A Solitary Reaper Read online

  All those days, all those drives to swim lessons and friends’ houses and walks along the beach and he could only remember bits and pieces of them. He couldn't peruse his memories like he wanted. He couldn't start with her first day and go through till her last. Whole months were blurs ... where were they? What was he doing that was more important than making memories with his daughter? And the ones he did have were slipping away like a pool of water caught in his hands. What …what … what … can I do?

  The car's GPS system announced his destination with a beep and Savva slowed the Saab to a crawl in a protected valley, outside a house where the lawn was overgrown around children's toys, scattered pell mell. The flower beds lay heavy with the previous year's deleterious. He picked his way over tricycles and wooden swords and two-foot-tall plastic slides. The sounds of screaming boys echoed as though a marauding Turkish army surrounded him.

  At his knock, a harassed-looking woman answered the door, scowling. She was short and perilously thin with unkempt hair. The dark roots had grown out and the bottom half was a sickly orange color which might have once been blonde. She reminded Savva of someone who'd been rescued after weeks lost in a forest. The infant boy on her hip was so chubby as to be almost round.

  She frowned at him from under wispy eyebrows, one of which was caked with what resembled pureed carrots. "What do you want?" Another boy ran up from behind, grabbed at his mother's thin purple dress, and leered at Savva from behind it, his face a mask of ingrained dirt.

  "Captain Savva, Hellenic Police. I'm interested to know if any of your neighbors lived here in the 1970s."

  Her nose wrinkled, her top lip curled, and her face fell into a mask of utter derision. A whiff of body odor and stale cigarettes wafted from her. "The 1970s, are you kidding? I wasn't alive then."

  Savva backed away, down the stairs of the porch. "I'm sorry to disturb you."

  "Wait," she called out. "If you go up the road about a half mile, over the hill, there's another house. The lady's been there forever."

  Savva bowed his head. "I'm grateful for your help, efaristo."

  She straightened up and blinked, shocked that a male was capable of such polite speech. "Parakaló."

  * * *

  Savva reversed out of the dusty drive–the sun-bleached toys receded in his rearview mirror–and drove until he crested a distant hill. At the bottom was a minuscule cottage settled behind a grove of obfuscating olive trees. A thin column of lemon basil and peonies bordered the brick herringbone walk to the house: red at the garden gate, then gradually lightening until becoming white by the front porch. It was a striking effect. He turned around to soak in the monochrome rainbow.

  "May I help you?"

  A stooped woman, white hair twisted back into a loose bun, shuffled around the corner of the house with shears in her hand. She wore a white apron over a pink dress. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun at the crown of her head, and though her back was curved, she moved like a feather floating on the wind.

  "I'm Alexandros Savva; Hellenic Police."

  "Apollonia. And I know who you are, Captain," she said. "You're here about Matthias."

  "You've heard?"

  "It's been in the news."

  Savva bit back his shock. He'd assumed, quite judgmentally that as remote as she was, she wouldn't have access to a television or the newspaper.

  She motioned him into the house. "You'd better come in."

  He was prepared for the usual grandmotherly establishment, but the reality was quite the opposite. There were neither trinkets nor stuffy rooms filled with the debris of long past decades. The front room was bright and modern. Sharp stainless steel appliances lined the walls of the open kitchen and a glass topped table sat pristinely in the middle of a sunroom, as the morning light glinted off three crystal vases, full of pink peonies.

  She led him to a plush, grey velvet, tufted sofa, that faced the front garden; sat down, and patted the cushion next to her. "What can I help you with, Captain Savva?"

  "Do you remember the Papatonis family?"

  She nodded, her lips set in a thin line. "I did. It was terrible what happened to them." At Savva's frown, she patted his arm deferentially. "They married young; his parents. Taras was a decent lad–but he drank a fair bit. His wife was quiet: reserved. Not long after, work dried up. Taras did odd jobs, but it was never enough, certainly not for a man with such a fragile ego. It tortured him. He started drinking again.

