Byron's Shadow Read online

  ‘We expected the readings to be fouled up by the road construction. If you compare it with the second run, all this ground is denser than the natural soil.’

  Max let his pencil follow the embankment edge. ‘This must be spoil from when those guys laid the road. Then, at the east end, your plan goes crazy.’

  The shading grew heavier some two metres from the gully.

  ‘If that was your first run, crazy readings are okay,’ Max said. ‘Lower down the site, things are so boring: normal strata, there’s nothing to turn me on. These patches must be old tree root holes, but the rest of the earth looks real rocky. You say you field-walked this area? What came up?’

  ‘Bones, bullets, old buttons and modern junk. You saw the stuff in the finds tray.’

  Max pointed to the heavy area of shading beside the gully. ‘It looks like there’s some big feature right where we sit.’

  ‘Would you say it’s more road building debris?’ Flint had already formed his own opinion.

  ‘No.’ Max thought long and hard. ‘My gizmo is having a moody day, but it tells me that the debris is dense material, but under here, it’s all loose. We’re right by the gully: it could be an old channel.’

  That was an inconvenient theory. ‘If it was a channel, it would run all the way down the site...water cuts downhill, our gully would get wider with time, not silt up.’

  ‘Okay, so we’re sitting on a feature two to three metres wide by three to four long. It’s overkill for a grave, unless they bundled a dozen guys into it.’

  Flint felt his mind fall vacant and he drifted into a realm of ideas, where facts and theories crowded in after him. After a few seconds of trance-like realisation, he let out a huge sigh. ‘Well, that’s it then. That’s what the town doesn’t want us to find. Did you ever read about the Civil War?’

  Max scowled, ‘The War between the States?’

  ‘No, here in Greece, just after Hitler’s war. This whole area was a nest of guerillas of various factions, fighting over small villages. Communists against fascists against liberals, all happily murdering each other. Man against neighbour, brother against brother, and all the horrors you could expect; kidnapping, extortion, mass executions and mass graves.’

  ‘Bullets and knucklebones?’

  ‘And brass buttons, and an archaic fountain pen, it all fits!’

  A long, slow laugh came from the American’s lips. ‘Jeez, that’s an intellectual jump. But if that village had a guilty secret, someone would have dug up the bodies and made darned sure no archaeologists came rooting them up.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the road.’ Flint tapped the map.

  ‘Road?’

  ‘It’s our terminus ante quem: whatever happened happened before the road was built.’

  ‘1949, right?’

  ‘And we have a terminus post quem. Remember my pen? Byron F. Nichols wrote a book called Arcadian Commando in 1944 or ’45. If the Byron F. Nichols who lost the pen was the same Byron F. Nichols who wrote this book and if the pen does in fact originate from this feature, we can date it to within four years.’

  ‘I must go to this school of yours next semester. It sounds superior to mine.’

  Flint flicked his fingers in his excitement to explain, ‘We stole this book from the American Institute — sorry about that by the way.’

  ‘Not quite Murder One is it?’ Max observed.

  Excitement brimming over, Flint rambled on. ‘Nichols never mentions this area in his book. He describes every blinking shepherd’s hut in Arcadia, so if he’d ever been to Palaeokastro he wouldn’t have been able to resist writing about it. Forgotten ruins are the sort of things which fired him up. So whatever happened, happened after Byron Nichols wrote his book, so we’re into the Civil War. We know Byron Nichols was last seen on February 14th, 1947 and Stylanos Boukaris vanished two days later, with three of his men. Their bodies were never found.’

  Max raised his eyebrows, ‘until now?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, but let’s say whatever happened, people thought the secret was buried and forgotten. They think the road embankment covered it up. They might even have helped put the damn road there in the first place, so there was never any possibility of the site being dug up. Except the gamble failed, Americans are like Romans, they build straight roads and the road misses the site by a few metres.’

  ‘Whew!’ Max looked askance at Flint, ‘All that from a resistivity survey?’

  ‘…and a month of bloody hard graft.’

  ‘And what about this parking lot?’ Max thumped the concrete.

  ‘When I found the pen, the bad guys realised their mistake. They poured this concrete, laid a few breezeblocks but never had any intention of completing the building. It serves its purpose. It will be fifty years before anyone bothers to break up this surface; by then, what’s underneath will rate as archaeology and the pen will wind up in a museum.’

