The Church Murders: A stand-alone thriller (Greek Island Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  The workers had already prepared the much-needed hooks and ropes for our descent to the body. I am sure, I saw one worker double-check the ropes as he saw my height and Jacob’s width. I looked down into the wide trench. The body lay ten metres below, face down. He wore only a pair of ripped, bloody boxer shorts.

  ‘Who found the body?’

  ‘A young couple from Thessaloniki, here on holiday,’ Jason was quick to answer. He pulled out his little, black, detective notepad and continued ‘Andreas and Eleni Karambetti. Aged 28, both of them. Here for the extreme sports. There were paragliding from the hill top when Eleni started screaming and pointing down. I have their statements and they are staying in a guest room nearby, if you wish to speak to them.’

  ‘Great work, Jason,’ I said, admiring the youth’s way of presenting himself. Old-fashioned and controlled.

  ‘Let’s go pay our victim a visit,’ I gave the OK to the men in charge to tie us up. ‘Lower down the spotlights too.’

  ‘I’m getting too old for this shit!’ Jacob declared as they gradually lowered us into the earth’s cavity. We landed a few feet away from the body and untied ourselves according to the instructions we received from above. I steadied the two spotlights and switched them on. Bright white light spread throughout the ditch. I left one where it landed and carried the other to the opposite side of the poor man. Our shadows played a macabre puppet show on the hard surface of the trench walls. I photographed the body’s back and zoomed in on his wounds. Violent, messy entry wounds all over the place. Hands pushed by hatred executed this crime. Worms and flies were continuing their feast on the flesh and tiny, nibble bites indicated that mice and other small rodents occupied and roamed the trench at night. Around the body was dark blood spatter. No clothes or other items were to be seen. Jacob knelt beside the body, fixed his glasses upon his nose and squinted his eyes as he wore his off-white latex gloves. They don’t give out medical examiner awards, but if they did, Jacob would have a whole trophy cabinet. I stood aside, giving him his five minutes.

  ‘Let’s turn him around,’ the simple order came and I assisted in slowly turning the body to face us. We both gasped in shock at the sight of the stabbed face. The eyes sockets were severely cut, both eyeballs and several teeth were pushed in and parts of the neck were missing, having been stabbed several times. The victim’s chest was stabbed so many times that there were entry wounds upon entry wounds, forming bloody star shaped stabs. Even his upper leg had stab marks. Wounds were of all depths and widths. This was either the work of a maniac who, blinded by the moment, struck frantically or as my inner gut feeling screamed out, the work of multiple murderers.

  ‘Shall I start my monologue?’ Jacob sought to see if the voices in my head were ready to quieten down and listen.

  ‘Shoot away.’

  ‘Male. Early thirties. Time of death? Three days ago. Might be less, but definitely not longer. The body’s temperature is the same as the environment, the greenish-blue color has spread to most of the skin and the gases in the body tissue are starting to form blisters. He has been stabbed dozens of times, there is no way of knowing which was the original blow, however, all the injuries occurred in a matter of minutes; indicated by the blood coloring and clotting around the wounds. All other bone and tissue damage was most likely caused by the fall, that happened post mortem.’

  I straightened the victim’s head and snapped away. We would need to identify the body. The sooner, the better.

  Chapter 4

  The local police station –if it can be called that- reminded me of a studio apartment. All in the one room, excluding the bathroom. On the left, Jason’s cheaply bought office with an outdated, dusty and rusty computer, a Greek flag, an icon of Saint Nicholas, a picture of his proud parents and an Olympiacos coffee mug that served as a pen and pencil holder. On the right, file cabinets, a holding room, separated by bars, that looked unused and the yellowy bathroom door. Batsi, population 212, was the most populous of the dozen villages Jason was in charge of. He lived a quiet life during the winter and was responsible for maintaining the peace when tourists flocked to the beaches in the summer. This was most likely his first murder case.

  ‘May I?’ I asked as I pointed to his office chair.

  ‘By all means,’ he rushed to answer and quickly turned on his computer.

