Paul Johnston - The Silver Stain

Mavros followed Luke Jannet off the plane and was hit by a blast of heat — Crete was hotter than Athens had been. Then he got a surprise.

‘Neat, aren’t they?’ Jannet said, following the direction of his gaze.

‘Something like that,’ Mavros muttered. His Greek heritage had asserted itself and the World War Two German aircraft with swastikas on their tails did not impress him.

‘A Ju 52 transport aircraft — they dropped paratroopers — and an Me109 fighter,’ the director said proudly. ‘We’ll be filming more aerial shots tomorrow.’ He shrugged. ‘But you’ll be busy finding that fuckin’ dyke.’

‘Unless I find her today.’

Jannet gave him a thoughtful look. ‘Don’t get overambitious, my man. This is a big island.’ He grinned. ‘But if you do, you’re welcome to see the planes in action.’

Mavros followed him towards a pair of cars. The director got into the first, a large dark-blue BMW, while Alice hung back.

‘The Jeep will take you to the shoot hotel. Ms Parks has been told to expect you. An account has been opened in your name for meals, car hire and so on, and you’ll find a cash advance in the safe in your room. We should exchange cell numbers.’ They did so. ‘I’ll be available to help you, subject to Mr Jannet’s needs. If you run into any difficulties with crew members, let me know. Will there be anything else?’

‘Sounds like you’ve thought of most things.’

She smiled. ‘Mr Jannet will be expecting regular reports.’

‘Hey, Ali, shake your tail feather.’

Mavros watched as her slim form inserted itself into the BMW. He’d have liked to know what Alice Quincy really thought about her boss, but she was almost as inscrutable as a jade Buddha. Even more, he’d have liked to know what else she knew about Maria Kondos and Cara Parks.

The Jeep, with a parachute-festooned Freedom or Death logo on the door, was driven by a young man with a moustache Nietzsche would have been proud of.

‘First time in Crete?’ he asked, revealing a lower line of gleaming teeth.

Mavros considered sticking to English, but decided he’d find out more by speaking Greek. He introduced himself, saying he was a writer from Athens.

‘Mikis Tsifakis,’ the driver replied. ‘You writing about the film?’

Mavros nodded vaguely. ‘How about you? Contracted by the production company?’

Mikis nodded happily. ‘My old man has hired out most of our fleet. That was him in the BMW.’

‘Good work?’

‘Ah, good enough. These Americans, they know how to keep their costs down.’

‘So, tell me, have you driven anyone famous?’

The young man beamed. ‘You bet. When the old man’s busy, I drive Cara Parks.’

‘Wow, what’s she like in the flesh?’ Mavros asked, playing the part of the lust-driven fan.

Mikis laughed. ‘Even more luscious than on screen. She’s nice, as well. She doesn’t have any airs. What I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with that woman.’

Mavros spotted another interesting angle. ‘I suppose she always has an entourage in tow.’

‘Not really. A couple of security guys and a stuck-up woman called Maria, who I’ve heard speak Greek, but she never bothers with me. She acts like Cara’s personal Cerberus.’

‘She’s got three heads?’

Mikis glanced at him, grinning. ‘A tongue that’s three times more cutting than my grandmother’s.’

Mavros looked at the citrus groves to his right and the almost constant line of hotels and villas on the left, before getting to the point. ‘I hear this Maria’s gone missing.’

The driver’s face tightened. ‘Really? I didn’t know that.’

Mavros wasn’t sure he was telling the truth, but he let it go. The Jeep took a left turn and stopped in front of an elaborate, barred gate. There was a column of TV vans and men with cameras on the roadside, a police officer watching them. A man dressed in traditional Cretan garb — high boots, baggy trousers, the vraka , and a tight headscarf, the mandili — came out of a hut and nodded at Mikis before admitting the vehicle.

‘The Heavenly Blue Resort,’ Mavros read on a gilt sign. ‘I’ve heard of this place.’

‘You should have,’ the young man said proudly. ‘Biggest and best hotel on the island. Mr Kersten brought in architects and designers from all over the world to upgrade it ten years ago.’

Although he habitually binned the travel, property and design sections of the Sunday newspapers with little more than a glance, Mavros had read about the resort and its German owner. It had been one of the few European-class hotels in Greece when it first opened for business in the 60s and it maintained that status. Suddenly he found himself wishing that the search for Maria Kondos would take weeks.

Mikis drove the Jeep along a tree-lined avenue to a large expanse of well-watered lawn, beyond which stood an imposing six-storey concrete building whose modernist brutalism was diluted by the flowers on every balcony. To its left and right were complexes of villas, along with more swimming pools than Mavros had ever seen in one location, even though the sea was only a few hundred metres away.

‘Amazing, eh?’ the driver said.

Mavros agreed, though the fact that all the staff seemed to be in Cretan costumes struck him as excessively kitschy.

‘Here you are.’ Mikis handed him a card. ‘Give me a call if you need a ride. It makes a change to have a Greek-speaking passenger.’

Mavros accepted it and extended a hand with a tip.

‘Not necessary,’ Mikis said, with a smile. ‘In fact, forbidden under the terms of our contract.’

Mavros stuck the banknote in the young man’s shirt pocket. ‘Not my contract. See you, my friend.’ He got out, sure that he would be making use of Mikis in the near future.

‘Good day, sir,’ said a young woman weighed down with a colourful but less than practical full-length costume. ‘Welcome to the Heavenly Blue Resort. Follow me to reception.’

Mavros did so, taking in the tastefully minimalist decor — pale grey marble floor, replicas — he presumed — of Minoan, Classical and Venetian art works on the walls, a high ceiling with lights hanging from wires entwined by convincing fake vines. The German owner definitely had better taste than the average hotelier in Greece.

‘Yes, Mr Mavros, we’re expecting you,’ said the receptionist, a svelte young man, in English, imagining the new arrival was a Greek-American. He looked momentarily confused when he saw Mavros’s Greek ID card.

‘Don’t worry, English is fine,’ Mavros said. ‘But don’t go talking about me in Greek when I turn my back.’

The receptionist looked horrified at the idea. ‘Here’s your key card, sir. You’re on the first floor, lifts over there. Do you need help with-’

‘No,’ Mavros said, lifting his small bag. ‘Long live Hollywood.’

A smile flickered across the receptionist’s face.

Mavros took the stairs to the first floor and walked down a long corridor to his room. The trek, which, along with the low level, showed that he wasn’t a major player, was worth it. The room was actually a small suite, the bedroom looking towards the sea and the sitting-room towards the mountains of the Rodhopou peninsula to the west. The air con was running and a television greeted him in sibilant tones. He turned both off and opened the balcony windows. People in shorts were walking to and from the villas, while others drove golf buggies to more distant locations. Even searching the grounds for Maria Kondos would take plenty of man hours.

He found the safe in one of the wardrobes and punched in the number supplied in an envelope, before changing it to the day and month of Niki’s birthday. There were two thousand Euros inside, along with a receipt, which he signed. Maybe his employers really did believe he could solve the case in a day. In any case, he wasn’t going to have many living expenses.