Murder in Mykonos ak-1

by Jeffrey Siger

  Annika had seen this harbor from every approach and never tired of it. Her favorite vantage was the one she got when sailing between Mykonos and Delos, a sea view of the most famous church in the Cyclades, the fifteenth-century Paraportiani. It stood between the bays of Tourlos and Korfos on the outer edge of a jut of land at the southernmost side of the old harbor. Really a combination of five churches — four below and one above — its roots traced back the thirteenth-century when a portion of its structure served as part of a defensive wall for the protecting castle that once stood there. Paraportiani always made Annika think of a huge mound of sunlit marshmallows topped by a jumbo white cherry. The church was practically all that remained of the castle — that and the Kastro name for the area bordering Little Venice, where today's invaders sought their adventures in all-night bars and clubs.

  Annika thought of the night before and how stupid she'd been. She must rid her mind of that memory. Tomorrow morning she'd catch an early boat to Delos. That should do the trick.

  The holy island was only a mile from where she sat. She'd spent her college freshman summer there working at archeological digs begun by the French in 1873 and pitching in as a guide through its ancient ruins for VIP tours in one of her languages. She'd loved it. The uninhabited island was different from Mykonos in every way — though in antiquity Delos clearly had been the better place to party. Mykonos wasn't even on the maps of those times, and its name meant nothing more than 'mound of rocks.'

  Annika tried to recall the words of the introduction to her tour: 'Basically flat except for two hills, and only one twentieth the size of Mykonos, Delos in the ancient world was considered the center of Cycladic life. But its influence ended abruptly in the early part of the last century before Christ, when Delos backed the wrong protector and twenty thousand inhabitants were slaughtered, its physical and cultural landscape destroyed. The island was leveled, but its intense spiritual power endures to this day.'

  She repeated the last words aloud to herself: 'its intense spiritual power endures to this day.' Yes, that's definitely what she needed, and she vowed to be on the first boat the next morning. She'd be back by four at the latest. Demetra was arriving tomorrow. Besides, she had to be — the guards allowed no one on Delos after sunset, and the last boat left at three.

  But for now she was off to explore the shops just opening for the evening. Most didn't close until after midnight, some not until sunup. As if following Alice down the rabbit hole into Wonderland, Annika plunged through a break in a row of seafront tavernas, and — like magic — the harbor vanished. She was back in the maze of twisting, narrow stone paths that, for her, held the essence of Mykonos' charm; it was the labyrinth itself — not what it offered — that she loved.

  Sure, Mykonos was famous for tantalizing tourists with brightly lit shops, colorful restaurants, roaring bars, and freewheeling dance clubs, but this still was a town where people raised families and shared strong traditions. Down the less traveled lanes, children played their games oblivious to the occasional tourists squeezing through their four-, five-, or maybe six-foot-wide playgrounds. Pairs of grandmothers, all in black, did duty watching the children. They'd sit on stoops in front of their houses or, if a shop occupied the street level, on brightly painted wooden balconies outside their second-floor homes; balconies with gates guarding pets, pots of geraniums, draping bougainvillea, and — if rented to tourists — clothes left to dry.

  As she walked, Annika's eyes drifted up from the rows of glossy green, blue, and red banisters to where the white textures of the buildings met the sky. So many whites: light white, dark white, sunlit white, shaded white, dirtcaked white, white over color, white over stone, white over wood, white over steel, white over rust, peeled white, fresh white, old white, slick white, coarse white — against so many blues: dark blue, pale blue, and all those blues in between. Annika smiled, took in a deep breath, and said softly, 'I just love it here.'

  She wandered over to Little Venice and in a shop looking across to the windmills bought a blue-and-silver beaded necklace that reminded her of the sea. She was admiring her purchase in the reflection of another shop's window when a voice behind her said in English, 'Great necklace, fits you perfectly.' She could see in the reflection that it was an older man in the doorway of the shop behind her.

  She turned and said, 'Thank you.' Her voice was courteous, nothing more.

