my room. I'll be right with you…'
Newman followed Marler inside, paused, waited for a brief time, then pushed open the door and peered out into the square. Full of traffic. He scanned the area rapidly. He found what he was looking for further down the hill.
The motorcyclist had parked the machine by a meter, still sat astride it. The same motorcyclist with the orange-coloured crash helmet and tinted glasses who had passed them in Piraeus. Who had later skilfully guided the machine between cars when they were walking.
The rider removed the crash helmet, perched it between the handlebars. She reached up with both hands and draped her waterfall of black glossy hair over her shoulders. Christina Gavalas had arrived. Things were warming up, and not only the temperature. Newman closed the door, went up to his room.
Ten o'clock. On the dot. Nick led the way to his parked car. It had a new rear window. Newman and Marler had dined in the oak-panelled restaurant. It was still daylight as they sat in the back and the Mercedes took off down the hill which was almost traffic-free.
'He lives in the Plaka, this Giorgos,' Nick informed them. 'That is the old quarter of Athens. It spreads out at the foot of the Acropolis, climbs part of the way up the hill.'
'I know,' said Newman. 'Any news about where Masterson stayed?'
'No. It is strange. My helpers have checked all the main hotels. No luck. He must have stayed somewhere. Would he choose some cheap place?'
'Not our Harry,' Newman said positively. 'He liked a bit of luxury. Live high was his motto. Maybe the hotels don't like giving out information about their guests?'
'My helpers are clever. They take round an expensive wristwatch. Say they found it with a credit card in his name. They want to give it back. And they don't read the papers, so they don't know he's dead. They get a reply. No, he didn't stay with us.'
Dusk was falling. The sun had slid down behind the Acropolis. Nick had entered a maze of narrow, twisting streets. There was little space to spare if he met a vehicle coming the other way. Through the open window Newman heard the mournful strains of the bouzouki from the open doors of small restaurants and cafes. Sometimes it was Western pop music. Every second door seemed to lead to an eating place. The pavements were crowded with sightseers and customers.
Nick drove into a small square with a muddle of buildings on three sides. The fourth side was open to a large level area littered with stones. The Parthenon Temple, perched on the Acropolis, was an ancient silhouette against the darkening sky.
'Monastiraki Square,' Nick announced. 'We park here and walk back to Giorgos' place. That way we surprise him. And parking is difficult.'
'Damn near impossible,' commented Marler.
Nick led them a short distance along a narrow street, then he turned up a wide paved alley sloping IIK. C a ramp, lined with more eating places, more bouzouki. Newman and Marler strolled behind him and suddenly he stopped, held up a hand.
'Something is going on. Look at the crowd. We must be careful.'
'Where does he live?' Newman asked.
'Down that alley to the right. You see that car?'
The police vehicle was empty, parked half on the worn stone pavement. The crowd filled the street, was stationary, was staring down the alley Nick had indicated. They joined the crowd. Newman drew back, mounted the two steps at the entrance to a restaurant to see over the heads. He sucked in his breath.
A macabre sight. Beneath an old metal wall lantern attached to the side of the alley stood a large wine barrel. From the top projected two legs, bent at the knees. The legs were clad in black trousers, which had concertinaed, exposing tanned skin.
'What is it?' Marler asked, perching beside Newman.
'Look for yourself…'
Uniformed police swirled in the narrow confines of the alley. Several formed a cordon, holding back the crowd. Two stood on either side of the barrel. As Newman and Marler watched they took hold of the legs, slowly hauled up the rest of the body. Black hair dangled from the upended head.
Nick came close to Newman, whispered, 'I'll get in there. I know a couple of those police. Back in a minute…'
As he shouldered his way through the crowd the two policemen laid the body on the stone cobbles carefully, face up. Nick spoke to one of the police in the cordon, was let through, walked up the alley, which was a flight of steps, stopping beside the barrel.
'Looked a trifle queasy,' Marler remarked, and lit a cigarette. 'Did you notice?'
'The body's hair? Lank and dripping. Some liquid dripped off the shoulders when they hauled it out.'
'And since it is a wine barrel one might assume that's what it contains. Wine.'
After a few minutes Nick shook hands with both policemen and pushed his way back through the crowd. He used a handkerchief to wipe sweat off his head as he stood close to them.
'It's Giorgos. He didn't die too easily. They reckon he was grabbed, upended and lowered into that barrel. It is more than half full of wine. They drowned him in it. Held him with his legs kicking, I suppose. Held him upside down until he stopped struggling. Drowned. Then left him like that – legs crooked over the barrel's rim. Someone decided to make an example of him. To keep your mouth shut.'
'They certainly made their point,' Marler observed coolly.
'Let's get out of here,' said Newman.
He felt sick as they made their way back to the car. The shops were still open, shops selling a load of junk as far as Newman could see. Wicker baskets, leather bags, sponges. The shops were crammed between the tavernas. The bouzouki music had become louder, reminded Newman of a funeral march. The crowds were denser. Suddenly the Plaka had become a nightmare.
'Back to the hotel, Nick,' he said as they sank into the car. 'Back to civilization and peace.'
Peace was the last thing they found when they returned to the Grande Bretagne.
7
Marler and Nick stood in the corridor while Newman unlocked his door and walked into the room. They followed and Newman stood stock still, his expression grim.
Two men in civilian clothes were searching the room, checking inside drawers, examining the wardrobe. A third man, also in civilian clothes, sat smoking a cigarette. Hawk-nosed, in his thirties, dark-haired, thin and long- legged, his old friend, Chief Inspector Peter Sarris of Homicide, regarded him with no particular expression. He made no attempt to get up, to shake hands. Bad sign.
'May I ask what the hell is going on?' Newman demanded.
'You will all sit down in separate chairs. Not on the couch. No one will speak unless I ask him a question. This is a murder investigation. What is going on?' he continued in the same level tone. 'Surely it is obvious. Bob? We are searching your room. Before you ask, I have a warrant.'
'Best do as His Lordship says,' Newman told his companions.
'No need for sarcasm,' Sarris continued in perfect English.
'I'd have thought there was every need. You expect me to like this? And tell those goons of yours I expect them to replace everything exactly as they find it.'
'Be careful to leave everything neat – the way you find it,' Sarris said in Greek to the two searchers, then switched back to English.
'Only you are permitted to speak, Bob. Where have you just returned from?'
'You know the answer to that question. The Plaka.'
'And how would I know that?' enquired Sarris.
'Because the Volvo police car parked near the alley where Giorgos' body was found had a radio. One of the policemen was staring at me. I'm sure he recognized me. My picture has been in enough newspapers in the past.
