Read Online Crying Blue Murder (MIRA) by Paul Johnston - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Johnston
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batteries and biscuits. The elderly man inside caught the look and raised an eyebrow. Mavros opened his eyes wide in a gesture of indifference.
‘If what you say is the case,’ said Kriaras, ‘if he has dealings with our Greek friend, then I’d be reluctant to put any faith in him.’
‘I don’t want to start a religious cult,’ Mavros said in irritation. ‘I just want to do a quick job.’
The commander laughed, a dry, grating sound. ‘Come on,’ he said sardonically. ‘Surely you don’t need me to vet your clients for you.’
‘No, I don’t. But I also don’t need you to set me up with an international criminal.’
‘Very well,’ Kriaras said, businesslike now. ‘I’ll check and let you know if I find anything you should be aware of.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Mavros said sharply. ‘Be sure you do.’
The policeman laughed again. ‘Calm down. You look after our foreign visitor and I’ll look after you. If you don’t hear from me, assume there’s nothing on him.’ There was a click and the phone went dead.
‘Fuck it,’ Mavros cursed, moving round to pay.
A wizened old woman in a crumpled housecoat and slippers glared at him. ‘What are you saying, sir?’ she asked in a scandalised voice.
Mavros watched as she wandered off towards the rear entrance of one of Omonia’s filthiest pay-by-the-hour hotels. What was her problem? He turned up Stadhiou towards the more upmarket square of Syndagma, heading for home.
The wailing started just after dark.
At first the villagers thought it was kids chasing each other through the narrow streets. Then the noise moved closer to the square and the words became clearer. The words and the names.
‘Nafsika! Nafsika!’ The final syllable was a long scream of agony.
‘Yiango! My son, my sweet son, oh Yiango…’
There was a cascade of feet on the paving stones, questioning voices in between the screeches.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Who is it?’
Another desolate wail. ‘My girl, my beautiful girl, what happened to you? What happened to you?’ The woman’s words trailed away in a bitter groan. ‘What evil fate…’
‘It’s Nafsika, Christos’s and Marigoula’s daughter…’
‘Nafsika? What’s happened to her?’
Another scream. ‘Drowned! The sea has taken them from us…’
‘Taken them? Nafsika and Yiangos? Oh my God! How?’
Ear to the door of her house in the wall of the Venetian castle, old Maro listened, trying to make sense of what was going on. Nafsika? Yiangos? Drowned? No, it couldn’t be. Not Nafsika and Yiangos. She was related to both of them, not closely to Nafsika but Yiangos was her great-nephew, her brother Manolis’s grandson. My God, how could You do this to us? Her hands were trembling, her eyes filled with salty tears. Haven’t we suffered enough?
She felt pressure on the door and stepped unsteadily back.
‘Are you there, Kyra Maro? It’s me, Rena.’ The woman, in her late thirties and wearing black blouse, skirt and knee- length stockings, bustled in and took the old woman’s arm. ‘Come, sit down and I’ll tell you what’s happened.’
Maro allowed herself to be led to the table, her eyes blurred. In the bright glow of the gaslight she could make out that Rena’s expression was kindly but excited. Death always roused passions on Trigono.
‘Is it true?’ Maro asked. ‘Is Yiangos really—?’ She broke off and tried to visualise the boy, tried to remember his face. Since her eyes began to darken a few years back, she hadn’t been able to see people unless they were as close to her as Rena was now. It had been a long time since any of her family had been that close. The dead boy had never even been in her house. She recalled a handsome face, a cheeky grin and a sturdy frame that had seemed to grow in great spurts. But then she’d only seen him occasionally; across the square at Easter, or down at the harbour for the Epiphany celebration when he and the other village boys would
‘If what you say is the case,’ said Kriaras, ‘if he has dealings with our Greek friend, then I’d be reluctant to put any faith in him.’
‘I don’t want to start a religious cult,’ Mavros said in irritation. ‘I just want to do a quick job.’
The commander laughed, a dry, grating sound. ‘Come on,’ he said sardonically. ‘Surely you don’t need me to vet your clients for you.’
‘No, I don’t. But I also don’t need you to set me up with an international criminal.’
‘Very well,’ Kriaras said, businesslike now. ‘I’ll check and let you know if I find anything you should be aware of.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Mavros said sharply. ‘Be sure you do.’
The policeman laughed again. ‘Calm down. You look after our foreign visitor and I’ll look after you. If you don’t hear from me, assume there’s nothing on him.’ There was a click and the phone went dead.
‘Fuck it,’ Mavros cursed, moving round to pay.
A wizened old woman in a crumpled housecoat and slippers glared at him. ‘What are you saying, sir?’ she asked in a scandalised voice.
Mavros watched as she wandered off towards the rear entrance of one of Omonia’s filthiest pay-by-the-hour hotels. What was her problem? He turned up Stadhiou towards the more upmarket square of Syndagma, heading for home.
The wailing started just after dark.
At first the villagers thought it was kids chasing each other through the narrow streets. Then the noise moved closer to the square and the words became clearer. The words and the names.
‘Nafsika! Nafsika!’ The final syllable was a long scream of agony.
‘Yiango! My son, my sweet son, oh Yiango…’
There was a cascade of feet on the paving stones, questioning voices in between the screeches.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Who is it?’
Another desolate wail. ‘My girl, my beautiful girl, what happened to you? What happened to you?’ The woman’s words trailed away in a bitter groan. ‘What evil fate…’
‘It’s Nafsika, Christos’s and Marigoula’s daughter…’
‘Nafsika? What’s happened to her?’
Another scream. ‘Drowned! The sea has taken them from us…’
‘Taken them? Nafsika and Yiangos? Oh my God! How?’
Ear to the door of her house in the wall of the Venetian castle, old Maro listened, trying to make sense of what was going on. Nafsika? Yiangos? Drowned? No, it couldn’t be. Not Nafsika and Yiangos. She was related to both of them, not closely to Nafsika but Yiangos was her great-nephew, her brother Manolis’s grandson. My God, how could You do this to us? Her hands were trembling, her eyes filled with salty tears. Haven’t we suffered enough?
She felt pressure on the door and stepped unsteadily back.
‘Are you there, Kyra Maro? It’s me, Rena.’ The woman, in her late thirties and wearing black blouse, skirt and knee- length stockings, bustled in and took the old woman’s arm. ‘Come, sit down and I’ll tell you what’s happened.’
Maro allowed herself to be led to the table, her eyes blurred. In the bright glow of the gaslight she could make out that Rena’s expression was kindly but excited. Death always roused passions on Trigono.
‘Is it true?’ Maro asked. ‘Is Yiangos really—?’ She broke off and tried to visualise the boy, tried to remember his face. Since her eyes began to darken a few years back, she hadn’t been able to see people unless they were as close to her as Rena was now. It had been a long time since any of her family had been that close. The dead boy had never even been in her house. She recalled a handsome face, a cheeky grin and a sturdy frame that had seemed to grow in great spurts. But then she’d only seen him occasionally; across the square at Easter, or down at the harbour for the Epiphany celebration when he and the other village boys would
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