Ambassador Vanden Haag's initial response to his wife's telephone description of their daughter's travel situation was predictable: ask the Queen to call out the marines. Then he took a more measured approach. His office contacted American Express for a list of Annika's recent charges. That should tell him where she was. But American Express wouldn't release the information to his office, to him, or to the American ambassador he asked to call on his behalf. It took some ingenuity from an old CIA friend to get the information, but he got it.
It showed no recent activity. The last charges were in Italy, indicating she had traveled from Sicily along the eastern mainland north past the heel of the boot. They stopped in Bari, with a payment to Superfast Ferries. He went online and found that it served the North Sea, Baltic, and Adriatic, but from that part of Italy the line had only two destinations: Igoumenitsa and Patras – both in western Greece. From there Annika could have caught any number of ferries to any number of places – or traveled some other way.
No doubt she was in Greece. That explained why the Amex charges stopped. Many businesses in Greece wouldn't accept the card – too slow paying, they claimed. Annika probably was using another credit card. He'd try to get that information tomorrow, but now at least they knew where she was – sort of – and the news was reassuring. She'd been to Greece more times than he could count, was fluent in Greek, and in a pinch, her uncle and aunt were there to help. Catia's brother was Greece's deputy minister for Public Order – the country's equivalent of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. Catia would make a few calls tomorrow, and they'd know where Annika was in no time.
It was comforting to know their daughter was in a safe place. Andreas stood quietly listening to Tassos tell his three men where to place the lights in the church. The five of them were crowded together around the crypt when the lights went on, the videotaping began, and the coroner started his examination. It was not pretty, but the smell was worse – and more than a match for the drops of menthol gel on Andreas' upper lip.
The autopsy and serious forensic testing would take place at the coroner's lab on Syros, but there were crucial observations to be made here. The coroner spoke loudly and distinctly to assure that what he said was accurately recorded.
'Bruises on body are consistent with the shape and location of nearby bones,' as if she had thrashed against them before she died. He couldn't be sure, but 'eyes and mouth appear closed after death.' 'Rigor mortis appears cause of shift of body' onto her right side – from flat on her back, hands clasped by her chest.
'Cotton, probably tampons, in each nostril, will verify whether same in anus and vagina and-'
'Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt,' Andreas said, startled, 'but aren't you surprised at finding tampons in her nose? And what's this about looking for "same in anus and vagina"?'
The coroner did not look away from the body. 'I both am and am not surprised. I'm surprised at finding it here, but not in a dead body.' He was talking in riddles – like an academic lecturer.
Andreas hated the type but knew they were necessary. 'Do me a favor, just tell me what the fuck you're talking about.'
The coroner looked at Tassos.
'Costas, please tell the man what he wants to know.' Tassos spoke like a man used to being in charge.
Without changing his tone, the coroner said, 'Greeks bury their dead immediately and without embalming, but there is a viewing. In order to keep bodily fluids from leaking into the casket, cotton is shoved…'
Andreas knew about that part.
'These days, instead of cotton, tampons often are used. How many depends upon the size of the orifice.'
'What about the throat and ears?' Andreas asked.
'Not in the ears, and the throat would depend upon the Cause of death, but generally not. In this body, I saw nothing in the throat.'
'Are you saying she was prepared for burial?' asked Andreas.
'From the position of her feet together, hands clasped at the chest – though hers actually are bound to the body just below the chest – eyes and mouth shut, I'd say yes, with one distinct difference.'
'What's that?' He'd play along with the professor.
'I'm virtually certain this was done while she was alive.'
'Sort of like a ritual.' It was Tassos' investigator. He seemed to be showing off for the crowd. Andreas had better tell Tassos to shut him up. But he didn't have to.
'That will be enough of that sort of talk – from you and anyone else.' Tassos stared at the faces around the crypt, the tone of his warning unequivocally menacing. 'Costas, how long before you'll have forensics back on this?'
'How quickly do you want them?'
Tassos didn't respond, just stared at him.
Costas spoke quickly, nervously. 'I'll call Syros and have them ready to start as soon as we get back with the body.'
'And the bones?' added Tassos.
'Yes, of course. I'll have something for you by tomorrow.'
'What do you think the chances are of a quick ID on the body?' Andreas' question was directed to the coroner, but Tassos answered in a tone Andreas knew was meant to make clear he was in charge of the forensic side of this investigation.
