The Dead Travel Fast

by Nick Brown

  It was difficult to push his way through the crowd and even more difficult to talk his way into the civic building where Adamidis had his office. Fortunately, one of the cops on duty recognised him and persuaded security to open up.

  Once through the solid doors he entered an entirely different and much quieter world; in fact too quiet, and the tension he could sense inside the old high ceilinged building was so palpable it unsettled him. He removed his jacket to brush off the grime and dust, noticed that his yellow polo shirt was sweat-stained at the armpits, and quickly put it back on.

  A secretary led him down the dimly lit and stale-smelling internal corridor leading to the office from which Adamidis monitored the island. Despite the polystyrene tiles and strip lighting of the recently lowered ceiling, installed as part of a project to modernise the building, it conveyed a sepulchral atmosphere of decay. The secretary knocked softly on the door at the end of the corridor then pushed it open and indicated Theodrakis should enter.

  Adamidis was seated behind a vast dark wood desk beneath a fan mounted in the ceiling. He didn’t look well and offered no greeting, just motioned Theodrakis to sit.

  “Don’t think that you can just sit there and say nothing this time, Theodrakis. We’re all in the shit on this one and if I go down, you go down first, understand?”

  Theodrakis understood that despite having been urged to speak, this question was rhetorical so he remained silent.

  “We can’t hush this up; can’t hush any of it up now. Not now your little fishing trip has demonstrated at first hand, not only that the murderer is still out there but also what he does with the bodies. You can bet those tourists will be on their mobiles selling the details to every fucking tabloid in Europe.”

  He put his head in his hands and for a moment Theodrakis felt sympathy for him. After a while, he sat up again and continued.

  “So, you’ve found another who has ‘died unknown, dazed with dreadful face’.”

  Theodrakis knew he was quoting but couldn’t place the source.

  “We know this country’s fucked, the economy’s fucked, the climate’s fucked and that’s what those angry scared people out there are shouting about. But they’re the lucky ones aren’t they? They are the lucky ones because they don’t know what we know: how fucked we really are. So now I want you to tell me truthfully what you think it is that we’re really up against and how we deal with it.”

  Theodrakis let out a breath of ironic laughter.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what it is or what we do about it. You know as well as I do that all the evidence from pathology points to every murder using the same prehistoric weapons and mutilating the bodies in an identical manner. That suggests they all followed the same guide book to conduct a common ritual.”

  Adamidis ignored the bitter sarcasm, just sat silent, head lowered.

  “Yet the evidence is equally clear that each murder was committed by a different person and we have to accept that, especially now that, thanks to your press release, everyone will know that this latest murder was carried out while the main suspect was in a police cell.”

  He waited for Adamidis to respond but there was no reaction, just silence interrupted by the whirring of the fan and the ticking of the electric clock on the wall; so for the first time he tried to explain to his superior what he actually thought.

  “I don’t think we can treat this as a murder case, none of our procedures are adequate. This is more like some type of epidemic and the killers are just its agents, perhaps like the rats that spread the Black Death. I know it sounds incredible but it’s logical. That mad old man killed one and we got him; but it takes us nowhere. It’s likely that we will get others, but by then it will have moved on and we’ll be no wiser. I think we need to try and understand the significance of the missing evidence.

  “We have to find the bones; once we have those, particularly if they are all in one place then we have a context and we might understand something about the ritual. At least we have a pattern now; we know it’s not random, so we need to study this pattern, to interrogate the evidence in a different way, to try to see it in a different way. The bones are the key.”

  He paused, surprised that Adamidis hadn’t tried to shut him up, then articulated his wildest theory: the one that gave him nightmares.

  “I think this could be an infection of the mind, a type of possession if you like. Half those people out there demonstrating believe these murders involve a curse or black magic; we know this is just superstitious nonsense, but their belief makes it real to them. You know from psychology it’s a short step from believing something to making it real, even police college teaches that. How many murderers claim that they were driven to kill by voices only they could hear? I think there’s something on the island encouraging this. Something beyond the a priori that we don’t perceive. I also know that there are things that you’ve kept hidden from me, things that Samarakis was going to tell me before he was killed.”

  Again Adamidis said nothing, so he pressed on.

  “I think we should try other lines of enquiry: we should find out where the bones are, we should deviate from procedure and try hypnosis on that mad man in the cells. When I interviewed him he underwent personality change, it was like interviewing two people, one of which was hidden inside. It spooked all the cops in the station. Let’s see if we can put together a picture or pattern, however strange or warped, of what the purpose of this thing is.”

  He paused again, for a moment undecided whether to continue, but Adamidis was staring expectantly at him so he did.

  “I need you to tell me what you’ve been hiding and if things like this have happened on this island before. As you said earlier your career’s ruined, this place is going to Hell; what have you got to lose?”

  There was a silence then Adamidis took his head out of his hands and sat up straight.

