Blood & Gold Read online

‘I had no choice.’

  ‘Someone put pressure on you.’

  ‘Pressure yes. But it wasn’t “someone”. More like the whole police command.’

  ‘Why did they do that?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I didn’t like it.’

  ‘So you went to Sotiriou.’

  ‘As you see…’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘He’s a relative.’

  ‘A close relative?’

  ‘My mother’s first cousin. I’ve known him since I was a boy. He inspired me to go into the police.’

  ‘I see,’ said George.

  He wondered whether to say the victim was a friend.

  ‘I’d like to get the story clear,’ he said. ‘Were you at the scene of the accident?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘The first one there?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘A long skid. The truck diagonally across the road at the end of it, the bicycle bent and crushed about five metres away, the victim lying on the ground as if he was asleep.’

  ‘What about the truck driver?’

  ‘In his cab. Shaking.’

  ‘Did you talk to him?’

  ‘First I checked the victim.’ Karás grimaced. ‘Kaput.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No pulse.’

  ‘Was there a medical team?’

  ‘They came in a couple of minutes. They tried to revive him, but nothing.’

  ‘Tell me about the truck driver.’

  ‘I asked him to step out, gave him the usual warnings and assurances. He was like a zombie.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dazed. Frightened.’

  ‘Why frightened?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘What did he say about the accident?’

  Karás hesitated.

  ‘I need to ask you something before I answer that.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘How do you know Colonel Sotiriou?’

  ‘I’ve dealt with him over many years.’

  ‘You have a good relationship?’

  ‘Good enough. We’ve had our differences, but there’s respect between us.’

  ‘Why did he approach you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He knows me. Trusts me, maybe. I’m independent of the police…’

  ‘With respect, Mr Zafiris, there must be several private detectives that he could have gone to.’

  ‘Most of them ex-policemen.’

  ‘Not you?’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘That could be it.’

  ‘There may be other reasons. Trust is unconscious. An instinct.’

  Karás seemed preoccupied by a difficult thought.

  ‘I thought I could trust my colleagues until this happened,’ he said.

  George said nothing.

  ‘OK,’ said Karás at last. ‘I’ll tell you about the truck driver. Just before the accident he saw something odd. A car was travelling in front of the cyclist. A hand came out of the window on the passenger’s side and threw something out. A handful of… what? He couldn’t see, maybe tacks or ball bearings or broken glass. They flashed in the sun. They made the cyclist swerve suddenly and fall into the path of the truck.’

  ‘When did he tell you this?’

  ‘Right at the end.’

  ‘He volunteered it?’

  ‘Yes. I asked him if he remembered anything else. That’s often the question that tells.’

  ‘Why isn’t it in the report?’

  ‘It wasn’t in the official statement.’

  ‘Did you record it?’

  ‘No. The machine was off by now.’

  ‘You were still in the police station?’

  Karás nodded.

  ‘So why didn’t you switch the machine on again and record it?’

  ‘He asked me not to.’

  ‘You could have insisted.’

  ‘I know. Maybe I should have done.’

  ‘Did you go back and check the road?’

  ‘I planned to, but something else came up.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘My superior needed a job doing urgently.’

  ‘He knew you were going back to check the road?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he stopped you?’

  ‘Not exactly. He said he would take care of it, and gave me that other job.’

  ‘So he stopped you?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Did he check the road?’

  ‘Not personally. He sent another officer.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing suspicious was reported.’

  ‘You told him about the car in front and the stuff thrown out of the window?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘No reaction. Just said he would send someone.’

  George fixed him with a grim look. ‘You messed up every single step of the way.’

  ‘I can see that now.’

  ‘How about the bike?’

  ‘It was a total wreck.’

  ‘Maybe there was glass in the tyres? A nail or two?’

  ‘I haven’t looked.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake! That’s the first thing to do!’

  ‘You’re right. I should have done it. I’ll check it tomorrow.’

  ‘So the driver made his statement, signed it, you asked if he wanted to add anything else, he gave you some crucial evidence and you ignored it?’

  ‘No. I then asked him to change his statement and he refused.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He said he couldn’t be sure.’

  ‘Could he remember the number plate of the car in front? The colour? The make?’

  ‘No. The moment I got interested he shut down.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Released.’

  ‘I thought he was arrested?’

  ‘Only briefly. We let him go.’

  ‘You have his address?’

  ‘In Larissa.’

  ‘We may need to talk to him.’

  Karás looked embarrassed. He gulped some beer.

  ‘You can talk to him. I won’t be allowed to.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m off the case.’

  ‘Who’s on it now?’

  ‘No one. It’s closed.’

  ‘Closed? That’s insane!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You objected, I hope?’

