‘What have you noticed?’ interrupted Yanoutsos. ‘I want to know.’
Markidis thought it superfluous to answer him. ‘If they’d shot them in the chest or the stomach or anywhere else, I’d say that they had surprised them and they hadn’t managed to resist,’ I said. ‘But the eye needs planning, preparation. Why didn’t they resist, but simply sat and let themselves be executed?’
‘Mafiosos. They knew them.’
‘Don’t keep on so much about Mafiosos, because you’ll be in for a nasty surprise,’ I told him and headed towards the door.
Markidis caught up with me at the steps. ‘So where did that idiot blow in from?’ he asked me angrily. ‘Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis would do better on their own.’
I preferred to make no reply, as I didn’t want to appear to be biased. ‘What do you think it was?’ I asked him.
‘Spray. The kind used by petty thieves to knock people out in their homes so they can rob them. They found them sleeping, knocked them out with the spray and then shot them through the eye.’
‘Can you prove it?’
He reflected for a moment. ‘It depends on the composition of the product. If we’re lucky, there may be some traces in the urine.’
We were now outside in the street and I suddenly realised that it wasn’t just the glasses. Markidis looked as if he’d had an entire facelift.
‘You’ve changed completely,’ I said to him surprised. ‘You look ten years younger.’
A wide smile spread over his usually unsmiling face. ‘I wondered whether you’d notice.’
‘How could I not notice? It stands out a mile.’
‘I got divorced. I got divorced and I’m getting married again; to my secretary in the department.’
‘How long were you married?’ I asked him in amazement.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘And you got divorced?’
‘Naturally, she got to keep the three-bedroom flat that cost me a lifetime’s savings, but it was worth it.’ He suddenly came out with it. ‘I’ve started to live again, Haritos. I’ve been in a deep sleep all these years,’ he said, with the certainty of the person who is the last to find out.
Judging from his dress, he was right. Markidis, who had been going around for the last ten years in the same suit, was now wearing an olive-green jacket with a red stripe, black trousers, an orange shirt and a tie with futuristic designs that gleamed in the sun.
‘Does your wife-to-be choose your clothes for you?’ I asked, and at that same moment I realised that my mind was done with the running-in stage of convalescence and was ticking over normally again.
‘Shows, does it?’ he replied, full of pride. ‘Post-modern dress. That’s what Nitsa calls it. Latest word in fashion.’
Post-macabre would be a better description, just the job for the morgue. But I held my tongue and went to find Fanis.
8
The sweet Greek coffee at the neon cafeteria in Agiou Lazarou Square was like dishwater, the waiter was a sourpuss by conviction, yet, despite everything, I berthed there every morning with my paper. Maybe I’d been won over by the peace of the square, with its two old women and three unemployed Albanians on the benches; then again it might well have been the familiar Greek magnet that always attracts you to places that irritate you, so that afterwards you can happily curse your fate.
My usual table was taken by three lads who were all drinking iced coffee. I sat down two tables further away, in the shade, as the weather had suddenly turned unpleasantly hot, and I opened my Sunday convenience store. From inside the paper I took out: a magazine of general interest, a magazine for arts and culture, a fashion magazine, a TV guide, a crossword book, an advertisement for washing powder, an advertisement with a toothpaste sample, an advertisement for mouthwash and three coupons for interest-free monthly payments. I tossed them all into the plastic bag that my local kiosk owner always gives me with the comment ‘Careful, Inspector, don’t spill the newspaper,’ and kept hold of the main section of the newspaper, which was no more than a dozen pages. I was quickly thumbing through it to find the report on the two Kurds, when I saw the waiter putting the sweet Greek coffee down in front of me and walking away in silence. He had brought it without even asking me.
‘Just a moment,’ I called out and he turned round. ‘How do you know that I don’t want an iced coffee today?’
He gave me a bored look and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You don’t strike me as someone who spends any more on Sundays,’ he said and went on his way.
