The Athenian Murders

  V.J. Randle

  Copyright © 2024 V.J. Randle

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  The right of V.J. Randle to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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  First published in 2024 by Bloodhound Books.

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  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

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  Print ISBN: 978-1-916978-79-9

  Contents

  Newsletter sign-up

  The Broken Head

  A Fitting Weapon

  The Olive Branch

  The Signet Ring

  Snake

  Arachne

  The Gorgon Swastika

  Miasma

  The Active Medium

  The Weaver

  The Myth-Buster Unit

  The Gala

  Erichthonius

  Moira

  Peripatos

  One Point Six One Eight

  Proper Practice

  Sliding Red Door

  Panathenaia

  Healing

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  Newsletter sign-up

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  A note from the publisher

  The Broken Head

  In the alley that winds around the Temple of Hephaestus, leading towards the Plaka, lay the body of a good-looking man of around thirty years old. Nobody had found him yet. His eyes were an unusual shade of light blue, though their glint had faded somewhat, even as they reflected the early yellow rays.

  His mouth hung open; he looked as if he had been taken by surprise. He was arranged on his back with his head tilted to one side. It was his head that would come to cause the most alarm. This is because it was split almost into two parts. It was perfectly done. And not at all in the way one might expect. The wound began at his right temple and scored, widthways, across the top of his brow, ending at the other side. Symmetrical and beautiful, the coroners would say. His forehead took on the appearance of a giant lethal smile.

  It was, of course, the cats that found him first. A small tabby slipped through the iron fence that separated the sanctuary from the path, and sniffed and trotted, in feline rhythm, until she spied the unusual sight. From where she stood, she could not quite see the wound in all its glory but must have known, in the way that cats always know, that something was terribly amiss. She did not hiss; this was no threat. But she did bow and stretch and flex her ears. A strange sight for sure. Her colony followed. Pink, black, and white noses appeared in turn through the gates, pressing through the long grasses, stalking their way from their night-time sanctuary. Two black cats trotted around the other side of the man, eyes wide, pupils dilated. They could see the wound from here. There was no panic; cats are at ease with death. They minced towards the pooling blood and sniffed it, ever so carefully, cautious of dirtying their freshly licked coats.

  And then, the scream. A woman. A cleaner opening the door to the café opposite. The sun rose from behind the columns of the temple, the effect of the light making it heavenly as though a halo shimmered above it, as her mouth dropped open. Usually, this was a comfort to her. She often told her daughters how the magnificent shrine spurred her on to clean.

  But now this. Her temple spoiled by this poor boy laid out in the street, cursed to be sniffed by cats. She felt her hand tremble as it moved towards her mouth, still holding the café keys that rattled between her fingers. She shooed the cats away and made for the old landline behind the counter.

  Despite the shock, she delivered the message in a clear, though low, voice.

  ‘I have found a male, of about thirty years, lying on his back with his head severed. No. The head is not removed: let me rephrase, the head is cut into two pieces, along the horizontal axis. He is dead, yes, of that I am certain. As I said, Café Kuzina, Adrianou, by the temple, yes. I am the cleaner.’

  The message was reiterated through the proper personnel and channels.

  A head?

  A severed head.

  The head is gone?

  It is attached, yet split.

  A head, you say?

  The operator, who was convinced this was a hoax, though a well-executed one, lazily put the call through to the Hellenic Police Department, rolling her eyes.

  It was Police Sergeant Michail Mikras whom the message finally reached. He was sipping his first thick coffee of the day, sitting on a red plastic chair at a café on Iraklidon. He stirred his coffee three times to the right and then three times to the left, and to the right again. It would not be proper to finish the ritual on the left-hand side.

  It was a superb morning. A jogger, sensibly avoiding the heat of the high sun, panted past him. Her running shoes looked like they had seen better days: she ought to think of her knees. Michail took a sip of coffee and was comforted as the grainy liquid coated his throat, bringing him wakefulness, signalling to his body, as the sun was drawn across the blue sky, that every day could bring success. He checked his phone. Katerina was running late. Three minutes and forty seconds late.

  Michail sighed, louder than he had wanted, and gestured to the café owner to bring him another cup. Across the road, a group of old men sat in a small circle, around their To Fos newspapers, rolling their dice and making private sports bets about things unknowable and unimportant. They were drinking beer already. As his second coffee was brought to him, Michail’s phone rang. He jumped, very slightly, causing one man on the opposite side of the street to raise him a cheer.

  ‘Our health,’ the old man said, with a gravitas that could only be reserved for morning alcohol.

  ‘Our health,’ Michail murmured, looking down busily at his lap to answer his phone. No doubt Katerina, full of excuses and extraneous chatter.

  ‘Yes?’ Michail spoke impatiently, keen that the crowd of old men might recognise him as a serious and competent law enforcer. It was the station.

