Crying Blue Murder (MIRA)

by Paul Johnston

  Mavros closed his eyes to shut out the shore and the running waves, the graveyard with its glowing white headstones and the islands fading into dusk.

  It was time to leave Trigono and get back to the big city.

  Kyra Maro left Tasos’s bones in the box under her bed. This time she didn’t feel the need to take them out—he was already so close. There was a pain in her chest that made breathing difficult but she wasn’t concerned by it. She leaned back on the pillows, letting her thoughts drift.

  ‘Ach, Rena,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re a good woman. You brought me food this evening even though I didn’t want it. And there was a strange look on your face, a sweet sadness in the way you smiled at me that for a moment made me wonder if you’d found something out about my life. I never told you about Tzortz or Tasos. It was better that way. You were already too close to me and the villagers hate you for it. Yes, you’re a good woman, but even now I am keeping my counsel, keeping my beloved to myself. But where are they? Often they have risen up before me as they used to be, firm fleshed and joyful, only for me to wrap my arms around them and discover that they were phantoms, shadows without substance. Now it seems that I do not even have that consolation. Where are they? What remains of Tasos is beside me, but Tzortz, you are deep in the chill salt water. Was it for this emptiness that I fought across the years to have your name inscribed on the war memorial? Was it for this that I crept out in the night and wrote your name on the stone when Theocharis had it removed? Ach, Tzortz, I loved you for so little time on the surface of the earth and for so long in spirit. When will the torment end?’

  In an instant Maro was back on the hills of the southern massif, the sun sinking in a blast of red over Andiparos. In her pocket was a handful of pomegranate seeds, an offering to the goddess of the underworld. She was running down the hillside with all her youthful vigour, the broom and thistles catching at her bare legs, but Tzortz was already on the flat rock by the water’s edge. She kept screaming her lover’s name, screaming it above the mocking cries of the gulls, begging him to wait.

  And then, to her amazement, the story of her life was changed. Tzortz beckoned to her, his coat and torso no longer weighed down by stones. He smiled, and behind him she saw a boat approach, a shrouded figure at the helm. The water was slapping against the hull as it bobbed on the darkening surface. Maro was at the shore, the skin on the soles of her feet being scraped by the rock’s sharp surface.

  ‘Come, my love,’ she heard her lover call. ‘We must go now.’

  He jumped into the water, but his head came back above the surface immediately. Without hesitating she followed him, pulling herself forward with her arms, surprised that the sea was not cold. When she reached the boat, Tzortz was already on board. He bent down and took her in his arms, lifting her on to the deck. Her heart soared as she saw Tasos beside them, their small son smiling, his head smooth and undamaged.

  And as the sunlight died, the three of them sailed away together.

  Into a murderless blue.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MAVROS watched as Deniz Ozal walked listlessly across the yard of the Fat Man’s café and slumped on to a chair. Above them the blue-grey sky was choked with fumes, the noise of traffic throbbing in the distance. Grapes that had dropped from the vines lay uncollected on the gravel and the enclosed space smelled of fermenting juice. The improvised wasp traps hanging from the pergola were full of insects, a dull buzz emanating from the few that were still alive.

  ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ he asked the Turkish- American. ‘You take varyglyko, don’t you?’

  Ozal waved a hand weakly. ‘No coffee.’ His face was pale and sweaty. ‘I can’t keep anything down.’

  Mavros shook his head to keep the Fat Man at bay, not that he’d shown much inclination to take an order. ‘I’m very sorry about your sister,’ he said, feeling the inadequacy of the words.

  His client was nodding slowly. ‘Yeah, well, you did a hell of a job.’ He looked up briefly. ‘Except I kinda wish you’d never found poor Rosa.’ He swallowed hard and brought a handkerchief to his face. ‘They wanted me to look at her remains, you know. What could I tell them? They already knew it was her from the dental records.’ He clenched his face. ‘Those fucking bastards, why did they do that to her?’ He stared into Mavros’s eyes as if he expected an answer. When one failed to come, he bowed his head again. ‘She was on holiday, for Chrissakes, all she wanted was sun and sand, maybe a bit of sex, how the fuck would I know?’ His words tailed away into a groan.

  Mavros’s curiosity got the better of him. ‘She wasn’t checking the place out for you, was she? Trying to get a look at Theocharis’s private collection?’ His client gave him an agonised look. ‘I saw you meet Tryfon Roufos after you came here. He has a reputation. I want a straight answer. Were you going to bid for antiquities from Trigono?’

  ‘What?’ Deniz Ozal’s expression was incredulous. ‘Is that what you think? I sent my sister into that nest of vipers? Fuck you, dick.’ He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and unfolded documents. ‘It’s none of your business, but take a look if you want. Ottoman Imperial coins. That’s what I’m buying from Roufos. If the asshole ever shows up at his office.’

  Mavros pushed the papers away. Ozal’s indignation had already convinced him. Rosa had simply been unlucky in her choice of holiday island.

  ‘One thing puzzles me,’ his client said, standing up unsteadily. ‘That postcard we got from Rosa in Turkey after she had supposedly left Trigono.’

  Mavros nodded. He’d been thinking about that himself. ‘Barbara Hoeg must have forged her writing—they were capital letters—or got someone else to do it. She was a designer, remember. She’d have known plenty of draughts- men. I guess she sent it to some contact in Turkey to post.’

