The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller)

by Johnston, Paul

  ‘Gone to work?’ Grace suggested, looking around at the overgrown fields and the walled cemetery with its marble crosses further down the track.

  Mavros followed the line of her gaze. There was a small flock of goats up on the hill. Screwing up his eyes, he made out a couple of human figures above the animals—they were about ten metres apart, the rear one walking quicker than the man in the lead. Herdsmen or hunters, he presumed. ‘I don’t think there’s much work to be done here. Everyone except the old people has moved to the big city.’ He inhaled through his mouth. ‘The guy back there said the house stank and he was right. A cesspit emptier could clean up around here.’

  ‘Very funny. Are you going to try the handle?’

  Mavros called out the occupant’s name again. ‘Might as well.’ He turned the handle, pushed the door wide and took a step forward, one hand to his nose. The house was damp and sparsely furnished, no pictures or photographs on walls that hadn’t been whitewashed for years.

  ‘No one at home?’ asked Grace, coming forward to join him.

  He put a hand on her forearm. ‘Wait here,’ he said in a low voice. ‘And don’t touch anything.’

  He bent down and unlaced his boots, leaving them by the door. Stepping lightly into the front room, he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Where was Babis Dhimitrakos? He glanced into a chaotic kitchen on the right to establish that no one was there. The smell got worse as he approached the open door to the back room. He looked round to check that Grace hadn’t moved. She gave him a firm nod to urge him on.

  Mavros moved forward, breathing only through his mouth. The room contained nothing more than a bed, a chair and a cheap wooden chest of drawers. There was a heap of clothes on the floor. But it was the bed that drew his attention. There was a mound topped by blankets on it, and the stench emanated from there. He could almost taste it.

  ‘What is it?’ Grace called.

  ‘Wait!’ he shouted, his voice taut.

  Mavros gripped the top of the blankets with his right hand and prepared himself for what lay beneath. Then he pulled them back swiftly, keeping his eyes directed towards the top of the bed. He had learned over the years that the first glance at a potential crime victim needed to be a controlled one if it was to remain in his mind.

  But there was no one, only a pair of filthy pyjamas beneath an ancient bolster. Mavros swallowed hard and blinked. That would teach him to lose control of his imagination. He dropped to a squat to check beneath the bed and gagged as he found the source of the stench—an over-full saucepan that had been used as a bed pan.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said under his breath, standing up and stepping back. Then he saw a foil strip on the mildewed dresser, three empty spaces where pills had been pushed out. He picked them up and read the brand name without recognising it. Was Dhimitrakos taking these for his heart condition? If so, would he have left them behind? Then he remembered the pair of figures he’d seen above the goats that were grazing beyond the village. Had the former terrorist left the house in a hurry, with someone else in close pursuit?

  Mavros moved quickly back to the door.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Grace said when she saw his face. ‘Is he—?’

  ‘I think that might have been Dhimitrakos up on the hill,’ he said as he pulled on his boots. He looked up. ‘There was a second man behind.’

  ‘Iraklis?’ she said, her eyes wide.

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ he replied. ‘But I’m not taking any chances. Go back to the car and wait for me there.’

  ‘No.’ She gripped his forearm. ‘You know that’s not the deal. I’m sticking with you.’ There was no warmth in her smile. ‘If you send me back, I’ll just wait a while and then follow you. That could put me in even more danger.’

  ‘For God’s sake. All right, come with me. But do exactly what I tell you.’

  ‘I thought it was the client who gave the orders,’ Grace said, following him outside.

  There was now no sign of the two human figures, the goats moving slowly upwards in formation.

  ‘They must have gone over that ridge,’ Mavros said. He set off down the rough path at a quick pace, glancing at Grace as she caught him up. ‘Why did you assume that Iraklis was up there? It could have been another villager.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Alex,’ she replied, her breathing steady as they started up the slope. ‘You look like a bloodhound that’s picked up a very strong scent.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t picked up any scent in that bedroom,’ he said, his trouser legs already soaked from the heavy dew on the scrub and grass. ‘Dhimitrakos obviously only empties his chamber pot once a week.’ He peered ahead. ‘Where could they be going? There wasn’t any other settlement on the map, was there?’

