Table of Contents
Cover
Previous Titles by Paul Johnston
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Previous Titles by Paul Johnston
The Alex Mavros Series
A DEEPER SHADE OF BLUE
(also known as CRYING BLUE MURDER)
THE LAST RED DEATH
THE GOLDEN SILENCE
THE SILVER STAIN *
THE GREEN LADY *
THE BLACK LIFE *
The Quint Dalrymple Series
available from Severn Select eBooks
BODY POLITIC *
THE BONE YARD *
WATER OF DEATH *
THE BLOOD TREE *
THE HOUSE OF DUST *
The Matt Wells Series
THE DEATH LIST
THE SOUL COLLECTOR
MAPS OF HELL
THE NAMELESS DEAD
* available from Severn House
THE BLACK LIFE
Paul Johnston
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Paul Johnston
The right of Paul Johnston to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Johnston, Paul, 1957- author.
The black life. – (An Alex Mavros mystery ; 6)
1. Mavros, Alex (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Private investigators–Greece–Thessalonike–Fiction.
3. Suspense fiction.
I. Title II. Series
823.9'2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-048-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-540-4 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-460-7 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
To J. Wallis Martin
excellent friend, writer, editor and example
Author’s Note
How I handle aspects of Modern Greek in English:
Masculine names ending in -os and -is lose the final -s in the vocative case: ‘Yiorgos and Makis are having an argument’; but ‘Yiorgo and Maki, stop fighting!’ Mavros becomes Mavro when he is spoken to in Greek. Some names (e.g. Apostolos) retain the older form -e (Apostole) in the vocative.
The consonant transliterated as ‘dh’ (e.g. Ayia Triadha) is pronounced ‘th’ as in English ‘these’.
Feminine surnames differ from their male equivalents – Christos Papakis, but Marika Papaki.
Prologue
Wittersdorf, north-west of Munich, September 30th 1946
They waited until the woman and children had gone inside. A solitary light shone from the upper floor of the wood-built house. A few minutes later the man came out and walked with long strides to the shed. Every evening he chopped logs for half an hour, adding to the tiers of winter fuel against the wall.
The leader nodded to the others. They moved out from the line of conifers, Zvi to the left and Shlomo to the right, as usual. All three were carrying Walther PPK pistols that had been bought from the Americans, as had the list of names they were working their way down.
The door to the shed was half-open. There were regular thwacks as the heavily built man split logs with pinpoint accuracy.
‘Drop the axe,’ the leader said, in coarsely accented German. ‘Now.’
The man looked at the three men and their weapons, then let the heavy implement fall to the sawdust-strewn floor.
‘Who the fuck—’
‘You are SS-Unterscharführer Ernst Mossfeld, with three years’ service in Auschwitz-Birkenau.’ The leader smiled humourlessly. ‘Or rather, you were.’
The German blanched. ‘No … I …’
‘No, you are not Klaus Weiss. That identity is false. Your papers were obtained from a supposedly secret old comrades’ organisation in Munich after you were detained for a paltry six months.’
Mossfeld’s eyes bulged. ‘Please, my wife … my children …’
‘Ah, you are sensible to mention them. Their fate is in your hands. If you do as I say, they will be unharmed. Otherwise …’ The tone of the leader’s voice came from the realm of dust and ashes that all four men had inhabited.
‘How … how can I trust you?’
Zvi laughed quietly. ‘The same way the thousands you drove to the gas chambers trusted you. “Hang your clothes and shoes on the peg and make sure you remember the number. When you’ve had your shower you will reclaim them.”’
Mossfeld was staring at the leader. ‘I know you. You were in the Sonderkommando.’
‘Yes, I was. You hit me hard and regularly.’
‘I … there were orders …’
The three armed men exchanged glances.
‘And where would the Nazis have been without people who obeyed their orders?’ said Shlomo. ‘But now you’re going to follow ours.’
The German took a step back as a coiled rope was thrown in front of him.
‘Unfortunately,’ the leader said, ‘the fact that you don’t have a car means that we can’t gas you. And shooting is too quick, though you shot many of our brothers and sisters. So, slow strangulation at the end of that rope is what you get.’ He pointed his pistol at Mossfeld’s groin. ‘Unless yo
u want to be strung up with your cock and balls removed.’
‘Put the noose round your neck, you subhuman piece of shit,’ said Zvi.
After a time the German complied.
Shlomo stepped forward and tightened the knot. ‘Now, on the chopping block.’ He helped the big man up, his lips twisted in distaste.
