The Last Red Death (A Matt Wells Thriller) Read online

  Bitsos chewed his lip. ‘And they left the piece of Iraklis olivewood as a blind? Pretty imaginative for a bunch of drug-pushers and whoremongers.’

  ‘So you think this was another red death?’ Mavros asked. The Greek press had given that name to the left-wing terrorist assassinations back in the seventies.

  ‘Red death, black death, purple fucking death,’ Bitsos said with a grunt. ‘I don’t suppose Vernardhakis cared what colour it was.’

  Mavros nodded, the curiosity stimulated by the old poet’s question about the murder satisfied for the time being—at least he knew more than his sister did now. Not long afterwards he said goodnight to the reporter and walked out into the icy air. He could have thought of more uplifting subjects to discuss over a carafe of ouzo, but at least his mind had been occupied for an hour or two. Now he was face to face with his own problems again, and the Christmas decorations weren’t doing anything to raise his spirits. Neither would Niki when she caught up with him. He went home and discovered irate messages from her on the answering services of his mobile and his home phone. He called back to calm her down, but discovered that she had turned off her phones. He was forced to leave a stumbling apology, pleading pressure of work. He knew she wouldn’t buy it. In frustration, he turned off his own phones and eventually passed out on the sofa.

  Lying there in the early dawn, sleep now as distant as the mountains of Crete, Mavros thought about the terrorists who had operated under the collective name of their leader, Iraklis. They had killed over twenty people between the end of the Colonels’ Junta in 1974 and the early 1990s. Although the majority of their victims were Greek citizens whom they regarded as class enemies and traitors—former security police commanders and torturers, right-wing newspaper owners, businessmen branded as profiteers—they had also achieved worldwide notoriety by assassinating an American diplomat and, ten years later, an off-duty British naval officer. Intense pressure had been applied to the Greek authorities to track down the terrorist cell but no member had ever been found, leading to speculation that senior politicians had engineered a cover-up. At least Iraklis had ceased operations years ago, to the relief of everyone in the Greek establishment; other groups were still at large.

  Mavros sat up and swung his legs off the sofa. His eyes were heavy but his mind was racing. Iraklis. According to its voluminous proclamations, the group had come together during the dictatorship, its members galvanised by the Junta’s harsh treatment of its opponents. But Iraklis predated many of its rivals, who had been inspired by the regime’s brutal reaction to the occupation of the Polytechnic building in November 1973 that killed dozens of demonstrators. Mavros had been only eleven at the time, but he’d heard the screams and the shots from the family home in the inner-city area of Neapolis—his mother hadn’t yet moved to the flat on the slopes of Lykavittos that she still occupied. His brother, Andonis, had been a leading light in the underground resistance movement, but he had disappeared the year before. The family was fearful that he might have come out of hiding to take part in the demonstration that signalled the beginning of the end of the Colonels’ hold on power. But there had been no sign of him then, or in the decades since. That was why Mavros had never paid more than passing attention to the activities of Iraklis. Andonis had always opposed violent confrontation with the authorities because of the cost in human lives that it would entail. The terrorist group had no such scruples.

  Mavros drew the curtains to let in the daylight and wrapped a towel round his waist. His flat was warm, the communal furnace that ran the central heating belching out its contribution to the Athenian pollution cloud. He’d like to have opted out on ecological grounds, but in the depths of winter he found it hard to manage without the heat. He went into his small kitchen and started cutting oranges. The season’s harvest from the Peloponnese was in full swing and he had bought a ten-kilo bag from an itinerant vendor in the street. He had finished squeezing and was pouring the juice into a glass when the doorbell rang.

  He glanced at his watch and let out a sigh of relief. It was before eight, so it couldn’t be Niki—she was always in a rush to get to work in the morning.

  ‘Poios einai?’ he said, into the entryphone. Who is it?

  ‘Alex Mavros?’ came the reply. ‘My name is Grace Helmer.’

  Mavros was nonplussed, then the American accent prompted him. ‘Ah, are you the one who was looking for me at the café?’

  ‘Yeah. Can you let me in? It’s freezing out here.’

  Mavros pressed the button to open the street door and went towards his front door, cursing the Fat Man for giving out his address. As he opened it, he realised that he was still only wearing the towel.

