by Leo Kanaris
‘What kind of project?’
‘I can’t give you any details.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s confidential.’
‘Why is it confidential?’
‘It was part of our agreement.’
‘But now he’s dead?’
‘It remains an agreement.’
‘And will the project continue without him?’
‘I don’t know. It may. But he will be a hard man to replace.’
‘Why did he come to see you that day?’ asked George.
‘It was just an update.’
‘Was he worried? Preoccupied?’
‘He was always worried.’
George said, ‘In my experience Mario was a calm, clear-thinking man, always positive, a problem-solver.’
‘He was certainly that, but he also had another side,’ said the doctor. ‘This was a big project. Not an easy, everyday thing. He invested a lot of time and energy in it. We both did.’
‘I wish to God you would tell me what it was.’
‘No doubt.’
George tried another approach. ‘What was the last thing he said to you?’
Skouras pondered for a moment. His voice softened. ‘I believe he said, “This time we’re going to make it.” ’
‘So you had difficulties? Frustrations?’
‘Of course.’
‘The usual?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Bureaucracy, official documents, delays…’
‘Of course.’
‘Anything else?’
Skouras began to sound irritated. ‘You won’t get any more out of me, Mr Zafiris.’
‘Let me ask one more question. Do you know where Mario went after he left you?’
‘No.’
‘A used car dealer called EAP.’
Skouras was silent.
‘Does that mean anything to you?’
When the doctor spoke again, his voice had changed. ‘I wish you hadn’t said that name. That is the worst possible news you could have given me.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m not even going to say the word.’
‘What word?’
‘Put an end to this investigation, Mr Zafiris. That is my recommendation.’
‘What word?’
‘Let Mario rest in peace.’
‘What word, doctor?’
‘Otherwise watch your back. And put your affairs in order.’
‘I’m asking you, what word?’
‘There is no word,’ said Skouras wearily. ‘Not from me anyway.’
‘You could be in danger yourself.’
But the line was already dead.
Part Two
North and South
16 Memento Mori
Of all the green spaces in Athens, George had a special liking for the First Cemetery. An island of tranquility in an ocean of angry metal, its alleys of tombs and statues were shaded with cypresses and scented with lemon blossom. Birds chattered in the branches and swooped through the dappled light. Gravediggers, priests, mourners with bouquets of flowers, gardeners with barrows and rakes, delivery men from the florists – these were its human population in the daylight hours. At night who knew what spirits hovered there? Palamas, Trikoupis, Venizelos, flitting restlessly over their troubled land?
The First Cemetery was the end of the road, the burial ground of all hopes and dreams, yet it was a comforting place. A city of the dead, life pulsed there, flickering and glittering more brightly than in the crazed cementopolis around it. Life in death, more hopeful than death in life. Friends and relations of George’s lay there in the cool gardens, their faces still vivid, their voices still audible to his inner ear. He enjoyed walking and sitting among them, remembering.
In the anteroom to the chapel, the family of Keti Kenteri sat stiffly on benches around the walls. Her violin lay on her coffin in the centre of the room, a white lily crossed over the strings. The air was heavy with incense and the perfume of flowers. Friends stood in line to shake hands with Anna and her parents, whose ravaged, tear-furrowed faces seemed hacked into unconnected lumps by the butcher’s knife of grief. Beyond them stood Keti’s husband, Paris, his features rigid and blank, a mask of pale withdrawal. George joined the line, moving slowly forward to murmur a few words of condolence. He took his place among the friends. Such youthful faces, such lively eyes, all solemn, subdued, shattered.
A priest swept in – a commanding figure in gold-embroidered robes. He began to chant the liturgy. He went fast, for they ran burials end to end here, a production line stretching to the Day of Judgement. ‘May the servant of God Katerina find a place of rest among the saints, her eternal soul now parted from the flesh. Have mercy, O Lord, and forgive her sins, both voluntary and involuntary…’As he chanted, the censer swung on its silver chains, giving off puffs of scented smoke. The mourners crossed themselves and stared into the clouded space. George’s mind wandered from the dead girl’s violin to the inconceivable vastness of a place where all dead souls are gathered.
Suddenly the service was over, with an odd silence in which no one seemed to know what to do. The priest stood still, letting the silence settle. Then the spell was broken, the pall-bearers stepped forward and raised the coffin to their shoulders. The doors were opened, letting in a brilliant cascade of light. The party straggled out into the white marble glare of the courtyard. They turned along the main avenue, past flower-strewn graves, moving like ghosts in the heat.
At the Kenteri family plot red earth was piled along the edge of a gaping trench. Down went the coffin on long webbing straps. The first handfuls of soil. Then shovelfuls, rattling and grating, until the coffin, and the violin and lilies resting on it, were engulfed. Paris dropped in a red rose and bowed his head.
George observed the family. Some weeping, some drained of tears. Anna’s mother was barely capable of holding herself upright. Her husband steadied her. Paris stood a little apart, maintaining a severe and formidable composure, as if his soul had followed his wife’s into the next world, leaving his body on earth, an empty husk.
