‘It’s the shape of a kidney,’ the Son said.
‘Eh?’ The Father, now crouching at the bow with his net at the ready, had a rough voice.
‘The lake. It’s shaped like a human kidney.’
‘In the name of God, what are you babbling about, boy?’ The silver skein reared up in the air and came down over the rippling water. ‘I’m trying to catch these fish and you’ve suddenly become a medical expert.’ He leaned forward and started manipulating the net with strong fingers. His face beneath the cap that he wore low over his eyes was weather-beaten and deeply furrowed.
‘There was a time when you were interested in the organs of the body,’ said the man at the oars. His voice was soft and even, his face smooth. His dense curls and easy smile would have made him good-looking if it hadn’t been for his eyes. They were icy blue and piercing, as ungenerous as a tax official’s.
‘What makes you think that time has gone?’ the older man said, glancing over his shoulder. His eyes were dark-brown and bloodshot, even colder than his son’s, and the grizzled moustache, stained by nicotine, cut across his face like a scar. He started to haul the net in, his gaze now on the surface of the water. Flashes of silver came from fish that were struggling frantically. ‘What do you know about…fuck!’ He jerked his head and shoulders back. ‘It’s the pike!’
The Son dropped to one knee, keeping his left hand on the oar to steady the boat. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the shadowy green shape that was driving the perch in the net to even greater frenzy. His right hand quickly located the spear that lay on the floor planks.
‘Move to the other side,’ he said, his voice betraying no emotion. ‘Slowly.’
When the Father had complied, the Son stepped forward carefully, keeping the keel level. The net, secured to the bow, was now bulging above the surface as the small fish tried to evade the jaws of the predator. There was a brief glimpse of the pike’s broad flank the instant that the Son struck. He drove the shining weapon into the water with a loud effusion of air. Immediately after the blow, he grabbed the shaft of the weapon with his other hand and hung on.
‘Gaff it,’ he said, legs splayed to keep his balance. ‘Gaff it and keep clear of its jaws when we get it out of the water. Those teeth will take your hand.’
The older man smiled as he picked up the long implement. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, boy?’ He stretched forward and hooked the pike by its gills.
Trying not to rock the boat too much, the pair dragged the creature over the side and dumped it on the floor. Its uneven jaws lined with needle-sharp teeth were snapping together continuously, a large and glassy orange eye staring up at them.
‘Kill it,’ the Son said, letting go of the spear and stepping back to the oars. He grinned as the pike’s tail slapped against his lower leg. The birds in the reeds, disturbed by the commotion, were sending up volleys of raucous cries.
The Father looked up at him, one boot pressing down on the fish’s head as its metre-long body continued to writhe between them. ‘What the matter? Haven’t you got the stomach for it?’
‘You know I have. But you’re getting old. You need to keep your eye in.’
The Father shrugged and drew a long, serrated blade from the sheath on his belt. With a swift cut he almost severed the pike’s head, watching as its dark blood spattered over his waterproof trousers.
‘Not bad,’ the Son said as he moved the oars to steady the boat. ‘Don’t forget the net.’
The Father was already pulling in the catch. When the net was on board, he opened it and started to toss the gasping perch into a bucket next to the motionless predator. ‘A good haul,’ he said, when he finished.
‘But it isn’t time to go in yet,’ the Son said, leaning on the oars.
The older man twisted his head towards him. ‘You’ve heard from her?’ Their long-established practice was that messages from their employer were only discussed on the lake or in the stone-lined garage beneath the house. The likelihood of surveillance was minimal, but they weren’t the kind who left anything to chance.
The Son nodded, his eyes scanning the lake. There were no other boats near them. ‘One of the family’s musclemen was taken out last night. He turned up in a construction site this morning, naked and beaten to a pulp.’
‘Tortured like the others?’
‘Tortured after a fashion, so the insiders say.’ He laughed. ‘Not expertly.’
