Murder in Mykonos

by Jeffrey Siger

  Much of what they read seemed consistent with what they’d seen. ‘The extreme, sadistic urges of many serial killers are typically expressed in bondage, mutilation, and torture of a sexual nature’ – the twine, shaved hair, and tampons – ‘and killing victims slowly over a long period of time.’ Suffocation in a crypt was certainly that.

  They agreed on a description to distribute to their cops, being as careful as they could not to make it sound too much like the list of characteristics in Tassos’ pocket.

  ‘A forties-plus male, in reasonably good physical condition. Intelligent, possibly a little kinky or sadistic, with a bad family history. May have a police record,’ read Andreas.

  ‘Covers a lot of guys on this island,’ said Tassos.

  ‘Let’s add “more than fifteen-year resident or tourist on Mykonos.”’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’ Tassos looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost eight-thirty. I better head to the port if I want any chance of getting back to Syros before it’s totally dark.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Andreas reached out to shake hands but Tassos embraced him in the traditional Greek fashion of goodbye between friends.

  Tassos gave him an extra pat on the back. ‘Speak to you tomorrow . . . my friend.’ Andreas sensed he wanted to say more.

  After he left, Andreas looked over the notes of his conversation with Father Paul. He’d scribbled down the names of the churches the priest had rattled off, but he knew for sure he couldn’t find all of them on his own. He’d have to come up with some innocuous way of getting that contractor Pappas to help him. For sure that would earn him a ‘favors beget favors’ lecture, but what the hell, sometimes you have to deal with the devil to catch a sinner.

  That was something he’d learned from his father.

  5

  The massive ferry made its traditional, midnight grand entrance into the harbor. The town looked more alive than Annika remembered – lights and people everywhere. She couldn’t wait to get off. As she stepped out onto the open deck, her honey-blond hair whipped across her face. She liked the way it felt: free and unhampered. Meltemi winds blew only on late-summer afternoons, she thought, but then again, this was the island with windmills as its symbol. She quickly ran her fingers through her hair to pull it off her face and thought to grab a sweater out of her backpack but didn’t. Once out of the wind, she’d be fine.

  She’d chosen a loose-fitting beige T-shirt, matching khaki cargo shorts, and sneakers for the trip. She wanted to look like every other backpacker. At just under six feet tall, that wasn’t possible, especially when the straps of her backpack pressed her already ample bosom into the realm of wow. Nothing she could do about that. Nor about virtually every Greek man and adolescent boy around her taking part in a running gag all the way from Patmos as to how best to find and devour karpouzi. Since there were no watermelons anywhere to be seen, she had a pretty good idea of the melons that held their interest but acted as if she didn’t understand a word of their conversations. She was being true to her father’s favorite lecture: ‘Don’t let strangers know you understand their language. It gives you an edge.’

  She’d decided not to let anyone but her cousin and aunt know she was here. She wanted to be anonymous for as long as possible – just a poor little Dutch girl in search of a good time on Mykonos. She’d let the Greek boys take a shot – maybe one would get lucky. No, maybe I’ll get lucky, she thought. Time to take charge of my life and do what I want to do, not what pleases some dickhead. She knew she still was angry, but she couldn’t help it.

  She waited until the boat docked before going down the stairs. From experience she knew hurrying to get off in the first huddled rush meant a pressing crowd of anonymous groping hands. By the time she stepped onto the concrete pier a crowd had gathered about fifty yards away. That would be where the hotels solicited customers. She walked over and looked for someone holding a sign with the name of a hotel she recognized but where no one would know her. The one she liked had a Greek couple and a gray-haired, fiftyish man engaged in the traditional haggling over price. After five animated minutes they reached a deal. Now it was her turn.

  The gray-haired man smiled and asked her in English where she was from.

  ‘Holland,’ she answered in English.

