The Whispers of Nemesis (17 page)

The two officers sauntered back to their car, and lit cigarettes. The inspector gathered up a sheaf of forms from the reception desk.

‘There are a few formalities,' he said. ‘Let's get those completed first.' He took a pen from a stand on the desk. ‘Your full name, your address, your date of birth, and your relationship to the deceased.'

He filled out the form as Leda gave the information; when she came to her date of birth, Inspector Pagounis gave a pensive smile, and looked Leda in the face.

‘I thought so,' he said, ‘I thought so. You're the same age as she would have been, if she'd lived.'

Maria brightened with sudden interest.

‘You lost a daughter,
kyrie
?' she asked. ‘Ah, what misfortune, what misfortune! Commiserations, commiserations. How did you lose her?'

The inspector's face slipped into melancholy.

‘Her lungs,' he said, looking down at the form he was filling in. ‘She was unwell, from a baby. We lost her when she'd just turned seven years old.'

‘A tragedy, a tragedy!' said Maria. She moved closer to Inspector Pagounis, as if proximity could better feed her craving for the details. ‘Did you not try for another?'

‘We have a son,' said the inspector, writing Leda's address on a blue form. ‘But daughters – daughters are special to a man.' He recapped the pen, and wafted away a fly crawling on his paperwork. ‘Damned flies,' he said, and turned to Leda. ‘If you're ready, we'd better get on.'

He led the women down dark stairs and along a basement corridor, where their footsteps echoed off the concrete floor. At the end of the corridor, a man in sergeant's uniform stood on guard at a doorway. Before they reached him, the inspector asked the women to wait, and proceeded the remaining distance alone.

‘George,' said Inspector Pagounis to the sergeant. ‘Are you ready for us?'

‘Ready as we'll ever be,' said the sergeant. He sniffed, then pulled a handkerchief from his trousers and blew his nose.

‘It's a difficult job for a young girl,' said the inspector. ‘For her last memory to be of him like that . . .'

‘With him like that, who could do the job but his close relatives?' asked the sergeant, giving a final wipe to his nose. On the wall by his shoulder, a fly crawled. ‘And where the hell's he been, all this time, with them thinking him already buried? The papers'll love it, once they get hold of it.'

‘As long as the papers don't get hold of it through anyone connected to this station.'

The sergeant stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket, and gave a shrug.

‘You know as well as I do what the press are like. They've a way of getting hold of everything. You and I may say nothing, nor the boys that brought them in, nor the coroner – there's five people already you're relying on not to tell a very interesting tale. And there're all those others, with no professional requirement to keep their mouths shut. I don't see how they'll keep it quiet for long.' He moved his chin to indicate Maria, who held tight now to Leda's arm. ‘Old family retainers may be faithful, to a point; but when there's money on offer – well, that would test anyone's loyalty, don't you think?'

The inspector sighed.

‘You're right,' he said. ‘And happily, the press is not our problem. Let's get on, then. Stay close to her, when we go in. If she's going to drop, make sure you catch her. Is everything respectable in there?'

‘I've done what I can. Which wasn't much, given the state he's in.'

Inspector Pagounis returned to the women. ‘We brought him here as being the most convenient to you,' he said. ‘The alternative was the city mortuary, but we wanted to spare you the travelling.'

Leda – tense and harrowed – looked at him to acknowledge his remark, but didn't speak. Maria had put her handbag on the floor, leaving both hands free to clutch on to Leda's arm.

‘I'm afraid you'll have to wait out here,' said the inspector to Maria.

‘I'm staying with her!' objected Maria; but Leda shook her head and freed her arm from Maria's grip, and followed the inspector down the corridor alone.

At the doorway, the sergeant stepped aside. Ready to turn the handle, Inspector Pagounis looked round at Leda.

‘Are you ready?' he asked.

‘I think so,' she said, and the inspector led the way into the room.

His back, at first, blocked Leda's view. The sergeant followed her in. The room had no window to let in daylight. A fluorescent light burned overhead; dozens of flies crawled on its opaque casing, whilst more were settling on the walls and ceiling, buzzing and droning as they flew. Liberal use of disinfectant had failed to cover the malodour of decay, and Leda raised her hand to cover her nose.

‘I apologise,' said the inspector, ‘for the smell. There's nothing to be done, no avoiding it. The deceased – your father – has been dead for a little while. Please, step this way.'

Leda was trembling as if she might be very cold: her hands shook and her teeth chattered. Two wooden desks, pushed end to end, had made a bier, and on the bier, a white bedsheet covered a shape, clearly a corpse.

‘Please,' said the inspector, encouraging Leda to move closer to him, as the sergeant stayed close to her. The three stood together by the shrouded body, breathing shallowly on the foul air.

The inspector put his hand on the sheet's edge.

‘I must warn you,' he said, ‘there is some – damage. He fell, we think, and hit his face. And the action of weather – you should prepare yourself for that. Try to see past it, to the facial features. If it's him, you need only nod.'

He pulled back the sheet, revealing the dead man's head and shoulders. The bloodless skin was yellowing and waxen, the lips so pale, there was no distinction from the jaw. Across one eye, a gash had caved in the socket, and livid bruising covered the forehead and the cheek; across the opposite cheekbone, the face had suffered a similar blow and similar bruising. The flesh had swollen from exposure to the weather, so the face seemed oddly too large for the head; but beneath the damage and distortion, the corpse's face could be made out: a bearded man of middle age, and judging by his shoulders, poorly nourished.

For some moments, Leda looked at the body. She gave a nod. The inspector caught the sergeant's eye, and lifted his eyebrows to signal his satisfaction.