The Father ran his bloody fingers over his moustache. ‘So we’re wanted in the big city, are we? When?’
‘We need to leave today.’ The Son started to propel the boat towards the harbour, his arms moving in effortless strokes. He was wearing the tattered roll-neck he always used on the lake and there was stubble on his face. The clothes would be changed and he would be clean-shaven before they started on the long drive to Athens. Among the many things he had learned from the Father was to be well turned out for a job. ‘I can go on my own, you know.’
The older man’s jaw jutted forward. ‘No, you can’t, boy. I’m not ready to retire yet.’
The Father looked away, hearing the bells from the town’s numerous churches. The faithful were observing the latest rite in the lead-up to Easter. The sound eased his mind. He’d been brought up to respect the Church. It was an integral part of Greece. As a young man, he and his fellow soldiers had fought for the nation. His subsequent career in the Military Police had been dedicated to saving it from Communist traitors. He took in the white walls of Kastoria’s old houses and their reflection in the blue-grey water. It was as if there were a shadow town in the lake, inhabited by the silent ghosts of the criminals he had destroyed. But he had no fear of them.
‘Hey, wake up.’ The Son’s mocking voice cut into his thoughts. ‘Didn’t you always tell me to keep my wits about me at all times?’
The Father stared at him. ‘You walk a tightrope,’ he said slowly. ‘You live in an enclosed world where only you matter. That way, only that way, can you prepare yourself for the business in hand.’
The Son laughed again, this time louder. ‘The business in hand. Why can’t you say it? We’re—’
‘Silence!’ the Father shouted. ‘We don’t talk about what we do, boy. We don’t talk about what we feel.’
The man at the oars was silent. Although there was still a smile on his lips, his eyes were emptier than before. He looked down at the lifeless pike, its smooth green side disfigured by the mark of the spear.
‘I served my country to the best of my abilities,’ the Father said, disregarding his own order. ‘I punished the godless enemies of the state. And how was I repaid? I had to come up here to the back of beyond with nothing more than the clothes I was wearing.’
‘You soon made good.’ The Son was familiar with the old man’s black moods. The only way was to humour him and wait for them to pass.
‘Yes, I did. After your mother…your mother died, I started on the production line at the fur factory. I decapitated the animals, I skinned them with my own hands…’
You were just the man for that line of work, the Son thought, keeping the boat away from the shore till the tirade ran its course. The Father was losing his grip. He would soon be a hindrance on the trips south.
‘…had to burst my balls at that accursed factory,’ the old man continued, spittle on his moustache. ‘Eventually I ran it, I made it a success. And I was smart enough to sell up before women stopped buying furs and the business went down the drain.’ He glared at his son. ‘I paid for your extra school lessons, I paid for your motorbike and your first car. And I taught you everything about the work we do.’ He pushed the cap back on his forehead. ‘So don’t mock me, boy. There’s more than enough life in me yet.’
The Son nodded and rowed towards the harbour. The old man was calm again, the storm had passed. Now it was time to concentrate on the preparations for the trip.
There was a shout from the wall.
‘Holy Mother, look what the old man and his boy have brought in,
’ said a bald-headed man in dungarees to his companions, pointing at the carcass of the pike. ‘Nothing escapes them!’
The Father looked at the Son. For the first time he smiled back at his heir and successor, his eyes mirroring the chill water of the mountain lake.
Mavros walked towards the ancient temple, thinking about what the Fat Man had said. In the past he would have got on the phone and chased his contacts for clients. That prospect made him groan. He should have gone straight back to work after the big case at the end of the year, but he’d been shaken by the fact that he’d brought his family into danger.
He stopped at the kiosk by the station and looked at the midday newspapers that had been hung about it. Most of them featured the latest gangland killing. He stood beneath The Free News, the country’s leading independent paper, and scanned the article by a journalist he knew. A fuzzy colour photograph of a naked corpse in a pit was displayed between the headline and the first paragraph of text.
