The Whispers of Nemesis Read Online Free PDF Page A

brighter, lighting ever more of the sky.
    â€˜Looks to me as if they’ve set the buildings on fire,’ said Yorgas. ‘And speaking of fire – how’s it going with Santos’s sister? What’s her name?’
    â€˜Frona.’
    â€˜So, have you asked her for a date yet? No? So ask her. Pick up the phone. She won’t bite.’
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous. I’m an old man, in her eyes.’
    â€˜You’re too hard on yourself. Look at you. Hardly a grey hair in sight.’
    â€˜Go to hell.’
    â€˜Well, don’t wait too long, friend. Maybe she’ll get snapped up. Shall we eat? I’m freezing my balls off here, and there’s kleftiko in the kitchen, if we’re quick.’
    He drained his glass, and picked up the half-full bottle from the table.
    Attis put a hand on Yorgas’s arm.
    â€˜If you had a problem with Santos, you would tell me?’
    â€˜Of course I would,’ said Yorgas, heading down the stairs. ‘His fortunes tie you and me together.’
    Â 
    Two nights later, in the hour before dawn broke over Vrisi, the tyres of a fast-moving police car scattered the loose stones in the yard, and cracked the ice which had covered the pooled rainwater. The car’s headlamps, on full beam, lit up the house façade; the dark rooms were filled with white light, like the arrival of celestial hordes.
    The uniformed officer at the wheel turned the headlamps down to side-lights and killed the engine. His companion stubbed out the last inch of his cigarette in the dashboard ashtray, and exhaled a smooth stream of smoke.
    â€˜Let’s go,’ said the policeman.
    â€˜Pray God there are no hysterics,’ said his companion. ‘Wailing and weeping get on my nerves.’
    â€˜If you don’t like hysterics, you shouldn’t have begged the favour,’ said the policeman. ‘Now come. And treat them with respect.’
    They climbed from the car. As they crossed the yard, the policeman buttoned his blouson jacket against the cold, and pulling his beret from under his shoulder-tab, positioned it on his head to cover what he could of his baldness. His companion turned up the collar of his sheepskin jacket, and pulled his slacks up higher on his waist.
    In the village below, a dog barked.
    Darkness hid the old place’s many flaws – the walls cracked by invading tree roots, the sagging gutters, the young borage and thistles choking the pots of narcissi – leaving the house a half-seen grandeur. The men stood on either side of the doorway, the policeman taking up an official’s stance: feet apart, hands clasped over the groin.
    From inside his jacket, his companion produced a spiral-bound notebook.
    â€˜You can put that away,’ said the policeman. ‘You keep quiet, and hang back, like you said you would.’
    His companion raised a conciliatory hand.
    â€˜It’s all the same to me,’ he said, putting away his notebook. ‘My memory’s infallible when it comes to what people say, and what I can’t remember, I make up. But if I need corroboration, I’ll come to you. I like to get good value for my money.’
    He gave a smile; the policeman turned from him, and spat on the ground.
    â€˜Just leave all the talking to me,’ said the policeman. ‘Don’t be upsetting them with questions.’
    â€˜Whatever you say, friend. Whatever you say.’
    The policeman cleared his throat, and banged on the door, hammering with a force which rattled the frame. His companion licked the pad of his thumb and ran it over his modest moustache.
    They waited. Behind the door, there was silence.
    The policeman hammered again. His companion stepped away from the doorway, and craned up to the first-floor windows. All remained dark.
    â€˜Louder, friend,’ he said to the policeman. ‘It’s a big house; they can’t hear you.’
    â€˜What do you mean, louder?’