The pair ducked down behind a mimosa, then set off round the walls of the house. It was mid-afternoon and the shutters were half closed to keep out the sun and allow what little breeze there was to cool the interior. Kostas stopped by the corner and watched as his friend slowly raised his head to look inside, a mischievous smile on his lips.
‘Little pigs!’ came a harsh voice.
Before he could move, Kostas’s arm was caught in a tight grip. He looked up to see a red-faced man in white trousers, braces curved over his belly. There was a thin line of moustache over his twisted mouth.
‘What are you doing?’ he shouted. ‘This is private property.’ He squeezed harder, making Kostas yelp. ‘And you? How dare you look in the window? My wife is in there.’ He stepped forward, dragging Kostas with him in an attempt to collar the other boy.
‘Let him go.’ The words were piped out in a high voice but the authority in them was unmistakable. ‘You have no right.’
The heavily built man laughed. ‘What do you know about rights, you little ruffian?’ He moved forward again.
The boy pressed his lips together. Kostas watched in astonishment as his friend swung his foot round in a blur, making solid contact with the banker’s groin. He felt the grip loosen from his arm and leaped away. They ran a few paces, then stopped to look round. Petrakis was on the ground, his face even redder than it had been. He was gasping and trying to shout at the same time. They laughed and headed for the wall…
Back in the cave during the war Iraklis was nodding at him, the firelight making his eyes glint. ‘You see? If we look out for each other, we’ll be all right.’
‘Yes, but the banker’s men caught up with us outside the estate and beat us mercilessly,’ Kostas replied.
‘I know,’ his captain said. ‘And now that snake Petrakis is working with the Germans in the big city.’
‘At least you reduced the chances of him having any children.’
They leaned together and swallowed their laughter, fearful of waking the fighters who were stretched out on the floor of the cave. Outside, the wind was howling, but in their place of refuge Kostas felt as secure as he had ever done in his life.
It was an illusion, the old poet thought, turning from the window in his tower and going to the table that was strewn with his papers. Before the pain in his gut stopped him for good, his task was to describe the labours that Iraklis and his band undertook after the battle at the place of slaughter— when the Englishman who was to dog their footsteps to the end had appeared.
He didn’t know if he could face it.
Mavros’s eyes were closed for most of the drive down from Kainourgia Chora. Grace handled the Fiat skilfully, but the road surface was treacherous, deep mud on the crowns of the hairpin bends and slippery patches elsewhere that more than once threatened to send the car over the unfenced edges. On the few occasions that he looked, the stark beauty of the Peloponnese’s last hills rolling into the still water took away what little remained of his breath. He saw from the map that the clutch of towers and houses round a sharply curved bay to their left was Porto Kayio, the Harbour of Quails. According to the guidebook, Venetians had trapped the birds in multitudes on the annual migration, and Allied soldiers had been taken off after the unstoppable German advance in 1941.
‘That was fun,’ Grace said as she pulled on to the metalled highway at the foot of the slope. The testing descent didn’t seem to have affected her.
‘Where did you learn to drive on roads like that?’ Mavros asked.
‘Take your pick,’ she replied, turning right and accelerating away. ‘Upstate New York when I was a kid, Indonesia, Rwanda, the Philippines…’
‘Very impressive,’ he muttered.
‘Where now?’
Mavros had been thinking about that. ‘The old poet Laskaris. Maybe he’ll open up about Iraklis when he hears how we were nearly killed.’
‘I hope so,’ Grace said, looking around the bleak hills. The clouds were still grey and lowering over the summits, screening the sun and making it seem like late afternoon rather than the middle of the day. ‘I’d prefer to meet the terrorist in a less isolated place next time.’
Mavros wondered about that as he stared at the sinuous strip of asphalt leading north. Did Grace have a clear idea of what she was going to say to the man who had killed her father? Of what she was going to do?
‘My God, will you look at that place?’ Grace nodded to a line of towers on the spine of rock ahead. ‘It’s like Dracula’s castle.’