‘Disgusting.’
Mavros turned to find an old woman in a moth-eaten fur coat standing beside him. Her hair was immaculately arranged and a small dog was sniffing the ground at her feet.
‘Don’t you think, young man?’
‘Terrible.’
‘Of course, the dead man will be an Albanian, you can be sure of that. They come here and steal our property, our young people’s jobs—’
Mavros gave her a disapproving look. He bought the paper, then walked quickly away. He had no time for the common prejudice against the immigrant workers who kept the nation’s economy running. Besides, he reckoned from the little he’d read that the victim was as likely to be Greek as any other nationality. Despite the incursions of Russian and Serbian gangs, the majority of criminals were home-grown. He looked up at the Acropolis from the newly pedestrianised street. The buildings on the rock were resisting the wind, their glorious lines giving a tantalising hint of a more perfect world. Then he heard the roar of buses and cars from the streets below, their engines tainting the air and their drivers hurling abuse. Modern-day Athens was about as far from perfection as you could get.
His mobile phone rang.
‘Alex, is that you? For God’s sake, speak!’
‘Niki, hi. Sorry. I didn’t recognise the number.’ Since the terrorism case, Mavros had been cautious about identifying himself. He suspected that his phones were still being monitored and he didn’t want to make the security operatives’ lives any easier. His girlfriend Niki Glezou, unaware of that, had been growing more and more infuriated.
‘Ah, he speaks. Sorry, Alex. You’re right. I’m at a colleague’s desk.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is morning for you. You’ve only just got up, haven’t you? Are you at that revolting café?’ Niki and the Fat Man had a relationship based on mutual loathing.
‘No, I’m not. I’m…working.’
‘That sounds convincing. What are you doing? Reading the paper?’
‘I call it researching contemporary crime trends.’
She gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Niki, are you by any chance having a bad day?’
‘No, I’m not actually. You’re in luck. I’m in the city centre and I’m in need of an early lunch.’
‘Okay.’ He gave the name of a nearby restaurant.
‘Good idea. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Mavros put his phone in the pocket of his leather jacket and retraced his steps past the ancient marketplace. He turned on to his street and passed his apartment building. At least no new graffiti had been added to the wall so far. There wasn’t much room for more, given the political slogans (‘The Government Sucks American Dick’), football supporters’ ribaldry (‘Olympiakos Do It With Pigs’) and social comment (‘You Are What You Shop’), but that didn’t usually stop the spray-can artists.
The restaurant was on a narrow street that ascended from the Roman market. Breathing heavily, Mavros stopped and looked back down. The new grass in the open space below was glowing in the midday sun. The area on the northern flank of the Acropolis had gone upmarket in recent years, old houses being bought and refurbished by the Athenian elite. Some of them even had swimming-pools on their roofs, the rectangles of blue standing out like brilliant mosaic-pieces.
Mavros went into the vine-clad arbour in front of the restaurant. He and Niki had been regulars since they got together a year back. A smiling waiter ushered him to their usual table in the corner of the terrace. Mavros relaxed into a comfortable chair—none of the Fat Man’s backbreaking kind here—and ordered a beer and a plate of appetisers. Before he’d swallowed his first piece of octopus, he heard Niki’s voice.
‘Beer, Alex? How much work are you going to do this afternoon? Actually, I’ll have some too.’
He stood up and kissed the cheek she presented. She was wearing a white blouse and short pink skirt that displayed her full figure and slim legs. Her hair, brown with blonde highlights, was as untidy as ever, and there was an unusually warm smile on her lips.
‘How much work are you going to do?’ he enquired, pouring beer into a glass for her.
‘Less than this morning, I hope.’ She dropped a leather satchel replete with files on to a chair and sat down opposite him. ‘I spent most of the morning trying to get my superiors to agree to new community facilities in the northern suburbs for my Russian-Greek immigrants.’
‘Successfully?’