  “What you say makes no sense but then neither does anything else at present and you’re right about us withholding information from you. The first of these killings occurred shortly after Professor Andraki discovered that some ancient sites had been disturbed and robbed. Then the killer sent that message to the press, no one could make any sense of it; we thought it was some kind of code. No one could crack it so, as a last resort, we showed it to Andraki and he identified it as what he thought might be a type of very early Mesopotamian proto script. To prevent panic we were advised to keep it from the public.”

  “Who has the authority to instruct you? I thought you were most senior here.”

  “Most senior, yes. Most influential, no. I’ve said all that I intend to; if you want to know the rest you need to talk to Andraki again. Then if you still want to know more and are prepared to sell your soul, try Vassilis.”

  He looked Theodrakis in the eyes and contorted his mouth into a mirthless smile, made a dismissive gesture that made Theodrakis think of Pontius Pilate and said,

  “That’s all; go.”

  Adamidis placed his head back in his hands, the overhead fan whirred above his head and the clock ticked; Theodrakis turned and left the room.

  He didn’t want a squad car so took a taxi to the university in Karlovasi. He slumped in the back ignoring the driver’s diatribe about bankers, German money men, Greek politicians, communists, murders sent as a curse and anything else that came into his angry mind, which started as soon as the taxi started and ended forty minutes later in Karlovasi. The university vestibule was dusty and deserted as usual so he followed the corridor to Professor Andraki’s office. As he got close he heard raised voices: Andraki’s in protest, and perhaps fear, and another voice higher pitched and malicious. He waited outside to hear more but the door opened and a man came out. He was young, dark haired and unnaturally pale and as he brushed past Theodrakis he paused as if he recognised him.

  “I see you Athenian, clown and victim, you and Andraki, you could be made for each other.”

  He made a sound between a hiss and a cat spitting, and Th
eodrakis noticed the bloodshot film across his eyes, then he was gone. Andraki was dishevelled, red faced and breathing heavily. The office was in an even greater state of disorder than it had been on his previous visit, and Theodrakis wondered at the rate at which Andraki was deteriorating. He waited for him to compose himself before questioning, but it was Andraki who spoke first.

  “That thing was Antonis, the son of Vassilis of whom you have heard; even Vassilis doesn’t deserve a creature like that as a son, if that is what he really is.”

  “What was he so upset about?”

  “Upset? That’s too mild, too human a word for Antonis, the little shit should have died in that car, would have but for that English man who is now fucking his sister. Saves the brother and the sister drinks his soul, not much thanks that, is it?”

  Theodrakis understood none of this, Andraki seemed deranged. To give him time to calm down he walked across to the desk and examined the collection of flint artefacts scattered there. He noticed several blades. After some moments he turned back to look at Andraki, who seemed calmer.

  “Professor, I have just come from Kirios Adamidis, there has been another killing and we are exploring a new avenue of enquiry.”

  “Which will be a cul-de-sac like all the others. I use the French deliberately with its suggestion of arse end.”

  This was not what he expected from Andraki, whom he’d considered a fastidious man like himself, apart from the drinking of course. It was this last thought that put into place something else he found odd. There was no trace of alcohol on Andraki’s breath, the man was sober.

  “Professor, I think you could be very helpful. I want to know more about the prehistoric, or more precisely the Neolithic aspects of this killing.”

  “Then you would be better talking to the English man. Vassilis places more faith in him than in me, the leading Greek scholar. I’m sure Watkins will be prepared to take time off from screwing that overheated bitch to talk to you.”

  “Thank you, Professor, I will bear that in mind, but for now it is you to whom I must talk. I’m interested in the fact these killings started shortly after you reported an ancient burial site had been disturbed. Would that have been a Neolithic site?”

  “That just displays your ignorance of Aegean archaeology; there are no major Neolithic burial sites, and few, if any, known burials on Samos. The burials in question are from the very much later Geometric, although it is possible that the site overlies earlier evidence.”

  “So where did all those implements on your desk come from? They are Neolithic, are they not?”

  “Yes, but from a variety of sites and some were imported from other islands.”

  “Professor, you are party to the facts that indicate the murderer uses Neolithic blades to kill, blades like those on your table perhaps. Where would he get hold of such blades?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “Well, what about the bones, was it not a tradition in Neolithic times to take selected long bones of the dead to collective burial sites?”

  “I see you have bothered to research the subject, Syntagmatarchis, but like many lazy students you have been too superficial. The practices you allude to pertain to the British and elements of European Atlantic Neolithic only and, as I understand from recent research, even there the jury is still out. What you so confidently refer to as Neolithic is, in reality, a wide range of different cultures, with different practices spread across thousands of years. I can promise you there is no tradition of disarticulation for collective burial in the Aegean, and as for associated ritual murder, well I don’t think you will find evidence of that anywhere.”

  Theodrakis had been through a very stressful time and began to feel anger building up, anger which was now aimed at Andraki.

  “Nevertheless, Professor, the bones have been taken and believe me, we will find them; and when we do then perhaps I will consult the Englishman you seem so fond of. But for now I think I will take that collection on your desk with me to help with enquiries.”