  'Is that one of Susy's?'

  'Susy?'

  'From La Thalassa.'

  She smiled and felt a tinge of pride at having something so recognizable. 'Yes, it is.'

  'I thought so. She has great things. Glad her price point is different from mine. Couldn't stand the competition, especially from a fellow South African.' He smiled.

  Annika realized the shop was one of the premier high-end jewelers on the island — way out of her league. 'That's very sweet of you to say.'

  'I like her, she has style. Would you like a coffee?'

  Annika hesitated but caught herself. This is Mykonos, she thought, and jewelers are nice to everyone. She should stop being so paranoid over last night. 'Thank you. That would be lovely.'

  She spent over two hours in the shop. The owner was a Greek born in South Africa and also a George — but very different from her George of the night before. He was raised on a farm 'in the bush' and educated in Johannesburg. Although he missed the beauty of Africa — if not its politics — in Greece he'd been able to pursue an interest in ancient civilizations he'd picked up in college. He took great pride in showing her a small Corinthian vase he claimed predated the birth of Christ by more than five hundred years.

  Even after more than twenty years on Mykonos, George still felt treated as a foreigner, but he accepted that as a fact of island life. Besides, there wasn't much choice because this was where his business was and where he'd made his life — though off-season he lived in Athens. He mentioned a few other old-timers, as he called them who felt the same way, including the artist she'd met the night before, and pointed to one of his paintings hanging in a corner.

  'I admire how his style appeals to so many on so many different levels. It's not just for tourists.' He pointed again and when he spoke, intensity came into his voice. 'See how he weaves mythic Greek figures into his work.'

  Annika was tempted to add that somewhere in each painting lay the image of 'a lost soul rebirthing out of darkness into light,' but that inevitably would lead to explaining those were the artist's words to her — and a discussion of their meeting last night. She didn't want to get into that. Instead, she talked about her life as if she were a Dutch girl on her first trip to Greece; but mostly she listened. George liked to talk, and although he didn't say whether he was married, she assumed he was. She pointed to a photograph of a young girl and younger boy on his desk and asked if those were his children.

  The question seemed to surprise him. He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. 'No, it's my sister and me. In fact, you remind me of her.' He smiled.

  When she said she had to leave, he seemed disappointed but didn't push to see her again. They simply shook hands and said good-bye.

  She walked back to the harbor and sat in a cafe to watch the sunset. For the first time in a long while she felt in control of her life. As far as she was concerned, Peter was now ancient history. She owed nothing to anyone but herself — and her family of course, which reminded her to call home the moment she got back to the hotel. For now, though, she wanted to enjoy her anonymity a bit longer. Andreas was getting used to climbing dry, rocky hillsides. It was his fourth of the day and so far so good — if not finding anything but very old bones was good. His fourth church of the afternoon was on the southeast part of the island, not far from some of Mykonos' most popular beaches. Sooner or later developers would bring a lot of company to this isolated tribute to Saint Fanourios. For the time being, though, it sat on deserted ground — the same as the three others he'd visited today honoring Saint Nicholas, Saint Barbara, and Saint Phillipos.

/>   All four churches were several hundred years old. Andreas had been told that some went back to the 1500s, maybe even earlier, depending on who you talked to. Whatever their age, all were recently whitewashed, and their doors and shutters functioned properly. The roof of one could have used a paint job, but for the most part, they'd been kept up — just as Father Paul had said.

  This church looked about the same as the other three: a bell tower above a west-facing blue door, one blue shuttered window on each side wall, a sacristy on the inside along the east wall, and a stone slab in the middle of a hard-packed floor. Newer churches built of concrete had hollow spaces in their walls for accommodating individual remains or steps beneath a floor slab leading to a cellar with places for the same purpose, but these old ones had only mass crypts in the floor — like the one where they found the Vandrew body. Aside from honoring different saints, the only real difference Andreas saw in any of them was that the church where they had found her was built of natural stone and never whitewashed. He wondered if that was somehow a clue.

