Hand of God

30

This time, when I went outside the hotel, I saw them — two guys in their thirties leaning nonchalantly on the bonnet of a silver Skoda Octavia, smoking cigarettes and getting a little early afternoon sun on their unshaven faces.

‘Where are we going now, sir?’ asked Charlie.

‘A restaurant in Piraeus called Dourambeis.’

‘I know it.’

‘Only see if you can get us there without our police escort,’ I told him. ‘For what I want to do this afternoon, I’d rather I didn’t have any cops watching. Besides, I don’t like being followed. It makes me feel like I’m being man-marked. I get antsy when I’ve got someone on my tail.’

Charlie nodded. ‘Sure, sir. No problem.’

He started the engine and drove slowly away from the front of the hotel.

‘Can you lose them?’

‘This is Athens, sir. We have the worst traffic in Europe. In this city I could lose Sebastian Vettel.’

Charlie accelerated hard and, at the bottom of Syntagma Square, he turned sharply right and sped along a narrow shady street before making a swift left up a hill and then reversing into a small car park. Charlie made the big Range Rover feel like a Mini and it was immediately clear to me he was a professional driver. That shouldn’t have surprised me, I suppose. Nearly all of the guys who drove for Vik had been on evasive driving courses; Vik took evasion in all its forms very seriously indeed: drivers, his wife, tax lawyers, not to mention a whole host of electronic countermeasures rumoured to have been installed on his private jet.

Charlie waited long enough to see the Skoda speed by in a futile attempt to catch us up — and then, when they were past, accelerated forward across the street and down another hill.

‘We won’t see them again for a while,’ said Charlie.

‘Neatly done,’ I said.

At the top of the street he turned left, and drove south on the main road to Piraeus.

‘Dourambeis is one of the best restaurants in Attica,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s an old family place. Usually they’re on holiday until the end of August. So I hope you checked that it’s open.’

‘You mean they close for the summer? When all the tourists are here in Athens?’

‘Only for part of the month of August, sir.’

‘But that’s just crazy. Surely winter would be the time to close.’

‘They close then, as well.’

‘No wonder you’ve got a fucking recession. You’re supposed to stay open during the tourist season, not bugger off on holiday. That’s like a restaurant closing for lunch.’

Charlie grinned. ‘It’s Greece, sir. In this country people do things not because they make sense, but because they’ve always been done that way. Anyway, at Dourambeis I think you should have the scorpion fish. Off the fish counter inside the restaurant. It’s the best in the city.’

‘I’m not actually planning on eating,’ I said.

‘That’s a pity.’

‘At least not today. Hristos Trikoupis is having lunch there. I want to find out who he’s with and perhaps follow him when he leaves. You see, I need to have a talk with him, in private.’

Charlie grinned. ‘I like driving for you, sir. It’s quite like the old days for me.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Before I went into private security, I used to be a cop.’

‘What was your patch? Your speciality?’

‘Low-level detective work. Nothing special. Burglaries, theft.’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘The money. In Greece it’s always about the money. For everything.’

‘I don’t suppose you know Chief Inspector Varouxis.’

‘Everyone knows Ioannis Varouxis,’ said Charlie. ‘He’s the most famous detective in Athens. He was the cop who caught Thanos Leventis, a local bus driver who murdered three prostitutes in Piraeus, and attempted to kill at least three others. Apparently he cut off their nipples, fried them in salt and then ate them. The Greek newspapers called him Hannibal Leventis.’

‘I wonder why Varouxis never mentioned this.’

‘He’s a very modest man, that Varouxis.’

‘No, I meant I wonder why, when Varouxis is investigating the murder of a prostitute who probably had sex with Bekim Develi, that he never mentioned the deaths of those other prostitutes. It seems kind of relevant. Have the newspapers mentioned it?’

‘No, sir. And they probably won’t. At least not until — God forbid — another woman should be killed. You see, one of the women Leventis attacked was an English tourist, sir. It’s not the sort of the thing that the Ministry of Tourism likes to remind people about. Especially at this time of year. It would be very damaging to the Greek economic recovery. Which is very fragile at the best of times. Tourism is one of the few industries we have got left.’

‘Tell me, Charlie, this Hannibal Leventis — I suppose there’s no chance they could have caught the wrong guy?’

‘He admitted it, sir. In court. Although there was some talk of an accomplice who was never caught. The English woman who was attacked, she said there were two men who abducted her. One did the driving and the other one raped her. But none of the three victims who survived mentioned a second man, so her allegations were dismissed.’

‘See if you can find out her name, Charlie, will you?’

‘Sure. No problem, sir. I make a call when we stop the car.’

He drove in silence for a while; and then he said: ‘A couple more things about Leventis, I just remembered.’

‘Yes?’

‘Sometimes he drove the Panathinaikos team bus. Sometimes.’

‘And he used that bus?’

‘Not that particular bus, sir. But another quite like it. That’s why the girls got on in the first place. They thought it was a regular city bus.’

