Che Committed Suicide

by Petros Markaris

  An idea suddenly came to me and I called Sarantidis, the publisher of Favieros’s biography.

  ‘Do you by any chance have in your hands a biography of Loukas Stefanakos?’

  ‘No, Inspector.’

  ‘Are you telling me the truth?’

  ‘Why would I lie to you? Besides, you couldn’t stop me publishing it.’

  His disappointment at the other end of the line reached all the way to me. If thanks to Favieros’s biography and suicide he had been overjoyed at the thought of having a bigger office and his own secretary, now he was bewailing the villa he wouldn’t have in Sifnos.

  The lack of a second biography left the field wide open for speculation. The most probable hypothesis was that Favieros had written his autobiography under the pseudonym Minas Logaras, whereas Stefanakos hadn’t given any thought whatsoever to his posthumous reputation.

  Koula came at nine thirty. She too was carrying a plastic bag with all the day’s newspapers. ‘I thought you’d want to read them.’

  ‘Thanks, but I already have. You hang onto them.’

  ‘What, read all those pages? No way!’ she replied. ‘I’ll dump them on the way out.’

  Adriani, who had heard her come in, put down her newspaper and went into the kitchen. ‘Morning, Koula dear,’ she said, as she walked past her.

  From ‘Morning, miss’ to ‘Morning, Koula dear,’ with a warm voice and lips their natural size. The progress was more than impressive. It was only a question of days before the kissing on both cheeks would begin.

  ‘Such a coincidence!’ she said when we went into the sitting room. ‘First Favieros, then Stefanakos …’ And suddenly, as if wanting to erase the scene, she covered her face with her hands. ‘What a horrid spectacle, heavens!’

  ‘Highly unlikely it’s a coincidence. Most probably it’s what the newspapers are all saying: some scandal about to break drove them to suicide.’

  ‘And what are we going to do?’

  ‘We’ll carry on from where we left off.’

  She stared at me in surprise. ‘And Stefanakos?’

  ‘Do you want a little advice? The worst mistake you can make is to leave an investigation in the middle and go off on another. The only sure thing is that both of them will go up in smoke. We’re going to continue with our investigation into the Favieros case, and if it’s in any way linked with Stefanakos, no doubt we’ll find out as we make progress. Unless we are blinded and fail to see it. So tell me, what did you find out yesterday?’

  She looked at me. ‘Some rather strange things,’ she said.

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘I found three people who had bought houses in the area. Two Albanians, one in Vizyis Street, just up from Pantazopoulou Square, and the other in Aiyeiras Street, a cul-de-sac between Konstantinoupoleos Street and Aghias Sofias Street. And a Russo-Pontian, who had bought a place in Larymnis, which is the second parallel to Monis Arkadiou Street.’

  ‘Prices?’

  ‘The Albanian in Vizyis Street bought it for thirty thousand euros, but it’s a one-bedroom flat, around sixty square metres. The second Albanian didn’t want to tell me the exact price; he kept mincing his words, but from what I could understand, he must have paid about the same as the first. Besides, they usually ask one another and then buy. The Russo-Pontian is a bit more interesting because the place he bought is near Moni Arkadiou Street and it’s a two-bedroom flat around eighty square metres.’

  ‘How much?’

  She looked at me and articulated slowly, so I’d have time to digest it. ‘Forty-five thousand euros.’

  So that’s why Favieros bought real-estate agencies in depressed areas. He paid a pittance to the locals, who sold up at any price in order to get out, and asked forty per cent more from the refugees. The difference went into the coffers of Balkan Prospect, most likely as undeclared earnings.

  ‘And they all paid in cash,’ Koula added. ‘No cheques, no bills, no nothing.’

  How else would they pay? They knew nothing of banks or accounts. They hid whatever money they earned under their mattresses.

  ‘It’s downright theft, Inspector.’