She took a long drink. ‘I think so.’ Her dark brown eyes locked on to his. ‘You know how good I am.’
He nodded, smiling. ‘At your job as a social worker, yes.’
‘At everything,’ she said, pouting.
‘At everything, of course,’ Mavros said, backpedalling. Niki was often insecure and she compensated with a notorious temper. It could be useful with recalcitrant officials, but it made her unpredictable.
‘Shall we have some red mullet and mountain greens?’ Niki asked as the waiter appeared.
Mavros nodded. The fish were expensive, but they were worth it.
‘So,’ Niki said when they were alone again, ‘has any work turned up?’
‘I can’t tell you that. Haven’t you ever heard of client confidentiality?’
She laughed. ‘This is Greece in case you’ve forgotten, you half-Scots idiot. People talk about everything here.’
Mavros looked away. If anyone talked about the terrorism case he’d been involved in, heads—including his—would roll.
‘All right, Alex, you don’t fool me. You aren’t working, are you?’
Mavros was fiddling with a piece of bread. He met her gaze and shrugged.
‘Don’t you think it’s time you did something to justify your existence?’
He raised his eyes to the sky. First the Fat Man, now Niki. ‘I’m heading that way,’ he mumbled.
‘Well, let me help you.’ She pulled a cardboard folder from her satchel. ‘The Tratsou family, formerly Tratsov. Father Dmitri, mother Maria and eighteen-year-old daughter Katia. Ethnic Greeks from the former Soviet Union. I looked after them in the months after their arrival—arranged housing, medical care, you know the sort of thing.’
‘Yes. And?’
Niki speared a piece of feta with her fork. ‘And they’re one of my success stories. Dmitri got work on the new motorway—he’s an experienced foreman—and Katia was doing well at school.’
Mavros watched the waiter lay a platter of fish on the table. ‘Was doing well at school?’
Niki opened the folder and rummaged through it, ‘Out of the blue, she vanished a month ago. And she hasn’t been in touch since.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Look at her photograph. She’s a pretty girl.’ Niki’s face hardened. ‘Ideal fodder for those filthy nightclub owners.’
Mavros examined the image in front of him. This Katia wasn’t just pretty, she was stunning. Her hair was strawberry-blonde and she had high cheekbones that ga
ve her an exotic air. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? She has a body to match her face. You can imagine how much Greek men would lust after her. It’s common knowledge that the gangs lure innocent girls with offers of work that turns out to be enforced prostitution.’ Niki seized a fish and broke its head off. ‘The bastards.’
‘I’m not clear why you’re telling me this,’ Mavros said disingenuously.
‘Yes, you are,’ she said, her mouth full.
He gave up the pretence. ‘You’re inveigling me into taking on this case.’
‘Inveigling you?’ Niki said, with a laugh. ‘Nothing could be farther from my mind.’ Her bare foot suddenly started working its way up his leg. ‘Though I promise to make it worth your while if you look into where she’s got to.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. He never showed much interest initially to avoid people taking advantage. In this case, it looked like it was too late.
‘The police just added Katia’s name to their missing persons list and did nothing,’ Niki said, picking up another fish. ‘I’m not asking you to work for free. Dmitri has money. Just don’t charge him your rich people’s rate.’
Mavros grunted. ‘Give me more details.’
The expression of a hunter who’d snared a particularly large rabbit spread over Niki’s features. ‘What a good man you are,’ she said, keeping her foot where it was and taking a sheet of paper from a file on the chair next to her. ‘I wrote it all down. Address, phone—you’ll find that the mother doesn’t speak much Greek, but Dmitri gets by.’
He recognised the postcode of a residential area north of the city centre. ‘You wrote this in advance,’ he said, glaring at her. ‘You knew I was going to say yes.’
Niki bowed her head, but failed to conceal a smile.
‘You think you can get me to do anything. You think I’m your puppet.’
The Golden Silence Page 2
