And Lia – Evangelia, after Paschos’s grandmother – had given her joy since her birth fourteen years earlier. Unlike her friends, Angie refused to have a Caesarean. She cared nothing about how she would look in a bikini any more. From the moment she held the little bundle with the helmet of black hair in her arms, she knew that life could give her nothing more precious. And her relationship with Lia had remained special as her daughter went through kindergarten and private primary school, and then started the international college two years ago. Lia was one of those rare people who lit up a room. She wasn’t conventionally pretty, having inherited her father’s rather bulbous nose, but she had presence. That was partly because of her size and shape. When she turned thirteen, she grew tall, almost as tall as Angie, and filled out in the places males of all ages noticed immediately. Lia had taken the metamorphosis in her stride, her moods unaffected and a smile never far from her pink lips. She and Angie used to talk for at least an hour every day. Paschos had never shown anything but distant pride in Lia and never tried to get close to her. Mother and daughter called him ‘the visitor’, so rarely did they see him. That didn’t worry Angie. She knew Paschos had lost interest in her physically before Lia was born and she’d made no effort to attract him back to her bed. He lived his life, she hers.
Except now she had no life. It had been taken away from her and she was an empty shell, a husk the wind could blow away at any time. And the truth was that Lia had changed in the weeks before she disappeared – she’d been less open and was often listless.
Now Angie steeled herself to accompany her husband to events where her presence was essential and she hadn’t let him down, but she couldn’t go on any longer. She had to do this, she couldn’t live without Lia. She needed Alex Mavros . . .
The missing persons specialist looked up from his notebook. ‘Let me get this straight, Mrs Poulou.’
‘Angie,’ she said, in a low voice. Her hands were over her eyes, tears leaking between the fingers.
‘Your daughter Lia went missing on Saturday May 1st on the slopes of Mount Elikonas in Viotia. Your husband has handled all questions from the police and enforced a news blackout. There has been no ransom demand or any trace of Lia. And now, three and a half months later, you want me to find her.’
‘Yes, but remember what I said. My husband must not hear about your activities. He has forbidden me to hire anyone or talk to the press. I can’t even tell my friends. The story is that we’ve moved Lia to a school in Switzerland.’
‘What about the woman who was in charge of the girls that day?’ Mavros looked at his notes. ‘Maria Bekakou.’
‘You can’t talk to her,’ Angie said firmly.
‘But she believed what Lia told her when she called that afternoon?’
‘That Paschos had unexpectedly come to pick her up? Yes.’
‘Doesn’t that strike you as strange? I mean, surely a mother responsible for other mothers’ daughters would at least have asked to speak to your husband.’
‘Maria isn’t a mother. She did ask, but Lia told her Paschos was on an urgent call to his broker in New York.’
‘And she reported no hint of fear or coercion in Lia’s voice?’
Angie shook her head. ‘I don’t blame her for not noticing. She had seven other girls to look after and some of them are quite wild.’
‘So your husband’s initial assumption was that there would be a ransom demand?’
‘Yes.’ Angie Poulou looked at him through damp eyes. ‘I never believed she’d been abducted for money. Something much worse is happening.’
Mavros raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t elaborate. ‘Had your daughter been different before she disappeared?’
‘A bit,’ she murmured. ‘She was moody and quiet. They have a terrible work load at the college, you know.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘Find her, Alex,’ the woman said desperately. ‘I’ll give you everything I own. Just . . . just bring my baby back to me.’
Mavros thought about it. Paschos Poulos wasn’t only one of the country’s most powerful businessmen. He had a reputation for rough practice, including deunionising an aluminium plant whose labour force had been controlled by the Communists. He also knew everyone who counted, both in the government and in the shady groupings that really ran the country. The fact that he’d managed to keep a lid on the police investigation for so long showed how much influence he wielded in that notoriously leaky institution, as well as in the media. Going up against him would be asking for trouble. But he felt for the mother and he couldn’t let her suffer unaided.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll do what I can. You need to set up a secure email account and send me everything about your daughter that could be relevant.’ He gave her his electronic address, as well as a post box number where she could send hard copies of documents and other material.
‘As for your fee,’ Angie Poulou said, ‘take this. That’s my mobile number on the envelope. Please destroy it after memorising. I’ll call you from public phones.’
Mavros looked at the fat envelope. ‘I’ll give you a receipt.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I can have nothing that connects me to you – for your own safety. Paschos is like a man possessed over this.’ She gave a weak smile as she got to her feet. ‘Besides, I’ve met your mother at several functions. I trust you. Please give me ten minutes to clear the area. I managed to talk my driver into leaving me alone for half-an-hour, but he’ll be getting hot under the collar now.’
Clear the area, Mavros thought, as he watched her walk away, her shoulders down as if she were carrying a terrible burden. Someone’s been reading too much John le Carré. Then again, people were devious. He’d never known a client who’d told him the whole story on first meeting.