  ‘Coffee, Captain? I make a great, strong, Greek coffee. And I have freshly made loukoumia. My aunt makes them.’

  ‘Sounds divine. Make it sweet,’ I replied and with the word sweet, thought of Jacob Petsa on his way back to Athens with the body. He surely would have loved a coffee and a couple of loukoumia before the autopsy.

  It took my ageing eyes a minute or so to connect the wire into the camera and then the other end into the USB port. This was Ioli’s part. I wish she was here, but I knew her body and heart needed and deserved a rest after last summer’s drama.

  I successfully uploaded the photos to the computer’s desktop and managed to email them on my third try to the homicide department in Athens. I requested they searched thoroughly through missing persons files; someone must be looking for him, he had been gone for over three days. If not, through our database and if nothing popped up, then on ‘Light in the Tunnel’, a successful missing persons TV program. No mention was to be made that he was dead. A sketch was to be made from the photograph and appear with the caption ‘Family looking for missing son. Last seen in Salamina.’

  ‘Here you go, sir,’ Jason said, placing my coffee and a little, white plate with four cubic loukoumia by my side. He sat down on a chair in corner of the room and remained there, drinking his coffee. I could not decide if he was unsociable or just the type of guy that did not talk much. I preferred to believe the latter. I drank my coffee in silence and ate all four sweets. Before devouring the fourth, I asked ‘No loukoumi?’

  ‘I avoid such sweet temptations. Doctor’s orders,’ he replied with a rascally smile, possibly reminiscing the days when he would eat a whole plate of these heavenly goods.

  ‘I should be getting back. Hopefully, the coroner will be finished with the autopsy by night and my people will have an identity for me. If any interrogations need to take place on the island or if I request any further assistance, I will be in touch.’

  He stood up at once and extended his right hand. He had a firm grip and opened the door for me to exit. They sure don’t make them like this anymore.

  Hours later, I was sinking into my once white, leather desk chair. My back reminded me of the two hours it had taken me, in heavy traffic, to get here after I drove off the car ferry that connected Salamis with the mainland. All of Petrou Ralli Street was filled from top to tail with cars, cargo-filled lorries and people-filled buses. I slowly moved through the scenery of monstrous, grey apartment blocks with a billion antennas sticking out the top, reaching up into the rain-less, orange colored clouds.

  I stretched my arms up high, closed my eyes and found serenity in picturing the pork chop I was planning on ordering later that night. I inhaled without a sound through my nose and exhaled with a light sigh from the mouth. No luck with the victim’s identity. I hoped that for once the TV would be helpful and give us a lead.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning came and found me sunk into the same chair and -my worst pastime- on the phone.

  First to Dr. Jacob Petsa who confirmed the date of death and that all injuries came from the same blade. He supported my theory of multiple attackers as a few stabs were made by a left-handed person and varied in intensity and depth. The victim was healthy and had eaten fruit and cheese as his last supper.

  After the coroner, I called Sergeant Jason Galanos, who with complaint painting his voice, announced that no witnesses had been found and they had not had any luck with the victim’s identification. No one in the nearby villages had ever seen our blond-haired victim.

  As the handset found its nest, my right eye caught a glimpse of Sergeant Demetriou hovering behind me.

  ‘Capta
in, there is a woman down in reception. She saw the victim’s sketch on TV and wishes to speak to whoever is in charge.’

  ‘Set her up in interrogation room three,’ I ordered, thinking how weird I was to prefer a certain room. It was exactly the same as the other interrogation rooms, but I always used three.

  ‘Right away, sir,’ her words came out with speed from her full Angelina Jolieish lips and off she went to fulfil her goal, her ponytail swinging from side to side. After relieving myself in the gents and splashing some cold water on my face, I walked into my favorite interrogation room.

  A red-haired woman approaching sixty, with hazelnut eyes and worry all over her face, sat uncomfortably in the hard, cold, police chair. She was fully dressed in black. The sign of a widow here in Greece. She held her cup of coffee tightly and took anxious, quick sips. She looked up at me and gave her best attempt at a smile.

  ‘I am Captain Papacosta,’ I introduced myself as I sat down opposite the distraught woman.

