The Silver Stain Read Free Page A

interesting people.’
    The truth was that Mavros hadn’t had a case in two weeks and was as bored as a shark in the overfished Aegean. Not that he was going to tell the cop that.
    ‘Well, I’ll think about it,’ he said languorously. ‘That sun, you know, it’s very—’
    ‘Take the fucking job, all right?’ yelled Kriaras, slamming down the old-style phone that Mavros had seen in his office.
    ‘Who was that?’ the Fat Man asked, his heavy face creased with curiosity.
    ‘Just one of my many admirers.’
    ‘That wanker Kriaras.’
    Mavros laughed. ‘Very good, Yiorgo. He says I’m about to be offered a job. A good one.’
    The Fat Man flicked his dish-towel at a fly with surprising dexterity. ‘Don’t take it. You can’t trust that murderous organ of the state further than you can—’
    ‘Toss him? Jesus, Yiorgo, lighten up with the Party terminology. Besides, we could do with some income.’
    ‘Income? Profit, you mean. You’re as bad as everyone else in this benighted country. Take what you can and deprive the needy.’
    Mavros led the Fat Man to one of his mother’s antique armchairs. ‘Now, now, don’t get overexcited. You might burst – I don’t know – a belly?’
    The doorbell rang, meaning that Mavros escaped verbal and possibly physical abuse. He looked at the miniature screen and saw a man in his late thirties, his thinning hair in a ponytail, and a young woman. Both were dressed in high-end casual clothes and the latter was carrying a laptop case. Although the man could have passed for Greek, the woman’s red hair and pale skin gave her away as a foreigner. Mavros decided to speak English.
    ‘Can I help you?’
    ‘Mr Mavros? We were told to contact you by a Mr Kriaras.’ The man mangled the stress on the cop’s name – it should have been on the final syllable – and his accent was American.
    ‘Come up to the sixth floor.’
    Mavros turned to the Fat Man. ‘You’d better make yourself scarce. Sit in the kitchen and take notes if that turns you on.’
    ‘What if they want coffee?’
    ‘I’ll give you the order like you’re a Filipina and collect it myself. All right, Georgia?’
    The Fat Man gave him a less than threatening glare – there were few things he liked better than overhearing Mavros’s clients – and withdrew.
    Mavros went to the door, wondering what kind of fine mess he was about get himself into.
    The young woman was now standing in front of the man.
    ‘Alex Mavros?’ she asked, with an accent that was East Coast, unlike the man’s Californian tones. ‘My name’s Alice Quincy. It’s my privilege and pleasure to introduce you to Mr Luke Jannet.’
    The second name rang a faint bell, but Mavros played dumb. ‘Right,’ he said, extending a hand to the man, who had now pushed himself to the front, and then to the woman. ‘Come in.’
    ‘Cool place,’ Jannet said, walking into the open living area. ‘Kinda old-style furnishings, though.’
    Mavros shrugged. ‘Care to park your backsides on that antique sofa?’ He’d never liked being talked down to and he wasn’t going to make an exception for this hotshot. There were spots of red on Alice Quincy’s high cheekbones, which made him perversely happy. She was one of those tall women with flat chests known to Greeks as ‘ironing-boards’, but her face was attractive enough.
    ‘Would you like something to drink?’ Mavros asked, watching Luke Jannet. He hadn’t shown any sign of being affronted, but there was a watchfulness in his green eyes that suggested he didn’t miss much.
    ‘Coffee for us both,’ Jannet said. ‘Alice can make it.’
    ‘That won’t be necessary. Georgia?’
    The Fat Men squeaked from behind the partially open kitchen door.
    ‘Coffee for two, please.’ Mavros looked at the Americans. ‘Cappuccino?’
    They both nodded.
    Mavros repeated the order, aware that Yiorgos would be swearing under his breath – his mother had bought a machine and the Fat Man knew how to operate