from the back of the van, behind which the women could decently undress. The older one, Christina Polessos, could just about fit into a set of his one-size white overalls, but the younger, Maria Coulouris, had an ample girth and spectacular breasts, so would have to be content with a large blanket.
Gravas walked back over to Lavat, who stood waiting.
‘What now?’ the inspector asked.
‘
Perini asked Richter and Simpson to wait by the gate while he went forward to check that the senior DCPP officer and his men were ready. Then he returned and motioned them to get into the last of the four Alfa Romeo saloons parked in the lay-by.
‘Everything is prepared,’ he said, sitting in the passenger seat and turning round to look at them. Behind him they could see the paramilitary police officers, looking to Richter something like a group of Special Air Service troopers, climbing into the other three cars.
As the last car door slammed shut, the leading vehicle indicated briefly then pulled swiftly out of the lay-by and onto the road, the others following promptly. It was only a short drive because the helicopter had landed no more than a couple of miles from the villa itself. The lead car indicated again – something Richter had previously believed Italian drivers never did – and pulled off the road onto some waste ground, the driver turning his vehicle to face towards the road.
The other drivers followed suit, but this time when the men emerged from the cars they were obviously taking care to be quiet, so Richter realized they must be fairly close to the villa where Lomas was believed to be hiding. The officers checked their weapons – they were carrying Spectre 9mm sub-machine-guns and Beretta Model 92 pistols in holsters – each man inserting a magazine, working the action to chamber a round, and then setting the safety catch. The Italian-made Spectre is the only double-action sub-machine-gun in the world, and is also unusual in having a magazine containing four columns of cartridges, thus allowing fifty rounds to be carried in a magazine that is vertically smaller than the thirty-round units fitted to most similar weapons.
Once they had all reported themselves ready, Perini, who had donned a Kevlar vest and was also now carrying a Spectre in his left hand, crossed over to where Richter and Simpson leaned against the bonnet of one of the Alfas. ‘We’re ready to go,’ he announced.
‘Are you sure he’s still in there?’ Simpson asked.
‘Yes,’ Perini replied, ‘we’ve had at least one watcher covering that villa ever since our operative took her photographs. We’ll now be leaving one man here to watch the cars, Mr Simpson, and I suggest you stay well to the back until the target area has been secured. Mr Richter: the same applies to you, but please be ready to come forward as soon as we have captured the suspect.’ As both men nodded their understanding, Perini walked back to the DCPP officers.
Four minutes later the armed men were crouching in a small copse of trees that looked down over a gentle incline towards a shabby white-painted villa about one hundred yards away, nestling in an overgrown and obviously untended garden.
‘He would have been out in his boat all day,’ Christina Polessos stated definitively, ‘and drinking in the
‘Boat? What kind of boat?’ Lavat asked, opening his notebook.
‘He was a smuggler, or worse,’ Christina continued, ‘but he claimed he was a diver. He has a boat moored somewhere out there in the bay.’
‘What do you mean “or worse”?’ Lavat demanded.
Christina suddenly seemed to realize that she was talking to a policeman rather than one of her gossiping cronies from the village, and began to clam up. ‘That’s not for me to say,’ was all she murmured.
‘Right, we’ll find his boat later. Which bar did Aristides normally use?’
Maria Coulouris laughed suddenly, the unexpected sound incongruous in the silent street. ‘You obviously don’t know Kandira, Inspector. There is only one bar – Jakob’s.’
When Lavat and his sergeant reached the
‘I’m Inspector Lavat,’ the officer announced, keenly aware that he didn’t look much like a policeman in his white overalls. He showed his identity card to the scowling Cretan, who stood peering out from behind his street door. ‘We need to talk to you about last night.’
Jakob looked closely at Lavat’s identification, slowly comparing the man with the photograph, before he answered. ‘What about last night? Nothing happened here.’
‘We know that. We just want to ask about one of your customers.’
For a moment Lavat thought Jakob was going to slam the bar door in his face, but instead he shrugged and opened it wide. ‘Very well, come in. But I have customers to serve, so you must be quick.’
Lavat glanced up and down the street, then into the echoing emptiness of the bar, redolent with the stale odours of coarse tobacco, cheap beer and hard liquor. ‘Yes, obviously,’ he said, the sarcasm lost on Jakob, who had moved behind the counter and was now ostentatiously wiping it with a dirty grey cloth.
‘Which customer?’ Jakob demanded curtly, pointedly not offering either man a drink.
‘Spiros Aristides,’ Lavat replied. ‘He was drinking in here last night?’
‘Don’t know him,’ Jakob muttered.
‘Look,’ Lavat said, tiring of the Cretan’s sullen and stubborn attitude, ‘this is a murder investigation, and you have two choices. You can talk to us here, which means your bar will stay open and you won’t lose any valuable custom.’ Lavat glanced round at the conspicuously empty tables as he said this. ‘Or you can get in the back of a police car and we’ll drive you over to our headquarters in Irakleio, and we’ll talk to you there. Of course, we have a lot of potential witnesses to interview meanwhile, so we can’t guarantee how long all that might take. Could be a day, maybe two or three. Maybe even more. Now, let’s try one more time. Was Spiros Aristides drinking in here last night?’
Jakob stared at Lavat for a long moment, then reached below the counter and brought out three beers. He snapped off the caps, pushed one bottle towards each of the policemen, picked up the third and took a long swallow. ‘You mean the Greek?’ he demanded.
‘Yes,’ Lavat said, picking up the beer, ‘we mean the Greek. Was he in here last night?’
‘Yes,’ Jakob nodded. He pointed at the far corner of the room. ‘He sat over there.’
‘Did anyone speak to him? Did he meet anybody here?’
‘Some of my customers know him,’ Jakob conceded reluctantly, ‘but I don’t think anybody else talked to him until the other Greek arrived.’
‘Other Greek?’ Lavat asked. ‘What other Greek?’
Chapter 6
Tuesday
Richter watched with professional interest as the DCPP officers moved out of the copse and headed down the slope to his left, carefully keeping out of sight of the villa. The house was located a short distance from the road and accessed by a rough gravel track, the property itself bordered by low stone walls and shrubs.
Richter waited until the Italians were almost at the villa, then stood up to follow them.
‘Where are you going?’ Simpson demanded.
‘Down to the villa,’ Richter replied. ‘I’d like to be in at the kill, so to speak.’
Simpson glared at him. ‘Make sure that’s just a figure of speech, Richter,’ he said. ‘We want Andrew Lomas
