by David Carter
Sergeant Sharistes’ business quarters consisted of one square ground floor room set just off the harbour. It doubled as police station, citizens’ advice bureau, lost property office, occasional stand-in harbour master, and general gossip shop. It was the police nerve centre for the island; indeed it was the only police presence on Carsos. Most days a motley crew of Sharistes’ friends popped in and shout, ‘Hello, fatty!’ or chide him when Olympiakos won again, which was most weeks. He took it all in good heart, and sadly it was true; he was on the portly side.
There was no counter, no interview room, and no cells. On the rare occasions when Sharistes arrested someone, perhaps for pilfering from visiting cruisers, or being drunk and incapable, he handcuffed his prey to the largest and heaviest metal office chair. He figured any criminal might find it difficult escaping the island lugging a heavy chair behind him, or her, and he’d been proved correct. No one clipped to a chair had ever escaped.
Sadly, there was no lavatory, though Christos had a longstanding claim in at headquarters for funds to provide one. Until then, he’d struck an agreement with the owner of the Ace of Clubs Taverna that lay almost next door. He could use their facilities whenever necessary, on condition he purchased occasional refreshments, an agreement he kept to in spades.
The station, as he liked to call it, was furnished with three oddly matched desks set in no particular order, a bench along one wall that doubled as a kitchen, Christos was known for his coffee, it was always bubbling, and availed by all. There were five occasional chairs scattered haphazardly around as if waiting to be placed in their correct positions. The chairs were old and worn, third time government hand-me-downs, a little like Christos, while the padding on several was seeping through holes in the upholstery.
Along another wall was a vast notice-board plastered with messages and notices of every conceivable kind, dating back twenty years. Maritime regulations with berthing fees payable, warnings as to the risks of contracting aids, and the dangers of sleeping with foreigners, and strangers, and especially strange foreigners. In Christos’s case, chance would be a fine thing. Alerts too, regarding illegal immigrants attempting to enter the European Union from North Africa, the Middle East, Eastern Europe, the far side of the galaxy, and God forbid, Turkey too. In pride of place were fading newspaper cuttings relating to his finest hour, the Buchanan murder, cuttings that included a photograph of a grinning, slightly younger and slimmer, Sergeant Sharistes.
Those cuttings had been superseded by fresh clippings from the mainland papers, detailing the: BRUTAL SLAYING OF CARSOS BARKEEPER and LEADING CARSOS MAN MURDERED. ISLAND POLICE CHIEF APPEALS FOR WITNESSES.
He particularly liked that one, as did his wife. She kept a copy of the newspaper on the hall table folded to the right page in case visitors called. Police Chief, indeed, every time he saw it, it brought a smile to his face.
Alongside the cuttings were several examples of forged euros, many of which appeared in the first days of the currency, now looking laughably inept, hastily prepared on rubbish inkjet printers, probably by kids as a joke. Lastly, there were numerous pages of information and advice regarding the hugely successful Olympic Games way back in 2004 in Athens. Christos had remained glued to the screen throughout. Hadn’t everyone?
The third wall was taken up with a large metal-framed window that looked out not quite over the harbour, but the alleyway that led down that way. He could smell the sea through the open windows, and whiff the oily sludge that congregated along the harbour wall closest to the office, and some days when it was rough, he could hear the breakers, but couldn’t see a single bobbing boat through the dusty glass.
On the desks were four grubby old-fashioned black telephones that worked perfectly well, though they didn’t see much use. Heaven knows what would happen if they all rang at once. A photograph of Christos’s two grandchildren, a box of half eaten figs that Christos had long lost interest in, a large cigarette lighter, and a considerable amount of official-looking documents and files that Christos deliberately left out. He imagined they made his office look busy, the nerve centre it clearly was not. It was the head police station in Edris, Carsos HQ, and one of the furthest outposts of the Hellenic Police Service, and as Christos sat alone awaiting his visitors, his palms began to sweat.