  ‘The Palaeokastro Massacree Experience Centre?’ Max suggested.

  Flint slipped off the concrete lip and into the gully. Marathon had been a far off, dramatic battle, but the one he was forced to visualise had a squalid feel.

  ‘Nichols went to Anatoliko to tell Stylanos his son was dead; I still don’t understand that part of the story. Shortly afterwards, the merry men mount their donkeys and ride to here.’

  In the distance, the staccato rattle of a moped could have been a machine-gun. Flint imagined a group of mounted men crossing the gully in single file, probably on a plank bridge. He could see one rock, a hundred yards further up the hill, ideally suited to site a Bren gun, or other weapons thoughtfully provided by the British. The men would fall in moments, perhaps some sought refuge in the gully, but it was no refuge. A sniper behind the rock would have the gully in enfilade, turning it into a killing ground. One man had survived: Vassilis ‘lucky’ Boukaris. His story would be worth hearing.

  The moped had drawn close and slowed down. Flint chanced one look over the gully lip then hissed ‘Hide!’ and dropped out of sight. Someone else had tried this before, he mused. He worked his way down the dry gully bed, then up into the olive trees. He could just see an ageing Greek man, in grey shirt, red necktie and black trousers, dismounting from his moped.

  Max knew less Greek than Flint, but stood up and managed ‘Yasoo’ which seemed to anger the man. The moped rider started to jabber and gesticulate as he walked towards Max, threatening to kick the radar sledge. Max blustered and turned for support. Flint dodged from tree to tree, finding the man familiar as he shouted and pointed. He had seen this resentment before, one night outside Andreas’ taverna.

  Whatever Costas was saying ended in brooding silence.

  ‘That’s better,’ Max said, flushed. ‘Can’t you speak American?’

  ‘What you doing?’ the man managed in thick and halting English. He seemed to be aware only of Max, so Flint slunk quietly towards the Land Cruiser. Reaching inside an open window, he took out his camera, unscrewed his 35mm lens and replaced it with his 90mm. The exposure he set to automatic, pulled out the telephoto and guessed at an f-stop. Max and the man were still arguing across languages. Edging back through the trees, Flint dropped to his knees, fiddled with the focus and found a good head-and-shoulders portrait.

  Suddenly, Costas kicked the radar sledge. Max dived to rescue his equipment.

  The Greek looked up at the heavy click of the camera, then swung a bony fist at Max. Max fell back and Costas delivered a hefty crack to the machinery with his toe.

  ‘Hi Costas, smile!’ Flint clicked the camera again.

  At the sound of his name, the old man drew a knife from his belt and flicked it open. Max retreated six feet.

  ‘Camera!’ Costas must have been sixty, but he had a look of sprightly aggression about him. This man was used to wielding a knife.

  Flint was aware of company to his right and sprang around. Lisa handed him a mattock.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yours is bigger than his.’
>
  ‘Size isn’t important, Lisa.’

  Costas had seen the mattock, and the spade which Lisa levelled, bayonet-like at the height of his groin. Max raised his pencil as if it were a dagger.

  An angry stream of fluent Greek abuse burst from Lisa’s lips as she edged towards Costas. His dignity dented, the man uttered a few imprecations, then began to back towards his moped.

  ‘Okay, okay. You all in big trouble now.’

  Photographed three times more, he pulled his machine off its stand, mounted up and rumbled away.

  ‘Friend of the family?’ Max asked Lisa.

  Flint dropped the mattock and ran to the top of the embankment for a final shot. The moped streaked downhill, disappearing into the houses. As Max came up beside him, Flint begged the use of a pen and scribbled the moped’s number plate on his own forearm.

  ‘Right team, gotta move fast!’

  ‘Are we going to Andreas’ after lunch?’ Lisa asked.

  ‘Only fully armed.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Flint was bouncy and confident as they drove back towards Nauplion.

  ‘‘Ere we go, ’ere we go, ’ere we go!’ he sang aloud, partly to fight against Lisa’s terminal depression.

  ‘Jeff, why the celebration?’