Back along the sun-dappled alley the mourners made their way. At the main courtyard a man in a grey suit stood by a doorway, directing them into a hall where tables were set out with vases of flowers and neat little rows of coffee in cups, glasses of brandy and slabs of yellow cake on white china plates. George took a glass of brandy and a piece of cake. He saw Paris at the end of the table, alone.
George attempted a few words. Paris placed a hand on his arm and said gently, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, and it’s kind of you to make the effort, but forgive me. I can’t talk.’
George left him to his sorrow. He took a sip of brandy, savoured its burning descent, and asked himself what he was doing here.
He wandered about the room for a while, nodded to Anna, who was deep in earnest conversation with a red-headed girl. He felt more out of place every minute.
It was a short walk to Averoff Street. H.M.Karyotakis & Sons, Funeral Office, said the sign. A clean, prosperous, businesslike place. Mirror-polished marble floor, walls hung with sample headstones and an oil painting of the founder, Haralambos M. Karyotakis (1910–1996), sleek and universally obliging in a well-cut suit.
A girl at the reception desk smiled as George came in. George did not smile back. ‘My uncle has just died,’ he said. ‘I need to fly his body to Stockholm for burial. Can you handle that?’
‘Of course,’ said the girl.
‘Cost?’
She picked up the telephone.
‘Mr Karyotakis? There’s a gentleman here with a question about Stockholm.’
The receptionist put down the phone and said, ‘Come with me.’
She led him into a spacious office where a plump, innocent-faced man sat behind a large and improbably tidy desk. He stood up and shook hands.
‘Manolis Karyotakis. How can I help?’
George introduced his special problem. It was complicat
ed, he said. His uncle’s widow, being Swedish, did not believe a Greek company would be capable of organising the transportation safely. She wanted to hire a funeral director from her own country.
Karyotakis appeared to swallow the bait. ‘Your aunt’s concerns are understandable,’ he said, ‘but unfounded, I promise you.’
‘Stockholm is a long way,’ said George.
‘It might as well be next door. Tell us where to pick up the deceased and we’ll take care of everything, all the way through.’
‘Sorry,’ said George. ‘Through what?’
‘Embalming, dressing, providing a coffin, customs clearance, fees, special cargo licence, refrigeration, everything. Where is your uncle at present? In a hospital?’
George shook his head. ‘He died at home.’
‘My condolences to the family.’
‘I’m afraid my aunt will need more than that. Do you have any evidence of your international experience?’
‘Evidence?’
‘Yes.’
Karyotakis looked puzzled. ‘What do you want? Customs documents? Waybills?’
‘Something that shows you do this on a regular basis.’
‘I’ve never been asked for such a thing before,’ said Karyotakis.
‘So?’
‘Just think about it. Athens is a cosmopolitan city, full of tourists, expatriates and business visitors. Several of them die each year and we have to send them home.’
‘I just want proof.’
‘It’s logical! People don’t like to think about death, but it’s all around us. We think of it as the great enemy, but in fact…’
‘Spare me the sermon, Mr Karyotakis. I just want a bit of documentary evidence.’
The funeral director’s neck muscles tensed. He was clearly furious.
‘I am not in the habit of showing company documents to people who walk in off the street.’
‘OK,’ said George, standing up. ‘I’ll try somewhere else.’
Karyotakis gestured for him to sit down. He picked up the phone. ‘Roula, bring in the client register.’
There was a knock on the door and the receptionist came in with a bulky blue ledger under her arm.
‘Give it to the gentleman please.’
George took the ledger and flipped it open. Entries began in January 2008.
‘Last week,’ said Karyotakis, ‘you’ll see there was a delivery to Moscow. About ten days ago we had one to Sydney, Australia. Before that if I recall correctly we had deliveries to New York, Buenos Aires, Chicago, Milan… I promise you, every one of them arrived safely!’
George checked for entries around August 30th. His eye fell on the letters NY, USA. The body of Philip Medouris, delivered to Bartley & Corrubbio Funeral Home, Brooklyn.
‘Thank you,’ he said, laying the ledger on the desk. ‘What are your fees?’
Karyotakis said smoothly, ‘First we like to know what the family wants, then we deliver it. At an excellent price.’
‘Please be more specific.’
‘We start at two thousand five hundred euros, excluding air transport and contingencies such as refrigeration in case of delays.’
‘What guarantees do you offer?’
‘All transportation is fully insured.’
‘Does that cover everything?’
‘What do you mean everything?’
‘I’ve heard horror stories,’ said George. ‘Lost ashes, even lost bodies.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ said the undertaker. ‘We use the best carriers in the business.’
‘I have witnessed a case of a lost body,’ said George. ‘Quite recently in fact.’
‘That has never happened to us.’
George marvelled at the man’s mendacity. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘What would you do if a body got lost?’
‘We would make every effort to trace it. No stone left unturned. We would work day and night! Not to speak of compensation and insurance.’
‘Let’s get this clear. You swear to me that this has never happened to you?’
Karyotakis hesitated. ‘I have heard of cases, of course…’
‘Let me name one.’
‘Wait a moment, what is this?’
