‘A body has been found,’ he said, cautiously. He paused, certain of the onslaught now: the screaming, the tears, the damning or the invocation of God.
‘Yes?’
The young man, too, was puzzled, and lifted his head; the business was turning out much easier than he had thought.
‘Well,’ said the senior man, awkwardly. ‘The body is that of your father, Santos Volakis.’
To the policemen’s shock, Leda laughed.
‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘My father is already dead, and has been these four years.’
The policemen stared at her; the younger man blushed at what he assumed was their error, and prepared to rise, and leave.
But the older man gave a patronising smile.
‘I’m sorry, despina,’ he said, quietly, ‘but there really is no doubt. We’ve heard an account of your father’s exhumation, and we know his bones were not found in the grave. And it’s my sad duty to tell you that we’ve now found a body we’re quite certain is his.’
Leda’s composure was fading; the colour was gone from her face, and she reached for Maria’s hand, her own hand trembling.
‘What makes you sure it’s him?’ she asked, in a voice no more than a whisper.
‘He was carrying his identity card,’ said the policeman. ‘He had all his papers with him. The body we’ve found – there’s no doubt of it – is that of Santos Volakis. And we’re here to ask you, if you feel able, to identify his remains.’
‘He’s been alive?’ whispered Leda. Maria squeezed her hand. ‘All this time, he’s been alive?’
The policeman gave a small shrug.
‘It would seem so,’ he said. ‘Until recently, at least.’
‘How recently?’
‘I couldn’t say, exactly.’
‘No.’ Leda shook her head. ‘No, no, no! It isn’t him! It can’t be!’
She turned to Maria, who hugged her to her chest, as Leda muffled her sobbing on Maria’s shoulder.
‘You may bring Maria with you, if you wish,’ said the policeman, more kindly. ‘We’ll drive you there, of course, but we must go now. There’s to be a post-mortem, and the van to collect the – remains – has already been despatched. An identification is needed to complete the paperwork, so we shouldn’t delay too long. And there’s something else; I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your father sustained some injuries before he died. It won’t be an easy thing to do, and you must prepare yourself. With the age of the corpse and the injuries, identifying your father won’t be a pleasant task.’
Twelve
In the police station at Polineri, a grey-haired man leaned on the unattended reception desk, and watched as the policemen led the women across the car park. Leda wore the black overcoat she had worn for her father’s funeral, fetched in haste by Maria from one of the old wardrobes; with the sleeves too short and the fit too tight, the coat regressed her to the adolescent she had been on that occasion. The reek of camphor was in the fabric but had not deterred the moths; tiny holes peppered the shoulders and lapels, with pinpricks of satin lining showing through. Leda walked, head bowed and meek, behind the tall policemen; Maria followed close behind, clutching the handbag she used only for church.
Around the foyer’s light-fitting, flies buzzed.
Pouched skin around the grey-haired man’s eyes gave him the world-weariness of a bloodhound. He didn’t offer his hand but gave the women a brusque bow of his head.
‘Ladies, thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘I’m Inspector Pagounis, currently in charge of this station. May I assume you are Despina Volakis?’
‘I am,’ said Leda.
Maria stood apprehensively behind her, holding on to her handbag as if she might be robbed.
‘You can wait,’ said the inspector to the uniformed men. ‘These ladies will need a lift home. Twenty minutes, and they’ll be ready to go.’
The two officers sauntered back to their car, and lit cigarettes. The inspector gathered up a sheaf of forms from the reception desk.
‘There are a few formalities,’ he said. ‘Let’s get those completed first.’ He took a pen from a stand on the desk. ‘Your full name, your address, your date of birth, and your relationship to the deceased.’
He filled out the form as Leda gave the information; when she came to her date of birth, Inspector Pagounis gave a pensive smile, and looked Leda in the face.
‘I thought so,’ he said, ‘I thought so. You’re the same age as she would have been, if she’d lived.’
Maria brightened with sudden interest.
‘You lost a daughter, kyrie?’ she asked. ‘Ah, what misfortune, what misfortune! Commiserations, commiserations. How did you lose her?’