Ten minutes later he jumped up as four officers barged their way into his office; and it was all he could do not to let out an involuntary shout, Atten-shun! They were trying to smile but their demeanour was not happy. The crossing in the helicopter must have been rough. Two of them were deathly white, while the others had taken on a strange tinge of green that lay deep within their anxious faces.
They’d come in number, three men and a young woman. Did they need to send a team of four? All Athenians, neatly dressed, and looking ill at ease so far from the metropolis. The youngest man was the boss, as Christos feared. Skeiri Thorikos, newly promoted Inspector, a man who barely looked Greek at all. His skin was surprisingly pale though how much of that was down to the helicopter trip was anyone’s guess. His hair was short, brown and neat, slightly built, sporting thin round-lensed glasses that looked so weak Christos wondered why he bothered with them.
He strode into the office at the head of his troops and incongruously saluted, even though he was wearing an open-necked shirt and beige slacks. He introduced himself and seemed to be expecting a salute back. Christos couldn’t remember when he’d last saluted anything. He could barely remember how, but did his best.
‘Where’s the bathroom? We all need to freshen up!’
‘We don’t run to such luxuries,’ apologised Christos. ‘Come, I’ll take you to the bar.’
They left the office and made their way the twenty odd paces towards the Ace of Clubs.
‘Aren’t you going to lock up?’ asked Skeiri.
Christos shrugged his shoulders. ‘Why? What for?’
The bar was dark and oddly quiet, but the few drinkers ceased murmured conversations to inspect the strangers. Helen, the proprietor’s wife, was there, and smiled at Christos and the newcomers in turn, hoping for trade, but they came and went without buying so much as a cola.
Back in the office the introductions were completed. The oldest man was Kephalos Philoketes. He was tall with curly hair departing at the temples. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, spoke slowly, and at a rank of sergeant he’d probably reached the zenith of his achievements. He was the scientific investigator and three of the five bags were his. They contained a host of equipment, most of which Christos had never seen before, equipment Kephalos proceeded to set up on the bench that had previously been Christos’s kitchen area, his precious coffee machine unceremoniously dumped on the floor in the corner.
The third member of the team was the girl, Callia Galatia, acting Sergeant. Her prime expertise was in the field of assembling pictures of suspects through identikit type systems and hand drawn pencil pictures. Her work had been described by the Director as: Quite brilliant. Her figure was rounded, yet she was not fat, her hair was brown and frizzy, as it bumped up and down on her shoulders as she walked by. She carried a hooked nose and a pleasant smile, and though she wasn’t unattractive, she was no great beauty either.
The team was completed by the dogsbody, the gofer, Ploutos Dassinas. He carried all the bags in, he did as he was told, he spoke when he was spoken to, and not until, and it was clear to everyone he would never be anything else. He was thirty-five and fattening, resigned to his fate, and was the only one who didn’t salute, and no one gave a damn about that.
They each picked a chair and sat around in a vague circle, and began smoking American cigarettes as if smoking bans didn’t apply to them. In a matter of minutes the office was like an opium den. The window was open and the ancient fan above their heads whirred as a reminder of the helicopter, but it failed to dent the haze, and there was nothing Christos could do to air the room.
Their preliminary conversation was about to start when the boss, Skeiri, leant over and said, ‘Ploutos,
go and check out the hotel, make sure my room’s the best, with a view of the harbour.’
Ploutos rose without protest and headed for the door. He was glad to be out of there for he found case meetings interminably dull and rarely understood much of what was said. How he had passed the police entrance exam was a mystery to all. As he headed through the door Skeiri shouted after him, ‘Pick me up some chewing gum!’
After he’d gone they whipped through the case notes, the theories, ideas, and hunches, no matter how fanciful, or off the wall. When they’d finished they could all see murderers everywhere. Carsos was infested with them. They examined the photographs of Nicoliades’ sorry looking corpse, and talked at length about the girl Nicoliades had been seen with leaving the bar, and her possible accomplice who’d berthed the boat, and they debated forever whether he was her brother, or lover, or neither, or both.