'I doubt she's local, but even if she is, depends on whether she's reported as missing. If not, as soon as we get Costas' results we'll check with Athens, and' – he was shaking his head – 'probably the rest of the world, to get an ID on this one.'
Andreas knew the most they could hope for was that someone somewhere had reported her missing because if no one cared enough to file a missing-person report, there was virtually no chance – outside of luck – of identifying her. Andreas couldn't imagine any police force in the world starting an investigation into a 'do you know this body' request without – at the very least – knowing it somehow tied in to their jurisdiction. Each had too many of its own problems to deal with.
'Sounds to me like we should start looking at this end.' Andreas was claiming his territory.
Tassos smiled. 'I can just imagine all the screaming phone calls you'll be getting once you start flashing photographs of a dead body around Mykonos at the height of the tourist season.'
Andreas smiled back. 'I thought I'd put up posters along Matogianni Street with her picture and your telephone number.'
Tassos laughed and shook his head. 'Mykonos and its politics shall be all yours on this one, my friend.'
Territories were settled. They smiled at each other.
'May I get back to work?' asked the coroner.
'Yes,' said Tassos, 'and be sure you're your usual, thorough self. We need to know everything about how this woman died ASAP – and who she is.'
Andreas wondered who else might want to know. Schuyler was right. Catia was relieved to know Annika was in Greece. But that made her a bit angry. Not at her daughter, at her relatives. How could they not have called and told her they'd seen Annika? Then again, how were they to know she hadn't spoken with her daughter in weeks? She took a deep breath and told herself to relax. She'd call Greece, and her relatives would find Annika. Quite a crowd had gathered at the bottom of the hill. An ambulance winding its way through Mykonos back roads was irresistible to the locals. It meant someone was ill, injured, or dead, and they wanted to know who. Andreas' officers were asking questions of everyone who stopped, but that didn't discourage a soul. The crowd knew by now there was a dead body in the church at the top of the hill and everyone was staying to watch it all. Cell phones were blaring out the news. Andreas always was amazed how fast word gets out. He wondered how it happened this time.
He just hoped Tassos could keep his men from any more mention of rituals. He had to be careful about that sort of talk from his own cops too. All it took was one trying to impress someone and all of Greece would be shouting 'ritual murder on Mykonos.'
Come to think of it, he was surprised an Athens TV crew wasn't here by now. There always seemed to be at least one somewhere on Mykonos during the tourist season. TV viewers loved stuff knocking sexy, upscale places filled with rich people, especially on Mykonos. A murdered body being hauled down a hill out of an old Mykonos church was just the sort of story they'd run over and over again – not the kind of TV coverage Andreas was hoping after less than a month on the job.
Perhaps he'd get lucky and they'd be off catching live celebrity bodies on a beach somewhere and this dead one would be down the hill and off the island before they could film it. That's when he realized that most of the people on that road probably had cell phones with cameras – some even take video. Damn technology. He decided to leave the rest of the forensic examination to Tassos. He'd let the crowd know anyone using a cell phone camera would be arrested for interfering with a police investigation. Who knew – maybe the threat would actually work. It was worth a try.
The walk down was a lot easier than the climb up, but he took it slow. He wanted another glimpse of nature's take on blissful eternity after the time he'd just spent inside with the grim here and now. He looked straight up at the sky: bright blue, running off to almost white where it met the sea. It reminded him of the day of his father's funeral, on that hillside north of Athens. He hadn't thought of that day in years. He had only been eight. It must have been Tassos' mention of his father that brought it back. He shook his head and tried to think other thoughts.
When he reached the road he called his men together and told them what he wanted done about the cell phones; then he asked if their questioning had turned up anything interesting. Not really. He decided to talk to some of the curious personally – starting with the two men in the black Fiat.
The two had learned their lesson, or at least had enough sense to act as if they had. Both were very respectful to the chief of police. One was Alex's cousin and the other his friend. They said all three worked for the same contractor and, after Alex found the body, he first called the police on his mobile and then his cousin. They couldn't find the place until they heard the sirens and followed the police cars.
Andreas wondered how many others Alex had called. At least now he knew how word got out about a body in the church.