  “You can’t do that, it’s a private collection.”

  “Just watch me, Professor, and while you’re at it tell me what you really know about the curse and the ritual.”

  He walked across to the desk to collect the flints, wondering what he would carry them in. As he was sweeping them into a pile he was conscious that Andraki had joined him at the desk. He ignored him and leant across to gather in the flints at the desk’s far side. As he did so, he noticed a half open drawer that looked to have a couple of bigger blades wrapped in a piece of cloth inside. He reached for them and as he did he felt sharp pain as something struck then skidded off his shoulder blade. He tried to turn, but only ended up stretched out on his back on the desk; above him Andraki was stabbing at him with a flint blade that already dripped blood. He pushed his hands out to protect his face and felt the flint slash through the palm of his right hand and slide on, so that he managed to grab hold of the wrist with his left.

  Andraki’s face was above his; he was breathing heavily and spittle flew from his fleshy lips, moistening Theodrakis’s face. He tried to use his shredded right hand but it bloodily slipped off whichever part of Andraki it touched. The hand holding the knife bore down towards his face forcing his own back with it; he was not strong enough to resist. He felt Andraki’s other hand, strong, but with a strangely soft and girlish texture, grip his neck and begin squeezing his windpipe. He’d never been a hard man, never been a fighter and knew he was going to die. He had no thoughts about this, only terror.

  He squirmed and wriggled about on the desk trying to shake free like the dying squid on the boat deck as it tried to return to the sea. He shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t see the flint point inexorably boring its way towards his face, and his ruined right hand thrashed uncoordinatedly across the cluttered surface of the desk. His spasming fingers grasped something; a pen, and through some instinct beyond thought he thrust it towards where he knew Andraki’s face must be. There was a squeal and his face was covered with something hot and sticky, the grip on his throat relaxed, the hand with the blade fell away and a horrible squealing began.

  He opened his eyes Andraki had moved away from the desk and was bent double with his hands covering his face; spouting between them like some terrible antennae was the handle of the pen. He didn’t need to look more closely to know where the pen had lodged. He looked down at his boat trip outfit, now blood-soaked, and was sick.

  Theodrakis wasn’t a malicious man, he called the ambulance before the cops but, when he had, he was seized with a level of rage he’d never experienced. The whimpering sounds gnawed at the anger rising within him, and before he could stop himself he walked across to where Andraki crouched holding his face where the pen had entered his eye and kicked him as hard as he could in the balls. Then, in horror at what he’d done, he retreated to the far corner of the room where he slumped in the corner with his hands over his face to wait for whichever of the emergency services could be bothered to arrive first.

  Chapter 14:

  Past Arrival

  As it transpired, the bones remained locked in the trunk of Steve’s car. That long night he tossed sleepless in bed; the idea of them lying there silent gnawed at him and by early morning he decided his nerves were too stretched for him to wait for Giles. He’d take them to Andraki. Once he made this decision, he managed to drop into an uneasy sleep.

  He was woken by the man in the truck that sold plastic chairs and potatoes shouting his wares through a megaphone on the truck’s roof. One of the things that pleasantly surprised Steve about the village was that, not only did such practices still exist in the world, but that here, at least, they seemed to thrive. But today the amplified if unintelligible grunting, and the roar of the truck crashing through its lower gears as it clattered along the track beneath his window, gave him no pleasure.

  His head throbbed from the last night’s drink as he tried to get himself together for his trip to Andraki. The face that gazed back at
him from the shaving mirror was liverish, and his furred and yellow tongue looked too fat to be healthy. He swallowed a half cup of coffee made from the type of powder that he thought had ceased to be used in Western Europe decades ago but was ubiquitous here, and left the apartment. The chair and potato truck was right outside his doorway with the engine running and the cab door open. The driver was sitting drinking at a table with a couple of old fisherman cronies about twenty metres away; they all seemed to be shouting at once. It seemed so normal, and he wished he were a part of it.

  Inside the car he had to stop himself from checking whether the bones had made their way out of the locked trunk and were now on scuttling about on the back seat. He knew this was ridiculous, but since Skendleby he didn’t believe in the everyday world that other people existed in. So he got out of the car to make sure the trunk was still locked and having reassured himself drove off.

  Once he’d crossed the spine of the island the fire damage was behind him and the sea, stretching towards the Turkish coast, was sparkling ahead. He thought how good it would be to see Giles and Claire at the airport later. He found a spot to park near the university by the statue of Anaxagoras who had predicted that the earth rotated round the sun fifteen hundred years before Galileo. A hero now but, like Galileo, he’d been persecuted by his contemporaries.

  The statue had the bland bearded face common to all statues of Greek philosophers, and Steve thought it would also serve as a template for statues of university archaeologists if ever any of them were so elevated. He was thinking about this when he blundered into the temporary police barrier erected across the University main entrance. The bored looking cop on duty showed no inclination to answer his questions and just waved him away, so he wandered over to a group of students gathered across the road to smoke and pass the day awaiting further developments.