  ‘Hi. Is this too early for you?’ The woman was tall and slim, her blonde hair drawn back in a ponytail, emphasising prominent cheekbones. She extended her right hand as she took in his appearance. ‘Like I said, I’m Grace.’

  Mavros took it and felt a firm grip on his own. ‘Em, hi, Grace. I’m Alex. Sorry about the state of undress…’ He stood back and let her walk past him, catching a hint of his mother’s perfume from her denim-clad frame. She was a fine-looking woman, as Yiorgos had said.

  ‘Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,’ she said, from the door of the sitting room. ‘In here?’

  Mavros grabbed his dressing-gown and quickly closed the door to the bedroom, aware that sheets and clothes were all over the place. ‘Yes, in there. I’ve just made some fresh orange juice. Would you like some?’ As he dragged on the dressing-gown, he felt the towel drop to the floor.

  ‘Yeah, that would be great,’ she said with a smile. The tanned skin around her blue eyes creased.

  ‘Have a seat,’ he said, trying to remember if he’d left anything embarrassing on the sofa or the table. No, he hadn’t been perusing the volume of nude female photographs that the Fat Man had given him for his name day last year—as much to irritate Niki as for his own enjoyment.

  When he came back with the juice, Mavros found his guest at the window.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, taking the glass. ‘What a view you have. And it’s so quiet here.’ She stepped back and sat down in the single armchair. ‘I can see the Acropolis from my hotel room, but it’s further away and lost in the smog. And the traffic noise…’

  ‘It’s a big city and everyone wants a car. But, yes, it is peaceful here. The narrow streets and the parking restrictions put drivers off. I like it.’ He was being disingenuous. He didn’t just like his flat, he loved it. He often struggled to pay the rent but it was definitely worth it—living in the calm, classical eye of the Athenian hurricane justified the hours he spent tracking people down on its noisy streets.

  ‘I’m sorry I turned up unannounced,’ Grace Helmer said, giving him a more tentative smile. ‘It’s just that I thought I was never going to find you at that café. I went back yesterday evening. The blinds were down but I could see a light on behind them. No one answered my knock.’

  ‘No,’ Mavros said. ‘The Fat Man’s only open in the mornings.’ Yiorgos ran illicit card games in the evenings, taking a cut of the winnings. He was very attached to earning black money: he claimed that ensuring the capitalist state didn’t take a cut was every Communist’s duty.

  ‘The Fat Man?’ Grace said, raising an eyebrow. ‘That’s not a very kind nickname.’

  ‘Yiorgos doesn’t mind,’ he replied. ‘In fact, he’s proud of his bulk.’

  ‘Is that right?’ She didn’t sound convinced. ‘Anyway, I went back this morning—Jesus, there were some crusty old guys in there—and told him I couldn’t wait for you any longer. He seemed to get the point and gave me your address. So here I am.’

  ‘So here you are.’ He’d be having words with the Fat Man, Mavros thought. When he’d told the café owner to give the mystery woman his number, he’d meant that of his phone, not his flat. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Right.’ Grace Helmer put down her empty glass on a newspaper that was lying on the antique oak table
. ‘What can you do for me? Well, it’s rather a long story.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, stretching over to his leather satchel and taking out a notebook and pen. ‘Before you start, maybe you’d better tell me how you found out about me.’

  The American crossed her legs and appraised him with a long look. ‘All right, Alex. I went to the embassy and told them I needed a reliable private investigator. Initially the guy wasn’t too keen. He told me I should go through official channels, that the embassy was responsible for U.S. citizens’ interests in Greece, et cetera, et cetera. But I made him see my point of view.’ She gave him a brief smile. ‘He put me on to a Greek policeman called Kria…Kriaras?’

  ‘Kriaras,’ Mavros repeated, stressing the final syllable.

  Grace Helmer blinked as the sun caught the corner of the window. ‘Yeah, that was him. You’ve worked with the embassy before?’

  Mavros nodded.

  ‘How come they don’t have your phone number or address?’ There was a hint of suspicion in her voice.

  ‘Nikos Kriaras acts as my unofficial clearing house when it comes to foreign nationals.’ Mavros caught her eye and was immediately aware of a deep inner strength. ‘I prefer to keep people like U.S. embassy officials at arm’s length.’