  "It wasn't a big deal then; to drink. All the men I knew then drank a fair amount. But then, when Matthias was about a year old, his wife was in the hospital with broken ribs, a broken arm, a broken wrist, and bruises all over her body. Lesvos is small … and Mitilini even smaller. Word got around that Taras beat his wife. An occasional smack could be forgiven, but he beat her at least once a week. Before long no one would hire him. It didn't stop Taras; whatever the good citizens of Lesvos' hopes were, ostracizing Taras made it worse.

  "I took food to them whenever I could. Matthias was so young and she was so thin. So weary. One day Taras took Matthias with him to town. I assumed he brought the boy to shame people into giving him work. It might have been successful if Matthias hadn’t had have hand-shaped bruises on his arm. The next day Taras came home and found his wife hanging in the shed. Thankfully he'd dropped off Matthias at my house beforehand. He said he had work and needed a sitter, but it was an excuse to be rid of the boy. I was grateful Matthias didn't see his mother like that."

  She paused. Savva glanced up and noticed for the first time that her eyes were a bright emerald green. He could see that they were focused on a scene forty years ago where a little boy stood with his hand in hers, watching blue lights come and go at the house. "Then what happened?"

  "They moved the next week. I never saw Matthias again. Not until … the newspaper article."

  "Did you ever hear from him?"

  "No. I doubt he would've remembered me. It was so long ago and he was so young."

  "I'm sure he did." She smiled, her lined cheeks lifting in appreciation. "Why do you think he came back?"

  "To Lesvos?"

  "Yes."

  Apollonia tucked a stray lock of grey hair behind her ear and stared at the wall opposite. "I don't know."

  "Did they have family here?"

  "His maternal grandmother. She was seventy when Matthias was born. She died two weeks before his mother committed suicide. It was a terrible tragedy. Taras wouldn't let her out of the house to take care of her ailing mother."

  A vision of the harassed woman, shrieking boys running about her skirts, at the door to Matthias' old house sprung to his mind. Did she have a husband like Taras Papatonis?

  "There's something else."

  Savva nodded encouragingly. "Yes."

  "The grandmother's house. I think she left it to Matthias' mother, as a way to escape Taras."

  "Did Taras know about it?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Where was it?"

  "I can't give you an address," she said slowly. "But I can draw you a map."

  Savva nodded gratefully.

  Apollonia turned out to be an accomplished cartographer. Her well-drawn map included concentric circles to denote the hills he'd pass by. It was to scale, with a small, half-inch line in the corner representing a kilometer.

  "Efaristó," he said brightly.

  Apollonia smiled at his surprise. "You live in one place long enough, you get to know it well."

  "I can see that. Thank you again."

  She followed him to the door. "Whatever happened to Matthias in Athens, whatever it is the newspapers aren't saying, he didn't deserve to die like that."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Matthias was the kindest boy; quiet, respectful. He never gave me trouble. I trusted him with everything. He implicitly knew right from wrong. In all my long life, I never met a boy like him. I doubt anyone has. His soul was good."

  "Little boys grow up and change."

  "Not Matthias. I'll nev
er believe it. If he got mixed up with whatever his father was involved in, then he was forced."

  "What do you think Taras was involved in?"

  Apollonia straightened her back as best she could and studied him. "I think you know. The newspapers have certainly hinted at it."

  "Did Taras have connections in Athens?"

  "A friend invited him with promises of work. There was no work in Athens in those days. Only the work a man like Matthias would never take; work a man like you would never take."

  Savva fought the urge to blush. "You've been a great help, Kupía."

  Apollonia leaned forward and kissed him twice on the cheek. Savva retraced his steps down the brick path. His eager eyes soaked in the beauty of the softly changing color of the peonies, the map clutched in his right hand. Back in the car he pulled out his phone and pressed Stelios' number.

  "Afentikó," Stelios said. "Did you find the house?"

  "I'll tell you later. Right now, I need you to meet me. Bring forensics and Kaikas."

  "Where is it, Sir?"

  "All I have is a map," Savva said and gave an address where Stelios and the others could meet him. "You can follow me the rest of the way."