  ‘Strongly. I was told to forget about it. There are times, said my boss, when keenness kills.’

  ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So what’s his plan? Let the killer come forward and apologise of his own goodwill?’

  ‘Maybe some kind of long game.’

  George took a slow sip of beer.

  ‘Are you willing to help?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Karás. ‘But I won’t be much use if I lose my job.’

  ‘Understood. Give me a safe number to call you on.’

  The lieutenant scribbled a number on a card. ‘That’s my mother’s flat. She lives downstairs.’

  ‘You visit her often?’

  ‘Twice a day.’

  ‘OK,’ said George, handing over a card of his own. ‘Let me know the driver’s name and address. And find a way to examine the bicycle.’

  ‘I will.’

  4 The Answering Machine

  Zoe was up when he got home, watching a film on TV. He asked her gently how she was.

  ‘I don’t want to talk,’ she said.

  ‘When you do, I’m here.’

  ‘Someone called,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s a message on the machine.’

  He listened to the recording. It was Andreas, Mario’s brother, his voice sullen and dark. ‘Come back to the island, George. Soon. Go through Mario
’s papers. Get there before someone else does.’ He left no number, just a few seconds of silence, then: ‘That’s all.’

  George checked his diary. The next few days were free. Only Zoe was unwell. He couldn’t leave her alone.

  The telephone rang. He picked it up. A different male voice asked for George Zafiris.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘My name is Haris Pezas. Hector’s brother.’

  George was too surprised to speak. He sounded exactly like Hector, his old colleague now lying in a cemetery near Corinth with five bullets in his chest.

  ‘How are you, Mr Zafiris?’ asked Haris brightly.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘We met at Hector’s funeral.’

  ‘I remember. It’s good to hear from you, Haris. How can I help?’

  ‘I need some advice.’

  ‘Of course. About what?’

  ‘I prefer to speak face to face.’

  ‘I’m in Athens. I can’t leave the city at present.’

  ‘No problem, I’ll come into town. Tomorrow morning? Eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Café Agamemnon, 45 Aristotle Street.’

  ‘Which part of town is that?’

  ‘In the centre. Between Kolonaki and Exarchia.’

  He put down the telephone and wondered what this was about. He feared some kind of claim for compensation. Hector had died while working on a job with him, but he had gone against George’s orders. The family knew that and they did not seem the types to go chasing opportunities in that way, but people were getting desperate for cash these days. There was no telling what extreme need might push them to.

  He sat down next to Zoe on the sofa. She was watching a chat show, celebrities talking about celebrities. It made no sense to him. Not much to her either, judging by her blank face.

  He offered her a beer.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t go with the pills.’

  He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Does that go with the pills?’

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said, smiling a little sadly.

  *

  Haris Pezas was a slightly shorter version of Hector, with the same muscular build, eagle’s beak nose and sharp blue eyes. He wore a loud check shirt in pink and yellow. His brawny legs were stuffed into skin-tight blue trousers, ending in a pair of emerald-green suede shoes. Even Hector with his technicolor tastes would have struggled to wear those. They were clearly expensive, but they did not suit him. It was hard to imagine them suiting anyone.

  ‘I want you to know right away I don’t blame you for Hector’s death,’ said Haris.

  ‘That’s good of you,’ said George.

  ‘He was impulsive sometimes.’

  ‘I just wish I’d been there to stop him physically,’ said George. ‘All I could do was shout down the phone.’

  ‘It’s such a waste…’

  ‘You must miss him?’

  ‘Horribly.’

  ‘We all do,’ said George.

  Haris unpocketed a string of worry beads and swung them to and fro, staring across the street.

  Dimitri brought coffee, took in Haris at a single doubtful glance, and returned to his newspaper in the corner.

  ‘How’s business?’ asked Haris.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Affected by the crisis?’

  ‘Of course. The great days have gone.’

  ‘Haven’t they just!’ He gave George a sympathetic look. ‘If only we had a decent leader! A Venizelos, a Karamanlís. Even…’ He peered suspiciously over his shoulder: ‘Even a Metaxás!’

  ‘That would be interesting. Our last military dictators didn’t do too well.’

  ‘We need someone with a big broom to clean out this pigsty of a state.’

  George recognised Hector’s right-wing style, which used to drive him crazy. He wondered when Haris would get to the point.

  ‘Have you come to talk politics?’ he asked.

  ‘No way! I’m here for a good reason.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said George.

  ‘I have an electrical shop in Corinth. It’s done well over the years, but lately business has dropped badly. I blame the big retail chains, Media Markt, Kotsovolos… Huge warehouses filled with washing machines and fridges. No one buys from the small shops any more. Just plugs, fuses and lightbulbs. Rabbit droppings. There’s no living in that.’

  ‘I know it’s like that in Athens.’

