A Solitary Reaper Read online

  ALSO BY RACHAEL WRIGHT

  The Clouds Aren’t White

  Lives Paris Took

  Mrs. Fitzroy

  A Solitary Reaper

  A Captain Savva Mystery

  By

  Rachael Wright

  Copyright © 2018 Rachael Wright

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781723714245

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Cover Photography from Shutterstock.com

  For my Sisters

  Rebecca

  Megan

  And Madeline.

  My comrades.

  The Solitary Reaper

  By William Wordsworth

  Behold her, single in the field,

  Yon solitary Highland Lass!

  Reaping and Singing by herself;

  Stop here or gently pass!

  Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

  And sings a melancholy strain;

  O listen! For the vale profound

  Is overflowing with the sound.

  Will no one tell me what she sings?–

  Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

  For old, unhappy, far-off things,

  And battles long ago:

  Or is it some more humble lay,

  Familiar matter of to-day?

  Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

  That has been, and may be again?

  Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang

  As if her song could have no ending;

  I saw her singing at her work,

  And o’er the sickle bending;–

  I listened, motionless and still;

  And, as I mounted up the hill,

  The music in my heart I bore;

  Long after it was heard no more.

  C O N T E N T S

  ONE l 1

  TWO l 17

  THREE l 29

  FOUR l 41

  FIVE l 56

  SIX l 71

  SEVEN l 81

  EIGHT l 95

  NINE l 111

  TEN l 120

  ELEVEN l 141

  TWELVE l 152

  THIRTEEN l 168

  FOURTEEN l 181

  FIFTEEN l 192

  SIXTEEN l 203

  SEVENTEEN l 215

  EIGHTEEN l 221

  NINETEEN l 237

  TWENTY l 244

  TWENTY ONE l 253

  REMEMBER, BODY l 261

  CHAPTER ONE

  Adam Harris found the body on the 57th minute of his hike up Mount Lepetimnos.

  All he'd eaten that morning was an orange, so it was no surprise that he slipped, cursed the shifting rocks, and plunged his hand into a cactus. He bounced on the balls of his feet, with cries of "damn-it," bit back tears, sucked the fleshy pad of his thumb, and pulled out the spines with his teeth. He shivered, his uninjured arm flailing in a Tourette-like tick, he peered over the ravine, across the grass bent sideways like a balding man's comb-over, across the smear of orange roofs flung like errant paint splotches, out to the blue carpet of the Aegean.

  In the middle of the trail, exhaustion settled in, and he collapsed onto a rock. The jagged stone dug into his left leg. He sneered at God who happened to be in the direction of Mitilini. Down there, a thirty-minute drive away, was his wife. The thought of her, her claw-like hand rooting around his crotch, sent a rumble through his nauseated stomach. He jumped to his feet, climbing with abandon, to forget her, and the thirteen cacti needles embedded between his fingers.

  "Agghhh!”

  A scream tore its way out of his throat. He stood on the side of a mountain, mouth gaping, screaming at the island, imagining the rocks were his slut of a wife, or her limp-cock state senator lover, or the twenty-year-old American Airlines representative who wouldn't refund the tickets to Greece, or the old women at the capitol with their simpering honey stares–desperate for a new piece of drama to take back to their friends to devour over afternoon tea at The Brown Palace.

  "Screw you all!" he screamed. "You! And You! And YOU!"

  He wheeled around and landed a well-aimed kick at the nearest boulder.

  "Damn it!"

  With stinging cheeks, a throbbing hand, a now a sprained ankle, Adam picked up a softball-sized rock and hurled it at the town of Mitilini. It fell ... about forty miles short, but clanged merrily on its half-mile journey back to the ground.