  ‘Except that we can’t prove it. We have to know how much each one sold the flats for, how much the others paid and then look at the contracts to compare the sums. Perhaps you could get him like that for tax evasion or open the buyers’ eyes so the estate agencies would end up in court for fraud. Did you find out the name of the public notary?’

  ‘I tried, but I didn’t get anywhere. The people don’t speak Greek. They put some documents in front of them and get them to sign. They have no idea who the notary is or what’s in the documents, nothing.’

  A proper pig in a poke. They were so happy to buy a place of their own that they asked nothing out of fear that the seller might change his mind and not go through with the deal. That’s what they were used to in their own countries: if you open your mouth, you lose everything, and they didn’t know that in Greece whatever little you gain, it’s by shouting and demanding your rights.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Koula said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘One of the Albanians works at Favieros’s construction site at the Olympic Village.’

  I hadn’t imagined the extent of the scam and I was flabbergasted. So this was the system that Favieros, the champion of the immigrants, had set up. On the one hand, he gave them work, and on the other he took back a sizeable part of the wages he paid them through the houses he sold them. If you consider that he had real-estate agencies throughout the country, he must have been making a lot of money. In Greece, he was selling them property at inflated prices, while in their countries, the real-estate agencies were doing exactly the opposite: they were buying up their houses for a pittance. And all this without Favieros appearing anywhere.

  ‘Well done, Koula,’ I said to her genuinely impressed, because I couldn’t believe that an inexperienced police officer could come up with all that information in the space of a few hours.

  ‘Did I do well?’ she asked and her face lit up.

  ‘Exceptionally. If I’d come with you, we might not have done so well.’

  I didn’t tell her that I would have liked to have her working with me on the Force, partly because I had no idea whether I would be returning to the department and partly because I had no idea whether Ghikas would let her.

  What I had to find out was whether the other foreign workers at Favieros’s construction sites also bought flats from his estate agencies. The problem was that I couldn’t go to Balkan Prospect, not because they would conceal that information from me, but because they wouldn’t know since all the deals were done by the local estate agencies. I would have to go to the offices of Domitis Construction to get a list of the foreign employees and then do the rounds of all the estate agencies and make enquiries. It would take me at least two weeks, even if the estate agents agreed to talk, because without incriminating evidence they couldn’t be made to talk. I decided, therefore, to take the shorter route that meant crossing enemy territory, in keeping with the saying that my enemy’s enemy is my friend.

  The other thing I had to find out was the name of the public notary, because he was the only one who knew the names of both the buyers and the sellers as well as the actual price, since it was he who took the cash from the buyer, paid the seller and kept the difference. A real-estate scam is not possible without a trustworthy notary.

  ‘Koula, do you have the names of the Albanians and the Russo-Pontian who bought the flats from Favieros’s agency?’

  ‘Yes, I still have them.’

  ‘Good. I want you to go to the land registry office and find the name of the public notary who prepared the contracts. I’m going to pay a visit to Favieros’s construction site at the Olympic Village.’

  ‘All right.’

  I left her at home and set off. The Mirafiori was like an oven inside even though I’d parked it in the shade. When I reached the junction at Vasileos Konstantinou Aven
ue, I wondered whether it would be better to turn left towards Syntagma Square or right towards Vasilissis Sofias Avenue and take Soutsou Street out into Alexandras Avenue. By the time the lights changed to green, I had decided upon the latter route and I was proven right. Apart from the permanent congestion in Soutsou Street, the road was more or less clear.

  I got to the end of Patission Street drenched in sweat but without too many problems with the traffic. There, however, I made the major mistake of taking the national road in order to reach Menidi via Metamorphosi. The traffic jammed up because of the works for the new Attica bypass. A policeman directed us down a dirt track that had remained from the time when they still grazed goats in Metamorphosi. It took us the best part of half an hour and three tons of dust to cover a distance of two hundred yards, and with a fair amount of anxiety because the engine was overheating and I was afraid the car would eventually come to a stop in the middle of the goat path. Fortunately, the road soon widened again and the car cruised comfortably as far as the turn for Thrakomakedones.