I was ready to give him a mouthful, but my eye fell on a photograph of Frearion Street and a three-column article devoted to the murder. I started to read the article with relish, but after the first few lines I realised it was a rehash. Only the third column had anything new, and that was the names of the two Kurds: Kamak Talali and Masoud Fahar, who indeed had worked on the construction of the Olympic Village that was contracted to Favieros’s company. The only new information came from the rejuvenated Markidis, who confirmed what we had both suspected from the beginning: namely that the murderers had used knockout spray on the victims in order to execute them in their own good time.
I scanned quickly through the rest of the paper, but I could find nothing other than the usual screeds with analyses of foreign, domestic and financial policies. I left the exact money for the dishwater on the table and next to it the newspaper with all its accessories.
I leisurely walked up Aroni Street and tried to drive out my sinful thoughts concerning the two Kurds, Favieros and the Philip of Macedon Greek National Front. Besides, it was far more pleasant to think of Sunday lunch with Fanis, which had become established as a regular meeting of the ministerial cabinet, with the exception of those Sundays when he was on duty.
The door of the flat opened, leaving me with the key in my hand. Adriani, a worried look on her face, was standing in the doorway and blocking my way. Evidently she had been listening out for the lift so that she could rush and open the door for me.
‘What is it?’ I asked her, listening to the trembling sound of my voice, because my mind automatically imagined that something bad had happened. I thought perhaps something was wrong with Katerina and Fanis had come to tell us.
Instead of answering, she stepped out into the corridor, leaned towards me and whispered into my ear in an angry tone: ‘That insistence of yours not to want to have a mobile phone. My mother was right: those who wear blinkers become as stubborn as a mule.’
It was true that she had inherited that method of analysing character from her mother. According to my mother-in-law, a blinkered person was stubborn, a slant-eyed person was a dark horse, a large pointed nose signified someone stingy and miserly, while a hooked nose signified someone lecherous and insatiable. These were the character analyses that Adriani had inherited, even though her mother had no connection at all with Lombroso, whose work we studied in the criminology course.
‘What is it?’ I asked again and received a second shriek in the ear.
‘Go inside and you’ll see!’
I went into the sitting room and stood there, rooted to the spot. He was sitting in the armchair that formed a corner with the TV, but as soon as he saw me he leapt to his feet. We both stood there motionless staring at each other. He was waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say. It was the first time that Ghikas had ever come to my house. I continued to stare at him in astonishment, while trying to answer two questions together: what was the reason for this Sunday visit and what should I say to him by way of welcome. Should I confine myself to being formally polite, that would sound extremely cold, or should I break into raptures of fake enthusiasm?
In the end, I resorted to a neutral welcome. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure after such a long time?’ I said, indirectly expressing my grievance that he never came to see me when I was laid up in bed.
‘First of all, I came to apologise for my behaviour in my office the other day.’
I reflected that whatev
er I said would sound false so I decided to remain silent. Besides, that ‘first of all’ meant that there was more. So I waited.
My silence obliged him to continue. ‘It’s not that I wanted Yanoutsos; he was forced upon me,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t a thing I could do. He has friends in high places.’
‘That explains how he got himself accepted into the Anti-terrorist Squad.’
He burst in laughter. ‘The Anti-terrorist Squad were looking for a way to get rid of him and so they sent him to me.’
I had no reason not to believe him because what he said tied in with what Sotiropoulos has told me over the telephone. Adriani came out of the kitchen holding a tray with a cup of coffee. She put it down on the table beside him, returned my thanks with a curt ‘You’re welcome’ and went out of the room.
‘I heard that you went by the flat where the two Kurds were murdered.’
He looked at me and waited, this time, for a reply. I shrugged my shoulders.
‘If it’s in your veins …’ I answered vaguely.
‘I want your opinion.’