  ‘Oh! I see… yes, yes, I am close, I will not need to take the car. Yes, yes, I will move as swiftly as possible.’

  Michail placed his phone slowly onto the table, careful not to make a dramatic clunk against the ceramic top. Merit. With recommendation. There were a few points to be improved upon, of course; that would be the same for any newly qualified police sergeant. Interpersonal skills had come up (rather a lot), as if talent for conversation was important for maintaining law and order in the city. But with recommendation. Recommended for precisely this moment in time!

  Michail forced himself to breathe slowly; there was no use in hyperventilating. He was a trusted professional. His eyes trailed along the green and brown slopes to that crown of a building. It towered above him every day. It was truly a monument of peace. A monument of order in the face of chaos. If only Katerina would take her duties as seriously as him. If only she would see that hard work and attention to detail were the making of a person. Charm and good looks were not sufficient. He took another hurried sip of his drink.

  And there she finally was, running up the street, belt askew, shirt pressed moderately, though not expertly, sweating already, breathless and rushed. ‘Michail! I am sorry!’

  ‘Again,’ Michail replied flatly as she reached his table.

  Katerina smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Again.’

  She sat down on the chair beside him, chattering about her sisters and her mother and her aunty and some other irrelevant business. Michail held a hand up to her. ‘Stop.’

  She blinked at his hand and patiently lifted her own, grasped his, and pushed it back to the table. Michail found himself looking at his lap again. He knew that communication through hand-signalling was frowned upon, no matter how obviously efficient. It made people uneasy, apparently. He must endeavour to improve on this.

  ‘What is it then?’ Katerina did not seem annoyed with him, thank goodness.

  ‘We need to go.’ Michail stood with the swift importance and urgency he had promised his superior on the telephone.

  Katerina nodded, eyeing his coffee. ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’ He grabbed her by the arm and lifted her off her seat. ‘Coffee will have to wait.’

  Katerina adjusted her belt and followed his gaze up the slopes. She nudged him. ‘Always staring at it.’

  Michail jumped away from her, shaking his head. ‘Of course, the Parthenon is perfection. But now to Adrianou, there’s a broken head.’

  A small, circular crowd had already formed by the time Michail and Katerina jogged down the length of Iraklidon, turning a sharp right into Adrianou. Michail held himself tall, fighting the urge to rest his hands on his thighs and catch his breath. He pushed past the onlookers.

  ‘Hellenic Police! Hellenic Police!’ he shouted, clearing a path through the mix of eager, solemn and excited faces. ‘And no filming! Put that phone down!’

  The fact the body was already cordoned off with tape suggested that the Violent Crime Squad had already arrived. Michail sighed, he had been slowed down by Katerina; they would need to
have further words. He would not allow this case – his first as a sergeant – to be usurped. He observed the area and spotted two senior officers, one male and one female, in deep conversation, backs turned to the crowd. Wasting no time, he displayed his badge to the guards and made straight for them. Tapping her on the shoulder, he held out his hand to a petite woman, who wore shoes unsuitable for most of the city, let alone a crime scene. ‘Michail Mikras,’ he announced, ignoring the woman’s unexpectedly red lips.

  She surveyed him for longer than Michail thought was the customary amount of time; her arms were folded, her weight resting on one of her legs so that her hips jutted to one side. The combination of those heels and bad posture risked serious spinal damage. Still waiting for a response, Michail wondered whether he ought to repeat himself. There might be a variety of unknown factors at play here: most obviously, she could be deaf. He resolved to introduce himself again, this time with heavily enunciated consonants, making sure that he maintained important eye contact. Thinking that he had rectified the situation, he held his hand out again. Surprisingly, the woman frowned at him and said, ‘Constable–’

  ‘Sergeant,’ he corrected her swiftly. The hierarchy of rank was essential for the efficient working of the Hellenic Police Force.

  The woman narrowed her eyes. There were tiny specks of black powder settled upon her cheekbones. She was not attractive in a conventional way but had a robust charm about her. Although this was, of course, irrelevant.

  ‘Sergeant,’ she said, in a tone that suggested to Michail he was exhibiting some sort of social misjudgement. He noted her English accent; could this be the infamous Sofia Sampson he had read about? From memory, she had transferred to Athens from London a few years previously, before securing a permanent position with the Special Violent Crime Squad. The woman stepped forwards, placed two hands on his shoulders and spun him around. Michail flushed as he realised the mistake he had made: the woman was not deaf, nor lacking in concentration. She had expected him to acknowledge the terrible (and obvious) corpse that lay in plain sight. He hoped she would understand his confusion. Introductions were always tricky. Unexpected incidents always impeded his otherwise well-honed method of prioritisation: the appropriate greeting gesture; then, an enquiry into the well-being of the person (depending on whether they were a stranger or not); otherwise, a casual comment about the weather or the daily news would suffice. Clearly, a dead body in the middle of the street surpassed all of these in precedence.