  In less than a quarter of an hour I was at the Olympic Village. I made my way straight to the drainage works that were being constructed by Domitis and looked for the foreman, Karanikas. He was yelling at some workers who were down in a ditch. He saw me but paid no attention and went on with his work. I waited patiently for him to finish because I needed him.

  ‘Why are you chasing after stuff gone stale when there’s plenty of fresh around?’ were his first words when at last he came over to me.

  ‘Which is the stale stuff and which the fresh?’

  ‘The stale is Favieros, the fresh is Stefanakos.’

  His cynicism got on my nerves and I felt like taking him down a piece. ‘Do you find it amusing that two people should commit suicide in front of so many people?’ I asked him, trying to keep a calm voice.

  He shrugged indifferently. ‘What do you want me to do? Feel sorry for them because they were playing the TV game?’

  ‘What TV game?’

  He repeated, almost verbatim, Adriani’s argument. ‘Come off it, don’t tell me that you don’t know that the channel gets them to commit suicide to increase its ratings and cash in on the advertisements. And you’re the police!’

  ‘And you’re telling me that a businessman and a politician would commit suicide because a TV channel asked them to?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard what everyone’s saying? Political scandal! And who’s to tell me that the channel didn’t get wind of it and bribed them into committing suicide in order to get exclusive coverage? Haven’t you seen what they put on the top left of the screen? Exclusive scenes! Doesn’t that tell you anything?’

  It was a good thing that Adriani wasn’t there to hear the full theory. She would have had me down for a nincompoop.

  ‘Never mind about the TV. I came here to ask you something else.’

  ‘Ask away, but make it quick, because we’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Last time you told me that Favieros took good care of the foreign workers.’

  He chuckled smugly. ‘Yes, but the days of the fatted calves are over. Now we’re chasing after cats or the odd stray dog, at most a chicken from Menidi. Each to his own lot.’

  ‘Do you know whether any of them bought houses or flats while they were working here?’

  ‘Any of them? Nearly all of them! You see only misery, do you? It’s all playacting. Favieros was the only one to swallow it and he found homes for them.’

  ‘You mean he helped them to buy their own places?’

  ‘He encouraged them to buy! He would even give them advances for the deal or chip in to make up the amount and then stop it out of their wages little by little.’

  ‘Did he do the same for our people?’

  ‘There are none of our people here, didn’t I tell you? When I asked him for an advance to buy a new car, he suggested I get the company to intervene with the bank so I could take out a loan. But with all the foreigners he was open-handed. That’s why they saw him as their saviour and were all grateful to him.’

  Why wouldn’t they be grateful? Thanks to him, they acquired their own place, something they didn’t have even in their own countries. They had no idea that he was stealing from them and they would never find out. Nor would Karanikas, who took him for a sucker.

  20

  I got back home at four in the afternoon feeling like a roast chicken. Adriani and Koula were in the sitting room with the fan placed between them. With difficulty, I managed to whisper a ‘hello’ and went to the bathroom to catch my breath. I took off my shirt, turned on the tap and stuck my head under it. I let the water run for some time until it went from being lukewarm to cold. I dried myself, changed my shirt and trousers and felt somewhat better.

  Adriani and Koula had moved into the kitchen. The table had been laid, but the heatwave, the congestion and the Olympic Village had made me feel like a marathon runner who had just entered the stadium after twenty-six miles and didn’t even have the strength to open his mouth.

  ‘Sit down and have something to eat,’ Adriani said to me.

  ‘Later. I couldn’t swallow anything right now.’

  ‘Sit down because you’ll miss out on the surprise and you’ll regret it.’

  She shot a sly look at Koula. So now we’re in cahoots, I thought to myself. I decided to play along so as not to spoil the nice atmosphere. Adriani put a plate of baked aubergines in front of me. This was a very pleasant surprise because baked aubergines are my second favourite dish after stuffed tomatoes. To tell the truth, I hate meat. The only meat I eat with pleasure is in kebabs.