  He smiled wider. ‘Oh, we have many guests from Holland.’ Then he said to her in Dutch, ‘I have a wonderful room with a private bath and a view of the town, and because you are from my favorite country – next to Greece of course’ – with a yet broader smile – ‘I will give you a special price.’

  She smiled courteously. ‘What is the price?’

  ‘One hundred eighty euros.’

  It was more than twice what he’d agreed upon with the Greeks for a double room.

  Annika replied in Dutch, ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but I can’t afford that much.’ She turned to walk away.

  He grabbed her arm. ‘No, no please, I understand. What can you afford?’ He let go of her arm.

  She smiled. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s far too little for such a wonderful room.’

  ‘I’ll let you have it for a hundred euros.’ He looked at her in a way that made Annika wonder if more than the price of a room was on his mind.

  She thought of walking away but decided to haggle. ‘Forty.’ If he accepted that lowball offer she definitely would walk away.

  ‘Seventy-five.’

  ‘No.’

  He paused. ‘Sixty.’

  Sixty was a fair price, and it was late. ‘Including breakfast?’

  A new smile lit across his face, and he gestured for her to come. ‘Agreed.’ He led her toward where his van was parked – with his hand ever so lightly pressing on her hip as if to steer her in the right direction.

  She didn’t make an issue about his hand even though she was pretty sure it wasn’t offered purely for guidance. She smiled as she remembered overhearing her mother once tell a girlfriend, ‘Something about Mykonos makes every man think he has a chance at every woman.’

  He said the ride from the harbor to the hotel would be less than ten minutes and took the narrow two-lane road circling the original town. It was filled with partiers stumbling along the uneven concrete roadway trying to navigate a maze of illegally parked cars and motorbikes. Crowds constricted parts of the road down to a single lane, but the man didn’t seem to care. He never slowed down unless forced to by an oncoming driver. Whether they knew it or not, these pedestrians were not protected by the gods of Delos; they were on their own, and for those not prepared to expect the unexpected from a Greek driver, there were ambulances.

  Things came to an abrupt stop at a four-way inter section with an even narrower road. It was the busiest corner in Mykonos, for this was the main portal to the island’s 24/7 lifestyle. To the left, the road went up a hill toward the airport; to the right, to what the locals called the bus station.

  It wasn’t really a bus station, just an area big enough for five buses and half-dozen taxis fifty yards into the old town. Buses going to and from the beaches, outlying hotels, and Ano Mera parked there. Crowds of rushing tourists funneling in and out of town were surrounded here by a bazaar of businesses catering to their holiday needs and fantasies: food shops for a fast meal and booze; kiosks selling cigarettes, postcards, phone cards, film, candy, gum, ice cream, condoms, and more; stands hawking last-minute souvenirs; motorbike and car rentals and ATM’s. In quiet contrast to it all – unnoticed behind an unobtrusive wall on a eucalyptus-shaded knoll seventeen steps above the bustle – rested the recent, officially consecrated dead of Mykonos.

  The van turned left up the hill. Two hundred-fifty yards later the road turned sharply to the left, then back to the right. As if by magic, the sights and sounds of the bus station disappeared. There was still traffic – and roaring motorbikes – but the crowds were gone and the view was picture-postcard Mykonos. The van slowed as if to take it all in but instead darted to the right through an opening in a low, white-capped stone wall and jerked to a sudde
n stop. It had to, because the parking area wasn’t much deeper than the van and ended flush with the front wall of the hotel. No wasted space here. Four cars were parked in a line along the white-capped wall. Annika noticed that one was a police car.

  She knew the hotel had two stories – the maximum allowed – but it was set down along the hillside and looked to be only one story from the road. Even in dim moonlight Annika made out bougainvillea and geraniums everywhere. She’d never been in the hotel, only seen it from the road, but she remembered the flowers and its view of sunsets over the bay by Little Venice, the area named for the dozen or so multicolored, three-story former pirate-captain homes on the northern side of the bay – the only such structures in all of Mykonos.