THREE
Lady, in your grieving accept these humble offerings of flowers, corn and fruit. Your daughter is gone beneath the earth, but she will return, she must return, the ancient tale has it so. After passing the winter months in Hades’ echoing halls, she will find the light of Helios again and you will be reunited.
Goddess, cast your green shroud over the barren soil. Give life to the seeds that lie hidden, waiting for spring’s bounty of rain and warmth. Although your pain is great, soon it will be assuaged. We await the maiden’s return with restraint, eating humble food and drinking only spring water. But we will celebrate with you when she attains the surface of the earth again.
Great Mother of Fertility, we ask your forbearance. The world is changing and the seasons are no longer as they were. Winters have been harder, the snow on the surrounding peaks and the rain rushing down the watercourses in torrents, taking the precious soil to the wave-crested sea. The summers have become more arduous, the heat killing older mortals and poisoning the canopy of heaven. We pray that your daughter’s return will not be unduly delayed.
Be assured, Goddess, that we will perform the necessary sacrifice if the earth’s destroyers do not heed our warnings. We are few, but we are united in our faith in your goodness. Already one of our number has been taken and we do not expect to see him again. The enemy is strong and merciless. But so were you in the ancient tale, leaving people to starve and fields to wither. We will maintain our devotion to you until the last, firm in our belief that you will save the land, if only for future generations.
Green Lady, we pour good wine on your altar and raise our hands to praise you. Be assured, our fellow believer will not remain unavenged for long. This is a war that must be won, in your name and in those of our children. As the sun sets over the western mountains, casting its last light on the waters of the gulf, we fall to our knees and rub the precious soil over our bodies and into our hair. We place these figurines, replete with your power, in our dwelling places.
For though the maiden is deep in the underworld, starving and broken by the Death God’s dark will, she will rise again. Hail, Potnia, most ancient and revered of immortals. We are your servants now and forever.
‘Bastard exploiters of the people, thieving desecrators of our history!’
‘What now?’
Yiorgos looked round and then pointed at the screen. ‘Look at those poxy mascots. They’re a parody of our history, a multinational marketing device.’
Mavros nodded without enthusiasm. Athena and Phevos were stylized children with heads as thin as their necks and oversized feet. They had been based on small terracotta sculptures of the goddess Athena and the sun god Apollo, dolls most likely, dated to the seventh century BC. To Mavros, they had always seemed mysterious, far from the realistic forms of the classical period and closer to the prehistoric past. Now they were on everything from hoardings to badges.
‘Participation, brotherhood, equality, cooperation, fair play and the eternal Greek value of human scale,’ the Fat Man scoffed. ‘Whatever that means.’
‘I told you to stop memorising the Olympic advertisements. You’ll damage your brain.’
‘As if anything’s equal in this country, as if there’s ever been a sense of fair play. The rich steal from the poor and feed them pap like this to shut them up.’ Yiorgos caught sight of the envelope Mavros was holding. ‘What’s that?’
‘Er, nothing.’
‘Show me or I’ll eat all the baklava.’
‘That’ll make a change.’ Mavros tossed the envelope on to the coffee table.
The Fat Man ran a practised thumb over the edges of the fifty euro notes. ‘Three thousand? What did you do? Rob an Olympic gift shop? If so, eternal glory is yours, comrade.’
Mavros went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. That didn’t save him from further interrogation.
‘You’ve got a job, haven’t you? From a rich lady with more money than sense.’
‘You always say the rich are cunning and devious. Take what you need.’
‘A couple of hundred will do.’ Yiorgos appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Come on, then. Tell me all about it.’ His enthusiasm was like a puppy’s chasing a ball.
‘I can’t. It’s confidential.’
‘Your cases are always confidential,’ the Fat Man jeered, ‘and you’ve told me about them all.’
‘Only when they’re over.’ Mavros headed upstairs.
‘So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?’ Yiorgos yelled. ‘I put you up for free, I feed you and wash your clothes and what do you give me? A big nothing.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Let me do some work on this and I’ll let you in on it, all right? And since when did you wash my clothes? If I didn’t use your mother’s washing machine, it would be a spider colony.’
That silenced his friend, who went back to abusing the TV. Mavros had a shower and sat at the table that served as his desk, wearing only a pair of boxers. He opened his laptop and waited for it to boot up. Before it was ready, his mobile rang.
‘Good morning, dear.’ His mother’s voice was slightly unsteady, as it had been since her stroke. Although her Greek was fluent, she always spoke English to her children.
‘Hello, Mother. How are you?’
‘I’m all right, Alex.’ There was a pause.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she replied, with a touch of her old impatience. ‘It’s just this useless body of mine. I’d like to go and sit in the shade in Dhexameni Square, but Fotini says it’s too hot.’
‘She’s right,’ Mavros said, loath to agree with the nurse. ‘I’ve been out and came back drenched in sweat.’
‘Lovely,’ Dorothy Cochrane-Mavrou, said with a light laugh. ‘I wish you’d move back here. At least I have air-conditioning.’
‘I’ll come over in a day or two. I’m quite busy, actually.’