  ‘Not as far as I remember.’

  They concentrated on the ascent. Mavros felt his throat tighten as his breathing quickened. At their approach, the goats looked up from their grazing, their black eyes shiny and wide. Then the animals broke away, keeping close together, their bells clanking.

  ‘Shit,’ Mavros said. ‘We just let our guys know we’re after them.’

  Grace strode past him, her eyes fixed on the line of rock. As she neared the saddle, she lowered her upper body and slowed her pace.

  Mavros watched her, remembering how she’d spotted the tail in Athens. She gave the impression of someone who could handle situations that most people knew nothing about. He kept his head down and joined her at a rocky outcrop, moving his eyes across the broken terrain ahead. There was a steep downward slope immediately beyond the ridge, its surface scattered with boulders and chutes of scree. Then, across a narrow watercourse, there rose a series of three sheer cliffs, interspersed with narrow plateaux, leading to a barren summit. High above, a buzzard circled on the air currents, its rough-edged wing tips fluttering.

  ‘There’s one of them,’ Grace said, nodding towards a wide crack in the lowest cliff face.

  Mavros looked down and made out a figure in a dark-coloured, knee-length coat. The man had a cap pulled low over his eyes and his legs were spread wide as he raised his head to take in the rock face.

  ‘And there’s the other.’ Grace pointed to a hollow in the cliff, about ten metres above the man in the coat. A short, heavy man wearing ragged clothes was crouching in the small space, his arms outstretched for grip.

  ‘I reckon that’s Dhimitrakos,’ Mavros said. ‘He looks like he’s in his late fifties and in pretty bad physical condition. How did he manage to get up there?’

  ‘God knows. I’d say he’s terrified.’ Grace cocked an ear. ‘The man below is shouting at him. Can you make anything out?’

  Mavros could hear echoing cries, but the wind was blowing down the watercourse and obscuring the words. He watched as the man up the cliff slowly raised himself to his full height. Then he toppled forward and fell to the stony ground below, his body horizontal as it took the impact. There was no more movement from him.

  ‘Shit,’ Grace said, pulling herself up. ‘What’s going on down there?’

  Before Mavros could stop her, she was over the saddle and running down the slope. He followed as fast as he could, his eyes on the man in the long coat. He was now beside the body, bending down. Then he heard the rattle of the stones that Grace’s boots were dislodging and his hand moved quickly to his pocket.

  ‘Stop, Grace!’ Mavros shouted. ‘Stop! He’s got a gun.’

  They managed to control their descent about thirty metres above the man, who was now pointing a black pistol at Grace. His face was in the shadow of the peak of his cap. All Mavros could be sure of was that he had no beard.

  ‘Fuck you, Iraklis!’ Grace yelled, the arteries in her throat blue and contorted. ‘You don’t scare me.’

  Mavros put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her into a crouch to reduce the target size. ‘Shut up, for fuck’s sake,’ he hissed.

  The man in the coat held his weapon on Grace’s midriff without wavering. Then he gave what sounded like a mocking
laugh and started to walk in a measured stride up the slope towards them.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Mavros said under his breath, trying to push Grace on to the ground and put his body between her and their assailant. His eyes were fixed on the approaching figure, his heart pounding and his throat dry.

  Then there was an explosion of gravel and dust from the ground immediately in front of the armed man’s leading leg. The crack from an unsilenced weapon followed immediately and the three of them—Grace, Mavros and the man below them—looked away up the slope towards the source of the report.

  Mavros made out a tall figure on a boulder halfway down the scree to their rear. He was also wearing a dark coat, a scarf pulled up to his nose. His hair was dark, the eyes beneath it heavily ringed. Before he could say or do anything, another shot was fired, this one kicking up stones a few centimetres in front of the man in the cap’s other foot. He heard another laugh, this one less confident, then the man below backed away up the watercourse.