The guy in the gray Grand Cherokee was the contractor they worked for. He'd been sitting in it since he got there, running the air conditioner and watching. Andreas crossed in front of the Jeep and walked to the driver's door. The contractor never turned to look at him, just kept staring up the mountain as if Andreas wasn't there. Andreas knocked on the window with the back of his hand. The contractor still didn't turn to look, just pressed the button to roll down the window.
Andreas knew of him. He came from a very old Mykonian family, had once been mayor and now was the most successful contractor on the island. He'd grown very rich on the island's building boom and was said to believe his statue should be erected in the town square next to – and a bit larger than – Mykonos' legendary heroine of Greece's 1821 struggle for independence, Manto Mavroyenous.
'Andreas Kaldis, chief of police.'
No answer.
Andreas wanted to drag him out of the car and bang his head on the hood. 'Mr Pappas, I presume.'
Slowly the man turned his head to face Andreas. 'You are correct.'
Now Andreas would settle for just ripping off the guy's sunglasses. 'Would you mind telling me what you're doing here,' then choked out words he sensed he had to say: 'I mean no disrespect, but I can't help wondering why a man of your stature in the community is sitting in his vehicle at a murder site.'
The man paused. 'One of my men found the body and called his cousin – he works for me, too. His cousin called me, and I followed the police here.'
Andreas had guessed right: kissing ass would make this pompous bastard talk.
'Thank you very much. Can you tell me why your man was working here?'
'He was repairing fence walls around the church. A client of mine is planning to expand the church's facilities.'
In other words, someone was paying Pappas to use his influence to get around the building ban. With the right permits you were allowed 'slight' improvements to existing churches. This church probably would be expanded 'slightly' into a mega-villa dwarfing the original church. Pappas wasn't known for small-time jobs.
'May I ask you who owns the property?'
Again Pappas paused. 'He lives in America. His family's from Mykonos, but they moved to Athens generations ago. My client started coming here a couple of years ago. Before then, no one from his family had set foot on the property since the war.'
Andreas took that to mean World War II.
'He inherited the property surrounding the church. He wants to restore and renovate his family's ancestral church.'
Andreas assumed he was hearing the pitch in the application for a building permit. 'Thank you, Mr Pappas. May I have the name of your client?'
'I'll have to check with him.'
Andreas wanted to pull out Pappas' tongue, but instead, he held his own. 'Thank you. I would appreciate any help you can give me. By the way, I noticed someone must be taking care of the church. Do you know who that is?'
Pappas smiled. 'I know you're not from Mykonos. Otherwise you wouldn't be asking that question.'
Andreas thought maybe he could grab him by his tongue, wrap it around his sunglasses, and then beat him against the hood. He forced a laugh. 'You obviously have me at a disadvantage.'
Pappas gave a self-important wave of his finger at Andreas. 'Just remember who helped you, Chief.'
Andreas kept smiling.
'Some say today there are 2750 churches on Mykonos. The church says it's more like half that number. Fifty years ago we only had about as many churches as there are days in the year – 365.' Andreas smiled and nodded appreciatively at Pappas' concern that Andreas might not know the number of days in a year.
'With that many churches and so few priests, some churches in deserted places like this' – he waved – 'with no family members or neighbors to look after them, fell apart and mass was no longer said in them.'
Andreas kept smiling, wishing he'd get to the point, but the lecturer was not about to give up his stage.
'Then along came the savior of all neglected churches on our island. He makes repairs, cleans them, replaces candles and icons – if they've been stolen – and says mass. He says it's his mission to protect them. The mayor even gave him a plaque for his work. A little weird – maybe even crazy – but harmless.'
For Andreas, the word harmless hung in the air.
'Why do you say harmless?'
Pappas smiled again. 'You really don't know, do you?' He paused for obvious effect. 'He's a priest – not one of ours, Anglican I think – who's been coming here forever. He's from England and he lives over that hill.' He pointed up toward the church. 'In the only house on an out-ofthe-way beach. Says he likes the solitude – and that every morning he can watch the sunrise from his front door. If you ask me, I think he gets more of a kick out of watching the ancient Mykonos tradition of local boys screwing tourist girls on his beach at sunrise.' He laughed.
Andreas felt the need for a cigarette. A priest involved in a ritual murder – in a church. That's all he needed to make this the Greek TV media event of the year. He couldn't wait to pass the good news on to Tassos. It was late afternoon by the time the ambulance and the Syros contingent headed back to the port. Miraculously, no film crew showed up. It must have been a very busy news day somewhere – or one hell of a party – Andreas thought. Thank God for small blessings. Which got him thinking of the priest. He wondered if he should wait until forensic results were back before talking to him, but decided to try finding him for some light questioning. Just ask him what you'd expect to be asked if you've looked after a place where a dead body was found. He'd have other questions for him later. He was sure of that.