  Grace Helmer laughed lightly. ‘I can understand that, especially in this country.’

  ‘It’s true that many of my countrymen regard yours as imperialists who supported the repressive regimes that were in charge from the forties to the seventies. I don’t think things are that simple.’

  She frowned. ‘You say “my countrymen”. Are you Greek or what? Your English is perfect.’

  He laughed. ‘My Scottish mother will be glad to hear that. I have dual Greek and British nationality.’

  ‘Well, good for you.’ Grace smiled again. ‘But you’re based here full-time?’

  ‘Yup. And I’ve been a private investigator for ten years, in case you were wondering.’ He swallowed the last of his orange juice. ‘So what about that long story you were going to tell me?’

  ‘Okay.’ She closed her eyes for a few moments as if she was steeling herself, then opened them, looking straight into his. There was a brief expression of puzzlement as she registered the brown mark in his left eye. Over the years Mavros had got used to women noticing it. Some found it alluring in a way that sometimes struck him as perverse, as if imperfection were a good thing. Grace didn’t seem to be one of those: her gaze soon shifted to a bare patch of wall above his right shoulder.

  ‘Okay. Where to begin? I was born in Khartoum, where my father had a posting—’ She broke off and changed the position of her legs. Suddenly she seemed ill at ease. ‘He was a diplomat.’

  Mavros narrowed his eyes, a hazy recollection coming into focus.

  ‘Anyway,’ Grace continued, ‘we moved to Athens when I was three. My dad—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Mavros interrupted. ‘Do you mind telling me how old you are now?’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘No. I was thirty last July.’

  He finally made the connection. ‘Helmer. Your father was murdered in 1976, wasn’t he? By the terrorist group Iraklis.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Grace replied, her voice level. ‘My mother and I left Greece a few weeks later, and I haven’t been back until now.’

  Mavros was struck by the coincidence. He’d been talking to Lambis Bitsos about the Iraklis group’s possible reappearance last night, and now the daughter of one of their first victims had shown up. Before he could start calculating the odds of that happening, he heard a key turn in his front door.

  A few seconds later Niki was looking down at his bare legs. Then she turned her acid gaze on the American woman in the armchair. ‘Who’s this, then, Alex?’ she asked in Greek.

  Mavros got up and went over to her. ‘She’s a potential client.’ He stretched out a hand, only to have it smacked away.

  ‘Do you always meet clients in your dressing-gown?’ Niki shouted, her eyes wide. They were bloodshot and surrounded by dark rings, suggesting she hadn’t slept much. ‘Fuck you, Alex! She’s your latest tart.’ She let out a great sob. ‘Oh, God, I gave you that dressing-gown for your birthday last year.’ She stepped up to him. ‘Bastard! Where were you last night?’

  Mavros glanced at Grace Helmer. She was sitting as she had been, her eyes on the wall. The conversation was in a language she probably couldn’t understand, but Niki’s raised voice hadn’t provoked a reaction.

  ‘I left you a message,’ he said, trying to get close to his raging girlfriend. ‘I had work… I…’ He let the excuse trail away: it would do him no good—Niki was out for his blood. ‘In God’s name grow up,’ he said, resorting to the aggressive tactics she was using. ‘You’re making a fool of yourself.’

  She laughed bitterly. ‘I’m making a fool of myself? Look at you, drinking orange juice with your latest pick-up in the dressing-gown I gave you.’ She stepped up to him and punched him in the belly with enough force to double him up. ‘Who’s the fool now?’

  Mavros stayed bent to catch his breath and to protect his abdomen from further blows. Niki took the opportunity to turn her fire on Grace Helmer. ‘Eh, whore?’ she yelled in Greek. ‘Did you give him a good time? How much did you screw from him?’

  ‘I told you, Niki,’ Mavros said, straightening up partially. ‘She’s a potential client, or at least she was. She’s American.’

  That only increased Niki’s antagonism. ‘Oh, so you’re an American hooker,’ she said, in the English she’d perfected at college in London. ‘Well, fuck off back to the land of the free, you—’

  Mavros took her by the arms and pulled her away. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Grace, over Niki’s writhing shoulder. ‘Maybe we should postpone this meeting.’

  The American’s expression displayed mild amusement rather than alarm. ‘See you around, Alex,’ she said, moving to the door with unhurried strides.