Zvi had thrown the other end of the rope over the crossbeam above and was securing it to a post.
‘Ernst Mossfeld,’ the leader said, ‘you are guilty of crimes against innocent men, women and children. May the devil take whatever soul you possess.’
Zvi and Shlomo wrestled the chopping block away and ducked the SS man’s desperate kicks. He started to scrabble at the noose.
The three men watched him die. It took twenty-one minutes.
ONE
Mavros woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
‘I thought that a sketo would pull you out of whatever filthy dream you were having. That or grabbing your flagstaff and I haven’t time for that.’ Niki Glezou handed him the small cup of unsweetened coffee and ran her fingers through her tousled, highlighted hair.
‘What time is …’ Mavros looked at the clock. ‘For the love of God.’
‘Who you don’t believe in. Normal people in Athens get up before seven, Alex. Normal people go to work.’ Niki’s tone was sharp, but she was smiling.
‘What do you mean? I’ve got an appointment today.’
‘Oh yes? What time?’
‘Eleven.’
‘I rest my case.’
Mavros downed his coffee, hiding that it wasn’t strong enough. Still, maybe he’d be able to get another hour’s sleep after she’d gone.
Niki’s expression turned sombre. ‘Remember we have the fertility specialist this evening.’
Mavros nodded. ‘Seven-thirty. I’ll be back long before that.’
‘You’d better be.’ Niki took his cup and saucer from the duvet and twisted his nose. ‘We’re getting to the bottom of why I can’t conceive if it costs all my salary.’ She lowered her head and kissed him on the lips. ‘It isn’t as if we don’t try often enough.’
He watched as she walked to the door, swaying her hips seductively. The old Niki wouldn’t have done that except in self-mockery. It seemed that a year of on-off living with Mavros had changed her priorities.
‘Oh, and if you see the Fat Man,’ she called from the hall, ‘tell him that last baklavas was solid enough to build a bridge on.’
She still had her abrasive edge though. Then again, Niki was under a lot of pressure. She was a social worker specialising in immigration issues and her workload had increased hugely. In her late thirties, she was also obsessed with getting pregnant. In the past they had split up because she didn’t think Mavros was committed to them having a child. Over the last year he had done his best to show that he was. They had been brought close again partly because of the threat they were under. An ice-veined killer known as the Son was on the loose and had nearly done for Mavros the previous year. To throw him off their trail, Niki had sold her flat in the southern suburbs of Athens and they had moved to the top floor of a modern block halfway up Mount Lykavittos. A politician lived two floors below, so there was additional security. The rent was ridiculous, but Mavros’s ageing mother helped. He didn’t feel good about that. At least he was within close range of her place round the hill, as well as his friend the Fat Man’s in Neapolis below.
He tried to go back to sleep without success. After a work-out on his exercise bike and rowing machine, he took a shower and investigated the contents of the fridge. Niki was only barely house-trained and all he found was a pot of her low-fat yoghurt. That did it. Breakfast at the Fat Man’s was unavoidable.
‘You’re lucky. I just pulled a galaktoboureko out of the oven. Give it a quarter of an hour and we’ll be in paradise.’
Mavros took in Yiorgos Pandazopoulos’s sweat-dripping features and rounded belly. ‘Ever thought of changing that apron?’
‘Ever thought of kissing my arse?’ The Fat Man dropped his bulk into a battered armchair. ‘Thought not. So, how’s the lovely Niki?’
Yiorgos was banned from the flat on Lykavittos in case the Son followed him there. Mavros took circuitous routes to and from the place, but he couldn’t expect the Fat Man to do the same. It was just as well. He and Niki got on like a volcano on fire.
‘Worried about not getting pregnant,’ Mavros said.
‘I’d have thought another generation of—’ The Fat Man broke off. ‘Sorry, I know you want to make her happy.’
‘And make you the atheist father of a bouncing mini-Mavros.’
‘I bet Niki would be keen on that. What’s going on workwise?’
Yiorgos had been involved in several of Mavros’s missing-persons cases and acted as his sidekick and record-keeper.
‘Not a lot. Cutting ties with Kriaras maybe wasn’t such a good idea.’
‘He’s an arsehole and a lackey of the rich. Plus he almost got you killed. What else could you do?’
Nikos Kriaras was head of the organised crime squad, a fixer with connections to many of the super-rich who pulled the politicians’ strings. He used to put clients – especially foreign ones with problems the police didn’t want to deal with – Mavros’s way.