Andreas took one of the police cars and drove southwest along the narrow dirt road winding up onto the mountain with the radar station. Soccer-ball-sized rocks marked the edge of the road – and a straight plunge over the rocky, arid mountainside. Far down and off to the left he caught a glimpse of green and a small beach tucked alongside a crystal blue sea; that was where he wanted to be. He followed the road as it fell down along the mountain toward the sea. Just before winding back up again toward the radar station, a rutted dirt path dropped off to the left. That's where Pappas told him to turn.
It was scruffy and overgrown and looked barely passable except to motorcycles. Andreas bumped and battered his way down, all the while wondering if he'd have to make an embarrassing call for a tow truck to get out. Once at sea level the road smoothed out and he drove for another fifty yards alongside a phalanx of bottle-shaped, gray granite boulders carefully aligned at attention – to keep SUVs from driving onto the beach, he guessed. Someone very strong and determined had gone to a lot of trouble doing that.
Andreas parked at the end of the road and started walking toward the house on the far side of the beach. He remembered he hadn't told his office where he was going. He should have used the radio in the car. He tried his cell phone – no signal. Just his luck to be at one of the few places on the island still without service. He kept going. He walked along waves of light brown sand that seemed to rise and fall in pattern with the deeper brown, rocky ridgelines above the beach. The sand was of the pebbly sort, not the fine sugarlike stuff on the south-side beaches. The winds on this side blew away everything but the hardiest.
He noticed the beach was set so close to the eastern side of the mountain that it must be in shadows several hours before sunset. That must explain why this place was never popular with the late-rising Mykonos crowd.
He stopped about twenty feet from the front door of a traditional round-edged – but tiny – one story, box-shaped Mykonian house. There seemed to be no one around. Not a soul, unless a steady five-mile-per-hour northeast wind counted as a spirit. Suddenly, a man bolted around the far side of the house. He was completely covered in white and moving quickly toward Andreas with a rifle-shaped object in his hand. Andreas' right hand instinctively went to his holster.
'Welcome, friend. I'm Father Paul.' The man spoke in Greek and seemed unaffected by Andreas' lurch toward his gun. He stopped and put out his hand.
Andreas took his hand off his gun but did not extend it. Instead, he nodded and said, 'Hello.' So far, it looked like Pappas was right about the guy. Definitely weird. What Andreas had thought was a rifle was a long-handled brush contraption the priest must be using to whitewash the thick exterior walls of his house – and himself, from the look of things. The man was wearing a pair of shorts, looked to weigh about one hundred-fifty pounds, five feet ten inches tall, and in terrific shape. Andreas guessed who'd moved those boulders.
'Andreas Kaldis, Father. I'm chief of police.'
'Oh, yes, I've heard of you. Sorry, but I've got to finish this last bit before I completely lose the light,' and off he ran to cover some spots by one of the small windows – and himself even more.
Andreas decided to wait until the man finished before asking any questions. He wanted to deal with him on a friendly basis, and sensed to do that it would have to be on the priest's terms. Andreas walked to the edge of the water and did what everyone else on this island did with a few moments to kill – he stared out to sea. Again his thoughts turned to his father. Damn it, why did Tassos have to mention him?
He was reaching for a cigarette when Father Paul went racing past him into the water. Ripples of white trailed behind him until he disappeared beneath the surface where, quickly, a film of white percolated above him, like an escaping halo. He must have been under for more than a minute before surfacing. He dipped his head back into the water and rubbed vigorously at his hair to get out whatever remained of the whitewash. Andreas saw now that his hair was almost as white as the paint. He was probably in his sixties, though you'd never think that if his hair were dark.
Father Paul emerged from the water as if born anew – and just as naked. He was holding his shorts in his hands, wringing them out. 'Yes, my son, what can I do for you?'
The first thing Andreas wanted to say was 'Put on your shorts,' but hey, this was Mykonos and he didn't want to do anything to spook the guy. 'I understand you look after some of the old churches on the island.'
'Every one that needs my care.' He was smiling, still squeezing and still naked.
