The Green Lady by Paul Johnston Page A

return?’
    Mavros smiled as he got up. ‘Nothing? Are you sure, Lambi?’ He headed for the door, giving the singer a suggestive look. Bitsos would start asking discreet questions of his contacts, he was sure of that. If the hack came up with anything, he would tell him more about Lia Poulou.
    As he walked through the unusually festive square, the police having moved the junkies, hookers and beggars on in the interests of Olympic harmony, it struck him that he was on a serious hiding to nothing. Then he remembered the look on Angie Poulou’s face, the look of utter desperation, decided he would see the case through, no matter how bitter the end was.
    His phone rang and he saw it was Bitsos.
    â€˜In all the excitement,’ the journalist said ironically, ‘I forgot to tell you what I heard this afternoon.’
    â€˜Spit it out.’
    â€˜Some of it’ll be in the paper tomorrow, but you might as well know now. The cops in Viotia found someone burned to death in an old farmhouse on the top of a hill in the Kithairon range.’
    â€˜So?’
    â€˜The victim had been tied to a chair with wire before going up in smoke.’
    Despite the heat, a very chill shiver ran all the way up his spine. Could that be Lia Poulou?

FIVE
    T he Son had driven overnight to Trikkala in Thessaly, having sprayed paint over the scrape down the pickup’s side. He had lost control as he accelerated away from the farmhouse on the hill. It wasn’t as if he was afraid of being discovered up there, even though the flames were bright. No matter. On to the next target. The people on his list were being clever, trying to delay him by scattering all over the country. He was prepared to play their game because he knew that eventually one of them would talk. He didn’t have the slightest doubt of that.
    Trikkala in central Greece was a pleasant and prosperous town built around the River Lethaios, with the Pindos Mountains standing high to the west and, in the east, an open plain leading to the provincial capital Larissa. Beneath the bell tower on the hill were the oldest houses, many of them renovated with grants and cheap loans. Even here, three hundred plus kilometres north of Athens, the Olympic Games had extended their tentacles and there were hoardings and posters all over the place. But the narrow streets of the medieval and Ottoman Varousi quarter were quiet, especially now that night had fallen.
    Flicking on a torch, the Son looked at the street plan he’d been provided with. The area was confusing, the lanes often turning into dead ends and street names few and far between. Still, he found the house without difficulty. It had enclosed wooden balconies in the Turkish style and money had been spent on reconstruction. He was reminded of the lakeside town in the far north of Greece where he had grown up. Technically, the Father still owned the house since no one knew what had happened to the old fucker. But he had no intention of going back. It was a place of suffering.
    The door knocker in the shape of a thunderbolt was a dead giveaway. There was a convenient ruin across the cobbles and he took up position behind a partially collapsed wall. By two in the morning, he was ready. The only light in the house, on the second floor, had been extinguished half-an-hour earlier. It was time.
    The locks were easy enough to pick. The door was solid, but the occupant had made the mistake of trusting the wood rather than reinforcing it with bolts. The Son slipped in, his feet in cheap trainers. His hands were sheathed in latex and his clothes would be disposed of far from the city. The new wooden staircase was solidly constructed and he made it to the second floor without a sound. The door to the bedroom was open and there was a motionless lump on the bed under a sheet. It was as hot as Egypt in Thessaly in the summer and the air-conditioning unit over the window was labouring to maintain a reasonable temperature. It