The Whispers of Nemesis Read Online Free PDF

asked the policeman. ‘ Malaka . My hand’s bruised black already, banging on this door. If you can bang louder, take a turn.’
    His companion shook his head.
    â€˜Banging on doors is official business,’ he said, ‘and official business isn’t my place. Seems to me there’s no one here. I’ll take a quick look round, and we’ll be off.’
    â€˜They’re here,’ said the policeman. ‘Where else would they be at this time, except here at home, in their beds?’
    â€˜Maybe in someone else’s bed?’ suggested his companion. ‘There might be a story there. What d’you think?’
    But before the policeman could answer him, light showed at the door-foot and behind the keyhole, and through the door a female voice asked, ‘Who is it?’
    â€˜Police!’
    A bolt slid; a key turned in the lock.
    A woman opened the door. Wrapped in a candlewick robe, a man’s leather slippers on her feet, she looked at the policeman through light-blind eyes, and tried to smooth the mess of her tangled hair.
    â€˜What is it?’ she asked. ‘What time is it?’
    â€˜Police,’ said the policeman, again, as his companion looked with interest at the woman. ‘Are you Kyria Volakis?’
    The woman shook her head.
    â€˜No,’ she said. ‘No, I’m not.’
    The policeman frowned.
    â€˜This is the house of Santos Volakis, is it not?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said the woman. ‘Yes, Santos lives here.’
    â€˜May we come in, then, kyria ?’ asked the policeman, and not waiting for a reply, he passed through the doorway and stood at the centre of the hall. His companion followed, and took up a position behind the policeman’s shoulder.
    The woman closed the door.
    â€˜Is this about Santos?’ she asked. ‘Is he all right?’
    â€˜Are you a relative, kyria ?’ asked the policeman.
    â€˜Of Santos’s? Yes, of course I am. I’m his sister.’
    â€˜And your name?’
    â€˜Frona. Frona Kalaki. What’s going on?’
    The policeman hesitated. His companion stared round at the hall’s ornaments and artefacts – watercolours and sepia photographs hung in old frames, a chess set carved from olive wood laid out on a dowry chest, the tusked head of a boar glowering from the wall – taking in as he did so the house’s dilapidation.
    â€˜There’s bad news, about your brother,’ said the policeman.
    Frona’s face fell. Feeling behind herself with her hand, she touched the corner of the dowry chest and lowered herself to sit down on its edge. The belt of her dressing-gown caught the chessboard; pawns, knights, monarchs rattled as they went down.
    From above them, over the banister rail, Leda called out.
    â€˜Frona? Frona, what are you doing? Is Papa back?’
    â€˜It’s not your father, no. Go back to bed. I’ll deal with this.’
    But Leda had reached the head of the stairs, and crouched down to see who was in the hall. The policeman met her eyes, then looked away.
    â€˜Papa!’ cried Leda, and sank down on the staircase, burying her face in the long nightdress which covered her naked legs.
    The women’s distress troubled the policeman, making him reluctant to say more, to provide unwelcome details. His visit had conveyed the painful message; was it not now better to depart and leave the questions that would inevitably come – how, when, why? – to another man, by daylight? He removed his beret, and holding it across his chest, looked up at Leda, whose face was still hidden in folds of pink cotton, and at Frona, and in preparation for departure, said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
    He gave his companion a nod of dismissal, and the companion took a step towards the door.
    Then Frona spoke.
    â€˜Tell me what happened,’ she said to the policeman.
    â€˜Do you want anyone with you?’ he asked. ‘I can call a