‘Well, I could have killed him,’ Mavros said, scratching his stubble.
‘I’d have helped.’
‘No doubt. But I’m not a murderer, remember?’
‘You’ve come pretty close.’
‘But never crossed the line.’ Mavros gave him a meaningful look. ‘Which is important.’
Yiorgos shrugged. ‘Depends who the target is.’ He went into mockery mode. ‘At heart you’re just a screwed-up foreigner with different-coloured eyes who doesn’t really fit in Greece.’
Mavros laughed, as much at the truth of the statement as the tone. His father, Spyros, long dead, had been a senior member of the Greek Communist Party, while his mother came from a bourgeois Scottish family. There were brown flecks in his left eye, while the right one was pure dark blue. For some reason women found that attractive, though maybe his shoulder-length black hair helped. Or his innate charm. Or his imagination.
‘Nothing from the Son?’ the Fat Man asked. He was a long-standing communist too and had been close to Spyros, though his allegiance to the party had faded in recent years.
‘You mean any special-delivery packages full of heads or spleens? No. Maybe he’s busy killing people in another country.’
Yiorgos heaved himself up and headed for the kitchen. ‘Which doesn’t mean he won’t be back.’
‘You are using the alarm system I got for you?’
The Fat Man reappeared, carrying an oven tray of perfectly browned custard-filled pastry. ‘Of course. And there are sharpened knives all over the house.’
Mavros knew those wouldn’t be enough to keep the assassin and torturer at bay for more than a few seconds.
‘I’ve also invested in a shotgun and an old but serviceable Makarov. One of the comrades helped me.’
‘Did he also teach you how to use them?’ Mavros asked acidly. He could handle firearms, but hated the sight of them.
‘I did a bit of target shooting with the pistol, yes.’ Yiorgos grinned as he cut a large slice of the pastry and dumped it on a plate. ‘Hardly seemed necessary with the shotgun. Aim in general direction and pull trigger.’
Mavros took his portion, shaking his head. Then he bit into the galaktoboureko and was transported to a simpler, sweeter world.
After taking the trolley-bus to Omonia Square and losing – he hoped – any potential tail in the backstreets, Mavros headed for the Grand Bretagne Hotel on Syndagma Square. Although it was early November, the sun was shining strongly and his leather jacket was almost too much. The yellow parliament building – the former royal palace – stood on the rise to his right. It was filled with wheelers, dealers and thieves, with a few, very few, notable exceptions. There were tourists about though the s
eason had ended; the buzz from the Olympics the year before still made Athens an attractive destination, even for people who only went through the motions with the Acropolis and the museums. The uniformed men on the door gave Mavros suspicious looks, but he didn’t care. His jeans were clean and his T-shirt had no logo. Not many pairs of biker boots entered the city’s premier hotel and that made him proud. Whether it would impress his potential client was another matter.
He walked across the wide space of marble. ‘I have a meeting with Mr Eliezer Samuel,’ he said, in English, partly because he was unsure how to pronounce the names and partly because he liked to play with his dual nationalities.
The receptionist, an attractive woman with what looked like genuine blonde hair, pulled tightly back, tapped on a keyboard.
‘Your name, please?’
‘Mavros.’
‘Alexander?’
‘Alex.’
She smiled primly. ‘Yes, Mr Samuel is waiting for you, sir. Suite 542.’
He used the stairs and was pleased to find that his breathing was relatively unaffected by the five flights. He found the door and knocked.
It was opened by a tall young woman with a stern face and gleaming back hair that reached her shoulders.
‘Mr Mavros?’ she asked, the ‘r’ coming from the back of her throat in the French way.
‘That’s me. Obviously you aren’t Mr Samuel.’
‘No,’ came a male voice from further inside. ‘I am.’
‘It’s Sam-oo-eel,’ the woman said softly, as she stepped aside.
Mavros moved into the sumptuously appointed suite and was confronted by a well-built man with white hair, whose unwrinkled face suggested he wasn’t as old as he might have been. He wore an expensive-looking dark blue suit, white shirt and red silk tie.
‘Mr Mavros,’ he said, extending a hand and squeezing his visitor’s tightly.
‘The same. That’s quite a grip.’
‘I play squash three times a week.’ Although the man’s English had French notes, it was fluent. ‘Please sit down. Rachel will bring us coffee.’
Mavros was about to object, having sunk another sketo at the Fat Man’s, but decided against it. Negativity was never a good idea at the beginning of meetings, especially when you needed the work.
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