"Well," the manager said, "I know he was meeting a friend who had worked with him at The Royal Horseguards in London."
"Yes, yes, name and phone number, NOW!"
"Yes, Sir … " the manager sputtered. "His name is Peter Burroughs. I don't have his phone number, but he's still with the Horseguards. You can reach him there."
"Fine," Savva sighed. "Now tell me, how was John's demeanor before he left for London? Did he say or do anything strange before he left? Anything out of character?"
"I don't believe so," the man said, slowly. "Oh wait … yes there was. I took the call, in fact, and left the message for him. The United Nations Interpretation Service called asking for Mrs. Fitzroy's current phone number and address."
"What?"
"Yes, Sir, I thought you knew. I told John about the call. His entire face went pale and then red as a radish. There was something about him; he looked crazed."
"Why in God's name didn't you come out with this when we were interviewing staff?"
"It didn't seem important at the time, Sir."
"Didn't seem important? And yet now you say he looked crazed?"
"I'm sorry, Sir."
"Well, you'd better be," Savva growled.
He wanted to throttle the upstart manager through the phone. But of course, that would be 'frowned upon by top brass.’ Instead he threw down the phone and searched for the phone number for The Royal Horseguards Hotel.
"Peter Burroughs, please," he said to the receptionist.
"May I ask who's speaking and what this is in regards to?" said a posh voice.
"Captain Savva, Lesvos Police Department, in regards to the murder of John Fitzroy."
"Ah, yes, Sir, one moment."
The call was put on hold and a soft Bach concerto broke the silence. Savva couldn't tell which one it was; his wife had a better ear for them.
"Peter Burroughs."
"Captain Savva, Lesvos Police Department."
"Yes, I was informed as to why you're calling, Captain. How may I help you?" Burroughs' voice was polished, low, and calm.
"I'd like to know whether you had dinner with John Fitzroy when he was in London."
"Yes we did. At Clos Maggiore, if I remember correctly. John and I worked together before he took the job on Lesvos. I only found out a couple days ago that he was murdered. The papers say you've arrested his wife for his murder."
"It is what the papers are saying, yes," Savva said. "But I'm more interested in what happened when you had dinner with him. Did anything stand out? What did you talk about? Did you know he was having an affair?"
"We used to go to Clos Maggiore a lot before John got married. We talked about what life was like on Lesvos, we talked about women, politics, you name it. And yes, I knew he was having an affair. John wasn't the type to settle down. I thought he had for a while. I met Davonna for the first time at their wedding she seemed nice enough. Bloody smart, charming, down to earth. But I've known John since our school days. He craved adventure and had seduction down to an art.
"He'd always had a way with women, the way he could charm them was incredible. It didn't matter what their age or how beautiful they might be, when John paid attention to them, they fell under his spell. I knew monogamy wasn't for him, but I thought Davonna knew."
"She didn't."
"Yes, well, that's unfortunate. John was different the night we went to dinner. In fact, he was strange the entire week. He wasn't as involved with the conference as he should have been. He gave a lecture about managing a hotel as a foreigner and he was awful—stuttering, pausing. I asked him what was going on, and he said he'd been betrayed and he'd taken measures.
"When we went out for dinner he produced this list, a list Davonna had supposedly written, detailing all the items she wanted him to get in London. Now, granted, I don't know Davonna well, but I'd never heard him talk about her like this—like she was a gold digger. And the list, I can't remember the specifics, but it was ludicrous. He texted a picture to his girlfriend.
"I asked what it was about and he couldn't give me specifics. Said his wife was ‘out of line.’ It was insane. I've been married, happily, for the last fifteen years, and I'd never say that about my wife. I doubt any decent man would. But John always required a certain level of—loyalty from those close to him."
"What do you mean, loyalty?"
"Let's say, those who crossed him, only did so once."
"I see," Savva said. "Did Davonna cross him?"