The inspector’s face slipped into melancholy.
‘Her lungs,’ he said, looking down at the form he was filling in. ‘She was unwell, from a baby. We lost her when she’d just turned seven years old.’
‘A tragedy, a tragedy!’ said Maria. She moved closer to Inspector Pagounis, as if proximity could better feed her craving for the details. ‘Did you not try for another?’
‘We have a son,’ said the inspector, writing Leda’s address on a blue form. ‘But daughters – daughters are special to a man.’ He recapped the pen, and wafted away a fly crawling on his paperwork. ‘Damned flies,’ he said, and turned to Leda. ‘If you’re ready, we’d better get on.’
He led the women down dark stairs and along a basement corridor, where their footsteps echoed off the concrete floor. At the end of the corridor, a man in sergeant’s uniform stood on guard at a doorway. Before they reached him, the inspector asked the women to wait, and proceeded the remaining distance alone.
‘George,’ said Inspector Pagounis to the sergeant. ‘Are you ready for us?’
‘Ready as we’ll ever be,’ said the sergeant. He sniffed, then pulled a handkerchief from his trousers and blew his nose.
‘It’s a difficult job for a young girl,’ said the inspector. ‘For her last memory to be of him like that . . .’
‘With him like that, who could do the job but his close relatives?’ asked the sergeant, giving a final wipe to his nose. On the wall by his shoulder, a fly crawled. ‘And where the hell’s he been, all this time, with them thinking him already buried? The papers’ll love it, once they get hold of it.’
‘As long as the papers don’t get hold of it through anyone connected to this station.’
The sergeant stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, and gave a shrug.
‘You know as well as I do what the press are like. They’ve a way of getting hold of everything. You and I may say nothing, nor the boys that brought them in, nor the coroner – there’s five people already you’re relying on not to tell a very interesting tale. And there’re all those others, with no professional requirement to keep their mouths shut. I don’t see how they’ll keep it quiet for long.’ He moved his chin to indicate Maria, who held tight now to Leda’s arm. ‘Old family retainers may be faithful, to a point; but when there’s money on offer – well, that would test anyone’s loyalty, don’t you think?’
The inspector sighed.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘And happily, the press is not our problem. Let’s get on, then. Stay close to her, when we go in. If she’s going to drop, make sure you catch her. Is everything respectable in there?’
‘I’ve done what I can. Which wasn’t much, given the state he’s in.’
Inspector Pagounis returned to the women. ‘We brought him here as being the most convenient to you,’ he said. ‘The alternative was the city mortuary, but we wanted to spare you the travelling.’
Leda – tense and harrowed – looked at him to acknowledge his remark, but didn’t speak. Maria had put her handbag on the floor, leaving both hands free to clutch on to Leda’s arm.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait out here,’ said the inspector to Maria.
‘I’m staying with her!’ objected Maria; but Leda shook her head and freed her arm from Maria�
��s grip, and followed the inspector down the corridor alone.
At the doorway, the sergeant stepped aside. Ready to turn the handle, Inspector Pagounis looked round at Leda.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ she said, and the inspector led the way into the room.
His back, at first, blocked Leda’s view. The sergeant followed her in. The room had no window to let in daylight. A fluorescent light burned overhead; dozens of flies crawled on its opaque casing, whilst more were settling on the walls and ceiling, buzzing and droning as they flew. Liberal use of disinfectant had failed to cover the malodour of decay, and Leda raised her hand to cover her nose.
‘I apologise,’ said the inspector, ‘for the smell. There’s nothing to be done, no avoiding it. The deceased – your father – has been dead for a little while. Please, step this way.’
Leda was trembling as if she might be very cold: her hands shook and her teeth chattered. Two wooden desks, pushed end to end, had made a bier, and on the bier, a white bedsheet covered a shape, clearly a corpse.
‘Please,’ said the inspector, encouraging Leda to move closer to him, as the sergeant stayed close to her. The three stood together by the shrouded body, breathing shallowly on the foul air.
The inspector put his hand on the sheet’s edge.
