'It is early in the morning.' Sarris made a resigned gesture. 'We are both fully stretched. But maybe now you understand why I hauled you in? Informers – more than one – had told me men were going round the hotels showing Masterson's photo, asking where he had stayed. I had one in that chair, accused him of being an accessory to murder. He told me Nick was his employer. I phone the Grande Bretagne. They tell me you are the one who hired Nick.
Then I get another call from my men in the Plaka, investigating a particularly brutal murder – and he tells me he has recognized you. Now, do you think I do my job?'
'OK, Peter. You move fast. I'll give you that. Ever heard of Petros Gavalas?'
'Why?'
'I did my homework back in London before I came out. You're not the only one who does his job properly.'
'And you found the wolf has his lair north of Cape Sounion – where Masterson was killed?' Sarris had walked over to a filing cabinet. Unlocking it, he sifted through several files, extracted a glossy print from one, laid it on the desk before Newman. 'Petros.'
Newman stared at the print. He had rarely seen a picture which made such impact. A head-and-shoulders photo, the subject gazing away from the camera. An aged, ageless man. Like a prophet from the Old Testament. A great crooked beak of a nose, the eyes large and glowing under thick eyebrows, the face long, terminating in a heavy jaw. A bushy moustache above a thin wide mouth, the lips clamped tight.
'He didn't know his picture was being taken?'
'No,' Sarris admitted. 'We used a telephoto lens from inside an unmarked police van.'
'So he has a track record?'
'No, he hasn't.' Sarris pulled his shirt away from under his left armpit. Despite the open windows beyond the blinds, and a fan whirling overhead, the room was like an oven. The big heat was building up.
'Then why do you have his picture?'
'We think he could be trouble. One day. He has many hectares on his big farm in the wilderness. He rules it like a private kingdom – fief? Is that the word? I thought so. Armed men on horses patrol this kingdom to keep out intruders. They say they carry guns for shooting vermin -birds which feed on the figs. He hates what he calls the English. Holds them responsible for the death of his son, Andreas, on Siros. An explosive situation.'
'And his granddaughter, Christina, was with Masterson?'
That night at the Hilton? Yes. I don't know why. Maybe she just fancied him. She is a very beautiful woman. And now, perhaps you should go home with the others.'
Sarris took the photo, put it back in its file, relocked the cabinet. He poured more coffee from a fresh pot brought in by a girl.
'If you believe Masterson was murdered isn't there something you can do about it?'
'What?' Sarris spread his hands. 'I have no evidence. No one saw him at Sounion. The pathologist isn't much help.'
'But what did he say?'
'What I said. He has no evidence. When the coastguard cutter took his body off the rocks at the base of the Cape it was a wreck of smashed bone – smashed almost to a pulp the pathologist told me – showed me. Not a pretty sight. He only had one conclusion. The way the body hit the rocks the stomach was intact – plus its contents. No trace of alcohol. Only mineral water.'
'Time for me to push off.' Newman stood up. 'The others are coming with me?'
'Yes.' Sarris smiled drily. Their stories fit what you've told me. You can all go home. Maybe you and Marler should really go home – back to London?'
'You're deporting us?' enquired Newman as he opened the door.
'Wish I could.' Sarris grinned, slapped Newman on the shoulder. Take care of yourself. Greece could be bad for your health…'
Nick drove his Mercedes along Alexandras as streaks of the real dawn painted the sky with vivid slashes of red and gold. Above a band of black receding night was a curve of pure cerulean, intense as a blue flame, warning that another scorching day was coming.
Take us somewhere very quiet and lonely, Nick,' said Newman. 'Somewhere we can talk without interruption.'
'Lycabettus,' Nick responded. 'Very high, very lonely -at this hour…'
He swung off Alexandras. Soon they were climbing steeply up a road spiralling round the lower slopes of Mount Lycabettus. They drove higher and higher. And as they climbed, below them Athens receded, the view expanded. Newman gazed out of the window. Already the panorama was awe-inspiring. They went on climbing, Nick turning the wheel all the time, negotiating the large car round diabolical hairpin bends, blowing his horn in case a vehicle was coming down. They met no one by the time he stopped at the edge of a precipitous curve.
'End of the road,' Nick said, alighting quickly to open the door, but Newman beat him to it, stepping out and taking a deep breath of fresh clear air. Marler stood on one side, Nick on the other.
'How did you get on, Nick – with their questions?' Newman asked.
'I told the truth.' Nick grinned. 'Some of it. I told them you hired me when you were last here. That explained how you knew me. I told them I drove you to Piraeus to show you the sea, that we looked at the boats at Zea and then drove back. Thank God I had the rear window repaired. It would have been difficult to explain the bullet- hole.'
'I thought of that. Go on.'
'I told them you gave me pictures of Masterson to find out where he'd stayed. That reference you made to him just before we left your room tipped me off I could talk about that. I told them Giorgos was taking too close an interest in our activities, that you wanted to ask him why. So I obtained his address in the Plaka from one of the assistant receptionists – by saying I owed him some money When we got there we found he was dead. I kept it simple.
'Which linked up beautifully with what I told Sarris, How did you cope, Marler?'
'I coped. Much the same story Nick told. Kept it simple. I only answered what I was asked. No elaborations. I must say I didn't care too much for your description of me as your assistant.'
'You'll get used to it.' He stared down. 'God, what a view.'
The huge eye of the sun was already glaring down on Athens. A city of white buildings crammed cheek by jowl, spreading out towards the horizon, merging with Piraeus, once a separate port. From that height the immensity oi the capital showed dramatically.
In the far distance Newman could pick out a shoehorn-shaped bowl which was the new stadium they had passed on their way into Piraeus. Beyond, the Mediterranean was already a shimmer of hazy blue. It was the sheer density of the city of three million inhabitants which astounded Newman.
'Where the devil is the Acropolis?' Marler asked.
'I show you…'
Nick ran back to the car, returned with binoculars, focused them. He pointed below into the middle of the endless congestion. 'There. Perched up with the Parthenon on top.'
'Incredible.' Marler gazed at the ancient temple through the glasses as Nick went on talking.
'Most people who first come to Athens think the highest point is the Acropolis. But Mount Lycabettus towers like an old volcano far above anything else. And we are not at the top.'
Newman looked up to where Nick pointed. The mountain soared up further. Perched on its summit was a church with a brown-coloured dome.
The Church of St George,' Nick explained. 'You can reach it by the funicular at the top of Kolonaki.'
'Kolonaki? I remember that from when I was here before. District for the people with big money?' Marler remarked, handing back the glasses.
'Christina Gavalas has an apartment in Kolonaki,' said Nick.
The key is somewhere down there,' Newman reflected, gazing down at the vast sprawl. The key to who killed Masterson.'
Nick drove them back down another equally hair-raising spiral road into the city. The streets were still quiet. Outside a few shops women were spraying water on the pavements with hosepipes. As soon as their backs were turned the water shrank into damp patches, then evaporated.