Mavros took in the fortified buildings, some in good condition but most dilapidated and uninhabited. The place was bleak and forbidding in the restricted light, a collective monument to centuries of feuding and neighbourly hate. Grace was right. It had the atmosphere of a hill town whose inhabitants had been overwhelmed by vampires, empty by day but full of pallid hunters as soon as the sun set.
‘Stop here,’ he said as they were cutting through what passed for a central square.
Grace raised an eyebrow. ‘Do we have to?’
‘I have a call to make, remember?’ Mavros went over to a payphone by a shuttered shop. He rang the emergency number and asked for the police, giving them the location of Dhimitrakos’s body but cutting the connection when the officer asked for his name. Then he took out his notebook and found the number of the dead man’s cousin he’d spoken to yesterday. The police would track her down, but he didn’t want her to find out that way.
‘You must go to your cousin Babis’s village,’ he said, when the woman answered. ‘He needs help.’ He had intended to leave it at that, but he couldn’t. What he was doing wasn’t fair to her. Family bonds were to be respected, especially in a traditional area like the Mani. Even a city-dwelling half-caste like him knew that.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, her voice rising. ‘Has something happened to Babis?’
‘He…he’s not well.’ Mavros was trying to weaken the blow. ‘His heart…’
‘Who is this?’ the woman asked. ‘You’re one of those who called yesterday, aren’t you?’
He held the receiver closer to his ear. ‘Yes, I am. A friend…a friend of Babis. One of those who called? Who else did you speak to?’
‘Another man, he said he was an old friend too.’ Her voice grew louder. ‘What has happened to Babis? Is he dead?’
‘Who was the man?’ Mavros insisted, his own voice rising. ‘It’s very important.’
‘He didn’t say, but he asked for directions to the house in Kainourgia Chora. You, tell me who you are!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mavros said feebly, and hung up.
Grace watched him get back into the Fiat. ‘What happened?’
‘Shit,’ he said under his breath. ‘Apparently a man asked how to get to Dhimitrakos’s place yesterday.’
She took a deep breath as they passed the last of Vatheia’s run-down buildings, the uneven coastline of the western Mani laid out ahead and below them. ‘The guy in the cap.’
‘Or the one who sent him packing.’ Mavros glanced over his shoulder at the clear road behind. He was wondering where the mystery men were now. Was one or other of them on their trail? Were they both after the Fiat?
Suddenly he wished he was back in the polluted streets of Athens. At least there he knew how to look after himself.
‘Are you all right, Mother?’ Anna Mavrou-Chaniotaki glanced at the limp figure in the front seat next to her.
‘Yes, dear,’ Dorothy said in a long-suffering voice. She looked out at the scrub-covered hills lining both sides of the motorway. As soon as they had crossed into the Peloponnese, snowflakes had started to fall. Now they were thicker, floating down from dense clouds that were low over the peaks. ‘I just wish you had a more comfortable car.’
Anna gave an irritated twitch of her head. ‘Well, you should have gone in the Mercedes with Nondas and the kids.’ She peered ahead through the gloom. The lights of her husband’s new car were still visible, though she knew he would have preferre
d to go much faster. That was why Dorothy had insisted on going in the Lancia, even though there wasn’t enough leg room for her. At least her daughter acceded to her requests not to speed. ‘Anyway, it isn’t long till the Argos exit.’
‘I’m not a child, you know,’ the older woman said. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she relented. ‘I’m a bit on edge about this trip. It’s the first time I’ve been out of Athens for the winter holiday since your father was alive.’
‘I know. I remember those times in the village.’ Anna chuckled. ‘All the Mavros adults behaving like children.’ Dorothy smiled. ‘Of course, New Year was the big celebration then,’ she said, ‘as it was in Scotland when I was a girl. Now Christmas seems to have taken over everywhere. It’s nothing more than an excuse for shopping and showing off.’