The meeting dragged on until after seven o’clock, a time when Christos’s coccyx traditionally revolted, and time enough for the coffee machine to be reassembled, and for Ploutos to be sent out twice more. Once for more cigarettes, and again for fresh rolls housing assorted fillings that he bought at a takeaway bar further along the narrow road that led around the harbour. The rolls disappeared in quick time, paid for, Christos was happy to note, by the boss guy.
Skeiri never ceased talking, his mouth constantly on the move. He ate like a chameleon, his ample tongue often on display, his flashing flossed teeth reminding Christos of one of Demetrios’s mules. Skeiri liked the sound of his own voice and made sure everyone knew it. He imagined it was leadership, forever dominating conversation, demonstrating he was the man in command, pushing the thinking forward, and forever his way. Christos threw in some grins which he imagined signalled he understood everything, though the weird grinning business unnerved Skeiri. At half-past seven their new leader stood up and yawned, his arms outstretched.
‘I’m knackered,’ he said, ‘and filthy,’ as he sniffed under his arms. ‘I’m going for a bath. We’ll all reassemble at the murder scene at eight o’clock sharp in the morning.’
There was a little mumbling, though generally in agreement, and after that they dispersed. But before he left, Kephalos insisted the office be locked and bolted, as he couldn’t contemplate the possibility of his precious scientific equipment being stolen. But even the thought of a locked office didn’t reassure him, and at the last moment he made them return and bag up the majority of his treasures to take away, Ploutos doing the bulk of the heaving and grunting.
Christos watched them ambling away to the small hotel where they’d found four rooms. If they were going for a bath and a drink, then why shouldn’t he? He closed the police station, locked the door, and left. He popped into the Ace of Clubs for a quick refresher, where he swapped news with an eager Helen. She wore a flowery, skimpy cotton dress. She often wore low-cut dresses and her ample bronzed bosoms bounced on the high bar in front of Christos’s face, as she poured retsina. For some reason he noticed them, though he didn’t always, and on that particular nerve-racking day they appeared oddly soothing.
He downed the drink in ten minutes, made his excuses, and headed home to Philo, his wife, who would be waiting in her black dress. She was quiet and unassuming, her eyes dead to the world. She was eager to have dinner finished and cleared away in order to watch the soap operas beaming in from Athens, programmes that had taken over her life. The characters seemed so real, more so than her own flesh and blood, their trials and tribulations something to worry about, and discuss with neighbours after church.
IN THE MORNING, CHRISTOS arrived at the crime scene at five minutes to eight. He didn’t want to be late, nor the last one there. The sun was already lighting the blue sky, and it would be another blistering day. By the time he’d climbed the hill he was breathing hard and his face was reddening. But the Athenians were already there, waiting outside Nicoliades’ front door. They weren’t tapping their feet and nervously examining their wristwatches, though they might as well have been.
They spotted him and muttered and grinned. Kephalos grabbed one bag, Ploutos the other, bags that Christos assumed would carry scientific equipment the mainland cops imagined would solve the riddle of Nicoliades’ murder. The handwritten notice Christos had hastily scrawled on a piece of paper and stuck to the door: DO NOT ENTER – OFFICIAL CRIME SCENE was still there, but someone had added in red felt-tip pen, and peculiarly in English, FUCK OFF DICK!
‘Kids!’ muttered Christos, as he removed the sign, folded it and put it in his pocket. He took the key from his green trousers and opened the door. The body had long since been removed to the makeshift mortuary at the back of the tiny infirmary that served Carsos and five smaller neighbouring islands. The trail of dried blood remained, curling across the floor towards the kitchen.
The Athenians stared down as if mesmerised, as if vital clues lay undiscovered. Skeiri ordered no one should leave the house without his permission, as Kephalos unzipped the first bag and ordered Ploutos to set up his equipment on the single blue worktop that ran the length of the kitchen.
‘No one is to enter the kitchen or bathroom without my permission,’ ordered Kephalos, a remark that alarmed Christos. He wondered why he’d drunk the third cup of coffee, for his bladder was not as robust as it once was.