  ‘We know whodunnit, whydunnit and whendunnit. That guy Costas is old enough to have taken part in the Great Palaeokastro Massacree and vicious enough to keep murder as a retirement hobby. It’s down to town, find the pharmacy, make a few calls, then bingo! We can all go home.’

  ‘Some of us don’t have homes,’ was Lisa’s dry comment.

  ‘It will all come out in the wash, as my Gran from Wakefield used to say. Once we’re in town, you can drop me off. You two should scarper in case things go wrong. Forget the tents, just vanish until I’ve sorted things out.’

  ‘What’s going to go wrong, coach?’ Max asked.

  Flint grimaced. ‘The bad guys know we’re here and Nauplion is not a big town. Whoever killed Sebastian Embury could just make his living that way, so I want you both to go.’

  ‘You’ll need me at the pharmacy,’ Lisa said.

  ‘Get out while you can. We’ve had our chance to escape, we may even have been allowed to escape the first time to avoid the embarrassment of a trial. Someone sent me my passport, someone nobbled Owlett and Jules, and someone was following us in Athens. Remember the man at the Genaddion library? He was also at the British School, and the German School and he was at Miko’s taverna the day before I went up there. White Citroën, sharp suit, putting the heat on everyone he meets.’

  ‘You never told me he was at Mikos’ place.’

  ‘Sorry. I just didn’t want to scare you.’

  ‘Scare me; if someone’s trying to kill me, I want to know about it!’

  *

  Max parked in the tree-lined square opposite the station. All the while he chattered nervously about the town, the Venetian fortress, the harbour, the sea, anything but the task in hand. The incident with Costas and the damaged machinery had wrecked his jovial spirit. For himself, Flint felt both fireproof and invisible as he climbed out of the Land Cruiser.

  ‘See you Max — I owe you one. Get your data processed, then take it to the British Embassy. Give them everything.’

  ‘Watch out for the guys in the black hats.’

  Lisa kissed the American’s cheek. ‘Bye Max, you’re a hero.’

  ‘Lisa?’ Flint asked.

  ‘This is my home town,’ she said, a hint of wetness in her eyes. ‘I can’t run.’

  Max closed the door, and waved a road map as a form of farewell. With Lisa on his arm, Flint walked along Stakiopoulou to the pharmacy. The narrow streets were humming with morning life; one day he’d have to return and enjoy this town. Lisa stopped dead, dragging him to a halt.

  Strutting down the pavement towards her was a policeman. His eyes were invisible behind the obligatory sunglasses.

  ‘He’s seen us,’ she hissed.

  ‘I’d hope so. They don’t employ blind policemen.’

  ‘Ass!’

  The distance between them closed, the policeman drew closer, then passed within inches of Lisa’s trembling arm. Flint forced her to maintain their pace towards the green cross suspended high on a wall. The policeman was behind now, shrinking into their past, but without warning Lisa dodged into the next shop doorway.

  Flint dodged after her, smiling back at the ironmonger’s stares. Lisa was looking up at the assortment of second-hand tools, pans and tin baths which dangled from wall and ceiling, pretending to be interested.

  ‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Flint hissed.

  ‘I feel ridiculous,’ Lisa managed a nervous smile. ‘Honest, Jeff, he was looking at me, looking right through me!’

  ‘It’s a practised art called undressing a woman with your eyes. We letchers are good at it. He only looked at you as a sex object, not as an international criminal.’

  ‘I’m too old to be a sex object.’

  For a moment, Flint recalled the sophisticated Sofia Kionghis. ‘You’re never too old; come on, grandma.’

  The pharmacy was busy with people seeking remedies for piles, sunburn and digestive disorders. It would take a hefty bribe to turn the four-hour photographic service into a one-hour service, but Flint was ever an optimist and Lisa had recovered sufficient nerve to sweet-talk the pharmacist into cooperation.

  He left Lisa in the pharmacy and walked back to the Post Office. An infuriating hour was spent in a phonebooth, wasting coins and sweat. The British Embassy was staffed by half-wits, Owlett was not answering his phone and Vikki’s mobile number repeatedly gave the ‘unobtainable’ tone.

