the stupid or retarded, but the majority think is the cause? The murders: the fucking murders they sent you over here to clear up for us, as we were obviously too incompetent to solve them ourselves.”

  He took a deep breath and continued at lower volume.

  “Now they’re angry that, despite us enjoying the special talent of their blue eyed boy, the murders have speeded up and included a senior police officer; a man who shortly before his death was publically threatened by you. In fact, Theodrakis, that’s about the only time you have seemed to have shown any purpose since you got here.”

  Adamidis spluttered to a halt and mopped his brow with a neatly folded handkerchief that he took from the top pocket of his jacket. The silence in the room was palpable and for a time Theodrakis thought it might never be broken; at last Adamidis re-folded his handkerchief and continued in a more measured manner.

  “My point, Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, is that these murders are no longer just a crime, they are the pulse beat of the island, a contagion that spreads other evil in its wake. Now they and the fires have spread across the mountain. So it no longer matters if there is a curse because people believe there is. This has changed how they behave and madness consumes them. The killing of Samarakis reduces our credibility, it makes fools of us. So you will go across to Marathakampos and you will make an arrest. Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

  Theodrakis chose not to respond; the proposition, although driven by a certain logic, was ridiculous and would put justice on the same footing as crime. They had no leads and no suspects. He was saved from having to reply by a knock at the door. The station adjutant entered and whispered to Adamidis. Theodrakis was able to let his thoughts drift, he would quite like to go across to the other side but he wouldn’t base himself in Marathakampos; he would go to the fishing village where the waitress worked. The message changed things, and when Adamidis turned to speak again it was in a very different tone.

  “It seems, Theodrakis, that your trip to Marathakampos will have to wait.”

  He paused for a moment as if to increase the drama of his next sentence, and as he waited to learn of the new development Theodrakis felt sweat trickling down his back in the hot and airless room.

  “Apparently, following your instructions to observe a suspect, an arrest has been made in Vathia; you should have told us you were making progress; I would have not spoken so harshly. Obviously you need to get back there at once.”

  He favoured Theodrakis with his chilly smile, which was the nearest he ever came to warmth. Theodrakis was baffled, if pleasantly surprised; he couldn’t imagine how his men in Vathia would have put together the evidence to arrest anybody, never mind the island’s killer, but it got him out of this room and restored some of his credibility in Adamidis’s eyes. He looked at Professor Andraki and saw that this unexpected breakthrough seemed to have afforded him little satisfaction. Adamidis noticed the exchange of glances.

  “Ah, that reminds me of the purpose of our good friend the Professor in this meeting: apparently he has been informed by a very influential highly placed source on the island of the presence of a certain archaeologist, with specialised expertise which might be helpful to you in this case. An Englishman if I remember correctly, and any suggestion from this particular source needs to be regarded as an instruction. But meeting him will now have to wait; off you go, Theodrakis, let’s hope you can wrap this up speedily.”

  He offered his hand, as much as a form of dismissal as a courtesy, and Theodrakis left the room with an internal sigh of relief. He couldn’t, as seemed to be the pattern, remember anything he had said during the meeting but nevertheless his stock seemed to have risen. He ordered a squad car in the main office and exited through automatic doors which opened with their calming swishing noise. Outside he waited on the steps for the squad car to take him to Vathia. It pulled up almost immediately, which was a relief as the steps reminded him of the last time he’d seen Samarakis alive.

  Although in terms of distance the coast road from Karlovasi to Vathia was short, it never took much less than an hour as the single lane route had to twist and turn its way round every coastal creek and inlet. Often the car’s progress was impeded by the slow pace of a laden down donkey, a painfully slow tanker or ancient truck. The bends were so narrow that even the police driver who habitually overtook at great risk to life on corners was forced into a mode of some circumspection. To Theodrakis this was one of the benefits of the journey, as it postponed the enigma of arrival and its inevitable disappointments. This time, the protracted length of the journey was especially welcome as it would give him some time to try and puzzle out what the hell was going on.

  He was none the wiser by the time the car pulled into the compound of the Vathia police headquarters. He was relieved to be entering the station by the back door, protected by the compound barrier, as he’d caught a glimpse of the crowd and press outside the main entrance as their car swept past. Once inside, he went straight to the ops room where the records of the case were laid out. The room was empty but before he had time to shout for the duty officer Costas came lurching down the corridor towards him.

  “Syntagmatarchis, we have him ready for you in the interview room.”

  “Who? Who have you got in the interview room and how did you get him?”

  “The old man you told us to watch, we pulled him in.”

  “I said talk to him not arrest him, we don’t have evidence. Or do minor details like that not bother you?”

  “But we do have evidence boss, once we got him in we fingerprinted him, we thought it was a waste of time, we’ve known him for years, he’s mad but harmless. But they matched the ones we got off Despina Karamanlis the second murder, the only ones we have, he must have got careless then.”

  Theodrakis couldn’t believe the old man was the island’s “Devil Killer”, and h
e saw from Costa’s face as he finished speaking that he too still had doubts. But almost, it seemed, to convince himself, Costas rambled on.

  “And Doctor Lucca has got the DNA evidence back at last; we have top priority with the labs now so we could have a match within hours.”

  He looked up at Theodrakis’s face and recognised the sceptical and typically stuck up look on the Athenian bastard’s face, but carried on in spite of it.

  “Boss, he confessed and now we have evidence, fingerprints and soon DNA.”

  “Who charged him?”

  “Syntagmatarchis Kostandin.”

  “Kostandin. Well that explains why the press know; he’ll eat and drink well tonight.”

  Theodrakis knew he should have kept the thoughts to himself and could see Costas resented his comments; they tended to stick together, these island types. It was too late to take the words back, and before he had chance to say anything Costas came back at him in a tone that failed to conceal his resentment and anger.

  “You know the pressure we’re under to make an arrest on this one, you know how jumpy people are getting, and you know what they’re saying about our failure to catch this bastard. The lads can hardly go out for a drink without some old crow cursing them or some smartarse cracking a joke. Most of us go back to houses full of frightened women and kids at night. We thought you’d be pleased.”

  Theodrakis conceded to himself that he probably had a point but said only,

  “I’ll interview him in thirty minutes, make the arrangements.”

  Costas grunted and turned to walk back down the corridor but before he turned the corner Theodrakis heard him mutter just loud enough for him to hear,

  “With a decent boss we’d all be eating and drinking well tonight.”