Colin Forbes - The Greek Key

'Keep talking…'

Sarris gave up. Skilfully he drove through the night. Headlights appeared, flashed past them. They were on Alexandras now. Close to the football stadium on the opposite side a small colossus of a building faced with white marble loomed. A very modern rectangular block twelve storeys high it soared up towards the night sky above a vast entrance hall. No premium on space for government buildings in Athens, Newman thought as he followed Sarris inside.

To the left was a reception counter. A uniformed policeman hastily donned his peaked cap. Sarris led Newman to an inner lobby with a bank of four lifts on the right-hand side. His office on the eighth floor overlooked Alexandras. Sarris used an intercom to order coffee.

'Now,' he said, facing the seated Newman across his desk, 'may we start at the beginning?'

'We arrived in Athens.

4 a.m. Sarris in his crumpled shirt-sleeves was showing signs of strain. The ash tray was crammed with his cigarette stubs. Only one of them belonged to Newman.

'So,' Sarris summed up, 'it comes to this. You came here to investigate the accidental death of Harry Masterson, sensing a story. Marler came to learn the ropes, despite his being described on his passport as an insurance executive?'

'I told you. He's fed up with that job. He wants a more adventurous life.'

The murdered man, Giorgos, took an interest as soon as you arrived at the Grande Bretagne. He saw the photograph you showed the receptionist. Later, he tried to get information from your driver, Nick. You thought he could be a lead. So Nick found out where he lived from reception. You went there with your two companions to question him. You were too late?'

'End ot story.'

'Bob, you really should have been a barrister. You so neatly make all the facts fit what I know…'

'Presumably because they do fit.' Newman drank more coffee. His fifth cup. 'Haven't we just about covered everything – except for what happened to Harry Masterson? An accident, you said.'

'I gave you the official explanation at the moment. He was murdered.'

Newman, cup raised, stared at the Greek. For the first time since the interrogation had begun he was taken aback.

'You change your mind quickly, Peter.'

Sarris stood up, wearily stretched himself, then leaned over the desk, spread both hands flat and stared straight back. His tone changed, became grim, almost spitting out the words.

'You think I have lost my touch? Homicide is my profession, my business. I'm supposed to be able to recognize murder when I see it. You think I park my backside here all day? Let me tell you something. I've visited Cape Sounion. No one with the savvy Masterson had staggers round above that cliff and walks over it. And I met Masterson by chance.'

'When? Where?'

That night at the Hilton when he pretended to be high as a kite, did his death-defying walk along the rail beyond the entrance hall. I was attending a party. When I walked into the Hilton Masterson was just beginning that charade. I watched him. I tackled him afterwards, asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. Drunk? He was more sober than I am now after all that coffee. I talked with him for maybe ten minutes. He was able, tough, alert and street-wise. And he had the women in the palm of his hand.'

'Women? Any particular woman that night?'

'Christina Gavalas couldn't get enough of him. More coffee? You look shaken…'

A few minutes later. Sarris stood by the window, had opened the blinds. The first light, the false dawn, was casting a glow over the dead city. The peak of Mount Lycabettus was a massive silhouette in the distance.

'Why?' Newman asked. 'Why the official line that it was an accident?'

'The tourist industry is sacred to Greece, the billions of foreign currency it brings in, a commodity we're a little short of…'

'Oh Christ! Not the Jaws syndrome again?'

'The film about a shark off a resort island in America. The mayor didn't want to know about any sharks. Again, it might have frightened the tourists away.'

'Ah, yes, I remember. I see what you mean. Yes, there is a similarity. Murder – especially of an Englishman -would be bad publicity. The British come here like lemmings.'

'So you buried the case?' Newman said bitterly.

'You will apologize for that insult.' Sarris left the window, stormed back to his desk and sat upright in his chair. 'The case is not closed for me. No mealy-mouthed politician gives orders here.. .'

'You have your apology. Unreservedly.'

'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.'