Skeiri shook his head at Callia, his way of inviting her to get Christos out of their way. He was happy to oblige, and followed her up the stairs to the bedroom where they sat together on the bed, as she chatted away. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d followed a young woman up the stairs, and neither could he keep his eyes from focussing on what swayed before him.
‘We’re going to start by recreating a picture of the girl,’ Callia began, talking as if he were the inmate in a home for the bewildered. It was like being back at school.
‘I want you to concentrate hard on her face. Forget her height or weight or clothing, clear your mind, it’s only her face we are interested in.’
Christos nodded for it was fun, and what could be difficult about it? He could see that girl’s face as clearly as if he had met her an hour before. He’d never forget that girl. He sniffed and glanced across at Callia, as she took her pad from her large plastic handbag. She sharpened her pencil with a plastic sharpener in the shape of the Parthenon, and unfurled the pages. On the first three or four sheets were half finished sketches that presumably belonged to another long forgotten case. Christos glanced back at the young sergeant. She had changed into a thin green cotton dress, no doubt it would be cooler, and the colour suited her swarthy skin, and she seemed prettier than before.
‘You’ll have to come a little closer,’ she said, ‘so you can watch over my shoulder as the face emerges. If something’s wrong, you must say.’
He nodded and watched her set up her tools neatly to one side like a craftswoman, the pencil sharpener, an eraser, and five spare pencils of different hardness. German made, he recognised the brand, not cheap, and he guessed she’d drawn them from the police stores before they’d left the mainland. He moved a little closer until their thighs touched. He could smell her body. She’d bathed in some kind of herbal relaxant bath oil. His nose twitched, she’d topped it with lavender perfume, he deduced, discreet aromas floating up his ample nostrils. He could barely remember how long it had been since he’d sat close to such a fragrant thing.
She was good too, at the drawing, and within minutes a picture of the English girl’s bright face took shape in the centre of the paper. Her sparkling eyes, neatly trimmed blonde hair, perfect teeth, and the dainty nose that sat, unlike Callia’s, perfectly in the centre of her cute face.
‘The face is a little long there,’ he said, reaching over and pointing.
Callia smiled and bobbed her head, ‘OK,’ and she reached for the eraser, carefully removed the chin, and re-drew it.
‘Better?’
‘Much.’
It took nearly an hour for the picture to be finished. The devil was in the detail, and it was a
s good as he could remember, and far better than anything he might have drawn. But no matter how good it was, it was still only a pencil drawing, and for all the general likeness, it did not resemble Brenda Nichols at all. The hair was right, the teeth almost a photocopy, the eyes exactly as he remembered, the mouth as kissable, but once the individual parts were assembled, crazily they did not make the whole. It puzzled him, and the look on his face conveyed that doubt to Callia.
‘Is it right?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘You don’t sound so sure.’
He studied it again, but no matter how hard he stared at the drawing he could not select any feature that was wrong. Therefore, in his mind, it must be right.
‘It’s right,’ he said, ‘absolutely.’
She smiled again. Of course it was right, after all, her work had been described by her Director as: Quite brilliant. She turned the page.
‘We’ll do the man.’
‘In a minute,’ he whispered, ‘I need the bathroom.’
He felt like a little kid in infant school, afraid to ask to be excused, almost preferring to wet himself. But excused he must be. She’d noticed he’d been fidgeting for twenty minutes, and imagined he might be suffering from piles.
‘You’ll have to ask Skeiri.’
He nodded and made his way down the stairs, plucked up courage and snorted defiantly. He was too old to ask permission to pee, and as he went down the steps, a naughty thought occurred to him. Wasn’t it odd she’d called her superior Skeiri? Not Inspector, as he’d have expected, or Boss, but by his Christian name. Perhaps that’s how they did things in the capital. Rushing around saluting everything that moved, and on Christian name terms too.
Skeiri was busy photographing the blood trail in great detail, a duty Christos thought unnecessary, because he had taken over a hundred photographs from every conceivable angle, pictures now in the possession of the Athenians. Kephalos was dusting the doorframes for fingerprints. He called his boss over and they studied a newly revealed print through a large magnifying glass. Skeiri photographed the print, muttering like a mad professor.