  ‘Well, how do you find it?’

  I took a mouthful. ‘Very tasty. Well done, you’ve got it just right.’

  ‘Not me. Koula!’ she replied beaming with satisfaction.

  ‘With Mrs Haritos’s help,’ added Koula, who had gone bright red.

  ‘All I told her was how much oil to use. Everything else she did herself.’

  I would have to readjust the family budget because now I had to add the cookery lessons for Koula with the use of ingredients thrown in free.

  ‘Well done. Koula, it’s very tasty. Congratulations!’ Once they had been awarded the citation, they were ready to return to the sitting room. ‘Did you manage to get away at all from the aubergines to find time to go to the land registry?’ I said, having a dig.

  Adriani continued in the direction of the sitting room. Koula stayed behind and didn’t seem to have been upset at all by my dig, because she gave me a big smile.

  ‘I didn’t need to go to the land registry. I found out the notary’s name from Ilias.’

  ‘And who might Ilias be?’

  ‘Ilias Aristopoulos. The young guy at Domitis who helped me concerning the offshore company?’ She took a piece of paper out of her pocket. ‘His name is Athanassios Karyophyllis and his office is in Solonos Street, number 128.’

  ‘And what did you give him in exchange for the information?’ I asked her meanly, because I couldn’t stomach the fact that, in spite of the aubergines, she had come up trumps.

  She broke into laughter. ‘A drink tonight. We’re meeting at nine thirty, and at eleven thirty, I’ll start to feel sleepy because of the heat and the tiredness and I’ll go home to bed.’

  ‘Smart girl,’ Adriani commented when Koula had left with her standard Tupperware container filled with food. ‘It’s in her blood, she’s a quick learner.’ She paused for a moment and then whispered, as though speaking to herself: ‘Not like our daughter.’

  ‘Are you all right in the head? Are you comparing Koula to Katerina?’ I protested angrily.

  ‘I’m not comparing, but it saddens me. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with books, education, doctorates and the like, but it wouldn’t hurt her to learn how to make a couple of dishes.’

  ‘She must know how to make something. How has she survived for so many years in Thessaloniki?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how. With boiled spaghetti bathed in ketc
hup, eggs and chips. Have you ever eaten chips made by your daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good job for you. Usually they turn out like the balls on Christmas trees, because in her haste she throws them in the pan before the oil is sizzling.’

  ‘She still has time. She’ll learn once she finishes her doctorate.’

  She shook her head as if not believing it. She took it personally that Katerina had no interest whatsoever in cooking.

  Fortunately the sound of the telephone interrupted the unpleasant conversation. It was Ghikas.

  ‘Can you come over or are you busy?’ he asked me.

  ‘Come over where?’

  ‘To my office.’ He realised that I was dumbfounded and he went on: ‘Get into the lift and come straight on up. It doesn’t matter if Yanoutsos or your assistants or any of the others see you. I’ll explain.’

  It was the first time since my having been wounded that I made the journey to Aristokleous Street – Security Headquarters – in the Mirafiori and I was filled with a sense of emotion. A huge poster at the junction of Soutsou Street and Alexandras Avenue informed me that if I were to buy the car advertised, I would get the air conditioning free. The car was just right for me and I gave it some thought till the lights turned to green and I turned left into Alexandras Avenue, but I knew that these were just thoughts fuelled by the heatwave. As soon as it had passed, I would abandon my mental adultery and return to my faithful Mirafiori.

  When you’ve been going up to your Chief’s office for so many years, always finding Koula at her desk outside, you take objection to seeing a uniformed hulk sitting in her place. Even worse was the state of her desk. The pile of papers had covered the entire desktop, leaving only a small square space, about as big as a cake box, in front of the chair. In this square, the hulk had placed a car magazine and was licking his fingers and flicking through it.