"I can't say for sure, but that's how it sounded to me. I don't know what she did. I tried to press John but he wasn't having it. He started talking about our old school days and we got to reminiscing and drinking, but I don't remember much of that night. I took a cab home. My wife put me to bed. She wasn't happy I came home drunk."
"I'm sure she wasn't. You've been helpful, Mr. Burroughs, thank you."
"I don't believe Davonna killed John," Peter said. "For the record, you know … John would never marry a woman who was stronger than him."
"Could she have been driven to it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Did you ever know John Fitzroy to be abusive, violent even?"
A thick, heavy silence came over the line. Burroughs took a deep breath, as though readying himself to plunge into a frozen pool.
"Yes."
"And …” Savva said breathlessly.
"Just once. He punched a university girlfriend in front of me when she talked about … his poor performance the night before."
"Sex?"
"Yes, but he apologized right after."
"Most men do."
"I have to get back to work, Captain, but I'll give you my mobile number in case you need to contact me again. If you leave a voicemail, I'll make sure to return it."
Savva grunted in reply and wrote down the number. He turned off the recorder before stating the time, day, his name, and rank.
"Do you have a moment, Sir?" Stelios poked his head around the corner.
"Come on in," Savva said. He dropped the recorder into his right hand desk drawer and leaned back.
"I've found something, but I'm not sure what to make of it."
"Just tell me. I'll draw my own conclusions," Savva said, wearily.
Stelios sat and gingerly placed a thick, pristine, yellow folder on Savva's desk, as though it were the Ark of the Covenant. "This is everything I've found on John Fitzroy and Anthony Goldstein's finances."
"I'm listening."
"John Fitzroy took out a loan from Goldstein. He cleared out his savings and used a majority of his own trust fund to purchase the hotel, borrowing the rest from Goldstein." Stelios paused and Savva nodded encouragingly. "They have lost money hand over fist since the economic collapse. Their hotel, on average, is only ever at 30 percent capacity. Fitzroy barely made enough to pay his employees. He would have gone bankrupt in a matter of months."
"Was he making payments to Goldstein?"
"Yes, for seven years. Two years ago he took out loans at a few banks in Athens to cover expenses, but he hasn't paid Goldstein for six months or so. At least as far as I can figure."
"And Goldstein?"
"Goldstein has been in Lesvos more than he'd let on. I checked. He's flown here ten times in the past six months, seemingly to see his daughter. But I had an interesting conversation with the owner of a bar on the other side of the island … Fitzroy and Goldstein met every single time Goldstein was in town."
"What did they discuss?"
"The owner of the pub said he couldn't hear that, but Goldstein didn't look happy; said he kept poking his finger into Fitzroy's chest."
"So the hotel is going under, and Fitzroy hasn't made his payments in months. And him and Goldstein are arguing in a pub miles away from Mitilini … I'm going to take a wild guess and say it's about money.”
"There's also this; Goldstein was here, in Mitilini, the week the Fitzroy House was broken into," Stelios said slowly, as if uncovering an unexploded WWII bomb.
"What about the week Fitzroy was in London?"
Stelios sighed. "Goldstein was in Athens, multiple sources confirmed."
"What about his daughter, Athena? How often have they met?"
"Every time he comes over. I talked to Athena's mother."
"How did you get it out of her?"
"She was more than happy to tell me in detail," Stelios said, brightly. "She despises her ex. She's furious Goldstein has inserted himself back into Athena's life, but there's not much she can do."
"Hmm," Savva said. "So, Goldstein breaks into the Fitzroy House, knowing John is at work … but why, what does he take?"
"Some sort of paperwork? The deed to the hotel?"
"Possibly." Savva turned in his chair, chewing on his bottom lip. "We don't have any evidence that Goldstein was involved in Fitzroy's death, only that they were seen arguing multiple times."
"We certainly have evidence concerning Fitzroy's state of mind. He must have been desperate, about to go bankrupt."
"There's also the call he got from the UN; they were inquiring about Davonna." Savva paused. Then, as if he'd been shocked, he leapt from his chair and bolted from the office. Stelios followed him wide-eyed.