  "That limp-ass cock," Adam muttered. He leaned against a knotted, wind twisted olive tree for support. "I'll destroy him. I'll go to the press. He can't ... do ... my wife and get away with it …”

  Adam kept up a string of insults, of wild, half-formed plans to decimate his rival. But in the back of his mind, he knew these were weak protestations. He hadn't done anything for four months. He'd taken her to Greece. If he was that sort of man–the punch and ask questions later–he'd be halfway to a divorce and the senator (with his disgusting pomaded hipster haircut) would have resigned in the flood of accusations of adultery.

  "It's still illegal in Colorado," he told a stony faced rock.

  When it didn't respond he kicked at a trembling tuft of grass. Its little fingers waved in the dry, early morning breeze. What was he doing on Lesvos hiking a miserable mountain? He should've been enjoying the pool. He plucked his new, grey, neoprene shirt off his sweating back, pulled down the polyester black shorts, and re-tied the lace on his left, shock-absorbing hiking boot.

  The trail wound up the side of the mountain like a snake sunning itself on a rock. Adam followed it as though it lead to answers ... or would somehow disgorge him ... a different man. Why wasn't he a jerk? Why didn't he bulldoze? Why wasn't he a man with a deep tan and hard eyes? A man who knocked out the man who was screwing his wife. A man who walked with a swagger and didn't stumble.

  "Didn't stumble!" he shouted and tripped over a rock no bigger than his iPhone.

  He shimmied his way the last few feet to the summit. With a massive grunt, he scrambled over a boulder, and found level ground. He wiped his forehead with his shirt, guzzled water from his camelback, and turned to face the view. The sea was a heartbreaking blue, and in every direction Lesvos produced dark fields of green.

  The thrill of silence birthed curiosity, and he set out to explore. Worries scattered with the sea breeze. What he'd imagined as a flat space on top was another small hill, with three olive trees flung there by an errant hand, but with no real hope of their survival. For this was not a place where people often came. There was no water. No shade. Only the far off twinkling calls of birds. The soft moan of the sea. The gurgling sounds of the wind as it tore like a flash flood over the forgotten hills. The clear sharp scent of olives on the wind. He walked, scuffing his boots in the loose dirt, hugging the edge, sending rocks spinning down the sheer face, but his mind turned inexorably back to humanity.

  Adam sunk to the ground, moaned as his needle-filled hand brushed across his thigh. He blinked. Blinked again. A blue shoe with a reddish-white sole poked out from under a rhododendron bush. He cocked his head like an overbred Labrador, and scuttled around on his knees to peer into it. A rock skittered. A plaid shirt, attached to arms and
a torso, snapped as a sea breeze tore across the hilltop.

  Adam leapt back and screamed; a high-pitched screech lost on the wind.

  * * *

  Sergeant Stelios Booras of the Hellenic Police–based out of Mitilini, was snoring on the couch; his long thin legs trailed over the edge and a wool-appliqué pillow stuck to his morning stubble. The sun shone through the front windows, across his body, onto the trailing quilt, to a circle of silver on the floor. The diamond cast a rainbow onto his face. One hooded eye popped open: a diamond ring on a wooden floor that hadn't been swept in a week.

  Stelios' hand went automatically to his phone, propped on the arm of the couch, in case it rang. He pressed her name, his mind whirring. Was there an argument he hadn't made last night?

  "Theia?"

  "What do you want?"

  He lurched up, as though she could see him slouching on the couch. "I thought we could talk."

  "What about?"

  "Why you left."

  "I left because we're done."

  "If it's about your mother, I'm sorry I called her a ..."

  "Stelios," Theia sighed. "It's not my mother."

  "Let's go out tonight, we can talk ..." Stelios stopped and pulled the phone away from his ear. It vibrated. Dispatch's number flashed on the screen.

  "What, Stelios?" She spat out his name like a profanity.

  "Can I call you right back?"

  "You called me!"

  "I know, just a minute, it's ..."

  "Work," Theia finished. "Don't bother. We're over."

  Stelios growled at the ceiling and switched calls. "What?" he hissed.