  Grace’s eyes were flicking between the two men, her brow furrowed. ‘What’s going on?’ she said.

  ‘God knows,’ Mavros replied. ‘Just keep still.’ He glared at her and wrapped his arms round her legs to impede any movement. ‘I mean it.’

  The two of them watched as the man in the cap continued to move away, his pistol now lowered. After a few minutes he reached the end of the narrow valley and walked more quickly up the opposite slope, his head down.

  When Mavros looked round again at the man who had saved them, there was no sign of him on the boulder or on the rocky incline above. He had disappeared like a ghost into the grey morning, and the spreadeagled body below was their only company.

  Grace pushed him away, her eyes moving round the deserted landscape. She got to her feet quickly and went down to the watercourse.

  ‘Wait,’ Mavros said, running to catch her up. His heart was still beating hard and his hands inside the leather gloves were damp. ‘Don’t touch—’ He stopped when he saw that she, too, was wearing gloves.

  ‘Let’s see if we can confirm his identity,’ Grace said, stooping over the prone figure.

  ‘Maybe we should check for a pulse first,’ he said. ‘Jesus, where are your feelings? This poor guy took a dive in front of our eyes. And then we almost got ourselves killed, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Calm down, Alex,’ she replied, without meeting his eyes. ‘This should all be in a day’s work for you.’ She pulled off a glove and touched the man’s throat. ‘No pulse.’

  Mavros watched as she located a tattered wallet in a trouser pocket. He took it from her and pulled out the ID card issued by the Greek police to all citizens, comparing the photo with the dead man. ‘Yes, this is Babis Dhimitrakos, all right.’

  ‘Why did he let himself fall?’

  ‘Maybe his heart gave out.’

  ‘Do you think the man with the gun was threatening him?’

  ‘Could be. He wasn’t exactly pleased that we witnessed the scene.’

  Grace stood up. ‘He was Iraklis, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Did you see anything of his face?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘And what about the other guy, the one who saved us? Who was he? And why did he disappear so quickly?’

  Grace was looking around the rocky valley. ‘How would I know? I think it might be a good idea if we got out of here without delay.’

  Mavros was looking at Dhimitrakos. ‘We can’t just leave him.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘There are birds of prey…’

  ‘We’ll tell someone in the village that we saw him fall,’ Grace said, starting up the slope.

  He gave Dhimitrakos a last look and followed her. ‘Have you done this kind of thing before, Grace?’

  ‘It’s not the first time I’ve encountered the dead. We often come across them in the bush.’ Her head dropped. ‘I’ve been to a massacre site in Bosnia too.’

  They reached the saddle. The village looked like a cluster of sheds for animals, the walls discoloured by the winter rains and by neglect.

  ‘Look, Grace, we need to be careful,’ Mavros said. ‘Even if we only tell the villagers that we saw Dhimitrakos fall, they’ll expect us to wait for the doctor and the police. If we don’t stay, we’ll be remembered and the authorities will want to talk to us.’

  Grace gazed around again, searching for any sign of the armed men. ‘No,’ she said, her voice unwavering. ‘We were close to Iraklis. He’ll be after us now to stop us talking. If we go to the police, we’ll scare him off.’ She moved closer to him. ‘So we walk away as if nothing happened and you make an anonymous call from the next village.’

  ‘By which time the body will have attracted every carrion creature in the vicinity. Christ, this isn’t right, Grace. We can’t just leave him out here.’

  She glared at him. ‘He was a fucking terrorist, Alex. He was involved in my father’s death. Who cares if the birds get him?’

  Mavros had taken a step back, her words ringing in his ears. Until now he hadn’t seen how much she wanted to find her father’s murderer. She hadn’t been scared by their assailant or by the gunfire, and that lack of emotion made him wonder even more about his client and her motives. He considered giving up the case, but dismissed the idea quickly. Grace would be at even greater risk if he wasn’t with her, and besides, he wanted to find out about the terrorist’s links with his brother, Andonis.

  ‘How do we get back to the car without being spotted?’ Grace said, moving away down the hill.

  ‘We’ll have to take our chances.’