‘And the other thing?’

‘You have to remember about Panathinaikos and Olympiacos — they are the eternal enemies. This is a typical story for Athens and Piraeus since the Peloponnesian War, in four hundred BC. So then. On the Reds’ website, they have a fan forum called the Shoutbox. And many Reds fans say the same thing: that the Athens police protected someone who was also involved in these murders because they support the Greens. That Hannibal’s accomplice was allowed to go free.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Of course, that’s a load of crap. Varouxis would never have done such a thing. I know this man. He is honest. Very honest.’

A few minutes later we pulled up outside a fairly unremarkable if large restaurant a stone’s throw from the Karaiskakis Stadium in Piraeus. Several cars were parked outside, including a black Maserati Quattroporte, which, I presumed, belonged to Hristos Trikoupis.

‘Is that it?’

‘That is Dourambeis,’ said Charlie. ‘So, what now?’

I told him what Jasmine had told me about the Maserati.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Wait here, sir. I go and take a look.’

He got out of the Range Rover, walked across the road to the restaurant and then went inside. A minute or so later he came outside again, bent down to look through the windows of the Maserati, and then trotted back to the passenger window of the car.

‘I couldn’t see him in the restaurant,’ he said through the open window. ‘But there are lots of private rooms in that place so he could be in one of them. There’s a pass for the car park at Agios Ioannis Rentis on the windscreen. And a copy of Sir Alex Ferguson’s autobiography on the front seat. It must belong to Trikoupis.’

‘All right. Now we wait.’

Charlie lit a cigarette and made a phone call after which he told me that the English woman who had been attacked by Hannibal Leventis was called Sara Gill, and that she was from a place called Little Tew in Oxfordshire. This prompted me to make a phone call of my own.

To Louise.

‘It’s me. Can you talk?’

‘Yes. But not for long. I miss you, Scott.’

‘I miss you, too, angel.’

‘You’re in all the English newspapers.’

‘Me, or just the team?’

‘Mainly the team. And Bekim. Some people have said some very nice things about him. It almost makes me believe what you say, Scott: that it’s more than just a game; that it’s a way for people to come together.’

Except in Greece, I thought. And perhaps Glasgow.

‘But you look tired in the photographs.’

‘I could be worse. How’s Bekim’s girlfriend?’

‘In a coma, probably brain-damaged. The cocaine stopped her heart and her brain was starved of oxygen for at least half an hour.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I’m glad you’ve called. I was just about to text you. I’ve got a friend — an ex-copper called Bill Wakeman — who works for the Sports Betting Intelligence Unit. It’s part of the Gambling Commission. He’s asked me for your number. Can I give it to him, Scott? He’s a good man and you can rely on him.’

‘If you say so.’

‘He reckons they’re investigating a series of big bets on your match against Olympiacos. A big punter in Russia won an awful lot of money betting against you the other night.’

‘What’s that got to do with the Gambling Commission if it happened in Russia?’

‘Some of the bookmakers who might be affected are based here in the UK.’

‘So what does he want from me?’

‘To talk. Pick your brains. I imagine he wants to know if the match could have been fixed.’

‘Not by me. But look, given what happened, is that the same thing as asking me if Bekim Develi could have been murdered?’

‘I don’t know. Is it?’

‘I watched him die in front of me, Louise. It was a heart attack. The same thing happened to Fabrice Muamba when he was playing for Bolton against Spurs, in March 2012. I don’t know how you can bet on something like that.’

‘Just speak to him, will you? For me?’

‘All right. Look there’s something you can do for me, as it happens. I want you to find a woman called Sara Gill. Last known to be living in Little Tew in Oxfordshire. It seems that about four or five years ago she was attacked here in Athens by a fellow named Thanos Leventis. He’s now doing life on three counts of murder. I’d like to know everything she can remember about what happened that night. And in particular if anyone else was involved.’

She tutted loudly. ‘You’re not playing detective again, are you?’

‘Why do people always call it “playing”? I’m not playing at anything. It’s a serious business, detective work.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘Besides, the sooner I find out what happened here the sooner I can come home to you, baby.’

‘Just as long as you do. I’ll see what I can do.’

I finished my call with a sigh and chucked the phone onto the seat.

‘You can put the radio on, if you like, Charlie.’

‘I’ve got a better idea, sir. Why don’t you go to sleep, sir. I’ll keep watch. Remember, I’m Greek. I have fourteen eyes.’

I wasn’t exactly sure what this meant; but I settled back in the seat of the Range Rover and closed my eyes as instructed, and let my mind turn to thoughts of a perfect football world in which the future was always better than the past. I dreamed of Bekim Develi scoring audacious goals that were composed of absolute sorcery, and then celebrating in his primal, triumphant way — not that thumb-sucking tribute to his son, but, like the great god Zeus that sometimes he seemed to be, about to hurl a well-deserved thunderbolt at visiting fans.