‘I must warn you,’ he said, ‘there is some – damage. He fell, we think, and hit his face. And the action of weather – you should prepare yourself for that. Try to see past it, to the facial features. If it’s him, you need only nod.’
He pulled back the sheet, revealing the dead man’s head and shoulders. The bloodless skin was yellowing and waxen, the lips so pale, there was no distinction from the jaw. Across one eye, a gash had caved in the socket, and livid bruising covered the forehead and the cheek; across the opposite cheekbone, the face had suffered a similar blow and similar bruising. The flesh had swollen from exposure to the weather, so the face seemed oddly too large for the head; but beneath the damage and distortion, the corpse’s face could be made out: a bearded man of middle age, and judging by his shoulders, poorly nourished.
For some moments, Leda looked at the body. She gave a nod. The inspector caught the sergeant’s eye, and lifted his eyebrows to signal his satisfaction.
‘His hands,’ said Leda. ‘Can I see his hands?’
The inspector peeled back the sheet, folding it discreetly to cover the genitals. The corpse’s arms were laid out by his sides. Cautiously, Leda picked up the right hand, flinching at the first touch of its coldness. She studied the hand, its back and its front: its thinness, the dirtiness of its nails, the grime which was embedded in the palm, the silver ring loose on the middle finger. She raised it to her lips, and with tears in her eyes, kissed it.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Inspector Pagounis. ‘He has the look of someone who neglected himself, in his last days. Was your father a drinker, Despina?’
‘A drinker? I don’t know,’ said Leda, quietly. ‘I didn’t know him at all, in his final years. Do you think you could show me to the toilet? I don’t feel well.’
Leda emerged a few minutes later, her face still ghastly from faintness and nausea. Maria hurried to her side and looked intently into her face, and with tear-filled eyes, Leda inclined her head. Maria made speedy crosses over her chest.
‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I knew it was him. He’s found his way home at last, poor lamb.’
The sergeant handed Leda a paper bag.
‘His personal effects,’ he said. ‘This is all he had on him.’
Leda peered into the bag, and reached in for the leather wallet it held. Inside the wallet was her father’s identity card, its photograph of a young and smiling Santos. Tucked behind it was a photograph of herself, taken years ago; the Leda in the picture was a mere child. There was a little cash, notes and few coins, less than three thousand drachmas in total.
Leda replaced the wallet in the bag.
‘His clothes?’ she asked.
‘We burned them,’ said the sergeant, brushing a fly from his jacket sleeve. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can I go now?’ asked Leda.
‘One more form to sign,’ said Inspector Pagounis. ‘Then I’ll have them take you home.’
He touched her arm to lead her to the stairs, and Maria started to follow; but the sergeant stopped her.
‘A moment, thea,’ he said. ‘There’s a small matter, still. I didn’t want to upset the young lady. It’s about her relative’s body. After the post-mortem, someone must arrange collection from the mortuary, and I’d advise a sealed casket for transport. I hate to be indelicate, but the state of the remains has caused us some problems I wouldn’t want the family to suffer – the flies swarming like a plague, and the smell of him . . . Well. You know what I mean. You’ll be wanting him in your care anyway, I’m sure – the vigil, and the services . . . So I recommend someone should collect him as soon as possible, when the necessary examinations have been done.’
Maria took a few moments to take in his words.
‘I’ll tell Frona,’ she said, and hurried up the staircase after Leda.
‘Well, the mystery’s solved, at least,’ said Maria, shaking her head. ‘But my poor lamb, out there in the cold, alone! Panayia, panayia! If we’d only known . . .’
She brought the smell of fresh air on her coat, which she hung on a peg behind the door, along with her handbag, which held so little: only coins for church candles, a pocket icon of the Virgin, an embroidered handkerchief. In the lamp before the Archangel Michael, the oil was burning low, and she refilled it from the bottle of first-pressing olive oil she kept especially for the saint. Sitting on a cane-bottomed chair, she unzipped her fur-trimmed ankle boots and replaced them with her rose-patterned slippers.