  Ozal was fumbling in his pockets again. ‘If the postcard Rosa sent from Trigono hadn’t turned up after all that time, I’d never have sent you down there.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I say, I almost wish I hadn’t.’

  Mavros nodded. He felt the same way. But at least he’d managed to save Liz Clifton from sharing Rosa’s fate.

  ‘Here,’ the Turkish-American said. ‘A bonus for your trouble. You look like you took a major beating.’

  Mavros glanced at the wad of notes and handed it back. Standing up and reaching into his own pocket, he took out the plastic bag containing Rosa’s postcards and photographs. ‘You’ll want these back. Use the money for flowers. Your mother will need comforting.’

  Deniz Ozal looked at him in amazement then pocketed the cash. ‘Hell of a lot of flowers, dick,’ he said, and turned away. ‘See you around.’

  Mavros watched him go, shaking his head. He wished he could believe that the antiquities dealer would give some relief to his mother, but he didn’t think the Turkish-American was capable of it.

  The Fat Man lumbered up. ‘Did I see correctly just now?’ he demanded. ‘Did you turn down money?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘Come on, Yiorgo, I don’t want his blood money.’

  The café owner grunted. ‘So suddenly now you’re the class warrior, refusing the rich man’s loot? Didn’t your father teach you anything? First you take their capital, then you stage the revolution.’

  Mavros sat down wearily. ‘Go away, Fat Man,’ he said.

  ‘I was going to ask you if you’d like the last piece of galaktoboureko. I kept it specially.’ Yiorgos turned towards the bar. ‘But if you don’t want—’

  ‘I want it,’ Mavros interrupted. ‘Bring it over here and I’ll tell you about the case.’

  A wide grin spread across the Fat Man’s face. ‘That’s better. Just a minute while I close up.’ Despite the way he disparaged Mavros’s career, he was always keen to hear the details of his investigations.

  Mavros waited till his friend had barricaded them from the outside world and returned with the pastry. The Fat Man put it on the table and then sank on to the chair opposite. For
a moment Mavros thought it was going to collapse under the weight, but it held.

  ‘Aach!’ he said as he tasted the galaktoboureko. ‘Better than ever.’ Then he started the story. He was breaking every rule of client confidentiality, but he didn’t care. The Fat Man was his confessor, as far as the atheist son of a leading communist could have such a figure. Besides, if he couldn’t trust Yiorgos Pandazopoulos, the world and everything in it was lost.

  ‘May the bastards rot in hell,’ the Fat Man cursed when Mavros finished speaking an hour later. ‘All of them. The murderers, the rich man who tried to sell his country’s heritage to that shit Roufos, the British officer who seduced the island girl—’

  Mavros raised a hand. ‘No, Yiorgo. George Lawrence wasn’t a bad man. I spoke to the writer Liz Clifton in the hospital yesterday. She almost died from the effects of prolonged dehydration, but she’s improving now.’ He ran his thumb over his worry beads. ‘By the way, in case you were wondering, she was the one who put the disk and the photos in the chimney. The one of George Lawrence was hers, but the other two were Rosa’s. Liz found them in a gap beside the fireplace. They must have been holiday snaps Rosa had taken that weren’t found by Lefteris when he took the rest of her possessions, or by Rena when she was cleaning. Anyway, she told me that Lawrence’s poems show that he was tortured by guilt about his conduct. And the diary proves how much in love he was with Maro.’

  ‘Love!’ scoffed the Fat Man. ‘There are more important things in the world than love.’

  Mavros lowered his gaze. Maybe Yiorgos was right. His own love life had never been very successful. He hadn’t even been able to track down Niki since his return. She hadn’t left any nasty surprises for him at his flat, but she wasn’t answering any of her phones. Maybe she had found someone more reliable.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Fat Man. ‘You agree.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Mavros said, shaking his head and dropping the beads on to the table. ‘I had a call from the widow Rena. Old Maro died in her sleep last night. A photo of George Lawrence was in her arms and…and she was smiling.’ He felt his eyes sting as his brother Andonis’s face suddenly rose up. As ever, there was a smile on his lips too.

  ‘Christ and the Holy Mother,’ Yiorgos said anxiously. ‘Don’t tell me you’re turning into a romantic. Surely private investigators can’t afford to have too many emotions. You have to nail the bad guys like Theocharis and Roufos.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get Roufos the next time, Yiorgo.’ Mavros looked at him quizzically. ‘But you’re wrong. Private investigators can’t afford to do without their emotions.’

  The Fat Man heaved himself to his feet. ‘See, what do I always tell you, Alex? You’re a freak with an alien’s eye, a half-breed. You keep letting your passionate Scottish side overrule your natural Greek coldness.’ His lips formed into a crooked smile.

  Mavros looked at him seriously. ‘That’s right,’ he said in a level voice. ‘I’m a permanent stranger. I don’t fit in anywhere.’ Then he laughed. ‘Now get your hundred per cent Greek carcass over to the stove and make me a coffee. At the double, comrade.’

  The Fat Man obliged.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited,

  used under licence.

  Published in Great Britain 2009.

  MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

  Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

  © Paul Johnston 2002

  Originally published by Hodder and Stoughton as

  A Deeper Shade of Blue

  ISBN 978-1-408-91096-2