‘I can’t tell you very much, but it’s for sure not the work of Mafiosos like Yanoutsos says. They were knocked out using spray and then shot through the eye. Mafiosos would have riddled them with bullets and run off. This particular business has all the signs of an execution and it’s a case for the Anti-terrorist Squad.’
‘Yanoutsos desperately wants the case.’ He shook his head slightly and heaved a sigh. ‘I don’t like this whole business, Costas, I don’t like it at all.’
‘What business? With the two Kurds?’
‘No! Favieros’s suicide. Something doesn’t add up. Even if he’d already decided to commit suicide, he would have done it discreetly. Not in front of the cameras.’
I saw almost with relief that his tactics hadn’t changed. He was still presenting my ideas to me as his own.
‘You were of a different opinion the other day in your office,’ I said to counter him.
‘Because I didn’t want to open up in front of Yanoutsos. I have something in mind but I don’t quite know how to organise it.’
I kept silent again, but this time in order to hear his organisational problems.
‘Officially, I can’t order an investigation into the Favieros case. There’s no doubt that he committed suicide, consequently the police can’t do anything. That’s why I didn’t open my cards in front of Yanoutsos.’
I smiled without meaning to. ‘You don’t seem to have much faith in him.’
‘I don’t have any faith at all,’ was the curt reply. ‘The other day when I saw you, an idea suddenly passed through my mind. Am I right in thinking you have another two months of sick leave?’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
He paused for a moment and looked at me. Then he began to speak slowly, as if searching for the words. ‘What would you say to making some discreet investigations into the Favieros case? Find out what it was that drove him to suicide?’ He paused again and then added: ‘After all, it’ll pass your time for you.’
I needed quite a bit of time to digest what it was he had just said to me. Who would have believed that Ghikas would turn out to be my saviour, the one who would free me from the boredom of convalescence and put me back into the game? I tried to conceal my delight and at the same time not to seem to be grabbing hold of the lifebelt he was throwing me because if he realised anything of the sort, he would expect me to repay him for at least the next ten years.
‘What can I say?’ I replied, as if feeling aggrieved that he was asking a chore of me. ‘The truth is that this sick leave came just at the right time. As you know, I’ve never taken many leaves of absence in my time on the Force and this is an opportunity for me to make up for it.’ I added this with a smile in order to strengthen my position while waiting for him to go on trying to persuade me so that I might give in little by little.
He stared at me as though wanting to draw up a profile of me, as he’d learned during the six months he’d spent idling his time away with the FBI. I persisted with my smile.
‘Yanoutsos is here to stay,’ he said suddenly.
His words took me aback and I lost my composure. ‘Stay where?’ I asked like a twerp.
‘They transferred him to Homicide to get rid of him. And on the pretext that you were gravely wounded and you’re returning from convalescence, you’ll be transferred to a section with less stress and Yanoutsos will get your position.’
I suddenly saw vividly before me the look of my two assistants at the Kurds’ flat. That’s why they were keeping their distance from me. It had already got around that Yanoutsos was being primed for my job and they were playing it safe so they wouldn’t find themselves in hot water.
‘I told you, he has friends in high places and there’s nothing I can do,’ Ghikas went on. ‘But if you get somewhere with the Favieros case, I’ll be able to say “Look, Haritos has come up trumps again. We won’t get anywhere without him” and they won’t dare give him your position.’
What was I thinking of to act like a prima donna? Now he would want to be paid back twice over for the favour he was doing me. ‘And if I don’t get anywhere with the case?’ I said and my voice betrayed my fear and anxiety.
‘You will.’ The reply was categorical, without any trace of doubt. ‘There’s something not right about this case and you’re the only one who can find out what it is.’
‘Why only me?’
‘Because you’re a stickler and stubborn with it.’ His frankness was disarming. He paused for a moment and then went on somewhat uneasily: ‘Except that I can’t give you any of your assistants or anyone else from the department. If I do, everyone will find out what we’re up to and I’ll be out on a limb.’
He was right, but how would I manage on my own?