‘The children like it.’ Anna went along with her mother about the commercialisation of Christmas, but she didn’t want to show it—agreeing with each other openly had never been a feature of their relationship. She flicked the indicator as the first Argos sign flashed past. Nondas had already disappeared down the slip road.
Dorothy was rubbing the swollen veins on the back of her hand. ‘The Palaiologi are a strange pair,’ she said.
‘Oh, don’t start, Mother,’ Anna moaned. ‘We get on well enough with them. Nondas and Nikitas are close and Veta… well, Veta’s a major player in the country now and she likes people to remember that. Otherwise she’s all right.’
‘For a conservative,’ Dorothy said, her tone sharper. ‘What would your father say?’
Anna kept her eyes on the road. ‘That’s all in the past and you know it. Anyway, your friends the Dearfields are going to be there.’
‘I wouldn’t say Geoff and Flora are exactly friends of mine. They’re both pretty unusual too.’ She squeezed her hands together. ‘I’m halfway through a memoir he’s given me and it’s…well, it’s very honest. Brutally so. It’s making me wonder what kind of man he really is.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ Anna said in exasperation. ‘Is there no one you get on with?’
‘The children,’ Dorothy said quietly, after a pause. ‘Alex. You, sometimes.’
Anna glanced at her mother, realising she was upset. In the past Dorothy had rarely shown weakness. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, touching the older woman’s knee. ‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see.’
‘Have you heard from Alex?’ Dorothy asked, directing her gaze over the mist-covered plain.
Anna shook her head. ‘What’s he up to?’
Dorothy didn’t reply, keeping her son’s last call to herself and wondering whether he’d already gone down to the Mani to see Kostas Laskaris. The old poet was ailing. She’d have liked to see him one more time—he and Spyros had been through a lot together. The passing of her husband’s friends and comrades distressed her, but in a strange way it also brought her dear one back from the darkness for a while. She’d have liked to ask Kostas about Andonis. Her elder son had said he was going to see Laskaris the month before he disappeared, though he’d told her never to mention the trip to anyone. She had followed his instruction, even keeping it from Alex when he grew up and started looking for his brother. She had never felt happy about that. There was something about Andonis when he returned, a strange emptiness in his eyes, that had worried her.
She looked out across the orange groves, suddenly feeling curiously light-headed. Now that her younger son was apparently making the same journey, maybe it was time to break that promise. If Alex appeared at the Palaiologos house, she’d find the opportunity to tell him. That way Christmas away from home might be worthwhile after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GRACE drove down the rutted track towards the sea. Kostas Laskaris’s renovated war tower stood out on the low ridge like a solitary cypress pointing the way to heaven. She stopped where they’d parked the last time.
‘Probably someone out hunting,’ Mavros said, nodding at the decrepit red Lada down near the gate that separated them from the Tigani peninsula.
‘Hunting?’ Grace asked, as she pulled on her fleece. ‘What for?’
‘Anything that moves.’ Mavros had never been keen on the way rural Greeks treated wildlife. Even tiny songbirds were slaughtered, although down here the land gave its people so little that any supplement to the sparse diet was understandable, at least in the past.
‘Goats?’ Grace said, as she locked her door.
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘If they belong to someone else. What do you think the feuds were about in the old days?’
They walked up the slope to the poet’s house. The clouds were even denser on the mountains now, the air fresh and still. Mavros sniffed. ‘I reckon there’s snow on the way,’ he said. ‘That’ll make the roads even more of a joy.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Grace said. ‘I can handle them if you can’t.’
He ignored the irony in her voice and rattled the hand-shaped knocker on the solid wooden door.
‘Who is it?’ the poet called after a long pause. His voice sounded weaker than it had on their previous visit.
Mavros identified himself.
‘I’m working,’ Laskaris said, not opening the door. ‘This is not a good time.’
Mavros and Grace exchanged looks. He translated the old man’s words for her.
