Leda wore the black overcoat she had worn for her father’s funeral, fetched in haste by Maria from one of the old wardrobes; with the sleeves too short and the fit too tight, the coat regressed her to the adolescent she had been on that occasion. The reek of camphor was in the fabric but had not deterred the moths; tiny holes peppered the shoulders and lapels, with pinpricks of satin lining showing through. Leda walked, head bowed and meek, behind the tall policemen; Maria followed close behind, clutching the handbag she used only for church. Around the foyer’s light-fitting, flies buzzed. Pouched skin around the grey-haired man’s eyes gave him the world-weariness of a bloodhound. He didn’t offer his hand but gave the women a brusque bow of his head. ‘Ladies, thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘I’m Inspector Pagounis, currently in charge of this station. May I assume you are Despina Volakis?’ ‘I am,’ said Leda.
What do You think about The Whispers Of Nemesis (2011)?