Savva bounded down the stairs and tore off through the boiling parking lot to his car.
Stelios shouted after him, "Where are you going, Sir?"
"To get answers," Savva shouted, as he slammed the door, his car squealing out of the lot.
XVII
Το σκοινί το μαλακό, τρώει την πέτρα την ξερή.
The soft rope corrodes the dry stone.
Davonna woke and blinked away the dream. The curtains fluttered as the fan swung around and around overhead. She didn't move but lay on the cramped window seat, staring at the white bedroom walls and obeying the ache in her shoulders. She stretched and prodded the knot, twisting around to reach further back. She twisted still further and fell off the window seat; pillows cascading around her. And then she turned, face to face with the white monolith.
The bed called out to her, like a glass of wine to an alcoholic. It was strange that an object could be both comforting and sinister. It depended on the person consuming it, their state of mind. The bed bothered no one else. Why did she give it so much power? Why did it consume her?
She stood there, in the half-light of the pre-dawn and stared at it—the white silk sheets and the silk pillowcases and the expensive down comforter. It all screamed comfort and luxury and a life which never existed. Davonna paced the room, ran her hands through her lank hair, and cast angry, anxious glances at the bed.
She froze in a far corner; her gaze fixed on a tall, oblong mirror with gold plating. Past her own reflection, on the bed; a glimpse of movement. Davonna whirled around, a scream tore her throat. But there was nothing. The room was silent. The house was silent. The island was silent. She backed against the far wall. The shadow, it had looked like John. It looked like him, spread out on the bed, ordering her to come to him.
Her lips trembled and her breath came in sobbing gasps. She scrambled to get away, hitting the wall with an echoing thud. But as she pulled herself off the floor, and her mind fractured, the first ray of sunlight poked over the horizon and the room basked in the full light of day. Davonna's flailing hands balled into fists, and her trembling lips drew into a long, thin line as her feet rested on the cool floor.
She rushed at the bed—her eyes full of flames. She seized a corner of the duvet and pulled. It came off in a cascade of white, and she kicked it furiously out of the way. She tore at the sheets with her fingers, digging her nails into the soft fibers and threw them away from her. Scooping all four pillows in her arms, she deposited them onto the pile, tying the sheets to form a bag.
She strode down the hall, her load bumping along behind her, and she glanced towards Miriam's room and its closed door. Down the stairs and through the kitchen she pulled the bedclothes until she flung open the gate and came to the large rubbish bins beside the garage. She threw open the lid and stuffed the massive pile in. The sheets were no longer white but grey and brown from the dirt and all over there were rips and tears from the gravel. She smiled, in a hysterical sort of way, and laughed. The sheets—John's hold over that small corner—was no more, she could reclaim it for her own.
She didn't look back as she picked her way, barefooted, across the sharp driveway stones, hopping over the kitchen threshold. In the bedroom, the bare bed looked as though she was moving in—or perhaps out. The future was open. There were possibilities. There were adventures yet to be had. Davonna smiled and went through to the bathroom.
She left the house, a second time, not twenty minutes later. It was glorious to walk the familiar road to town as the early morning created an enchantment on an otherwise normal expanse of road and run down cottages in need of new shingles. Magic lived in the hours when blundering humans were asleep. Davonna passed Ioannis' gate and looked at the quiet house with a smile. She crossed the road, to walk in the thin grass, and let it brush against her bare legs. She shut her eyes and stood with her hand pressed into an oval hollow in the bark of an old olive tree.
After a while, when the sun had risen fully, Davonna walked on, down the hill and through town where a few husky voices could be heard. She sat on a bench by the sea. The soft continuous lapping of the calm waves and the tumbling chinks of pebbles soothed her mind. She looked out, and her heart didn't flutter in fear. She could listen to the sound of her breathing—a long absent luxury.
John was gone. Physically gone. Every bit of terror and obedience he had extracted would no longer be paid mind to. What was she afraid of? Why was the pain so real? Why was she sleeping on a window seat and not on a perfectly good bed? What could he do to her now? All the triumph of the morning seemed to float away, like dew. She couldn't draw on that strength anymore. But why?