‘I must talk to you urgently, Kosta,’ Mavros said. ‘It’s about Babis Dhimitrakos.’
There was silence.
‘Babis Dhimitrakos, also known as Odhysseas.’
This time there was a reaction, the bolts being drawn and the key turning. The old man stood in the doorway, his face ashen. ‘Who did you say?’ he asked, still speaking Greek. His rheumy eyes were fixed on Mavros’s face.
‘You know who I’m talking about,’ Mavros said, switching to English for Grace’s benefit. ‘Can we come in? It’s bitter out here.’
Laskaris admitted them reluctantly. ‘I—I don’t know any Babis…what was it? Dhimitrakos?’
Mavros eyed him. ‘Don’t you? How about Odhysseas? You know who he was, don’t you? He was a member of the original Iraklis band.’
‘He’s dead,’ Grace said, moving closer to the old man. ‘And the man who chased him up a cliff would have killed us too.’
‘Ah.’ Laskaris stepped back and Mavros just managed to grab hold of him before he fell against the paper-strewn table. He was panting for breath, his face flushed. Between them, they manoeuvred him on to a chair. Grace fetched a glass of water that the poet gulped down. After a few minutes he had regained his composure, but he didn’t speak.
‘Listen,’ Mavros said, with a warning glance at Grace to keep her quiet. He described what had happened before and after Dhimitrakos’s death. ‘Randos is dead too,’ he added, racking up the pressure.
‘I know.’ Laskaris swallowed a sob. ‘I’ll never accept that he killed himself. It must have been an accident.’
Mavros sat down opposite him. ‘You don’t think Iraklis could have killed him?’
‘Why would he?’ the old man demanded, his expression suddenly animated. ‘My friend the composer was a loyal Party member. He knew nothing about terrorist operations. He was a cultural Communist, not a fighter on the street or an organiser.’
‘But you were an organiser, Kosta, weren’t you?’ Mavros said quietly. ‘You knew Dhimitrakos, didn’t you?’
After a while Laskaris nodded. ‘Of course I knew him. But before he joined the Iraklis group. I recruited him. His family was from Kitta.’
‘We know that,’ Grace said. ‘What about Kolettis, the man who became Iraklis?’
The poet shook his head at her.
‘When did you last see Dhimitrakos?’ Mavros asked.
‘Decades ago.’ The poet’s eyes were down again. ‘He was expelled from the Party along with everyone else in the group in the early seventies. I heard he was broken by the other side, that he betrayed his leader.’ He looked up. ‘You think Iraklis tracked him down? Well, he had good reason. But who was the man who saved you?�
�� He seemed confused.
Mavros looked at Grace. ‘Do you not think the terrorist might come looking for you too, Kosta?’
‘Me?’ Laskaris’s eyes were wide. ‘Why would he come looking for me?’
‘Maybe he’s afraid that someone will reveal his identity.’
‘I told you. I know nothing about that. He was Iason Kolettis when I first encountered him in Athens. That was an assumed name, of course. No, he has no reason to visit me.’ The words were definite enough, but there was a hint of doubt in his tone. ‘Besides, you said it yourself—Dhimitrakos could have died of a heart attack before he fell. He had a history of them, did he not?’
Mavros wondered how he knew that. Local gossip, or had he seen the ex-terrorist more recently than he’d admitted?
‘The man who was after him would have killed us if he hadn’t been scared off,’ Grace said. ‘And we didn’t even know Dhimitrakos. What makes you safe from him?’
Laskaris looked at her, his lips apart, then moved his head back in a negative gesture. ‘I think you are just trying to frighten me,’ he said, glancing at Mavros. ‘Both of you. I’ve already told you, I know nothing that can lead you to Iraklis.’
‘He slaughtered my father in front of me,’ Grace said, bending over the old man. ‘You were in the war. Did you never lose anyone you loved?’ He grimaced. ‘Yes, you know how it feels. Help me, please. I only want to understand why my father had to die the way he did.’
The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller) Page 25