  ‘Typical, huh? Why does this always happen?’ Flint talked to himself, for want of intelligent contact. He glanced at his watch; it was one-twenty, so he jogged back to the pharmacy. Lisa was leafing through the prints, smiling at the look of total alarm on Costas’ face.

  ‘Do you know anyone who would recognise him?’ Flint asked.

  ‘Andreas?’

  ‘Not Andreas, someone else.’

  She looked at him, closing one eye.

  ‘You once mentioned you had a friend called Spyro, a policeman. A married policeman? Vulnerable to a pretty face and a little blackmail?’

  A grimace confirmed that Lisa clearly understood every detail of Flint’s latest stratagem.

  ‘Will he be off-duty?’

  She submitted with exaggerated weariness. ‘Was your degree in how to be a complete bastard?’

  *

  They wound around four blocks of clambering streets, hugging the shadows, until Lisa found one particular side-street, where she stopped to gain courage and disperse her conscience. What did she owe Spyro? He’d had what he wanted. Flint shrank around a corner.

  Spyro, his wife, three children and matriarchal mother-in-law lived in a noisome house on the southern slopes of the town. Lisa rapped on the door, which was answered by a small girl, quickly followed by a woman of about her own age. It was the first time Lisa had seen his wife. Dark and anxious, with an expression drawn thin by child-raising, the wife was instantly suspicious of this girl with the cosmopolitan accent.

  The policeman appeared sharply. Unshaven, clad in vest and trousers, Spyro was not at his rakish best. His shock, when he recognised Lisa, quickly turned to defensive alibis which sent the wife inside. His face turned to anger, he grabbed Lisa’s wrist and pulled her off down the alley, rebuking her in Greek.

  ‘Lisa, go away, what do you mean? You will get me into big trouble with my chief and my wife, now just go away.’

  Lisa dug in her heels and pulled from the grip. ‘Right, I will, as soon as I can, but first, Spyro, you must do one thing for me.’

  A fist clenched as he spoke. ‘You are helping that English murderer. I will go back for my hat and my gun, then I will arrest you!’

  ‘And I’ll tell your wife about all the good times we had. Girl talk is such fun.’

  ‘Pah! Sh
e does not care!’

  Lisa detected heavy bluster. She knew the policeman was in thrall to his wife, intimidated by her mother and devoted to his children. Relatives crowded his life and the macho playboy vanished when he entered that dingy house.

  ‘Honey, honey, honey, I worship your feet,’ she mimicked.

  He looked away in disgust, or embarrassment.

  ‘Invite me inside,’ she said brightly, ‘Your wife and I could have a woman-to-woman chat about birthmarks.’

  ‘Lisa!’ he raised his voice.

  A shutter opened directly above their heads and an aged face peeked over a balcony.

  ‘We could talk about your nice new police car, with its wide back seat.’ She jabbed a finger at his ribs, ‘Hey, Spyro, remember the night your aunt died, when you…’

  ‘Lisa! In the name of St Gregory!’

  ‘Why him in particular, is he the patron saint of adulterers? I just need to know about a couple of blokes. How about Doctor Dracopoulos, from Anatoliko: is he into anything dodgy?’

  ‘Dodgy?’ Spyro shook his head slowly.

  ‘Smuggling antiques, robbing ancient ruins, you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay, what about Costas?’ She handed over the photographs.

  Spyro looked through them one by one, gently shaking his head when he saw the knife. The policeman rubbed his whiskers and gave Lisa wary glances between short sentences. ‘Costas Zoides: I think he’s a land agent for Korifi, you know those people, they own hotels. Costas rides around the hills on his little motorbike, collecting money from the farms owned by Korifi.’

  Lisa smiled an insincere smile. ‘Thank you Spyro, you’re an angel.’

  ‘Lisa, I hate the way you told my chief about me and you.’

  She maintained her brazen expression. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t lie, could I? Not sweet little me.’

  ‘Sweet! You are poison. Where is your English boyfriend hiding?’

  ‘He isn’t my boyfriend, thank you. And he escaped, didn’t you read it in the papers?’

  ‘You should escape too, Lisa. Go away before I remember my duty.’

  ‘Bye Spyro.’ Lisa stroked a knuckle gently down his sandpaper cheek. ‘Fun, wasn’t it? Go back to your family now, give them my love.’