The Green Lady (10 page)

Mavros thought about the girl's mother. He was pretty sure there had been no one else in the BMW. Had she left her driver/muscleman at home? If so, surely her husband would find out – or did he know already?

He had the feeling his client was running rings round him. But why?

The Son was sitting on a hotel terrace in Delphi, looking down at the sea of olive trees in the Pleistos Gorge in the last of the evening light. The port of Itea glowed to his right and, beyond, the gulf was blue-black with tints of red. He breathed in the mountain air and drank his diluted ouzo. He had arrived in the late afternoon and paid for a room in the most expensive place. It wasn't as if he had any shortage of funds.

There was a heap of national newspapers on the table in front of him. None of them had any mention of the body in Trikkala. That didn't mean it hadn't been discovered. He had sent photos again. He wondered what the dead woman's fellow worshippers or the police had thought about his master touch – three perfect, defrosted pomegranate seeds in each eye socket. The message was clear enough to those who knew mythology. With the Games going on, the authorities would take every step they could to protect the country's good name and give the illusion that criminal acts didn't take place in the land of the gods. He had been surprised the burned man had been found so quickly in an uninhabited area. No harm done. The yokel cops in Viotia wouldn't have a clue how to proceed and the Athenians would be keeping a close watch on them. His back was covered.

Although Delphi was in range of Athens for day-trippers, many visitors stayed at least one night to give themselves time to take in the full glory of the ancient site and museum. That meant the small modern town, which had been moved from its location on top of the site when excavations had started in the nineteenth century, was bustling. It was as well that the Son's next victim lived in the upper reaches, away from the tourist haunts. From there, it would be easy to get him to the desired location.

The Son had visited the sanctuary in the late afternoon. He had never been before, even though his school had run outings to many of the country's important historical sites. He didn't go on any excursions as the Father was too stingy to cough up the extra cash. It was curious because the old bastard was forever going on about Greece's illustrious past, as his masters had done, the dictators who were in power between 1967 and 1974. No doubt the Father had been worried some of the teachers would have been on the left and might have filled the Son's head with ‘perversions of history'. As he now knew, the Civil War of 1946-9 was no clear-cut struggle between the British and American-backed forces of freedom and the foul Communist brigands. Not that he cared about ideologies. His Bulgarian instructor had said that freedom was an illusion no matter who was in charge, and the average citizen was nothing more than a drone. The Son had made sure he was much more than that.

He found the house without difficulty. The man was in his late fifties, a bachelor, and due to retire next year. No doubt he thought he would be able to worship his gods for the rest of his life. But he would also know that at least one of his colleagues had been murdered, so he'd be on the look out – maybe he'd been sent the photos of both previous victims. The Son, now wearing a black shirt and trousers as well as latex gloves, slipped over the wall at the rear of the property's small garden. The oleanders were thick, giving good protection. There was a single light shining on the ground floor. A squat figure was at the cooker, stirring the contents of a pot. The Son crawled across the hard earth quickly and reached the wall. The windows were closed, the air conditioning running, but that didn't bother him. He took the weapon from his long bag and squatted down by the door. There was no key in the lock, an old-fashioned one that allowed space for the muzzle of the tranquilliser gun. He took careful aim and fired. After a frantic few seconds trying to reach the dart in his back, the man collapsed.

Pleased with the shot, the Son took out his tools and worked the lock. He was inside in under a minute. Now he had ten minutes before the drug began to wear off. His victim wouldn't talk and now he was going to walk to the place of execution, he wasn't going to carry the fool. The Son taped the man's wrists behind his back and placed a strip of the same material over his mouth. Then he had a quick look around the house. Its owner lived on his own, his wife having run off with another man two years earlier. Maybe that had turned him to the worship of the Olympians. If so, they were doing a singularly bad job of protecting him – as with the previous two. On the other hand, these people did know how to keep their mouths shut. This one would feel the blade on hallowed ground. Would that loosen his tongue at the last?