  When they got to the village they walked at a pace that was brisk, but not hurried enough to attract attention. They were lucky. They reached the Fiat without encountering anyone in the narrow streets. Grace got in and started the engine, reversing and turning before he could open his door.

  ‘Come on,’ she said impatiently, and set off before he was fully in.

  Mavros pulled his door shut and a wave of relief burst over him. At least they’d got clear of the dead man’s village without running into either of the armed men.

  Then he saw the state of the road that Grace had turned on to and his heart began to hammer again.

  Kostas Laskaris looked out over Tigani through the small window by the front door. The raised brow of the headland with its ruined fortifications was floating above the grey water like a crown shorn of its jewels and decorative carvings; the crown of a king overwhelmed in a final desperate battle. As Kapetan Iraklis had been.

  He twitched his head to dispel the scenes from his early life, but it seemed he had no defence against them. He was back with the man he had loved, the brown eyes solemn but a fearless smile beneath the jet-black beard—Kapetan Iraklis as he had been in the early days of the resistance campaign, before he had had to give the orders that set the band of fighters on the road to the underworld: the orders to execute their fellow Greeks. Could he have made his leader understand the cost of those orders? He had tried often enough, when the fighters were asleep and the bastard commissar Vladhimiros wasn’t listening. There had been one particular time, a night around the embers of a fire in a cave high on Taygetos…

  ‘We must be united,’ Iraklis had said to him, when he finished his gloomy prediction. ‘There can be no room for doubt, my comrade.’ He laughed. ‘You must be true to me, you must help me, as Iolaos helped Iraklis in the myths. He held the flame to the stumps of the Hydra after the hero had sliced off its lethal heads to prevent new ones appearing.’ He touched his arm. ‘That will be your task when the difficult times begin and we are assaulted from every side.’

  Kostas nodded, momentarily disarmed by the subtle strength of his captain’s voice. He had always known that few of the band would survive the war, known that the country would be in turmoil for many years to come. His father had fought in the Balkan Wars, then in the doomed Asia Minor campaign that had ended in the burning of Greek Smyrna by the Turks and the exchange of populations in 1922. ‘War eats men,’ the veteran
had said. ‘Those who die in battle are consumed quickly, but the survivors are condemned to a lifetime of torment. Because men are weak, and fighting for the nation is easier than making the nation fit for its people.’

  ‘We will all become victims of the struggle,’ Kostas said, as the force of his captain’s words faded.

  Iraklis leaned against him. ‘We are already victims,’ he said softly, ‘but if we support each other through the worst times, there is nothing that can hurt us.’ He nudged his friend. ‘Remember when we were kids, climbing into the rich man’s estate? We stuck together then, didn’t we?’

  Suddenly the poet found himself on top of a high wall, the August sun beating down on his head. He was ten, his hair shaved close to his scalp to discourage nits. A summer on the rocks and in the sea near Kitta had burned his skin deep brown. His companion was only a few months older but he was already a leader. His wiry body was first into the banker’s forbidden grounds.

  ‘Come on, Kosta,’ he called. ‘There’s no one here.’

  Laskaris took a deep breath and jumped down, wincing as his bare feet landed on the stony soil. ‘How do you know?’ he whispered. ‘The gardeners might be beyond the trees.’

  ‘They’re sleeping.’ The other boy gave a wide grin. ‘Anyway, we can run faster than anyone. We can beat the wind.’ He turned and padded away through the olive trees, heading for the building at the far end of the grounds.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Kostas whispered, as he caught up. ‘They’ll catch us and beat us if we go near the house.’

  His friend ignored him, running on towards the grey stone walls of the tower. It had been there for centuries, but only in the last two years had it been inhabited again. A rich man called Petrakis, not a local but a Maniate all the same, had bought and renovated the old building, adding a more comfortable modern extension. This Petrakis was a banker in Athens who came down in the summer for a month. The rest of the year the house was closed up, the gardens tended by men from the village. They usually paid little attention to the boys when they climbed the wall, but when the owner was in residence they were fierce.