“Why?” she screamed.
Every time he came back, her heart contracted inside of her, her whole body tensed, and she waited for the blow to fall. As though she lived still in that torturous existence, prone on the bed: powerless. Davonna drew her knees to her chest with a whimper, the weathered, wooden planks groaned. She longed for someone who understood. It was so easy for Miriam to sit on the outside and lecture her on what to do. How could Miriam understand?
Do I? Do I understand what he did to me? Do I understand why? It was useless to roll it around in one's mind like a Rubik’s cube. Davonna rubbed her face and wished she could scrape away all of the tainted parts of her soul and cast them out to the sea. Maybe they would drift across the water out to the sea and sink into an abyss in the middle of a hurricane.
But it was useless, no more could you scrape away those hated parts of yourself than you could pick up the island and cast it into the sea. She jumped up, smoothed her dress, and walked towards the agora.
Savva woke in the same empty bed he had fallen asleep in. The alarm clock barked out an ungodly noise. He slapped it off and dangled his legs off the side of the bed. With a grunt he put his hands on his back and pushed; the vertebrae snapped and cracked like God's own chimes. His back was a mass of stiff muscles and creaking bones, and he could almost feel the thin, brittle fingers of old age creeping into them.
No one ever said anything about how the body changes in old age. Every step, every stretch, every movement took longer and hurt like the devil. Savva stood and padded slowly across the hall, the soft, cool, hardwood floor under his feet, and poured a glass of water. He pulled a slice of sourdough bread from the breadbox and turned to toast it. His eyes slid onto a garish, pale blue contraption where their old black toaster used to sit. There was a yellow sticky note on the side with a large sarcastic exclamation point written on it. He rolled his eyes and huffed, but he put the bread in anyway. The lever slid down easily and it didn't sputter or shake like the last one. It'd probably last a year, and the color was still garish.
His mind fell back to the case and how he’d left Booras and driven to the hote
l and questioned the employee who’d taken the call from the UN. That was the point that Fitzroy had unhinged. Savva pondered the possibilities and the level of control that Fitzroy maintained over his wife … the passport, her walks into town, the garden, and now that call from the UN.
Savva leaned over to scratch his left calf. The house gurgled and shifted around him and in the silence he could just hear the faint hum of the toaster as it warmed. Then, as the bread shot out of the top, like a jack-in-the-box, a key turned in the front door. He pulled out a plate and knife, buttered the toast, and put it on a waiting wooden tray.
Shayma shuffled into the kitchen looking careworn. Her eyes were red and underneath them were thick, heavy, grey bags of exhaustion. He walked forward. He recognized this look; this particular slump of the shoulders, dragging of the purse, and the downward unseeing gaze. He could guess what happened down at the beach during the night. But right now, that couldn't be helped. With a little nod towards the bedroom, Shayma shuffled down the hallway. He followed, still carrying the tray.
Neither of them spoke. He set the tray on a grey tufted chair and then turned to Shayma and helped her sit on the edge of the bed. With slow, methodical movements he untied her shoes and slipped them carefully off her feet, pulled off her thick, grey socks and set them by the closet, pulled her arms out of her black coat, and tugged the sweater over her head, unbuttoning her wool slacks and shimmying them down her hips. She sat there, unblinking, as Savva carefully folded every item of clothing and put them away in the wardrobe. He pulled out a pair of black pajamas. Shayma's favorite, soft, thin cotton ones with the white piping.
With delicate hands, he unhooked her pale pink bra, set it carefully on a chair, and buttoned the pajama shirt over her shivering body. She stood as he pulled on the soft pants with the elastic waist. He twitched back the covers and, as carefully as though she were made of glass, he helped her into bed and pulled the worn quilt up to her chin. Her eyes slid closed as she nestled into the pillow. Savva placed the tray, with toast and water, on her nightstand.
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