There was a small statue of a robed god in the wall niche usually reserved for Christian icons. The Son didn't recognise the figure. The older male ones all looked the same to him – bearded, stern, their faces intended to provoke awe. This one was a mannequin with as much power as a Barbie doll. The worshipper obviously thought differently. There were bowls containing pieces of dried up meat and fruit beneath the statue, as well as a dark red stain which one sniff told the Son was wine. Hail, whoever you are, he said under his breath. Prepare to lose a follower.

The walk to the top of the sanctuary was easy enough, the now conscious man stumbling along with the tip of the combat knife in the small of his back.

‘Open the gate,' the Son ordered.

His victim was a
phylax
, one of the numerous locals who were paid by the state to stand guard over the site. The Son closed the gate behind them and took the keys. Then he jabbed the man forward. Soon they were on the surface of the ancient stadium. The Son knew from the guide book he had read that it was 645 metres above sea level, had been started in the fifth century BC, and tinkered with by the Romans. The track was six hundred Roman feet long and up to eighteen runners could compete at any given time, watched by seven thousand spectators.

‘Run!' he said to the guard. ‘Run for your life!'

The man started muttering in what sounded like Ancient Greek. The Son had paid little attention to the compulsory lessons at school, earning himself numerous hidings from the Father, so he had no idea what was being said. Then the guard started staggering across the dusty earth. Even giving him a thirty metre start, the Son caught him well before the end. He still wouldn't say anything about the girl's location, sticking to his whiny prayer.

When he had finished, the killer went to the path that led down to the main site. With the help of the strategically positioned lights, he could make out the theatre, the great temple of Apollo with its few upright columns, and the treasuries of the various city-states. It was hard to believe that this had all grown up because of the ancients' need for the ramblings of a drugged old woman – the oracle whose ambivalent words had played such a major role in Greek history. Fortune telling. The Son smiled. He could tell the guard's. Tomorrow his fellow worshippers would be staring at his photographs. The fucker hadn't spoken, though he'd given the impression that he didn't know where the girl was. They were cunning, her captors, restricting that information to a small number of people. It only meant that more of them would die. And if what he'd just done didn't frighten them, he didn't know what would – though he had no doubt he could think of something.

The Son slipped back the way he'd come, stepping over the parts of his victim. If he was lucky, he'd be in time to pick up a foreign woman in one of the late night bars. He had a preference for Scandinavians. They were less shocked by his demands than most.

Mavros was lying on his bed, a fan blasting cold air over him. Although it was past midnight, the temperature was still in the high twenties and he was suffering. His Scottish genes had never been able to cope with killer heat, just as his Greek ones had taken to four years of Edinburgh weather like a duck to confit. The Fat Man was still in front of the TV, watching a dull American cop show that he claimed enabled him to know his enemy better.

At first Mavros didn't realise his phone was ringing – he'd put it on vibrate mode when he was tailing Maria Bekakou. He didn't recognise the Athens number on the screen.

‘Oh, hello, you know who this is.'

‘Yes,' he confirmed. Avoiding the use of names was sensible, though he assumed his client wasn't at home.

‘Have you got anything for me?'

‘Not yet,' Mavros replied. ‘Let me turn the question back at you.'

There was a pause. ‘What do you mean?'

Mavros decided to keep her in the dark initially. ‘How close are you to Maria Bekakou?'

‘She's . . . she's a good friend.'

‘You don't sound too sure.'

‘Well . . . after Lia disappeared on Maria's watch, so to speak, Paschos and I decided to put some space between them and us.'

Mavros kept silent. Very few people could resist the urge to talk when they were lying.

‘You know, it seemed best. I don't know if you're aware, but Maria's husband Rovertos does a lot of legal work for Paschos.'

He decided to probe. ‘And Maria? Is she a lawyer too?'

Angie Poulou laughed softly. ‘No, she has a shoe shop in Kolonaki.'

‘Would I know it?'