  She is his mother!

  ‘I understand you have some information concerning the man in the sketch you saw last night?’

  ‘Funny thing for a family to be looking for their son and not provide a name. Is... my son... hurt?’ she struggled to form the question.

  ‘I am sorry to inform you that yesterday we recovered your son’s body from the island of Salamina.’ In all my years delivering bad news, I have come to realize that there is no reason to beat around the olive tree. It only prolongs the agony.

  Her hands shook as she held her face. The realization that her baby boy was no longer a part of the world of the living clouded her face. She maintained all her courage in an effort for answers.

  ‘How?’ she asked with trembling lips that were being watered by silent tears.

  ‘He was murdered...’

  A chilling scream that turned into uncontrollable sobbing caused me to pause and let her grieve. I spoke no words of comfort. I know too well that words mean nothing at a time like this. Your soul gets shattered and neither time nor words can put the pieces back together. You just find a way to keep on breathing. No pain can be compared to that caused by the death of your child. You will never love anyone or anything as much as your child.

  ‘Who would want to murder Alex?’ Her hollow stare reflected the hole growing inside her heart.

  ‘That is what I want to find out. And I need your strength and focus to do so. Alex you say? Surname?’

  ‘Alex Panayiotou. I am his mother, Voula. He was my only child...’

  ‘Did he live with you?’

  ‘No, no... Alex was too independent to accept being pampered by me. I live in my village, Avlona. Alex continued living in the apartment he stayed in as a student, here in Athens. He loved the big city. The noise, the theatres, the girls.’

  ‘Did he live alone? Have a girlfriend? Did he work somewhere?’ Slow down, Costa. Don’t get carried away. Let her tell her story.

  ‘He... worked at The News Of Athens. He was a reporter. Last time he phoned home, he said he had broken up with that beautiful, little thing he brought home for Christmas. Eirini was her name. I liked her. She was good for him...’ She stopped, lost in her thoughts.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I am not a bad mother.’

  ‘No one said you were, Mrs Panayiotou.’

  ‘I saw him last Easter. He seemed well and happy. I called him every Sunday and he would listen to my mindless chit-chat about the village and all my old lady’s gossip. He was a good boy, my Alex. That is why, it shocked me when he stopped answering my calls.’

  ‘When did this start?’

  ‘Around July. And then, one day in August he finally picked up and he shouted at me. He never raised his voice, not even as a wild teenager.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said I was annoying him and I should finally cut the umbilical cord, and that I should stop calling him... He hung up on me and ever since his phone has been switched off. I worried, but with my hip and the farm, I could not come down to Athens. So I called Eirini.’ She paused and I could sense something was bothering her. She hesitated.

  ‘Mrs Panayiotou, anything you say, is between you and the police...’

  ‘I don’t want to blacken his memory.’

  ‘What was Alex...’

  ‘Drugs,’ she delivered the word wrapped up with despise and hatred. ‘Eirini said he got messed up with drugs and that he quit his job and kicked her out of his house. My boy would not do drugs, I raised my voice at her and hung up. It is hard for a parent to accept such a thing. You bear children, you shower them with sense and morals and let them fly away and you hope that all you taught them does not slide like rain off an umbrella.’

  ‘I will pay his boss a visit and may I have the phone number for Eirini?’

  ‘Of course. Find out who killed my boy, Captain,’ she said with a steady voice and stood up. ‘Now, may I see him?’

  ‘I will arrange for a police car to take you to the hospital. I must warn you, Mrs Panayiotou, he was stabbed to death and he suffered injuries to the face. Prepare yourself...’

  ‘I guessed that much from the sketch. I thought, why not a photograph?’ She swallowed hard and wiped her tears. ‘I will survive, Captain. Now, all I seek is justice.’

