by Nick Brown
“No, leave it on, he shouldn’t be alone in there with the dark.”
After that Theodrakis didn’t speak again until they were some distance away from the building; they walked towards Lion Square where there was a selection of coffee houses and cafes. Theodrakis stopped at the first table of the first bar and asked the waiter who was sitting reading a paper for two large Samos brandies.
“Listen Lucca, I need one of these and I’m not drinking alone, when he comes back I’ll ask for some coffee.”
The waiter appeared with two tall glasses with an inch of the sweet sticky liquid in the bottom of each, Theodrakis picked his up with a shaky hand, drank half with one swallow and ordered two more and two espressos.
“Drink your brandy, you’ve got a lot of talking to do. I need to know how this one was different and your conclusions, if any, on what it signifies.”
Lucca took a sip of the brandy and felt it burn its way down his throat. The only conclusions came from a nightmare, but he had some nevertheless. First he asked a question of his own: one that had been worrying at him for some time.
“What about the bones? What does he do with the bones? Where does he put them?”
“Go on, expatiate.”
“Well, on each body, even Samarakis, bones are taken, carefully removed, mainly long bones from the left hand side of the body. Some are relatively easy to get at but others take skill and precision, five from each body except Samarakis where I think he was either short of time or felt the body was not important enough to warrant so much effort. Why take these bones? If it’s a message it’s one no one understands. Why haven’t we found any of them? Does he keep them and if he does, where? There are a lot of bones from five bodies and that’s only the ones we know about.”
He reached for his coffee and as he raised it to his lips caught a glimpse of the square; the small group of ragged men standing over at the far side by the National Bank had increased in number. These days Greeks struggled to find work but it was much harder for the immigrants, particularly the illegals. He sensed Theodrakis getting impatient, so continued.
“Listen, hear me out before you say anything, but it’s not only what was taken from Samarakis: it’s the way it was done. Have you considered that there might be more than one killer?”
Theodrakis rinsed the brandy round his mouth before answering.
“That makes no sense at all; we have a series of extreme murders with no precedent, no motive, nothing, so it’s hardly likely that someone else has suddenly hit upon the same idea for killing. That would stretch coincidence beyond credulity, don’t you think? And it can’t be a copycat murder because, for obvious reasons, we’ve not released any of the details of how the murderer operates.”
“I know how it sounds, but I’m certain that whoever butchered Samarakis is not the same person who killed the others. In my business you recognise the patterns, the way the knife was used. The way the cuts were made are all different, for instance all the others were done by someone using the knife in the right hand; this one was left handed.”
Lucca felt relief at having shared this dreadful suspicion with someone else and hoped that Theodrakis would have some logical explanation to prove him wrong. He swallowed the dregs of his cold coffee and noticed that the group of men in the square was still growing, some were shouting. Theodrakis asked him,
“What about the weapon, the knife, was that different too?”
“All the bodies could have had different blades used on them, but if you mean was it a flint blade like the others then I’m pretty sure it was.”
“That’ll give the archaeologists a field day, I can just see the headlines: ‘Stone Age man alive and well on Greek island’, although looking round this place perhaps it’s not so strange.”
He said this without a trace of humour, just bitterness. He turned to look at Lucca and softened his tone.
“I hope you’re wrong. The victims weren’t connected as far as we can establish and there’s no indication of any sexual element. So why would two people on a quiet island suddenly start killing strangers and mutilating their bodies with Stone Age technology?”
“Are you sure that the intention was to mutilate? The careful way it was done is more like ritual than frenzy. It’s not only the cutting; the tearing of the left ear lobes is common to them all.”
“You think this is some type of religious craze or something? Maybe we should bring all the priests in for questioning.”
“I’m only observing what is put before me, Syntagmatarchis, you’re the detective.”
He got no further; there was a sudden increase in shouting and the sound of breaking glass at the far end of the square. They got to their feet and saw that the ragged men had been joined by younger ones dressed in black with scarves covering their faces. They were throwing stones at the bank and there was smoke. People in the square scattered as the group began to smash the windows of parked cars. Theodrakis could see a number of political banners being waved alongside the black anarchist flag. He took Lucca by the arm.
“The uniform boys can deal with this; let’s get out of here before it gets nasty.”
The disturbance in the square slowed the traffic on the busy dual carriageway to a standstill. Picking their way between the crawling cars and stepping over the wilting bushes of the central reservation, they reached the far side and walked through the thin strip of car park until they reached the sea wall that stretched to the deep water births of the ferry port. They leaned back against the wall and Lucca fumbled for a cigarette; across the road in the square the rioters, having made their mark, dispersed and the traffic began to move again. No police had arrived.
Looking down, Theodrakis saw the asphalt paving was cracked. It was a deep crack about ten centimetres wide stretching several hundred metres; through it, he could see the sea sloshing about beneath his feet undermining the foundations of the sea wall and the road. A metaphor for the island, for Greece, and for him in particular.