‘His hands,' said Leda. ‘Can I see his hands?'

The inspector peeled back the sheet, folding it discreetly to cover the genitals. The corpse's arms were laid out by his sides. Cautiously, Leda picked up the right hand, flinching at the first touch of its coldness. She studied the hand, its back and its front: its thinness, the dirtiness of its nails, the grime which was embedded in the palm, the silver ring loose on the middle finger. She raised it to her lips, and with tears in her eyes, kissed it.

‘I'm sorry for your loss,' said Inspector Pagounis. ‘He has the look of someone who neglected himself, in his last days. Was your father a drinker,
Despina
?'

‘A drinker? I don't know,' said Leda, quietly. ‘I didn't know him at all, in his final years. Do you think you could show me to the toilet? I don't feel well.'

 

Leda emerged a few minutes later, her face still ghastly from faintness and nausea. Maria hurried to her side and looked intently into her face, and with tear-filled eyes, Leda inclined her head. Maria made speedy crosses over her chest.

‘I knew it,' she said. ‘I knew it was him. He's found his way home at last, poor lamb.'

The sergeant handed Leda a paper bag.

‘His personal effects,' he said. ‘This is all he had on him.'

Leda peered into the bag, and reached in for the leather wallet it held. Inside the wallet was her father's identity card, its photograph of a young and smiling Santos. Tucked behind it was a photograph of herself, taken years ago; the Leda in the picture was a mere child. There was a little cash, notes and few coins, less than three thousand drachmas in total.

Leda replaced the wallet in the bag.

‘His clothes?' she asked.

‘We burned them,' said the sergeant, brushing a fly from his jacket sleeve. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Can I go now?' asked Leda.

‘One more form to sign,' said Inspector Pagounis. ‘Then I'll have them take you home.'

He touched her arm to lead her to the stairs, and Maria started to follow; but the sergeant stopped her.

‘A moment,
thea
,' he said. ‘There's a small matter, still. I didn't want to upset the young lady. It's about her relative's body. After the post-mortem, someone must arrange collection from the mortuary, and I'd advise a sealed casket for transport. I hate to be indelicate, but the state of the remains has caused us some problems I wouldn't want the family to suffer – the flies swarming like a plague, and the smell of him . . . Well. You know what I mean. You'll be wanting him in your care anyway, I'm sure – the vigil, and the services . . . So I recommend someone should collect him as soon as possible, when the necessary examinations have been done.'

Maria took a few moments to take in his words.

‘I'll tell Frona,' she said, and hurried up the staircase after Leda.

 

‘Well, the mystery's solved, at least,' said Maria, shaking her head. ‘But my poor lamb, out there in the cold, alone!
Panayia, panayia!
If we'd only known . . .'

She brought the smell of fresh air on her coat, which she hung on a peg behind the door, along with her handbag, which held so little: only coins for church candles, a pocket icon of the Virgin, an embroidered handkerchief. In the lamp before the Archangel Michael, the oil was burning low, and she refilled it from the bottle of first-pressing olive oil she kept especially for the saint. Sitting on a cane-bottomed chair, she unzipped her fur-trimmed ankle boots and replaced them with her rose-patterned slippers.

Reclining on pillows and cushions, covered with the patchwork quilt she had worked herself, when her fingers were still dexterous, Roula was drowsy in her bed. As Maria moved about the room, Roula blinked away half-sleep like a lizard, returning unwillingly from memory's insubstantial realms.

Maria touched her mother on the shoulder.

‘Did you hear what I said, Mama?' she asked, as she went into the kitchen and lifted several pieces of salt cod from their soaking water, laying them out on a cloth to dry. ‘The mystery's solved. Santos – my baby, my poor baby! They've found him, and he's coming home to us at last.'

Like a dog scenting game, Roula lifted her chin.

‘What mystery?' she asked.

Maria gathered tools and ingredients from the kitchen – a pestle and mortar, garlic, oil and vinegar, the remains of yesterday's loaf – and carried them through to the table, close to Roula's bed.

A knock came at the door, and the neighbour, not waiting for an invitation, came in.

‘
Yassas
,' she said, lively at the prospect of gossip. ‘How are you,
thea
?' she asked Roula.

‘Come in, come in,' said Maria, beckoning her to the table. ‘Sit, sit. I'm just saying to Mama, the mystery is solved.'

‘What mystery?' asked Roula again, as the neighbour pulled up a chair.

‘I'm making
skordalia,
' said Maria to the neighbour. ‘The grocer had a box of that salt cod. Mama likes cod, don't you, Mama?'

She went again to the kitchen, and returned with a small bowl of water, a knife and a crock of salt, and sat down beside the neighbour to make the garlic sauce.

‘Well?' asked the neighbour, eagerly. ‘Was it him?'

‘Was what who?' asked Roula.

‘Santos, Mama,' said Maria. ‘My baby, my lamb! I went with Leda to the police station to identify the body.'

She split a garlic bulb into cloves, trimmed their ends and began to peel them, dropping the papery skins on to the cloth. She pushed the stale bread and the water bowl towards the neighbour.

‘Soak that bread for me,
kalé
,' she said.

‘Did you see the body?' asked the neighbour impatiently, separating white crumb from crust, pressing the softer bread into the water.

Maria dropped a garlic clove into the mortar and began to peel another.

‘The police wouldn't let me go in with her,' she said, ‘and it didn't break my heart, let me tell you. I didn't want to see him, the state he must be in. You could smell him all over the building.' With the knife still in her hand, she drew three crosses over her chest.

‘He must have been there a long time, to stink like that,' said the neighbour. ‘Is that enough bread?'

‘Plenty,' said Maria, stripping the skin from a third clove.