  He carefully examined the floor for anything that seemed out of place. Nothing looked unusual. He stood by the end of the slab nearest the door and gripped its edge. He took a deep breath to calm himself and forced a smile at the thought of how he was getting used to all this grave tampering. As he braced himself to pull at the slab, anxiety gripped the pit of his stomach — as it had each time before. If, God forbid, there weren't just old bones under here, he didn't know how they'd possibly keep things quiet. Another forensic team gathering bones from under another quaint Mykonos church was too much for the media to miss.

  He wondered if he was up to handling the pressure of the press if it turned on him for doing what he thought was right. His father hadn't been. But he'd been set up and forced to choose between watching his family's reputation destroyed and… 'Damn it,' Andreas said aloud. 'Stop thinking about that.'

  He pulled at the slab until it moved enough for light from the doorway to shine into the crypt. He stared in for a moment, then walked outside and lit a cigarette. He took a puff, exhaled, and began to gag. He caught himself, took another deep breath, and wondered if he felt this way because of all the pressure he'd been under and those recurring thoughts of his father. That had to be part of the reason — that and the almost fully decomposed body he'd just found on a pile of not-so-old bones.

  9

  Andreas knew the mayor would not be pleased being summoned to the office of the chief of police. Dropping in once on his own for a visit was quite different from Andreas requesting his immediate presence. Still, Andreas had no choice but to insist; too many ears listened and tongues wagged in the mayor's office. Besides, by the time Tassos and Andreas were done with him, bruises to the mayor's ego would be the least of their worries.

  Andreas wanted to inform the ministry in Athens immediately, but Tassos had convinced him that the politic thing to do was tell the mayor first. They still had to work with him, and the message would be bad enough without having it delivered by an elephant — Athenian no less — stepping on his toes. Andreas reluctantly agreed. They'd call Athens tomorrow.

  Mayor Mihali Vasilas had been in office for almost two decades. He controlled the entire island. The island's two towns, Ano Mera and Mykonos, each had representatives on the island council but elected only one mayor. He was powerful and knew it. He also knew how to be gracious. This evening he was a combination of both. When he walked into Andreas' office he gave a charming hello followed by a searing look from deep-set dark eyes. He was a foot shorter than Andreas, and slim. It was rumored that he kept himself in shape by eating only those who got in his way. In other words, he ate very little. He looked hungry.

  The three still were standing about an arm's length apart. The mayor looked at Tassos. 'Tassos, why am I here?'

  Andreas took the question for what it was: an effort to put Andreas in his place as irrelevant on Mykonos. He decided to let things play out. He knew where they had to end. May as well give him all the rope he needed.

  Tassos looked at Andreas to answer. 'Mr Mayor,' Andreas said, 'we have a problem — a very serious problem — and we want you to know about it before we contact Athens.'

  The mayor jerked his head toward Andreas, anger glaring in his eyes. 'You will do nothing without my approval, absolutely nothing!' he yelled. 'Do you understand?'

  'Beg your pardon, Mr Mayor, but it's out of our hands.' Andreas sounded as gracious as a headwaiter.

  'Nothing is out of your hands where I'm concerned, absolutely nothing.' The veins were popping in his neck, and he was waving his finger in Andreas' face.

  Andreas wondered if something in their oath of office made Mykonos mayors — past and present — so arrogant.

  'Well, this just might be the exception, Mihali,' Tassos said, his tone telling him to get off his mayoral high horse and, by his nod toward Andreas, to show some respect.

  But the mayor would not dismount. 'I don't want to hear another word about that murdered girl and my cousin. Not one. Do I make myself clear?'

  'It's not just about her. There's more,' Andreas said, his voice coldly professional.

  'More? More of what?'

  'Murders.' Andreas said the word softly. No need for more drama than that.

  The mayor stared at him. His face looked puzzled, then he looked at Tassos and his expression strangely relaxed. 'Let me guess, after all these years you think you've finally found a way to resurrect your theory that the Irishman didn't kill the Scandinavian. You think, because you found the new body bound copycat like one from ten years ago, everything ties together and vindicates your theory.' His tone was derisive.