A small group of black clad anarchists walked across the road and passed them, talking cheerfully; they’d removed the scarves and bandannas from their faces and looked like any other students. Theodrakis thought of challenging them but immediately changed his mind; what would be the point? He was shaken out of his internal communion by Lucca.
“There’s something else, Samarakis was killed the night you and he clashed on the police steps. He directed the investigations until you were sent from Athens. I’m certain he wasn’t killed by the creature we’re looking for, I think it was a copycat murder, the only people who know anything about the method of the murders are cops and politicians and not many of them. Do you really think there’s no connection between one of us and the killings?”
“That’s just wild talk, Lucca, even if you’re right about another killer; it doesn’t fit with any of our lines of investigation. From what you’ve said there must be a deal of DNA evidence.”
“So, you do have some leads, do you? That’s a relief. I don’t want to have to work on any more bodies like these. With regards to the DNA, the results are held up somewhere in the system, I’ll chase them up. I’d better get back; I’ll have a full report for you later. Thanks for the drinks.”
Theodrakis watched him go. He didn’t have any leads, didn’t have a clue. He just felt homesick and down. Staring at the ferries and cruise ships made it worse; they were going to leave the island today, he couldn’t even imagine when he would be able to go. He watched the surface of the sea shifting and shimmering for a while then made his way back to the bar.
Some time later, he called in to the central police station to check if anything had happened in his longer than expected absence. It hadn’t, and apart from a few sullen stares he received from old stagers who had been cronies of Samarakis he was ignored as usual, but as he was leaving the building Costas on the desk called him back.
“Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, the old man was back today, he asked for you.”
“Whi
ch old man?”
“You know the confessor, he owns up to all the crimes committed on the island and lots that aren’t. He’s already owned up to one of the murders.”
“Presumably he came to confess to the murder of inspector Samarakis then.”
“No, that was the strange thing; he was quite agitated about that. He said he didn’t want that one pinned on him. He said some kind of imposter had done that. Talking about killing the boss got some of the lads a bit worked up and I had to step in before he got roughed up too much. As I was putting him out, he said he wanted to see you to prove he hadn’t killed the boss: he said this killing had been different and he could tell you how.”
“And you didn’t think to keep him here till I got back?”
“Keep him here? It’s obvious you’ve never been close enough to smell him, Sir, anyway he’s gone in the head but harmless.”
Theodrakis was sure Costas was right, but then how could the old man know it was a different style of killing?
“Smell or not, have him pulled in and this time let me know.”
He walked back to his lodgings, picking up a copy of the local paper on the way. He read it eating the mountainous and sticky macaroni pie his landlady had made earlier for his dinner and reheated. There were two main stories: the killing of Samarakis and fires. Fires that the paper suspected were being started deliberately, to further damage the island which had already suffered at the hands of the bankers. Even a rationalist and cynic like Theodrakis was infected by threat and paranoia after he finished reading. Still, it was good copy for the paper and tomorrow they’d have the disturbance in Lion Square for a front page.
That night he dreamt the dream of the woman with the thick black hair again, and this time it was more frightening than erotic. He tried to blame it on the macaroni but it disturbed him, she seemed too real. He turned on the light and tried to read but couldn’t concentrate so he opened the window and stared out into the night.
He thought of the waitress and wished he’d had the resolution to go back and see her the second night. He wondered if she’d been disappointed. It was near morning when he got to sleep and he didn’t sleep for long as he was woken at first light by a roaring sound above him. He groped his way to the window to see helicopters passing overhead. His landlady must have heard him because she shouted up,
“Syntagmatarchis Theodrakis, it has come. Fire, they say all the other side of the island is ablaze, we have truly been cursed.”
Chapter 8:
Fire
Steve couldn’t sleep, and by the first blurry streaks of dawn gave up trying. He’d read the letter three times. The first time skim read it, missed the detail but caught the terror, interspersed with flashes of malice. He decided not to read it again until the morning and went to bed.
The instant he closed his eyes, the image of Father John appeared to him. Thompson’s description of the creature in Venice was so very close to the priest of Vassilis’s chapel. He turned the light on and went to the fridge for a bottle of water, and stood looking out of the window at the night. The longer he stood there trying not to think about the letter, the more he could feel it lying open on the coffee table pulling at him. The second reading was worse; it was clear his escape to Samos had been organised to fulfil some purpose and the things that frightened him so badly at Skendleby were waiting here for him.
The letter shook in his hands. Before Skendleby he’d have laughed it off as a practical joke, but he knew better now. He read it a third time to try and pick up any message or nuance he might have missed.
When he finished, something uncharacteristic happened: he was overcome with pity for its nerdish author who, despite his pomposity, never deserved this. He’d been their dupe and paid with his life for their actions. He couldn’t get the idea of the frightened Thompson waiting in his Nice hotel room for what was coming for him out of his mind and wished he could turn back time and save him. Then he began to think of his own position on the island as a peculiarly grimy dawn streaked the horizon.
