Baby Blue Read online

  Pol Koutsakis was born in 1974 in Chania, Crete, Greece. He is a playwright, novelist and screenwriter. In 2007 he won the National Award for Playwriting in Greece and in 2016 the National Award for Best Young Adult Novel. His plays have been staged in the USA and the UK and published in Canada. He is currently living in Perth, Australia, with his wife, daughter and son. Baby Blue is the second in the Stratos Gazis crime series, following on from the success of Athenian Blues, published in 2017.

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  FROM BITTER LEMON PRESS

  BY POL KOUTSAKIS

  Athenian Blues

  BITTER LEMON PRESS

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by

  Bitter Lemon Press, 47 Wilmington Square, London WC1X 0ET

  www.bitterlemonpress.com

  First published in Greek as Baby Blue,

  Patakis Publications, Athens, 2015

  © Pol Koutsakis, 2015

  English translation © Anne-Marie Stanton-Ife, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher

  The moral rights of Pol Koutsakis have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  eBook ISBN: 978–1–908524–92–8

  Typeset by Tetragon, London

  Bitter Lemon Press gratefully acknowledges the support of the Arts Council of England.

  For the Tramp and his girl, for that night in Florence.

  You moved D so much – I was jealous. I owed you one.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Acknowledgements

  1

  “Evening, Stratos.” This was a voice I hadn’t heard for a while, a voice so authoritative that anyone hearing it for the first time would never imagine its owner was homeless.

  “Angelino,” I replied, looking at my screen and noticing that he had changed his number yet again. Angelino never phones unless I’ve asked him to get me some information, the kind of information only Angelino can dig up. But this time I hadn’t asked.

  “You did say if I ever needed anything …” he said.

  I sat back down on the bed. “When do you want to meet?”

  “In an hour?”

  Any minute now Maria would be coming down to my room. We hadn’t seen each other for days; her wishes, not mine. And I felt the need to be with her and far away from other people more strongly than ever.

  “See you then,” I said, my phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder as I tried to get a head start on the unpredictable Athenian traffic by dressing as I talked.

  We always let down those we love most. And we always take the gamble that they’ll understand. I told Maria something urgent had come up. When you’ve been with the same person since you were teenagers, you don’t need a great many words to communicate; sometimes you don’t need them at all. Her belly was already beginning to swell – she had just entered the third month, but her baby seemed to be in a hurry to get out and spend time with us. I refer to it mentally as “her baby” because I didn’t know, and didn’t dare ask, if it was mine. There were two reasons for this: first, even if it wasn’t mine, I would love it as my own; the second reason was that I thought about the possibility of it being mine every single day and felt that happiness such as this was beyond my grasp, and I didn’t know how to handle it. Maybe I just didn’t deserve it.

  I got into the Peugeot and set off for the Ambelokipi metro station. I have made a mental note of all the side streets round all the stations in a thirty-minute radius of my flat where it is possible to park. I use different stations all the time so I don’t become an easy target. In my line of work, being able to move around unnoticed is a major advantage, and standing at six foot three and weighing in at slightly over two hundred and twenty pounds, almost all of it muscle, I’m automatically at a disadvantage. Fortunately, most people who use the metro look straight down. And only down. It’s as though they’ve had all curiosity for the world erased by the financial crisis.

  I’m a caretaker – that’s my job. I cater to such dark desires that a good many of my clients look shocked as they listen to themselves articulate those desires. Not so shocked, though, as when they try to convince me that their target deserves to be taken down. Years ago, one very rich lady, who tried to hire me to take care of her business partner, called me a “maverick” when I explained to her that my investigation showed that everything she’d told me about him was a lie and that I would keep the deposit as agreed but wouldn’t be going ahead with the job. Most people who hire me don’t really believe I’m serious about my terms and conditions.

  In a way they are right; they pay a lot of money and expect their instructions to be followed and their victims taken care of, no questions asked. But not by me.

  When you’re the best, you can afford to be a maverick.

  2

  This was not my city. It was something else, something sick trying to look, sound and smell like Athens. But it was failing and it knew it, just like the old juggler I used to see around this time of day in the middle of the square. He would lose track of one ball after another but always bent down, picked them up and kept going. Because there was nothing else he could do.