  "Where are we going, Sir?"

  "Matthias' grandmother's house."

  "I'll call Rallis, Sir."

  * * *

  Savva pulled the Saab off to the side of the road, leaned the seat back, and dialed another number.

  "What's wrong?" Shayma answered.

  "What do you mean what's wrong?"

  "You're calling me during the day, Alexandros."

  Quiet laughter echoed in the background. "Who's chuckling?"

  "Davonna. She thinks it's funny."

  "I'm happy to be your entertainment."

  "Oh, matia mou, you're an endless source of entertainment," she laughed. "What do you need?"

  "What makes you think I need anything?" Savva whined. Shayma didn't deign to respond. "Do you remember a woman who committed suicide in her husband's workshop about thirty years ago?"

  "That's awfully specific."

  "Her husband beat her, her mother had just died, and she had a young son."

  "Was she Matthias' mother?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't remember anything about it," she mused. "I wonder why that is. Do you want me to ask around?"

  "No," Savva replied. "I doubt it has any bearing on the case."

  "If you're sure."

  "How's Davonna," Savva asked.

  "Oh she's good. We're just working away."

  "Can you ask her to send you home with scones?" Savva said, his stomach rumbling. He thought of the long hours of scouring a house for evidence and the lack of food until late that night.

  "Sure," she chuckled. "I have another call, Alexandros. I'll see you tonight."

  She hung up before he could say goodbye and he found himself staring at the black screen with no small measure of disappointment and jealousy. Is this how other men felt when their wives suddenly had careers and lives of their own? He was never available during the day, he wasn't at her beck and call, and yet a (not so small) part of him believed Shayma should be at his. Savva shook off this niggling chauvinistic preoccupation and turned in his seat as a cloud of dust rose in the distance.

  Two police SUVs pulled to a stop behind him. Savva started the car and stuck his hand out the window, motioning for them to follow. The small convoy drove for half an hour, along increasingly pitted roads, whose condition Apollonia hadn't referenced on her otherwise impeccable map. They passed long stretches of barren lonely land before an olive grove suddenly sprang around them and Savva slowed, eyes peeled for the drive.

  He almost drove past, so well did the trees hide the drive. At the end was a quaint cottage with whitewashed stone and an orange roof, but it was the front garden that made Savva stop short. There was no other word for it but manicured. The grass was trimmed and the rose bushes stood like little soldiers in straight lines. An ornate metal bench under a trellis, heavily laden with Romeo and Juliet roses, held plump lacy white pillows. It was rather like opening the rusted door to The Secret Garden.

  "Someone's been here recently," Stelios muttered.

  Savva glanced back in time to see Kaikas roll her eyes at Stelios' obvious comment. Iason Rallis and two of his techs exited their SUV, and pulled equipment from the back. "We'll go in first, Savva," Rallis shouted behind his vehicle.

  "No: Booras and Kaikas."

  Rallis poked his head around the vehicle and stared at Stelios. "Try not to touch anything."

  "Yes, Sir."

  Stelios and Eleni unbuttoned their holsters and took out their handguns. Eleni turned and made for the back of the house while Stelios went to the front door. Less than a minute later Stelios exited the front door, his hands swung empty at his sides. Eleni followed, replacing her pistol in its holster.

  "All clear," he said.

  "Now stay out until we finish," Rallis said, cutting around Savva, and making a beeline for the door. The techs followed like a line of ducklings.

  Savva leaned back against the car, fished a packet of gum from his pocket, and handed pieces out. "What'd you see?"

  "There are four rooms: the kitchen and living space; a bedroom with a full sized bed, another bedroom with a bunk bed, and a bathroom. That's it," Stelios said.

  Eleni popped the spearmint gum in her mouth. "The back garden's just as nice. The olive trees are tended and there are nets on the ground."

  "Why bunk beds?" Savva muttered.

  "I don't know for sure, but it looks like they've been slept in. Or at least they've been used."

  "The whole house felt that way … at first glance," Eleni said.

  "Let's check the back."