'How many are there?' Andreas asked, his voice friendly.
Like a loving father proud of his children, the priest did not give a number. Instead he named and described each one in detail. Andreas did not interrupt, just took out his notebook and wrote what he was told.
'Thank you, Father. That's quite impressive. I have some questions about the church on the other side of this mountain.' He pointed up the hill.
'Ah, yes, my beloved Calliope.' Andreas noticed that before saying her name, he put on his shorts. 'How can I help you?'
'When's the last time you were up there?'
'June eighth.'
Andreas was surprised at how quickly he answered.
'With all the churches you look after, how can you be so certain of the date?'
'It was her name day. I always conduct mass there on her name day.'
Andreas should have known that. 'Are you the one who cleaned it and put in the candles?'
'Yes, I do that the week before celebrating mass.'
Andreas remembered that the night before the name day, there's a celebration dedicated to the saint and the souls of the family members whose bones are buried there – though it's more like a big party, with food, dancing, and music. 'Was there a panegyri?'
He shook his head. 'No, not up there. I'd be the only one. I went to a panegyri at a different church honoring Saint Calliope.'
'How often do you visit that church?' Andreas pointed up the hill again.
Father Paul looked Andreas straight in the eye. 'The same as all my churches, twice a year – once to fix it up and once to say mass. I wish I could go more often, but I have so many to take care of and I'm only here for two months a year.'
'Which months?'
'It depends, but always July and sometimes June – like this year – and sometimes August.'
'How long have you been taking care of them?'
His eyes hadn't moved. 'Twenty years or so. I started after I built this place and came across poor, neglected Calliope. I realized at that moment there was a need for me to fill, that God had brought me here to take care of his neglected ones.'
Andreas was getting an uneasy vibe from this guy but didn't want to show it. The man didn't seem curious in the least as to why the chief of police was out here asking him all these questions. No reason to make him think I'm suspicious, he thought – at least not until I've had the chance to check him out, and the forensics are back.
'Thank you, Father. I appreciate your cooperation.'
The man extended his hand, and this time Andreas shook it. Father Paul turned and started back toward his house. 'Oh, by the way.' He kept walking as he talked. 'There is one thing I'm curious about, Chief Kaldis.'
Ah, here it comes, thought Andreas. 'What is it, Father?'
'Why didn't you ask me about the body?' Andreas kept yelling at himself as he drove back to town. He'd screwed up. In trying not to seem suspicious he'd made it clear to the priest that he was. Father Paul might be without a phone, but he was not without friends. Several had stopped by earlier in the afternoon to tell him about the body in 'his' church. The priest was not mad. Far from it. The more appropriate word was eccentric. He claimed to know nothing about the body, adding that he had no reason ever to disturb a burial crypt – and regarded even an attempt as a sacrilege.
Andreas left it at that. He knew he'd better prepare a lot better for his next round with Father Paul. No more questioning until he heard back from forensics or – God forbid – something else went wrong. The first call Catia made that morning was to her brother's wife, Lila, in Athens. Her daughter, Demetra, and Annika were like sisters. Catia could not imagine Annika going to Greece without seeing Demetra. Her sister-in-law hadn't spoken to Catia since before Annika's graduation and wouldn't let Catia say a thing until she'd heard all the details about that. Catia gave the hurried version and, before Lila could raise another subject, asked if she'd heard from Annika.
'Yes, the day she arrived in Greece. She called me for Demetra's cell phone number – to make plans to travel the islands together.'
Catia hadn't realized how anxious she was until hearing her sister-in-law's words. She let out a deep sigh of relief and smiled. Her daughter had once more shown good judgment. 'Do you know where they are?'
'I know Demetra is still in Milan. She's not through with her work-study semester at the fashion house there. I think they made plans to get together when she gets back.'
Every anxious thought came rushing back. Catia struggled for control of her voice. 'Do you have any idea where Annika may be?'
'No, but I'm sure Demetra does. Here, let me give you her mobile number.'
When Catia called no one answered and as instructed she left a message for Demetra. Something was wrong. She sensed she'd never find her daughter this way. There was no logical reason for her feelings, only a mother's intuition. For the moment, though, Catia could think of nothing else to do but tell her husband how worried she was, wait for a call from Demetra, and – probably – throw up. The phone rang and it was Tassos. He had some preliminary results for Andreas.
'I'm impressed, Tassos – answers before lunch.'