  "We got a call about a body on top of Mt Lepetimnos. Private Kaikas will pick you up in twenty minutes, Sergeant."

  Stelios hung up, stepped over the ring, stripped off yesterday's shirt, and flung himself into the shower.

  Eighteen minutes later, Private Eleni Kaikas, with a bright white smile, curly hair pointing in all directions, and one hand clutching a steel coffee tumbler, pulled up. The police SUV gleamed in the sun. He folded himself into the passenger seat. Kaikas said good morning, as he buckled, but Stelios ignored her and her bright cheerfulness, choosing instead to stare moodily out the window. Theia's last words coated his mind. Could a five-year relationship really end in a single night?

  They drove for a half hour in silence before turning on to what looked like an old goat trail. The dirt road ended at a small lot. It held one other car: an aging blue Ford with a cracking 'I love Greece' bumper sticker. Stelios unraveled his legs from the confines of the car and melted under the sun. Heat waves rippled off the rocks and the undulating grasses cracked in the parched air. Even as sweat pooled in the small of his back, and his armpits began to itch, the thermometer rose higher and the hypnotic heat ripples grew until they consumed the mountain in front of him.

  "Coming, Sergeant?"

  Private Kaikas stuck her hands under the straps of her camelback and pulled her blue uniform cap down over her frizzy brown hair. She stood straight; one hand hooked on her duty belt, the other adjusted the neckline of her shirt. She looked like she'd been born in the uniform, so well did it fit her. Her small breasts helped.

  Stelios heaved a withering sigh. "Let's get this over with."

  "Will you call the Captain?"

  "If I deem it necessary."

  "A body at the top of Mt Lepetimnos isn't necessary?"

  "Depends on who it is," Stelios mumbled.

  "What's that?"

  "Nothing. Let's go."

  Kaikas set off down the trail, her thick mass of pinned curls swung and bounced across her back. Her legs flew out underneath her like a deer's, and Stelios, even with his long gait, struggled to keep up. She was probably one of those people–the outdoorsy types. Meanwhile, his wine soaked stomach heaved at the sight of the towering mound in front of them.

  Kaikas vaulted over a boulder the size of Stelios' desk. "My boyfriend and I hiked this last week!"

  "Brilliant." She'd probably slept in her own bed, eaten a full breakfast, and consumed four of her eight recommended glasses of water. Stelios groaned–of course he'd forgotten to eat.

  "How was your weekend?" Kaikas asked, emboldened by the intimacy of the forced march.

  Could the damn woman read minds? To avoid her searching gaze, Stelios plopped into a large patch of shade, and guzzled water. Such blessed relief. "Fine."

  She oscillated from foot to foot. "How are your wedding preparations coming? October, isn't it?"

  Stelios peered around the corner, down the trail, and then up, squinting at the curved mound of rock at the top. It was dizzyingly far away.

  "Sergeant?"

  "What?"

  "The wedding?"

  "Fine. Let's keep going. I want to get this done."

  A half hour later Stelios' fingers curled around the lip. The red face that materialized a second later had to be American.

  The man offered a smooth pale hand. "Kalimera, I'm so glad you're here."

  "Sergeant Booras and Private Kaikas, Hellenic Police," Stelios said in English.

  "I'm Adam Harris ... he's over there," Adam said, pointing to the rhododendron bush.

  Stelios walked over to the corpse, picking his way over potential evidence. The body sat upright against a wide, flat boulder. Eleni turned to Adam Harris, pulled out a notebook and pen, and took his statement.

  Stelios dropped to his knees, leaned left, and followed a horizontal trail of blood from nose to the back of the head. Or what should have been the back of a head. It was now a mass of dried blood, shattered bone, and pale bits of brain matter.

  "Gamóto," he swore. "Have you touched anything Mr. Harris?"

  Adam Harris and Kaikas turned to him; both faces blank. "I checked for a pulse, Sergeant, on the left side of his neck."