He caught the whiff of smoke before he heard the shouting outside; he turned his head towards the source of the noise and saw one of the taverna owners standing on a jetty with his back to the sea, looking inland towards the mountains through a pair of binoculars. There were a few early morning fishing boats getting ready to head out to sea whose skippers had dropped their gear and were talking and asking what he could see. Steve’s first reaction was relief; something was happening, he could escape from the letter. He scrambled into some clothes and went down to join them.
Outside on the quay not much could be seen except a black cloud over the forested ridge that bisected the island: fire, according to relatives phoning from Marathakampos, had been first noticed about an hour before dawn.
Half the village had crowded into the taverna to sip coffee and speculate about the fire and who started it. They were sure it was arson because how else could a fire start at that time of night? By then it was light enough for the helicopters to fly and the first of them was hovering fifty metres out to sea filling the great bucket that hung below it with sea water to drop on the blaze. The fire service and army were on the ridge and the volunteer fire reserve had been alerted. This last was unnecessary, as everyone was awake and had gravitated towards the bars and tavernas on the waterfront to share stories and wait for news of the size of the blaze.
By the time the sun cleared the slopes above Spatherai across the bay, the smudges of smoke over the ridge had congealed into one black grey mass which was creeping down the hills towards them. By midday a decision was made that it would not be possible to contain the fire along the line they’d originally intended, and they must pull back to protect a line running up from just south of the village to Marathakampos near the ridge top.
This meant abandoning farms and vineyards on the slopes of the mountain and praying that the fire would burn itself out before it reached the coastline south of the village. If it didn’t, a large ribbon development of bars, shops, apartments and restaurants running for several kilometres along the beach front would burn. By three the beach front was evacuated by the army, and the tourists were brought into the village in army trucks from where they were to wait until their tour companies moved them out to accommodation on the far side of the island. Every table at the village’s tavernas was occupied while the street was clogged up with a long column of refugees, eyes streaming either from the smoke or tears, each clinging to the one item of luggage they’d been allowed to bring. The two shops were rapidly stripped of all food and drinks in an effective burst of panic buying.
Steve was sitting at his usual table in the company of a family of four, who’d hired an apartment in the village independently and so had no choice other than to sit it out with the locals. Next to them was a young Swedish couple with a baby who’d chosen the wrong day to visit this part of the island. They’d abandoned their car and had nowhere to stay. So those who had nowhere to go sat and drank morosely, whilst those on package tours waited for their holiday reps to assign them a seat in the convoy of trucks and coaches that the army would escort out of the fire zone.
Steve knew if the village started to burn, he’d have a seat on Captain Michales’s boat which would put out to sea. So he observed the reps going about their business with grim humour. Some of them were calm and smiling while others spread panic with their wild-eyed exhortations to their customers not to panic. But, when they’d all been packed into army trucks and driven away, the place suddenly felt empty and the noise of the helicopters and fire planes seemed louder.
By late afternoon it was preternaturally dark; the mass of cloud extended over the sea and shut out the sun. Soon it would be night and the planes and helicopters would return to base. Then the wailing started; no one knew who started it, but within seconds everyone knew why.
Half way across the bay on the other side of the village from the fire there was smoke on the hillside. What made it worse for Steve was that it looked to
be not far below where he figured Alekka’s house must be. In fact, it seemed centred on the area she’d shown him, the place where she had said something ancient was hidden, something that the inhabitants of the local village still feared. He remembered Tim Thompson’s letter.
A member of the village council started shouting down a loud hailer and making a confused noise; one of the boat captains took the thing off him and then went to each of the tavernas along the waterfront asking all the able-bodied men to move out to the new blaze to try and contain it until the overstretched fire service could redeploy some of its men. Villagers, including Steve, began to pile into trucks and vans which headed off up towards the fire. Looking behind him, he saw some of the old women go down on their knees and start to pray. The mother of one of the taverna owners shrouded in impeccable black was screaming out to anyone who would listen,
“Who can now doubt that we are cursed, two fires at once: one in the night and the other as night falls. We must drive out the evil, our island is cursed; it is happening again.”
As the pickup he was squatting in the back of passed her, Steve found it difficult to disagree. The convoy rattled along the rough track that followed the shoreline for a couple of kilometres before turning inland for the old road that wound its way up towards Spatherai. They emerged from the dark pall that hung over their village into bright sunlight, but drove towards another shroud of smoke that was gradually spreading to cover the far side of the bay. After twenty minutes, they were flagged down by a nervy and very young army officer with a smoke streaked face standing at a crossroads a few hundred metres from the village. He waved them out of the cars and trucks and showed Captain Michales the line of a firebreak he wanted to cut out.
“Listen to me kid, we have come to save the village of our neighbours. Not to cut them off behind a firebreak.”
“If you want to help you will go where I fucking tell you, this fire has more than one seat, it’s being driven from three different sources; we can’t save your neighbours houses and if we don’t hold it here this wind will drive it right across the island. Then we’ll all burn in Hell, do you want that?”