  He certainly knew his facts, at least some of them, thought Andreas.

  'I think it's safe to say I've more than proven I was right about that, Mihali.' Tassos' tone was not appeasing.

  The mayor pointed his index finger in Tassos' face. 'If any of this bullshit gets out about the two murders being related — one word, a single word — you can kiss your pension good-bye, and' — turning to Andreas — 'you, you'll never ever see anything but parking tickets for the rest of whatever career you have left.'

  If that's the way it's going to be, Andreas thought, he was prepared to play. 'Okay, you've got a deal, Mr Mayor.' Andreas nodded in agreement, patted the mayor on the shoulder, walked around his desk, and sat down. Smiling, he leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. 'Neither of us will say a fucking single word to anyone tying those two murders together. We'll leave that to the press to figure out on its own when we tell them about the other sixteen bodies we found — some still bound like the two you don't want us to talk about.' He leaned forward, dropped his hands to the desk, and looked at Tassos. 'Am I right that it's eighteen in total? The seventeen we found in four churches plus the Scandinavian.'

  Tassos gave Andreas a quick look of admiration and turned to the mayor with a deadpan expression. 'So far. After all, we've only had time to look in eight churches.'

  They both stared at the mayor. His mouth was wide open but not a word came out.

  After allowing the stew to simmer for a moment, Tassos added some spice. 'The murders appear spaced at the rate of one per year.' He paused. 'And roughly span your term in office, Mr Mayor.' Tassos smiled broadly and dropped into his favorite chair.

  The mayor was seething. He pulled up a straight-back wooden chair and sat so he could see both men. Then he demanded details. Andreas delivered them matter-of-factly. 'We found the remains of seventeen bodies, all tall females, in the floor crypts of four churches. Preliminarily, forensics show no evidence of clothing or hair more than stubble on any victim, but hemp twine was found at all locations, and remains of at least one body in each crypt were found bound in the same manner as the Vandrew woman.'

  'And the Scandinavian,' Tassos added with a glare at the mayor.

  Andreas continued, 'Remains of four bodies each were found in Saint Kiriake, Saint Marina, and Saint Calliope — including Helen Vandrew's.
Five bodies were found at Saint Fanourios. No bodies were found at Saint Barbara, Saint Nicholas, Saint Phillipos, or Saint Spyridon.'

  Visibly shaken, the mayor tried sounding imperious. 'You're the professionals. You should know what to do. Do you have a suspect?' It wasn't working. It was obvious to everyone in the room that his fate was in the hands of the men he'd just threatened with destruction.

  Andreas smiled. 'Yes.'

  The mayor looked like he was about to say 'Who?' but he stopped. 'Do you have any proof tying your suspect to any of the other killings?'

  'Not as yet.'

  The mayor put his head down and ran his hands through his hair. 'Do what you have to do, but I don't think he's your man.' He'd abandoned all pretext of not knowing his cousin was who they had in mind. 'I've known him all my life. I know how badly beaten he was by his father — the drunken bastard — and when he drowned no one blamed Ilias, but I can't imagine him being involved in… in this.'

  Did I just hear him say his cousin might have killed his father for abusing him? Andreas thought. Damn, we're checking one box after another on this guy's list of major, serial killer-traits — male, intelligent, a voyeur, abused, drunken father — and we're just getting started!

  'Anything else unusual about your cousin's behavior or background?'

  The mayor took in and let out a deep breath. He now was being interrogated by the chief of police. He raised no objection. 'You mean other than the tapes?'

  Andreas nodded.

  'I don't know…' The mayor's voice drifted off. He sounded lost, not in control. 'What are we going to do?'

  'Not much we can do, Mihali, we have to tell Athens,' said Tassos.

  The mayor nodded and clasped his hands together. 'I have a suggestion.' He seemed to be pleading more than suggesting. 'This is a disaster for Mykonos. We all know that.'