  The gray-haired man quickly jumped out of the driver’s seat and slid open the rear door as he said, ‘Welcome to Hotel Adlantis. My name is Ilias and I am your host.’ He spoke in precise English. Annika realized he hadn’t introduced himself before. The Greek couple responded in Greek. Annika said hello in English and reached for her backpack.

  ‘No, please, let me,’ Ilias said in Dutch. He took her backpack and lifted the couple’s two sizeable bags as if they were empty. ‘This way, please.’ He gestured with his head in the direction of the lobby and waited, holding all three bags, until his new guests passed in front of him. He followed with the luggage.

  The lobby was on the top, street-level floor and at the rear opened onto an open-air verandah overlooking the bay. The inside was unremarkable: standard-issue white stone floor, white walls with blue trim, and a few pieces of furniture upholstered in a coarse, matching blue fabric. A white marble countertop under a white arch on the south wall served as the reception desk. A painting of the hotel’s exterior hung behind the counter. It looked like something painted by a guest in exchange for a free room.

  A man sitting behind the counter smiled and said ‘hello’ in English. Ilias put down the luggage and began talking to the man in Greek. Annika could tell from the other man’s accent that he was Albanian. Ilias asked about the police car, and the man said that two cops were on the verandah. They wanted to talk to him. Ilias told the man to check everyone in ‘by the book’ and take the luggage to their rooms. He then excused himself from his guests and went out to the verandah.

  Annika gave the man her Dutch passport, paid cash in advance for her room for two nights, and waited for the Greek couple to do the same. She walked toward the verandah and saw Ilias in animated conversation with the police. He was looking at a piece of paper and shaking with his head. She decided not to go outside. Whatever the police wanted was no business of hers, and she didn’t want to seem nosy. The man behind the counter said, ‘Miss,’ and she turned to see him holding her backpack and waving for her to follow him.

  Her room was on the lower level. It was small but neat, with glass doors that opened onto a private balcony with the promised magnificent view of a rippling silver sea against far-off shadow-black hillsides. In the distant midst of the bay she saw three towers of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame – or, if you preferred reality, the lit-up riggings of three closely anchored, otherwise invisible sloops. The outside view was far better than the inside. Another of those paintings hung in her blue-and-white room. The artist must have slept here a lot.

  The man pointed toward the balcony and said, ‘Keep locked at night,’ then showed her how to do it. She gave him a euro and, when he left, locked all the doors. She turned off the lights and fell onto the bed. From there, she could see through the glass doors to the sea. Her eyes started tearing. This was not a view she wanted to be seeing alone. She fell asleep.

  ‘Miss, miss.’ She heard a man’s voice in Dutch and quiet knocking. For an instant she wasn’t sure where she was. It was still dark out. She looked at her watch. She’d only been sleeping a few minutes.

  ‘Who is it?’ Her throat was slightly dry from sleep.

  ‘Ilias.’

  Her instinct was to be pissed, but it had only been a few minutes since she’d checked in, and how was he to know she’d fallen asleep? ‘Just a minute.’ She stood up, turned on a light, and looked quickly in the mirror before opening the door.

  He was holding a basket of fruit and a bottle of wine. ‘I am sorry, I think I woke you up.’

  She forced a smile. ‘That’s okay, I didn’t mean to go to sleep this early.’

  He handed her the items without trying to enter the room.

  She placed them on top of the dresser next to the door. ‘Thank you, that’s very thoughtful.’ This time her smile was sincere.

  ‘I wanted to welcome you to Mykonos. Is this your first time here?’

  She decided to lie. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ah, then when does your boyfriend arrive?’ He laughed.

  Even though she knew he was fishing, she was not going to lie about that. ‘I have no boyfriend.’ She realized that might have sounded as if she had a girlfriend and added, ‘We just broke up.’

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  Somehow she didn’t think he was.

  He went on. ‘So, do you have friends here?’

  ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘Well, now you do. Come, I make some dinner to properly welcome you to this island of my birth. I will answer all of your questions, and we will tell lies to each other of our lives and lovers.’

