He wanted to examine her face but didn't think he'd see much without moving the body or getting into the crypt. He couldn't do either until forensics had photographed, videotaped, and catalogued everything. He braced himself with one hand against the edge of the crypt and, with his flashlight in the other, held his breath and leaned in to see what he could.
Her eyes and mouth were closed. Nothing particularly unusual about that — perhaps the only thing so far that wasn't. As he lifted himself away from her face his flashlight caught a bit of white at one nostril. He leaned back in. It wasn't at the nostril, it was in it. It looked like cotton, and it wasn't in one nostril, it was in both.
Andreas got to his feet and walked outside. Like most Greeks, he smoked, but he liked to think he only did when stressed. He lit up. This was not a simple murder. There was a message to this one. He'd seen murders with messages before but not like this. This message was meant to remain secret to everyone but the sender.
He knew the word to describe this sort of preparation — the religious location, shaved head, bound feet, clasped hands, naked body, and whatever in the nostrils — but he couldn't say it until he had more proof. Suggesting there'd been a ritual murder on Mykonos wouldn't get him any more compliments from the mayor, or any closer to his old job in Athens. He would just wait for Syros to investigate and let them break the bad news to the town fathers.
He finished his cigarette and decided to have another look inside. Perhaps something about the church held a clue to why the killer chose this spot. Andreas wasn't very religious, but like virtually every Greek, he was Orthodox and he knew the basics. Everything looked perfectly normal. The candles were in the right places, as were the required four icons: the Blessed Virgin, Jesus, the archangels and the saint after which the church was named. He didn't recognize that icon and leaned forward to read the name. Saint Calliope. If he remembered correctly, she was a young woman tortured and put to death for her commitment to Christianity. That would fit.
He went outside again and sat in the shade of the church wall, waiting. Later, he heard the sirens. The boys from Syros were here. Although the call from Peter's father triggered her Greek temper, on balance Catia actually felt more relieved than worried by what she'd heard. She'd never liked Peter and had told Annika so more than once. She'd hoped the relationship would end when he left Yale to study in London but it hadn't. Something about him grated on her. She described him to her husband, Schuyler, as the quintessential pretentious Athenian braggart, consumed by appearance over substance. He pointed out to his wife that Peter came from an old-line English family and that bourgeois was a French word not confined to Greeks. She preferred her description.
Catia was sure their breakup explained why she'd not heard from her daughter. Annika didn't take well to 'I told you so' scenarios — even if the actual words were never uttered. Still, Schuyler was right; a young woman should not be backpacking across Europe alone. She'd learned to accept in silence her daughter's assorted injuries and broken bones as part of the price for raising an independent, athletically gifted child. She no longer even winced when Annika described such things as hang gliding and skydiving as 'too routine.' But for Catia's own peace of mind, whether Annika wanted to talk to her mother today or not, she would have to. It had been too long — far longer than most mothers would tolerate.
She dialed Annika's mobile and waited for her voice to say 'Please leave a message for Annika at the beep.' Annika rarely answered her phone. That was a practice she picked up in college to cut down on distractions from studying. Every few hours she checked her messages and called back those she wanted to — or had to. Catia intended to leave a message, putting her at the very top of Annika's 'must-call' list. Finally, voice mail picked up, but instead of her daughter's voice, she heard, 'Sorry, this voice mail box is full and cannot accept additional messages. Please try again later.' She tried again, and again, each time getting the same message. That was not at all like Annika.
She decided to call Peter in London.
'Hello.'
Catia tried sounding warm and charming. 'Hello, Peter, it's Catia Vanden Haag. How are you?'
He spoke abruptly. 'My father called you, didn't he?'
So much for civility, she thought. 'Yes, he did.'
His voice became icy and distant. That old pretentious tone. 'I'm sorry, but there's nothing I have to say.'
'Excuse me, young man, but I expect a bit more respect from you than I'm receiving at the moment.' She knew how to sound like a senior career diplomat's wife when necessary.
His voice wavered a bit. 'I meant no disrespect, Mrs Vanden Haag, I simply think that whatever is said to you on the subject should be Annika's decision, not mine.'
That answer did not assuage her, but she sensed that if she got any testier, he'd probably hang up. 'Peter, I haven't heard from Annika since she left to meet you in London. You certainly must appreciate that I'm worried.'
He paused. 'Yes, I do, but honestly, Mrs Vanden Haag, I haven't spoken with Annika since she left, and I don't know where she is.'
'Do you have any idea who may know where she is or how I can reach her? I've tried calling her cell, but all I get is a recording that her voice mail box is full.'
'No, but the reason you can't reach her is she forgot to take her phone.' Again he paused. 'She was very angry when she left. She wouldn't talk to me, just threw her things in her backpack and walked out. I didn't find her phone until later. It was turned off and I left it off.'
Catia shut her eyes to compose herself. If Annika called her phone to find where she'd left it, there'd be no answer. Was he just stupid or vindictive? Greek men were legendary for screaming at the drop of a hat; it was a cultural trait that serendipitously taught most Greek women patience. She let out a long, silent breath. 'Thank you; and if you think of anything that might help us find her, please call me. And please, send me Annika's phone — I'll give you our FedEx number.'
When she hung up, the word in her mind was asshole. Not very ladylike she knew, but accurate.
Her daughter's incommunicado jaunt around Europe must stop at once. No matter what the reason. The first thing to do was call Annika's friends and find how to reach her. Surely they'd know. No, she thought. The first thing to do was tell her husband. Oh boy. It was a virtually deserted, almost impassable road, but all three police cars arrived with sirens blaring. So much for keeping things quiet, thought Andreas. They're attracting the whole island. Sure enough, a gray Jeep Grand Cherokee and a beat-up black Fiat sedan pulled up behind them. Two guys got out of the Fiat and started up the hill before the investigators had their equipment out of the cars.
Andreas shook his head. Greeks — they were more curious than cats. He yelled at the two to stay on the road. They kept coming, as if they didn't hear or didn't understand. He yelled to one of his officers to arrest them if they didn't turn back immediately. That stopped them. He heard them mumbling questions about his parentage, but they were retreating back to the road.
There were eight men in the police cars: Kouros, three other Mykonos officers, and four strangers dressed in jackets and ties — in ninety degree heat. These guys were going to be a pain in the ass, he could just tell. He yelled to Kouros and another local officer to help the investigators with their equipment and told the other two to keep the curious off the hillside. He also told them to get the names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone who stopped to watch — starting with the two in the Fiat. Andreas wanted them to know that he was particularly proud of his parentage.