  Stelios' eyes narrowed; blood seeped out of the American's face and sweat beaded on his temples. "You didn't touch anything else?"

  He frowned from Booras to the flapping plaid shirt. "No. Why?"

  "I'm calling Savva," Stelios said to the wind.

  * * *

  Captain Alexandros Savva held his wife's hand as he drove the highway, which hugged the sea. In the breeze from the open window, her greying black hair twisted and snaked across her round, lined face. She wore bright red lipstick this morning and a pink wrap dress, so pale it was almost white. Shayma Savva was not a thin woman, but curvaceous and witty and with the voice of an angel. Alexandros, not prone to emotional overtures, brought her hand to his mouth, and kissed the back of it.

  He dropped her at the massive St. Valentine-colored mansion, all pink and red and white, where the refugee relief efforts for the island were headquartered. Shayma disappeared with a backward wave. Savva stroked his full dark beard and his chocolate-brown eyes closed as he dreamed of driving home; brewing a latte, taking it to the back garden, and breathing in the morning. If he was lucky, his neighbors would still be out of town and their radio would be off. But a sharp infuriating ringtone echoed from the glove box and his morning bliss was snuffed out like a candle.

  "This had better be good, Booras."

  Stelios stood, the wind whipping pale red dust across his jeans, looking down at the corpse. It leaned against the pile of diatomaceous earth like the dead man had laid down for a rest. Sort of. If you ignored certain irregularities. "I was dispatched to a report of a body this morning, Sir."

  "What happened?"

  "Murdered. Back of the head is bashed in."

  "Where are you?"

  "Mt. Lepetimnos."

  "Where?"

  "There's a trail. You can see the whole island from here. But it's two and a half kilometers from any road."

  "Have you called for transport?"

  "There aren't any helicopters available, Sir. I asked. Hellenic Police are raiding a drug cartel tonight so they're tied up. I've called the medical examiner and rung HQ for more men to carry the body down. It's a good thing he isn't fat," Stelios said with a weak chu
ckle.

  "Don't laugh."

  Alexandros Savva might be gruff, bordering on rude, to those whose incompetence or political aspirations he couldn't stand, but he had a firm and unwavering belief that morbid jokes of any kind had no place in a murder investigation, especially when crouched beside the mangled remains of a human being. They had a solemn duty to the dead, but also to the families, and belittling a life never put them closer to a killer.

  "Sorry, Sir," Stelios said. "If you drive to the station, you can follow the boys to the trailhead.”

  "Which medical examiner is on call?"

  "Dr. Panteleon."

  "Good."

  Savva hung up; thankful Stelios hadn't crowded in details of the scene. Never theorize before, always wait for the evidence, never come with prejudice, and never assume you know the answer. It's what Savva drilled into every officer who came under his considerable influence.

  Savva's grey Saab, a police SUV, and the medical examiner's white van, arrived an hour later. A shaky, ashen-faced Stelios was propped against a wooden trail marker. Savva glanced from Stelios to the mountain behind him. A life-threatening climb in the withering heat–the horror. The back of the ME's van banged open and Dr. Panteleon pulled out a canvas stretcher. One of the young police officers handed Savva a three-liter bottle of water. Savva contemplated his new, but ten-year-old, hiking boots and sighed.

  "It's about an hour up, Sir."

  "You said its two kilometers."

  "It's all up-hill."

  "I hope you left someone at the crime scene."

  "Yes, Sir, Private Kaikas."

  "Who?"

  "She's new, Sir, transferred a few months ago from Athens."

  "Let's hope everything's intact when we get there." Savva waved for the other officers, scene-of-crime kits hoisted on their broad shoulders, to start ahead. They stepped off the gravel road and onto the red dirt. "Is this your second time up?"

  "Ugh, you should have been there, Sir. Kaikas ran up. It was all I could do not to look like an out-of-shape fool."