  He could be quite charming, but this was not how she wanted to spend her first night. ‘Thank you, Ilias, but not tonight.’

  He smiled his usual smile. ‘I understand. Perhaps tomorrow. Yiassou – excuse me, I mean good-bye.’ He reached to shake her hand. She reached back out her hand and he held it. ‘You are very beautiful girl, Annika Vanden Haag, do not be sad. Enjoy yourself.’ He then kissed her hand and left.

  This is going to be an interesting few days, she thought. They’re circling like flies and I haven’t even tried to look hot. I wonder what would happen if I did? That’s when she decided to go out for the evening. After all, it wasn’t even two yet.

  She walked along the edge of the road, against the traffic, toward the bus station. Though dangerous, the other side was suicide, and besides, over there men could drive alongside her as she walked. As it was, she took hardly a step without hearing some comment. One man on a motorcycle did a U-turn wheelie trying to get her attention. A group of Italian boys walking into town caught up with her and tried getting her to talk. They wouldn’t leave her alone but she ignored them and kept moving down the hill. She wasn’t upset; after all, she was the one who chose to wear the form-fitting, sequined teal number Peter called her ‘second skin.’ He said he loved the way it ‘fired up the blue in her eyes’ and its spaghetti straps fell from her shoulders in a suggestion of more to come. This time there wasn’t much more to come. She wore only a thong underneath.

  She’d learned that walking confidently – as if you know where you’re going – is the best defense against hazing men. Once she passed through the bus station into the old town’s maze of crowded lanes, they dropped away to pursue more willing, readily available targets.

  Annika knew where she was headed. It was a bar in the center of town. She’d never been there but heard it was ‘upscale,’ which meant the men hitting on you pretended to have money and/or sophistication. At least it had a chance of being more civilized than the raging, dance-naked-onthe-table places that catered to most people her age. Tonight, at least, she was looking for conversational companionship. She also knew she was far too vulnerable to drink much. This would be an early night. She’d be back at her hotel no later than four.

  The bar was at the end of a narrow alleyway filled with the sort of places she was trying to avoid. In keeping with Mykonos tradition – and a town ordinance – the alley’s gray flagstones should have been outlined in glossy white paint, but here there were only shadows of an outline. Just before its front door the alley widened to accommodate a few café tables and chairs. She felt the eyes of the men at the tables but heard no comments. So far, so good.

 
From where she stopped it was two steps down into a wide open doorway. She could see that the room was only twice as wide as the alley, but beyond that was a larger room that looked to be a garden restaurant. A dark, well-worn wooden bar ran along the right side of the front room. Potted plants and hanging Chinese lanterns were everywhere. A dozen patrons of mixed ages sat at the bar, another twenty or so at the row of small tables across from it. All were well dressed and looked great in the complimentary dim lighting. The space between the bar and tables was crowded but not so much so as to make it uncomfortable for her to pass through, if she chose to.

  She stood looking in and wondered what the hell she was thinking. This was not a smart thing to be doing alone. She should go right home to bed and call her mother first thing in the morning. She took a deep breath and mouthed silently to herself, ‘To stay or not to stay, that is the question.’ As if she’d spoken her question aloud, it was answered in welcoming English by a roly-poly, older Greek man seated on the single stool at the blunt end of the bar, closest to the door.

  ‘Don’t think, my dear, just come in. I need the business.’ He pushed someone who must have been a friend off the stool closest to him and waved her inside. ‘Come, my darling, you’re in Mykonos. Jump in.’

  And so she did.

  6

  The man at the end of the bar extended his hand, ‘My name is Panos and welcome to Panos’ Place – the best place in all of Mykonos for making friends.’ A small crowd of middle-aged men around him parted as she moved toward the empty stool to his left.

  ‘Thank you.’ She was about to add ‘sir’ but caught herself. She sensed he’d be insulted if a young woman treated him with the respect due an elder.