  The good thing about Omonia Square was that it had not waited for the devastation of the last three years to go to seed. The state it was in surprised no one. It had managed to descend into darkness much earlier than that, as though it had seen the crisis coming and the path the country would take and wanted to get ahead of the game. Any neighbourhood you walked through in Athens, there’d be a surprise waiting for you: where there had been a shop you were greeted by a sturdy lock; where you’d once seen the postman inserting letters into the individual letter boxes that line the entrance halls of every block of flats in the city, you now saw the mail piled high on the floor by the main door, next to the outstretched body of some homeless person wrapped in a blanket, resting on the front steps of the building. But in Omonia this sort of thing came as no surprise to anyone. They were familiar sights and had been for a while. Omonia had become the only part of Athens where you knew what to expect, morning, noon and at night – especially night. Certainty can be very reassuring, if depressing, especially when everything unexpected that happens in the city seems to force reality further into a downward spiral. But in Omonia, as the old song goes, “you can’t get any lower than this”.

  It was almost 9.30 p.m. It was completely dark and conditions that spring night in February were close to perfect for all types of vampires to come out – both those that drink their own blood, scouring their legs for a vein to stick the needle into, and for those who go round exploiting the needs of others. The escalator took me out of the station next to a hoarding advertising a new department opening inside the Hondos Center department store, where customers would unlock all the secrets of chocol
ate. On the pavement outside the shop, a dark-skinned Asian man was kneeling down, sobbing, with jets of blood spurting out of his cheek. He’d been stabbed; a friend was trying to help stem the flow with a piece of paper. Like most people, I walked on.

  For most of the last twelve years, Angelino had lived right there on the square with Hector, his very sweet, very large geriatric German Shepherd, who walked with great difficulty. Hector had disappeared one night last winter. Angelino explained at the time that very loyal dogs take themselves off when their time has come, to spare their owners the sight of them dying. Their owner is their family, and their family must not be made vulnerable by their death. The next time I saw Angelino, he was all alone in his usual spot on the square, and I asked him why he didn’t get another dog. “If I did, it would mean that Hector was replaceable,” he answered.

  We weren’t meeting at Angelino’s usual spot. He’d moved. I was walking quickly, not just to make sure I got there on time, but to escape the stench from the side streets, which had been turned into public conveniences and sites of infection. I passed kiosks groaning under the weight of porn mags; Nigerians selling knock-off designer handbags and watches; Chinese people selling energy bracelets and ointments promising to heal all wounds and cure all cancers; Georgians on the corner of Agiou Konstantinou Street, asking me if I “wanted some”; Kurds magicking cartons of contraband cigarettes out of nowhere; girls and boys of all nationalities offering up any and every part of their bodies for between ten and forty euros to any sex-starved passer-by, and multicoloured used condoms left behind after each quickie; dilapidated buildings with people piled ten high into studio flats of no more than three hundred square feet. If instead of the ten olive trees the municipality had planted to symbolize the ten tribes of ancient Athens they had planted one tree for every race living in modern-day Omonia Square, they would have created a lung of green for the city. But then again, that would not serve the interests of those who’d been buying up the most central building plots in the city for a pittance in recent years.

  I kept on going down Agiou Konstantinou, keeping a close eye on the pavement so that I wouldn’t fall down one of the manholes that no longer had grilles over them. It seemed that local gangs had run out of statues to steal after the violent reaction of residents who had been furious about the destruction of these monuments. Instead they had turned their focus back to stealing metal grilles and manhole covers and melting them down. Copper is quick and easy money and nobody gets emotional about sewers, not even the police, seeing as the owners of the city’s two biggest furnaces were the money behind so many Athenian MPs – at least according to an independent website, which had been mysteriously shut down the day after it went up. When I wasn’t looking down at the ground, I looked at the few shop windows left untouched by the riots that regularly took place round here. They were fortified, waiting for the next attack.

  Before I got as far as the National Theatre I turned right, and was walking down Chateaubriand Street two hundred yards later. I felt like I had suddenly been teleported to another city, to a time that merged past with future and had given up on the ugliness of the present. I stared a while at the aristocratic listed building housing the Cultural Center and the historic Musicians’ Coffee House opposite before ringing the bell of the neoclassical building next door, which seemed by some miracle to have escaped the graffiti and the slogans denouncing the police and the bankers gracing the wider neighbourhood.

  Truth was, it was no miracle. When the first slogans went up, Angelino’s men had gone out and painted over the walls and the door and stood guard outside for forty-eight hours, making sure that whoever was doing this would see them and get the picture of who they were dealing with. In the words of Lieutenant DeGarmot in The Lady in the Lake (Bogart should definitely have played Marlowe), “you stick your nose into my business, and you’ll wake up in an alley with the cats looking at you.” And because Angelino had friends in the National Intelligence Service whom he had helped out in the past when they needed it, the entire block was clear of CCTV cameras, so there was no chance of anything being recorded that could prove awkward for him and his associates.

  An unfamiliar voice answered the intercom, wanting to know who I was. I gave my name – my given name, not the one on my ID card – and heard the usual buzz of the door opening.