‘Filiotis. Mayor of Astypalea. His coffin came to the island last week, only he wasn’t in it. It turned out to be full of archaeological loot.’
‘Ah, now that does remind me…’
‘It should! Your firm was in charge.’
Karyotakis was suddenly agitated. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want an explanation.’
‘So this uncle story is just bullshit?’
‘Never mind the uncle. Filiotis was a friend. His family are devastated. All they got from you was a brush-off. After cancelling a funeral!’
Karyotakis stayed cool. ‘Let me have a look.’ He picked up the ledger and turned slowly to the relevant page. He ran his index finger down the column, checking names, then picked up the phone again.
‘Roula, bring me the file for Mr Filiotis please. This year, August 30th.’
He turned back to George. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m sorry if you feel let down.’
‘It’s not me, for God’s sake! It’s the family.’
‘Of course…’
Roula reappeared, placing a grey file on the desk. Karyotakis opened the file and began flicking through papers.
‘Certificate of death, notes of telephone conversations, order for coffin, headstone, transport arrangements, funeral flowers, pall-bearers… It’s all here.’
‘Only the corpse was missing! Did you not collect it?’
‘I’ll check… It says here that we delivered the coffin to the hospital, where… Now that is slightly unusual, I have to admit. Normally we pick up and… OK, Let me talk to our technicians.’
George listened carefully as Karyotakis made the call. He asked plenty of questions. Where did you go? Which hospital? Was it the mortuary or a separate room? Did you see the body? Who handed it over? Was the coffin closed? Was the lid screwed down? You made two visits? One to deliver the coffin, the other…? OK, one visit. The coffin was delivered separately, by the carpenter, and later you collected it, already loaded. It was screwed shut when you collected it? You didn’t open it? Why didn’t you? We have rules! Did the weight feel right? Was there anything else…? All right, everything seemed normal, but it wasn’t! How the hell could you know who it was? Or what it was…? Never mind what was in there, I’m telling you it was not the person it was supposed to be! You’ve made a mistake and I have some very upset relatives on my hands! The procedures are there for a reason! Go to hell!’
He banged down the phone. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘They never checked!’
‘Why not?’
‘He took the order from a senior doctor. Didn’t like to question him.’
‘And who was this senior doctor?’
‘He doesn’t know.’
‘Do you mind if I look at the file?’
‘It’s confidential.’
‘It’s either me or the police.’
Karyotakis pushed it wearily across the desk.
George scanned quickly through the papers. He found and noted down the collection address: the Hermes private clinic in Halandri. An illegible doctor’s name was scrawled at the bottom of the consignment note, another on the death certificate. He took photographs of both with his phone.
‘You’re not supposed to do that,’ said Karyotakis hopelessly.
‘And you’re not supposed to lose bodies,’ said George, handing back the file.
‘If I can help in any other way…’ said Karyotakis.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ said George.
He took a taxi up to Maroussi, thinking all the way about Mario. It looked as if his body had gone to New York by mistake, in place of a coffin full of ancient gold. So who was Philip Medouris? Just a name presumably. And the people in New York? Dealers in illegal antiquities, no do
ubt expert and sophisticated, but crooks nonetheless. How would they react? That would depend on who they were, what they had paid, how they operated. Could be violent or not. Would certainly be annoyed. He had known such a dealer once, a clever man from London, educated, slippery, eloquent, who spent half his life touring the Mediterranean in search of ancient treasures, the other half in meetings with collectors. According to him archaeology was simply ‘tomb-raiding by professors’ and would barely exist without contraband to fund it. ‘A hundred and fifty years ago archaeology wasn’t even a word, never mind a discipline.’ George thought him too clever by half, a thoroughly unscrupulous person.
Unless it was not a straight switch. A three or four way manoeuvre, and not necessarily international. That was also possible! He checked the photos on his phone. The firm had dealt with five burials that day. Any of those could have been involved in the mix-up, deliberately or not. Perhaps Mario’s body was still in Greece? This would not be easy to untangle.
He got out of the taxi at the Town Hall in Maroussi and walked up to the square. Colonel Sotiriou was sitting at the same café table where they had met three weeks ago. Now there was a scattering of autumn leaves on the ground, and a ragged old man in a filthy anorak wandering about, babbling nonsense to an imaginary audience.
Sotiriou looked healthier today. His eyes brighter, his skin less slack and pale. George asked where he had been.
‘Amsterdam.’
‘On holiday?’
‘Police conference.’
‘It’s done you good,’ said George.
‘No doubt! And I’ll tell you why. I have colleagues from countries where the police have a chance of actually doing their work. I like to hear their optimism, their talk of teamwork and co-operation. Even if I have nothing to offer in return. Only procedures, politics and paperwork. Nineteenth century practices for a twenty-first century world!’
George was surprised at the man’s chatter. He was normally a minimalist: taciturn, circumspect, cunning. For fear of discouraging him George made no further comment. He ordered a coffee and asked how the weather had been.
‘Cold,’ said Sotiriou. ‘Autumn has already begun up in the north. They’re wearing gloves and scarves. That at least makes me feel good to be a Greek! Now tell me why you wanted to meet.’