Reclining on pillows and cushions, covered with the patchwork quilt she had worked herself, when her fingers were still dexterous, Roula was drowsy in her bed. As Maria moved about the room, Roula blinked away half-sleep like a lizard, returning unwillingly from memory’s insubstantial realms.
Maria touched her mother on the shoulder.
‘Did you hear what I said, Mama?’ she asked, as she went into the kitchen and lifted several pieces of salt cod from their soaking water, laying them out on a cloth to dry. ‘The mystery’s solved. Santos – my baby, my poor baby! They’ve found him, and he’s coming home to us at last.’
Like a dog scenting game, Roula lifted her chin.
‘What mystery?’ she asked.
Maria gathered tools and ingredients from the kitchen – a pestle and mortar, garlic, oil and vinegar, the remains of yesterday’s loaf – and carried them through to the table, close to Roula’s bed.
A knock came at the door, and the neighbour, not waiting for an invitation, came in.
‘Yassas,’ she said, lively at the prospect of gossip. ‘How are you, thea?’ she asked Roula.
‘Come in, come in,’ said Maria, beckoning her to the table. ‘Sit, sit. I’m just saying to Mama, the mystery is solved.’
‘What mystery?’ asked Roula again, as the neighbour pulled up a chair.
‘I’m making skordalia,’ said Maria to the neighbour. ‘The grocer had a box of that salt cod. Mama likes cod, don’t you, Mama?’
She went again to the kitchen, and returned with a small bowl of water, a knife and a crock of salt, and sat down beside the neighbour to make the garlic sauce.
‘Well?’ asked the neighbour, eagerly. ‘Was it him?’
‘Was what who?’ asked Roula.
‘Santos, Mama,’ said Maria. ‘My baby, my lamb! I went with Leda to the police station to identify the body.’
She split a garlic bulb into cloves, trimmed their ends and began to peel them, dropping the papery skins on to the cloth. She pushed the stale bread and the water bowl towards the neighbour.
‘Soak that bread for me, kalé,’ she said.
‘Did you see the body?’ asked the neighbour impatiently, separating white crumb
from crust, pressing the softer bread into the water.
Maria dropped a garlic clove into the mortar and began to peel another.
‘The police wouldn’t let me go in with her,’ she said, ‘and it didn’t break my heart, let me tell you. I didn’t want to see him, the state he must be in. You could smell him all over the building.’ With the knife still in her hand, she drew three crosses over her chest.
‘He must have been there a long time, to stink like that,’ said the neighbour. ‘Is that enough bread?’
‘Plenty,’ said Maria, stripping the skin from a third clove.
‘It’ll be closed casket again, then,’ said the neighbour. ‘She knew him, though, did she, even in such a state?’
‘She said so. I suppose a girl should know her own father, even in such a state as that.’
‘Especially as devoted a daughter as Leda.’
‘So hard for her! She worshipped him.’
‘Deserved or not, she did.’
There was a silence between them all. With six peeled cloves of garlic in the mortar, Maria used the pestle to grind them to a paste, and filled the room with their pungency.
The neighbour seemed thoughtful.
‘I suppose there wasn’t much left of the face?’ she asked at last.
‘I suppose there wasn’t. I didn’t like to ask. She was upset.’
‘What a blessing, though, to have him safe with them. The scandal, kalé, of those pig’s bones in his grave! What a relief, that they weren’t his bones at all! And did the police say what it was he died of, this time?’
Struck by the absurdity of the question, Roula frowned.
‘They told her he slipped and banged his face,’ said Maria. ‘I suppose it cracked his skull.’
‘Did neither of you ask them any questions?’ asked Roula.
Both women looked at her. Maria stopped her grinding.
‘What questions?’ asked the neighbour, her face creasing with bafflement.
‘You asked the biggest question yourself,’ said Roula, shortly. ‘What did he die of, this time? Even renowned poets don’t die twice! If he’s only just dead now, he wasn’t dead before, was he? But don’t you worry. There’ll be answers to all questions, soon enough.’
The Whispers of Nemesis Page 12