  The bulk waiting behind the door was called Jimmy, and for the last couple of years had been Angelino’s main bodyguard. If his chest had been just that little bit wider, he could have been on the cover of Steroids and You. Or Penthouse. Jimmy didn’t like me much. To be precise, he didn’t like me at all. He felt uncomfortable whenever we were in the same place, in Omonia and now here in this impressive neoclassical building. He said nothing, just motioned to me to go inside. While there’s a lot to be said for keeping conversation to a minimum, I prefer it when it’s a matter of choice rather than forced by someone who can only communicate in snarls.

  I went into the sitting room and looked around at everybody there – about twenty people, I reckoned. I thought to myself that the black jeans and old grey sweater I was wearing made me by far the worst-dressed person in the room. I didn’t have time to think about much else because my gaze was following the gaze of the other guests, all of them looking in the same direction.

  I asked myself if my eyes were really seeing what I saw.

  3

  In the middle of the room was a stunningly beautiful young girl. She was wearing a black jacket, black shirt and white trousers and couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but for some reason her formal clothes did not seem out of place on her. Her long chestnut hair was pinned back in a ponytail, emphasizing her high cheekbones and soft blue eyes – baby blue, as the Americans call it – which remained devoid of expression as she held us all spellbound.

  She was sitting at a round table, completely motionless, and seemed to be listening to the soft, hypnotic lounge music coming out of the speakers while waiting patiently for one of the guests to shuffle and cut a deck of cards, choose two cards at random and hold them up for everyone to see. It was the eight of diamonds and the six of clubs. The girl took the cards out of his hands, let everyone see them again, and put them down on the table, placing her hands over them, rather like a poker player who is worried that the other players will see what cards he has. After a while, she took away her hands to reveal two bright red aces. She stood up quickly but not abruptly, placed one ace in each palm, turned her hands over in the air, and the aces metamorphosed into kings. An exclamation escaped the mouth of the heavily built fifty-year-old blonde woman standing next to me, her fur stole struggling to balance itself across her jewellery-laden throat. After another flick of the hands, the kings became queens. Then jacks, tens, nines, eights until, with one more flick of the wrist, which resembled the way you might accompany your lover in a passionate tango, her hands magically produced two aces, only this time they were the two black aces from the deck. I felt the urge to clap, but the girl had not finished. She set the aces down on the table, leaned over and started to blow on them. She blew them as though she was trying to animate them. Then, still silent, she turned them over and motioned to the guests that one of them should step forward. The large woman next to me volunteered. The girl pointed to the cards without touching them, prompting her to turn them over. As the eight of diamonds and the six of clubs reappeared before her, my neighbour let out an even louder exclamation.

  But none of this was either as impressive or unsettling as the sight of the girl herself, serious and completely absorbed in her art. Because those wonderful baby-blue eyes, perpetually devoid of expression, never blinking, were looking at nothing and everything.

  Because the girl who had enchanted us was blind.

  4

  The loud applause, even the whistling from the less restrained guests, seemed to make no impression on the girl, who did not so much as smile. She bowed three times and without any assistance walked past the fireplace with the marble columns a
nd Minoan murals and disappeared into another room.

  “Emma’s amazing, isn’t she? Do you know how many people in the world can pull off seven card changes in a row in the air?” came Angelino’s voice in my ear.

  I turned round and almost didn’t recognize him. When you get used to the way someone who lives on the street looks, it can be hard to recognize them in a different context. I read somewhere that our brain does not record as many faces as it does styles and situations connected with particular faces. That night Angelino was dressed like a prince: gold cufflinks, a blue tailored suit that looked like it had been sewn straight onto his slight frame, a salmon-coloured shirt and discreet tortoiseshell glasses. He seemed to inhabit a planet far away from Omonia and his sweatshirts, army fatigues and dark-brown overcoat. The only thing that was completely unaltered was his expression, which belonged not to a forty-five-year-old but to an Athenian from the days of Pericles, the face of a man who had seen everything and had a crystal-clear view of everything that happened, nothing of which seemed to surprise him. Nothing, that is, apart from Emma.

  “I’ll be ditching the look – it’s just for tonight. Maybe for tomorrow night, too,” he said almost apologetically as he registered my confused look.

  “Tonight? Why?” I asked.

  “For them,” he whispered, pointing with a slight movement of his head towards the people standing round drinking punch and discussing the girl’s incredible talents.

  Angelino explained that the performance had started earlier and I had only seen the last part of it.

  “Who’s ‘them’?”

  “Investors,” he said with a faint smile, leaving a sense of mystery hanging in the air.

  Angelino likes to give half answers, and he likes to keep the other half of the answer to himself. But tonight he’d called on me for help, and I for my part like to deal with full explanations.