  The lawn at the rear of the house was well tended and in the middle was a weathered wooden table with two long benches on either side. Savva bent over, angled his foot around the bench, and flicked out a white Adidas football. It was nicked and peeling. The stitching had begun to show, but the bladder was full. He put his foot on top, rolled it deftly back, flicked it up in the air, and bounced it twice on one knee before it got away from him. It bounced once, twice on the grass, and rolled twenty feet, bounced off an olive tree, and finally came to a languid halt.

  "Bunk beds ... why bunk beds?"

  "I used to sleep in a bunk bed: always on the top," Eleni said. "My older sister's afraid of heights."

  "What do they look like?"

  Stelios stuck his thumbs in his belt loops. "What?"

  "The beds."

  "The one in the master bedroom looks like the sort of thing my Yia-Yia has, an old-fashioned white metal frame," Stelios answered.

  "The bunk beds are new. An Ikea tag was attached to the top one,” Eleni said proudly.

  Savva motioned to the football. "They were bought for whomever plays with that."

  "There's no mention of kids in anything that I found, Sir. He's never been married," said Stelios.

  "You don't have to be married to have kids," Eleni corrected.

  Stelios swallowed and puckered his lips. Savva turned and sat down at the table. He frowned at the trees, the nets, the manicured lawn, and the clean windows of the four-room cottage. Had the ownership of this house passed from Matthias' mother to himself?

  They stayed in the garden for an hour, taking turns walking the small property. Stelios went over to inspect the layout of the nets and the quality of the olive grove. But Savva circled at the house with a discerning eye: memorizing its features, its curves, and a single round spot of white paint on a gutter by the kitchen window. Every part, every detail of the house was in pristine condition; the roof, the cream shutters, the windows. Nothing was out of place. Except for that football, tucked under the table–kicked there and forgotten.

  "You can go in, Savva," Iason Rallis said, an hour later, as he walked around the corner. "We printed all the obvious areas. I'll let you know more, but we found hair on all of the beds. Not much though."

>   "And?"

  Rallis shrugged his shoulders. "It's conjecture, but I'd say someone wiped the house habitually. It's like one of those show houses you see in fancy magazines. Or at least the ones my wife reads. It's impersonal."

  "And the hairs?"

  "One long one in the master bedroom and short ones from the bunk bed room."

  "Did Matthias live here?"

  "I brought one of his prints to compare and, at first glance, I'd say yes. With three other people; probably two kids."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Savva watched Rallis' SUV reverse down the covered drive and turn onto the road. The white paint flashed between the dense trees. Kaikas paced the front garden–phone pressed to her ear–and rolled her eyes after being placed on hold with the Land Registrar's Office. Savva strode to the house, hands clasped behind his back, Stelios in his wake. At the door to the cottage, he took a pair of blue sterile gloves from his pocket and pulled them on.

  He paused in the open doorway and listened to the sound of the breeze rippling around the olive grove. A quiet calm emanated from the cottage. The front door was free from the usual scrum of wellingtons and jumble of jackets. The walls were white, light blue curtains hung beside the windows, and the wooden floors were polished to a shine. Savva peered into the house. Its occupants could've just left and indeed the lingering scent of lemon and rosemary suggested a thorough cleaning.

  Savva curled the hair under his lip. Stelios came to join him at the entrance of the first bedroom, which wasn't much bigger than a box, though it fit a full-sized bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and an oval-back chair. Two large windows on the opposite wall overlooked the back garden and were hung with thick cream-colored drapes. When pulled they would shroud the room in darkness.

  Savva ran his hand over a thick red, pink, and green, traditional Greek cross pattern quilt that lay on the bed. He lifted the bottom right corner of the mattress and pulled the quilt out to reveal a tag embroidered with the number 1954. Stelios took a picture with his phone.

  "Perhaps it was made for Matthias' mother," Savva murmured.

  "I'll go check the others," Stelios said and left the room.

  Savva tucked the quilt back in and turned to the wardrobe. It was empty except for a sachet of lavender on the top shelf. There was nothing under the bed. Nothing in the desk.