‘I've no idea. Are you interested in women's footwear?'

‘As a matter of fact, yes.' The pretence made him smile.

‘Oh. It's called Heel and Toe, on Loukianou.'

He knew it as his mother's flat was only a few minutes' walk further up the hill.

‘So were you talking about shoes when you visited Mrs Bekakou this afternoon?'

‘How do you . . .?' His client broke off. ‘Have you been following me?'

‘No,' he said, leaving her to work out how he knew. ‘What were you doing for over two hours with someone you've pulled away from?'

‘I don't like being interrogated, Mr Mavros.'

‘And I don't like being given the run-around. Here's why I want to know what you and Mrs Bekakou were talking about. An hour or so before you went to her place, she had a meeting with Police Brigadier Nikos Kriaras. I take it you know him.'

‘Of course. He's in charge of the search for Lia. But why . . . why would Maria be meeting him? She didn't mention it.'

‘I subsequently heard her tell her husband that Kriaras said he was waiting for further developments. And also that your husband said he'd pay double. Are you aware of any of this?'

‘No! No, I don't understand.'

Mavros decided to spare her Maria Bekakou's characterization of the female he presumed was Lia as a stupid little bitch who deserved what she got.

‘Could you answer my question, please?'

‘Which one?'

‘What did you and Mrs Bekakou talk about when you were at her house?'

‘Oh, nothing of any importance. Honestly. It's true what I said about Paschos wanting me to keep away from them, but I don't have anyone else to talk to. At least Maria knows Lia's missing.'

‘Mrs Poulou,' he said, enunciating her surname icily, ‘are you sure there isn't anything significant you've omitted to tell me about Lia?'

‘Yes, of course.' Then his client stopped. ‘You understand that I can't go into all my family's business.'

‘Anything potentially significant to her disappearance.'

‘I don't think so . . .'

‘You're sure she didn't have a boyfriend.'

‘Positive,' Angie replied, without hesitation. ‘She wanted one, but she also wanted the right one. She'd definitely have told me.'

‘All right. From the schedules you sent, I see she has very full days during term time. What about during the Easter holidays?'

‘We went to London for a week, but I was with her almost the whole time, visiting friends and relatives, shopping, going to the cinema and so on. Then we were at the villa in Evia for the festivities, again with family and friends always around.'

‘Did she spend a lot of time on her computer?'

‘No more than any other fourteen year old.'

‘Do you know what she did on it?'

‘The usual sort of things, I think – the Sims game, fashion sites, music.'

‘You
think
?'

‘Well, I didn't monitor her, apart from during homework time.'

‘So she could have got involved with unsuitable people.'

Angie Poulou sighed. ‘You think I haven't considered that – boys, cults, porn, even paedophiles. But I doubt it. Lia's an innocent fourteen, trust me.'

Not any more, Mavros thought.

‘Besides,' she continued, ‘the police would have told us.'

‘Would they? I imagine your husband knows Nikos Kriaras pretty well.'

‘With the Games, you mean? Yes, of course.'

‘And do you know him well?'

There was a long enough pause to make him prick up his ears. ‘No, only from functions. Why?'

‘I'm trying to build a picture.'

‘That's becoming obvious. Tell me, Mr Mavros, how well do
you
know Brigadier Kriaras?'

‘We have history. If you want me to stay on this case, you'd better make sure he doesn't find out about my involvement.' It occurred to him that her husband might have had the phones near their home tapped. ‘Tell me that you're using a public phone at least two kilometers from Ekali.'

‘Don't worry. I'm in Ayia Paraskevi. Paschos is doing a TV interview.'

‘Don't use the same phone again.' He paused. ‘One last question. Where was your driver-bodyguard this afternoon?'

‘I . . . I paid him and dropped him off in Kifissia centre.'

‘Are you sure he won't tell your husband?'

‘As if Paschos would care. He's got far too much on his mind.'

‘So he wouldn't be concerned that you were with Maria Bekakou and her husband?'