‘Good for you.’ His mother’s work ethic was still strong. ‘I’m editing those unpublished poems of Laskaris.’
Mavros remembered the old communist poet. He’d been part of a case that had nearly cost Mavros and his entire family their lives. ‘Any good?’
‘Yes. They’re mainly love poems to other men, with little or no ideological content. He obviously didn’t feel he could publish them when he was alive.’
Mavros suddenly remembered what his client had said. ‘Oh, by the way, what do you know about Angela Poulou?’
‘By what way?’ Dorothy said. ‘How has she come under your purview?’
He laughed at the archaic vocabulary, but he was impressed by his mother’s sharpness. ‘I heard you know her.’
‘Let me see. Angie, she calls herself, doesn’t she? Paschos Poulos I know more about. He bought one of the main literary publishers and tried to put me out of business. Sold it when he lost interest. Horrible man. His wife, yes, I met her a few times at the usual functions. She seemed nice enough. She does a good job of covering up her proletarian origins.’ Despite being the widow of a high-ranking Communist, Dorothy had never completely lost the bourgeois attitudes of her native Edinburgh. ‘I always got the impression she’d rather be elsewhere.’
That squared with what Angie had told Mavros – that she preferred to be with her daughter rather than at receptions. ‘Ever hear anything about her marriage coming unstuck?’
‘Alexander Mavros!’ His mother’s outrage wasn’t entirely an act. ‘You should address that question to your sister.’
Mavros smiled. ‘How is Anna?’ He knew she visited their mother every day – and was unimpressed that he didn’t.
‘Flourishing. There seems to be an infinite appetite for gossip these days. The build up to these infernal Games has kept her even busier.’
Anna wasn’t exactly a gossip columnist, but she was in the know to a disturbing extent about Athenian society and its meretricious vanity.
‘I’ll talk to her later,’ he said. ‘When I get a moment, I’ll come round one evening and take you down to Dhexameni.’
‘Oh, that would be lovely, Alex.’ Dorothy’s voice was wistful. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Me too.’ He broke the connection. The fact that his mother was getting frailer by the month disturbed him. He rang his sister.
‘Is Mother all right?’
‘I’m fine, thanks, how are you?’ Anna answered acidly. ‘And Mother is as well as can be expected. Maybe you should take the short walk round Lykavittos and see for yourself.’
Mavros took a deep breath. ‘Sorry. Bad day at work?’
‘You could put it that way. At this time of year, I’d normally be on holiday with Nondas and the kids, but thanks to the Games . . .’
‘You should swap notes with the Fat Man.’
‘No, thanks.’ Anna had never got on with Yiorgos, not least because of his wardrobe. She was a devotee of the most chi-chi Kolonaki boutiques. ‘Look, Alex, I’m trying to set up an interview with Sebastian Coe. Can this wait?’
‘Have you been transferred to the sports desk?’
‘Very funny. As a matter of fact, he’s a very stylish man and he knows absolutely everyone.’
‘I’m very happy for him. Before you go – Angie Poulou.’ Mavros could almost hear his sister’s ears prick up. She was a newshound of the first order.
‘What about her? Don’t tell me you’re finally going to come through on all those promises of exclusives.’
‘I gave you plenty on the Cretan case last year.’
‘True enough. All right, so you’re picking my brains. Why?’
‘No particular reason.’
‘Client confidentiality, you mean.’
‘No comment.’
Anna laughed. ‘What’s she got you doing?’
Mavros could tell his sister hadn’t picked up anything about the daughter’s disappearance. Paschos Poulos’s grip was as firm as his wife said.
‘Is she what she seems to be?’ he asked offhandedly.
‘And what’s that, exactly? A former Marks and Spencer model from the council estates of East London, who managed to capture the most eligible bac
helor in Greece in the late 80s?’ There was a hint of antagonism in Anna’s voice.
‘Don’t tell me you were after him?’
‘Certainly not. I was already married.’ Anna’s marriage was famously solid. Nondas was a right-wing Cretan businessman whom Mavros should have despised, but got on very well with. It occurred to him that his brother-in-law might know Paschos Poulos. ‘Anyway, rather her than me. Her husband is a horrid piece of work.’
It amused Mavros when Anna used terms of abuse. She had absolutely no talent for it. ‘What did he do to you?’
‘Oh, nothing. He treats media people like muck and generally steamrollers over anyone who gets in his way.’
‘Mother saw him off.’
‘He just lost interest. He could have swallowed Persephone and Hecate Publications in one gulp if he’d wanted to. Mother was lucky.’
‘So what about Angie? Is there anything more to her than a rich wife going through the motions?’
‘She’s crazy about her daughter.’
‘Lia.’
‘Is that her name? You know more than I do.’ That was an invitation to say what he was up to, but Mavros ignored it. ‘Well, ever since she had the kid, she made it clear she wasn’t interested in anything else. She dropped out of the various elite coteries and stayed at home being the good mother.’
The Green Lady Page 3