‘I can send you Koula. She’s the only person I trust blindly. We’ll say that her father is on his death bed and I’ll give her leave to take care of him.’
‘And what about you?’ I asked astonished. ‘Koula is your right hand.’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I’ll make do with the left one for a while,’ he replied vaguely.
‘All right,’ I said, though my initial delight had been poisoned by the worry of failure, because my job was in jeopardy.
Now that he had secured my consent, relieved and with a big smile on his face, he got to his feet. I looked at him wondering which of us would come out on top in our future confrontation. Would it be him because he would tell me that he’d saved me my job or would it be me for ridding him of Yanoutsos?
We were at the front door when, suddenly, in an outburst of unprecedented cordiality, he gave me a friendly pat on the back instead of his usual formal handshake. ‘I’ve missed you, Costas,’ he said, ‘I’ve really missed you.’
I wanted to tell him that I’d missed him too, but it didn’t mean very much, because in my case I’d missed everything apart from my own home. So that included him too, but not him personally, he was just a part of the whole.
‘It’s out of the question!’ shouted Adriani, when later we were sitting with Fanis at the table eating our oven-roasted suckling pig with potatoes in a lemon sauce. ‘It’s out of the question for you to drive that old crock in your weak state.’
The old crock was my faithful Mirafiori that had so far managed to avoid the scrapheap and was about to celebrate, humbly and without any fanfares, its thirtieth year on the road. Adriani had digested the fact that she would have Koula round her feet all day long, but the Mirafiori for dessert was too much for her to stomach.
‘I won’t be driving it. Koula can drive,’ I said to appease her.
‘It’s out of the question,’ she yelled again. ‘No one can drive that old banger apart from you.’
‘She’s right about that,’ chipped in Fanis, who was thoroughly enjoying it all. ‘Why don’t you get a new car? With all the easy instalments that they offer today, you won’t have to start paying it off
for at least a year.’
‘I’m not parting with my Mirafiori. It’s still roadworthy.’ I said it with assurance though I wasn’t at all sure that it would start up again after two months of sitting in front of the house.
‘Fine,’ said Adriani. ‘But if anything happens to you, I’ll be straight off to Thessaloniki to stay with my daughter and you can get Koula to take care of you!’ In a temper she diced the meat on her plate into tiny pieces as though she were going to feed the grandchild that she didn’t have.
9
‘Continuation: mod. & demotic, Uninterrupted process or succession, sequel, resumption: Arist. H.A. 515b, 6 continuation of the nerves. Sor. 1/71 continuation to the embryo’s navel.’
‘Beginning: med., mod. & demotic, commencement, start. Plato Rep. 377Athe beginning is the most important part of every task; 2. place where or from something starts. Thucyd. 1, 128 of the whole thing this was the start. Prov. What starts badly will end badly.’
The same question had been going round and round in my head all night: was the mission that Ghikas had assigned me to be regarded as a new beginning or as a continuation of my old situation? Officially, I was still the Head of the Homicide Division on sick leave. Ghikas’s assignment meant neither change nor conversion. It was simply the continuation towards the embryo’s navel as Dimitrakos put it. As though I were a tax official who took care of a few friends’ books on the sly each evening in order to make a bit extra for my holidays.
On the other hand, however, it wasn’t at all certain that I would remain Head of the Homicide Division. Firstly, because suicide is an act, the success of which is enjoyed in full by the one committing the act and consequently there would be nothing for me to cash in on. Secondly, even if I were to manage to make black appear white and squeeze some mileage out of Favieros’s suicide, Yanoutsos in the meantime would have got a firm grip on my position and would pull every string not to have to give up my chair, with its worn leather armrests from which the foam rubber was bursting out. Looking at it this way, the mission assigned to me by Ghikas was a new beginning, which had all the ingredients needed to prove the saying ‘a bad beginning betokens a worse end’.
Che Committed Suicide kj-3 Page 6