  ‘The scene of crime,’ she said, a bit slowly for Michail’s liking. ‘I appreciate the formality, but… well, best to see it first.’

  Michail nodded, seeing that his partner Katerina was already circulating the dead man, who was a similar age to himself, lying on the ground, with a head cut into two pieces. Michail was both logically and factually unsurprised: the station had given him the details over the phone. However, seeing the wound in the flesh, it was what he would call an unearthly experience. Michail’s feet felt light upon the pavement. He wiggled his toes, encouraging circulation, though this did not seem to take any effect. In fact, it only drew his attention to the dead man’s own feet, which stuck up ludicrously and perpendicular, as if mocking his otherwise horrific state. Michail gulped, wishing this woman would let go of his shoulders, Special Violent Crime Squad or not.

  ‘Yes,’ the woman said, as though she were replying to something. ‘Extraordinary, no?’

  Michail found himself unable to speak, so settled for shaking his head. The worst was about to happen, he felt it, moments before the signs prevailed. The convulsions in his throat; the rising heat; the soft, dull ache at the back of the tongue. To cry in front of the Special Violent Crime Squad would be disastrous. He would be a laughing stock, a joke, Michail Mikras, the Weeping Sergeant. The morning breeze had already settled, and the stillness brought flies and the faint, though noticeable, smell of death.

  Finally, the red-lipped woman let go of his shoulders and stood to the side, observing the body. ‘Sofia Sampson,’ she said, without offering her hand. ‘It is good of you to come, Sergeant, but we can take it from here.’

  Michail’s eyes swam with the threat of tears. He raised his hands to his temples and rubbed them gently, closing his eyes, rocking backwards and forwards, drifting to a calmer, simpler place. He was grateful that Ms Sampson said nothing.

  Eventually, Michail opened his eyes. But instead of focusing on the body, which he knew he would eventually have to do, he gazed up once again at the Parthenon. He liked how uncompromising this temple was, sitting calmly at the top of the Acropolis hill. Its cool and white rocks were built to last, an engineering feat based on the purest mathematical equation known to humanity: one that ran through the folds of nature herself. This equation never failed to relax him. He repeated the ratio under his breath, ‘One point six one eight, one point six one eight, one point six one eight.’ He could do anything, really, with these numbers running through him.

  Filled with a new strength, he lowered his eyes and took in the corpse once again. There was, expectedly, blood pooling around the main point of impact. The current had slowed somewhere near the man’s feet, so that only the cracks between the pavement tiles flowed with tiny, red, saturated canals. Michail’s gaze finally rested on the man’s face. The edges of his lips were blue, contrasting with the white, youngish teeth. The face was exceptionally well-preserved, considering the wound. Ah, the wound. Michail took a step closer and craned his neck to get a look at it. It was the most open wound he had ever seen. So wide and confident. Some trick of the light made it seem like the point of contact had come from within the head, from behind the forehead. An impossible, fanciful thought; but it looked like the direction of thrust propelled outwards, the blood congealing mostly in the crevice of the chest. The skin around the wound folded back, as if encouraged by some sharp force. Michail looked over his shoulder as Ms Sampson said, ‘This is new.’

  Michail nodded and took a step back. ‘Terrorism perhaps?’ He assumed this was why the special force had been called so quickly. ‘Far-right wing?’

  She sighed, shrugging. ‘You know, it’s the same here as it was in London. People are so quick to jump to conclusions. It’s almost as if they want murders to be terrorist attacks. As I say, we can take it from here.’

  Sofia Sampson from London: it was her. She had quite the reputation, being well-known for her… directness. Michail considered his options. It was likely that Ms Sampson expected him – the capable young officer – to collect his partner (less capable, albeit) and leave the scene. She was probably prepared to remind them about keeping what they had already seen strictly classified – although, Michail hoped that she would suspect that he, at least, would need no reminding. She would want to convey that there was no good in rumours arising, nor panic. If it was terrorism, then the police should not fuel the fire. The press was likely to do their absolute worst; the police needed to resist the gossiping. She would argue that her team would cover this efficiently and that there was no need for Sergeant Michail Mikras’s services. This, of course, would be an entirely unsatisfactory outcome.

  Michail puffed three times into the air in front of him. Ms Sampson did not react. He tapped the top of his leg three times with his right hand, then three times with his left, and then three times again with his right.

  ‘Sergeant?’ Ms Sampson said gently, though firmly enough that Michail was forced to break his ritual.

  He steadied himself. It was unclear even to him whether it was the shock of the crime scene, the one and a half coffees he had drunk, or simply the frustration of being tardy, but he closed his eyes and thought of something that was clear – beautifully clear – those numbers, strong and timeless as the universe. Then he said, ‘Ms Sampson, I would like to remain on this case.’