The Green Lady by Paul Johnston Page B

also made enough noise to cover his final approach.
    The Son paused at the door, leather cosh in his right hand and silenced Glock 19 in his left. He didn’t intend shooting the target, at least not at first. Pain was to be applied before the comfort of death could be allowed. He took a slow step forward, then realised something was wrong. The object on the bed was too still. His left shoulder erupted in a blaze of agony, but he managed to hold on to the pistol while lashing out at the shadowy figure behind the door. There was a gasp and the woman thudded to the floor.
    â€˜Bitch!’ he said in a low voice, rotating his left arm. He saw a short length of piping by the stunned target. ‘You’re going to regret that.’
    He hauled her to the bed, throwing away the pillows that had been arranged under the sheet. She had been expecting him. Turning on the torch and grasping it between his teeth, he dragged the woman on to the bed, securing her arms and wrists to the frame with pre-cut pieces of wire from his back pockets. He cast the light around and went to the old-fashioned wardrobe that took up half the wall. He saw himself in the mirror on the inside of the door. The crewcut hair, dyed blonde, made him almost unrecognizable from the way he’d been the last time he was in Greece. If anything, he looked like a Serbian mercenary, but he had been given the documentation under a false name to prove he was a Hellene. There were wire coat hangers on a rail, many of them holding up long robes. He took one and straightened it, leaving the hook intact.
    Putting the torch on the bedside table, its beam on the target’s face, he sat down next to her and blew gently on her partially closed eyes. Soon they opened fully. He grabbed her throat and pressed hard.
    â€˜Don’t scream or you’ll lose an eye,’ he hissed, brandishing the coat hanger in his other hand.
    â€˜Great Father . . . stand with me in this . . . hour of trial . . .’ the woman croaked. She was in her sixties, with long grey hair. He knew her name, but that was of no consequence.
    â€˜Your imaginary father’s no use to you now,’ the Son said, with a harsh smile. ‘Only one thing will make your passage to the underworld easier. Tell me where she is.’ He released his grip slightly.
    The woman gasped for breath and then spat in his face.
    The Son carried out his threat and settled down to a long night of torment.
    Mavros woke to the sound of the Fat Man yelling up the stairs.
    â€˜Courier for you, Sleeping Ugly!’
    He stumbled down in his shorts and signed the pimply youth’s clipboard. In return, he received a large padded envelope.
    â€˜What’s this then,’ Yiorgos asked, wiping his hands on the discoloured apron he wore over his paunch in the kitchen and grabbing the package from the half-asleep Mavros. ‘Looks like a woman’s writing.’ He turned it over. ‘No sender’s name and address though. You got a secret admirer?’
    Mavros went into the
saloni
and turned down the TV. An elderly female Communist MP was arguing about the cost of the Games on one of the morning chat shows.
    â€˜Give me that back, you lump of lard. It’s not a
billet doux
, it’s work.’
    â€˜Not a billy what?’ The Fat Man held the envelope above his head. ‘As the house owner, I’ll have to insist on checking it. For all I know, it could be a bomb.’
    â€˜If it is, you’re going to make a lovely wall covering.’
    â€˜Come on then, take it off me.’
    There followed an ungainly struggle, culminating in the package being torn open and its contents scattering over the parquet floor.
    â€˜
Malaka
,’ Mavros said, looking at the photos, leather gloves and sheets of paper.
    â€˜Eh, sorry, my friend,’ Yiorgos said. ‘Hey, I know that woman. She was on the TV the other day.’ He scratched his bald crown. ‘She’s that bastard