  ‘In the provinces it’s worse. People will drive for two hours to save thirty euros on a washing machine. The petrol wipes out the saving. In fact they lose money but they don’t see it. And it’s killing us. So I’m thinking about diversifying.’

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘That’s where I want your help. I’m thinking about security and surveillance.’

  ‘Surveillance equipment? You’ll be up against MediaMarkt again. And suppliers on the internet. They’ll undercut you every time.’

  ‘No. Not surveillance equipment.’ He stopped, looked George in the eye. ‘Just plain surveillance.’

  ‘You want advice?’

  ‘If that’s the best you can do.’

  ‘What else can I do?’

  ‘Maybe offer me work?’

  ‘Now?’ This was a surprise.

  ‘Now or later.’

  ‘Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘I used to help Hector.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Photography. Watching buildings, watching people…’

  ‘You didn’t get bored?’

  ‘Of course I did!’

  ‘What did you do when you got bored?’

  ‘I told myself how lucky I was to have work.’

  ‘Fair enough. You can keep accounts?’

  ‘Of course. Like a Swiss banker! But that’s not what I’m thinking of.’

  ‘What are you thinking of?’

  ‘Proper work. Helping you. Like Hector did.’

  ‘Hector was a professional.’

  ‘He taught me a lot.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I was interested. We even thought of forming a partnership. Pezas Brothers, Private Investigators. Sounds good, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It takes more than sounding good.’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  ‘Someone had to look after the shop.’

  ‘Do you have a wife?’

  ‘I do. Twenty-two years married. Three kids.’

  ‘What does she think of this idea?’

  ‘She supports it – as long as I don’t take any risks.’

  ‘Then forget it.’

  ‘I’ve said I’ll be careful. And I will. But she doesn’t want me carrying a gun.’

  ‘She’s got a point there. Do you know how to use one?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Military training.’

  George waved this away. ‘I did national service too. Learnt to drive a truck and clean toilets. The weapons training was not serious.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ said Haris. ‘Had two years in a first class unit.’

  ‘You must have volunteered.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Where did you serve?’

  ‘Navy. Special forces.’

  ‘You don’t seem the type,’ said George.

  ‘There isn’t a type,’ said Haris.

  ‘I mean, you seem like a gentle sort. Comfortable.’ He thought of the green suede shoes. ‘A little artistic.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I am. But if you want to see my medals…’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. You may be more useful than I thought.’

  ‘What have you got in mind?’

  ‘Nothing… Are you a gadget freak like Hector?’

  ‘Totally!’

  ‘Well that’s positive. Everything else you’ve said rings alarm bells in my head.’

  ‘If they’re electrical I’ll fix them.’

  George laughed. Haris had Hector’s absur
d over-confidence as well as his looks.

  ‘I would help if I could,’ said George. ‘Anything for Hector. But money’s tight, work’s thin, I barely have enough for myself.’

  ‘I can well believe it,’ said Haris. ‘Which is why I’m prepared to work for nothing for three months.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I don’t care! The boring stuff. Emptying waste bins. Cleaning telephones.’

  ‘That’s the interesting bit.’

  ‘OK give me the really boring stuff then, whatever that is.’

  ‘There really isn’t anything now.’

  Haris stood up, shook hands and said with a bright smile, ‘Well, what the hell. It’s kind of you to see me, and I hope you’ll give me a call if you change your mind.’

  ‘A pleasure, Haris.’

  He watched the suede loafers go flashing verdantly down Aristotle Street. ‘If I take him on,’ he thought, ‘those shoes will have to go.’

  5 Information Underload

  Nikos Karás called him that afternoon from his mother’s house.

  ‘The news is all bad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The bicycle has been disposed of. Also the truck driver’s file.’

  ‘Disposed of? In what way?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably taken out to the rubbish tip at Keratea.’

  ‘That’s totally illegal.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Can you find out any more? Who gave the order? Who carried it out?’

  ‘It’s going to arouse suspicion.’

  ‘Are you sure about Keratea?’

  ‘That’s where the city rubbish goes.’

  ‘And the police rubbish? Is that just dumped in the street?’

  ‘No. A contractor collects it for secure disposal.’

  ‘What’s the contractor’s name?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you find that out? Now?’

  ‘OK.’

  George hung up. This was getting tricky. Avenues being closed down. He remembered the phone message from Andreas Filiotis: ‘Come back to the island, George. Soon. Go through Mario’s papers. Get there before someone else does.’

  He found Zoe reading in the bedroom.

  ‘I need to go to Astypalea,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want to leave you here alone.’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ she said, looking anything but.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘Relax. Swim. We’ll get a nice hotel.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I have to go through Mario’s papers.’

  ‘How long will that take?’