  Chapter 6

  The News Of Athens is widely known as the capital’s most prestigious and bestselling newspaper. The ‘bad tongues’ as we say here in Greece, would gossip that sales soared as the tabloid offered music CDs, nature DVDs and an array of lifestyle magazines free with every sale. Its main offices were housed in the Athens Tower, a glass wedding cake type skyscraper, occupying the first eight floors. I entered the vast, front lobby flushed from my fast-paced walk, and approached the oval reception booth. A dark haired girl with a closed, distant face and wires coming out of her ears, lifted a ‘one minute, please’ finger at me as she continued to talk into the microphone that originated from her ear.

  ‘Good morning, how may I help you, sir?’

  ‘I need to see the editorial chief, Mr Aggelou?’

  ‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’

  ‘No, I am...’

  ‘It will be impossible for him to see you today. If it is urgent, I could schedule you in by...’

  ‘Now,’ I said, flashing my badge. ‘Just direct me to his office and inform him the police is coming up. Thank you.’

  I exhaled as I entered with the rest of the sardines into the glass cage that lifted us up to the eighth floor.

  I followed the receptionist’s directions and found myself up against yet another receptionist/secretary. She quickly rose to her feet, informed by the desk below, to welcome me.

  ‘Good day, sir. Mr Aggelou is expecting you. May we offer you a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ I pushed open the door and entered the most spacious office I had ever stepped foot in. The painted light blue walls were decorated either with fine art or framed front pages. A modern, wooden bar counter occupied the corner on my right, while on my left was a 70” TV, split into cells that showed the various major news channels of Greece. In front of me was Mr Aggelou’s colossal desk. Expensive wood -no doubt- with the latest state of the art laptop and tablet by his side. I walked over and shook his extended hand. The view behind him was breathtaking. All of Athens unfolded all the way up to Lycabytus Hill.

  What kind of person puts the view behind them? The sunsets must be majestic to watch from here.

  ‘Have a seat... Mr?’

  ‘Captain Costa Papacosta.’ I situated myself opposite him in a strange-looking, black and white armchair. Sitting down, I realized that the chair’s patterns were different photographs from around the world.

  ‘And to what do I owe this visit?’ he asked with apathy. A man used to knowing everything and whose every guest took up less than two minutes of his precious time.

  ‘Alex Panayiotou.’

  ‘What did that fire cracker get himsel
f into, this time?’ he smiled with admiration and a quiet chuckle.

  ‘He was murdered three days ago.’

  The corners of his smile took the road downwards, his broad shoulders fell and his blue eyes seemed to turn a pale shade of grey. He opened the top draw on his right and lifted out a thick cigar. He mumbled a ‘Do you mind?’ to which I shook my head that I did not. He lit it and smoke spread out into the room. As he blew out the dense smoke, it danced its way over to my nostrils. I breathed in the polluted air, took it down to my lungs and reinforced my opinion that smokers never really quit.

  ‘Can I offer you a cigar, Captain?’

  Oh, yes, please do. ‘No, thank you. I quit years ago.’ And have smoked at least thirty cigarettes since then...

  ‘Murdered? By whom?’

  ‘That is what I am trying to figure out. I realize he used to work here. When did he quit exactly?’

  ‘Quit? Alex never quit! He never quit anything in his life. Stubborn little one he was. One of my rising stars!’

  ‘His mother had a different impression. So when was the last time you saw him? When was he last at work?’

  ‘Last July.’

  ‘That’s four months ago.’ I tilted my head slightly to the side and assumed my pose of inquiry.

  Did he quit or not?

  Mr Aggelou leaned forward and started to narrate the events of their last encounter.

  ‘12th of July it was, I am sure of that. I was up to my neck with coverage of the UK Prime-Minister’s visit and Alex came barging in with that hot-shot look all over his face. He was sweating with excitement as he declared that he had the story of a lifetime. If I had a penny every time I heard that line! He was certain that a monastery in Salamina had... a document.’

  He paused.

  ‘A document?’

  ‘Captain, I do not know if he was right or wrong. However, in the case that he was right, I must request that anything said here between us, stays between us. Especially now. If he’s dead, he might just have been right. That crazy boy who I thought crazier, could well have been right. Well, I’ll be damned...’ he said and turned to face the crucifix hung on the wall, up high. His three fingers met and he did his cross as we say here in Greece.