  Mavros watched her go, pretty sure that was the last glimpse he would have of Grace Helmer. Then he turned back to the emotional crime scene that was taking place in his sitting room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE poet Kostas Laskaris made his way carefully down the steps from the plane and into the terminal. The airport was to the west of Kalamata in the flatlands of Messenia, fields of tobacco and lines of olive trees stretching out across a wide river delta. Further away, the mountains of the southern Peloponnese were snow-capped, the air much clearer than that of Athens two hundred kilometres to the north-east. But, despite the bright sunlight, there was a bitter wind blowing and the poet felt the breath catch in his lungs and a chill spread through his body. Inside, while he waited for his driver, Savvas, to collect his bag, he lit a cigarette and exhaled smoke against the plate-glass window. Although it was warm enough in the building, a shiver racked him as he looked towards the scarred flanks of Taygetos—the range of peaks cascaded down from its summit south of Sparta, over two thousand metres sinking to a few hundred above Cape Tainaron at the end of the land mass’s middle finger. In that direction was the tower, the place he had made his home. And further on was the cave that in ancient myth led directly to the underworld. He drew hard on his cigarette and suppressed another shudder.

  ‘Ready.’ The swarthy young man peered at him. ‘Are you all right, Kyrie Kosta? You look exhausted.’

  Laskaris caught a glimpse of his drawn face and slumped shoulders in the window. ‘You don’t have to shout,’ he said waspishly. ‘People are allowed to have a cigarette in peace.’ But in truth he was glad of the interruption. Left to himself, he would have been consumed by his thoughts, burned up in the flames of guilt that had been building in the last few weeks. There would be no escape later on when he was alone in the pyrgos, but at least Savvas would distract him with the latest village gossip on the two-hour drive south. He had only been away for a couple of weeks—the tests in Athens, a trip to Moscow for a literature festival, then the return to receive the diagnosis. He’d been given as little as a month
if he didn’t go under the knife, maybe a year if he did and then was lucky. But he had already decided that he wouldn’t be leaving the treeless slopes and stone-ridden fields of his birthplace again. He had seen too many bodies cut open by the unforgiving steel.

  ‘Listen to this, Kyrie Kosta,’ Savvas said breathlessly, as he steered the poet’s battered Japanese four-by-four out of the airport car park. He launched into a lengthy story about a young couple from the village of Kitta, a few kilometres from the tower. Laskaris tried to follow it, but found himself more captivated by the scenery. After Kalamata, the road left the coast, the mountain’s rocky sides forming an impenetrable barrier to the left. The asphalt strip finally met the sea again at Kardhamyli and the poet felt his spirits soar as the rippled blue water filled his eyes. Although the stone of the upper ground was barren and bare, winter had brought a carpet of green to the lower slopes. The Mani, ancient fastness of the country’s most violent families, was flaunting its finery; pretending it was a place fit for human beings to inhabit.

  ‘…and then Myrsini’s brother swore that he would avenge the family’s honour,’ Savvas was saying. ‘You see, Kyrie Kosta, her fiancé, Theodhoros, hadn’t just been caught in the cheese-making hut with the German woman. He was also seen with another foreigner in Porto Kayio last week and…’

  Laskaris let the driver’s words wash over him. Savvas meant well. He was the son of the woman who cleaned the tower and, despite the impression of dimness given by his close-set eyes and uncontrolled voice, he was quick-witted enough. At least he’d stayed in the village. Most of his contemporaries had moved to Kalamata or Athens as soon as they’d got the chance.

  ‘I swear he’d have cut Theodhoros’s balls off if the policeman hadn’t arrived in time…’

  Laskaris looked ahead, past the cultivated land south of Kardhamyli with its orchards and cypress trees to the wall of rock beyond Itylo. That area was the Deep Mani, the harshest and most blood-soaked land of all. As Savvas’s story showed, the tradition of the vendetta, the blind defence of family honour, survived even now. In the old days, even not very long ago, the lascivious Theodhoros and his relations would have been besieged for months in their fortified tower, no mercy extended to the menfolk by their opponents with their ornate guns and razor-sharp swords. At least there was a degree of restraint now, even though the luckless policemen drafted in to the Mani from distant, less savage areas occasionally had to use force to get the locals to observe the law.