'You'll be glad you didn't eat.' His voice was grave.
'That bad?'
'Very.'
'The woman suffocated to death… almost certainly right where we found her. She'd been prepared for burial while alive… tampons pushed very deeply into vaginal and anal cavities… far more than would be used for burial. Probably torture.' Tassos kept pausing, as if trying to grasp the meaning of his own words as he said them. 'As best as Costas can tell, she probably died somewhere between the seventh and ninth of June.'
'Saint Calliope's name day!' Andreas blurted out.
'Yes.' Tassos went silent for a moment. 'He confirmed she was in her twenties, Caucasian, blond, blue-eyed, and almost six feet tall.'
None of this was news. Andreas waited for the other shoe to drop.
'Preliminary pharmacology results show a strong indication of methamphetamine.'
Instantly, Andreas felt he knew the reason for Tassos' mood. 'Crystal meth! The same as in your body from ten years ago! The Scandinavian girl.'
He didn't have to see him to know Tassos was nodding. 'Yes… but I'm afraid that's not all of it.'
'Not all of it? We've got two dead bodies ten years apart in what probably are ritual killings. How much worse can it be?' His voice exuded anxiety.
Tassos paused again. 'In churches as old as this one there was no separation of the bones in a burial crypt; one generation was piled on top of the next. That's why it's not surprising we found the body lying on old bones.' Another pause. 'We know that the last member of the family who built that church left Mykonos more than sixty years ago. We should check to see if anyone remembers the last time someone was buried there.'
'Why?'
'Well, we have a little problem, my friend.' Tassos was using the sort of voice cops use when they're about to drop a bomb on a buddy. 'The bones are too young.'
'Are too what?' Andreas sounded truly puzzled.
'Young. New, not old, not ancient. Recent, recent, recent.' Tassos seemed to be forcing himself back to cop-banter – a defense mechanism employed against the horrors of their job. Andreas let him go on.
'The bones don't belong in that crypt. Most of them were well over a hundred years old, some a little younger. Then we have the five-, ten-, and fifteen-year-old ones.'
'The what?' Andreas' pulse was racing.
Tassos' voice was deadly serious. 'I am afraid we have more than a ritual killing on our hands.'
Andreas held his breath.
'The only information we have as yet on the three sets of bones is that they are skeletal remains approximately five years apart.' Andreas could hear him drawing a breath. 'And they most likely are all of young women… tall young women.'
Andreas felt his throat closing. This was unheard-of. Greece had never had one of these before. Ever. 'A serial killer,' Andreas heard himself say, stunned.
'You and I must meet. Do you have time if I come over around four?'
Andreas thought it strange how someone as senior on the force as Tassos had put the question. He took it as a nervous courtesy intended to make things not seem as real and urgent as they were – as knights might have spoken to compose themselves before charging blindly into dark caves after monsters.
Andreas nervously tried to lighten the mood. 'I'll try to squeeze you in between my motorbike-accident review and meeting with the hotel association's president over weekend parking restrictions.'
Tassos chuckled. 'Thanks. I know how busy you are.' Then he added, 'Welcome to Mykonos – isn't that what you said when we met? And I bet you thought it would be boring.'
Andreas grinned. 'Yeah, right.' He paused and refocused. 'Any luck with an ID on the dead woman yet?'
'We should have something by the time I see you. We think she's Dutch. A girl matching her description hasn't been heard from in weeks. Her father got Interpol involved, and we should have a positive ID by the end of the day. Her parents thought she was somewhere in the Mediterranean, possibly Greece, but no one knew just where.'
'If you give me her name, I'll get someone started on trying to find a connection here.'
'Sure, let me get it for you.'
Andreas' head was spinning as he waited for Tassos to find the name. A serial killer in Greece – on Mykonos! The island and its reputation for tolerating all sorts of sinful behavior will be damned by the Greek Church and vilified in the Greek press as spawning this horror and shaming all of Greece before the world. Shame was the appropriate word, too, for now it was a world news headline story: SERIAL KILLER SECRETLY HAUNTS MYKONOS FOR DECADES. From fame to infamy in an instant. The hunt, the capture, the trial would be consumed by a crazed, feeding-frenzy media led by the European Union and Americans – which sent Greece its most sought-after tourists. And if the killer was never found…
'Here it is. Helen Vandrew. See you at four.'