Che Committed Suicide

by Petros Markaris

  I told him my name as a formality but he was absorbed in Datsun’s new model and paid no attention to me.

  Ghikas had the air conditioning on full and I felt a shiver run through me as I entered. He lifted his gaze from the Police News that he was browsing through and looked at me.

  ‘Good to see you. Have a seat.’ He pointed to my usual chair that had been occupied by Yanoutsos during my last visit.

  ‘Do you want to start or shall I?’

  ‘Why, have you found out anything?’ he asked hopefully and his eyes shone.

  ‘Yes, though I don’t know whether it has any direct connection with Favieros’s suicide.’

  I began with Favieros’s biography, continued with the offshore company and ended with the real-estate agencies and the scam that was going on. He listened carefully to me and when I had finished shook his head resignedly.

  ‘We’re going to have our hands full with this business, mark my words.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because of what the papers are saying and that you’ve just partially confirmed. Everyone is afraid that there’s some scandal behind it all, but no one can come up with it. The government is panicking and is desperately trying to find a solution. This morning the Secretary General phoned me from the Ministry and asked me to recommend a trustworthy police officer to carry out an informal investigation in the hope of coming up with a lead.’

  The pleasant sense of anticipation created in me following Ghikas’s phone call was slowly turning into a wonderful dream. I saw myself going back to my old office and Yanoutsos packing up his things and leaving for unknown destinations.

  Ghikas picked up a piece of paper lying on his desk and handed it to me. ‘That’s Petroulakis’s mobile phone number. Do you know him?’

  The name meant nothing to me. Ghikas understood and undertook to give me a profile of him. ‘Petroulakis is one of the Prime Minister’s advisers. More, he’s his right hand. Phone him and arrange to meet with him. The Secretary General is of the opinion that if the investigation is carried out off-duty, the reporters are less likely to find out about it. That’s why we came up with this plan. Officially, you’re still on sick leave and Petroulakis has no connection with the Ministry of Public Order. So we’re more or less safe.’

  ‘Does that mean that I’ll still be investigating under cover?’ I had been expecting a different turn of events and I felt deflated.

  ‘Yes, but now you are fully covered by me and you can call me and ask for my help at any time. Koula will continue to assist you. If you want another assistant, it won’t be so easy for me to find someone equally trustworthy, but I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Koula is fine for the time being. How much of what I’ve found out about Favieros shall I tell Petroulakis?’

  ‘Everything. If a scandal is about to break, as I’m very much afraid, it’s better for them to know what they’re getting into from the start. If anything else turns up later that you think you shouldn’t reveal to him, call me and we’ll discuss it.’

  ‘And am I to follow Petroulakis’s instructions?’

  ‘Come on now! What instructions can Petroulakis give you? What does he know about police business and investigations? If he gets smart with you, just say “yes” and then get on with it as you think best.’

  There was nothing else I wanted to ask him and I got up to leave. As I was going towards the door, I heard him say: ‘And give my best to Koula.’

  ‘And I’ll tell her how much you miss her. I saw the state of her desk as I was coming in.’

  ‘Don’t tell her this, but it’s another reason why I want this matter cleared up as soon as possible.’

  I imagined that this was the most generous compliment that Ghikas had ever made. Meanwhile, the hulk at the desk had proceeded from the Datsuns to the Hondas.

  While in the lift, I suddenly got the urge to go down to the cafeteria for a coffee and croissant just as I did when I used to come to work. I was about to press the button but I thought twice about it and went straight down to the garage. If I was spotted, I would have to lie about why I was there and I preferred to avoid it.

  At home, I found Adriani sitting in front of the TV. The scene with Stefanakos’s suicide had just faded from the screen.

  ‘You’re late and you’ve missed the special news bulletin,’ Adriani said.

  ‘What, not another suicide?’ I asked in alarm.

  ‘No, but those nationalists have claimed responsibility for the politician too.’

  I didn’t have to ask what they had said, because I could imagine it word for word. They had claimed that they had forced Favieros to commit suicide because he was employing foreign workers, even more so Stefanakos, who wanted to introduce their languages into Greek schools. Nevertheless, I impatiently waited for the regular news bulletin. Even if all this was just claptrap and the Philip of Macedon organisation had its finger in someone else’s pie, it was quite likely that the announcement would confuse the situation even more and have us turning from scandals to terrorist activities.

  In the meantime, I called Petroulakis on his mobile phone. ‘It’s better if we meet at my place rather than at the office,’ he said. ‘My address is 21 Dafnomili Street, in Lycabettus. Come along tomorrow at nine, but don’t be late because I have a meeting at ten.’

  Just as I expected, the announcement was the main news story. Its format and logo were exactly the same as the previous one and, at first sight, the text appeared to have been written by the same person.

  It began:

  The Philip of Macedon National Greek Front had issued warnings both in words and in deed …

  and went on:

  Unfortunately, those who should have listened to us turned a deaf ear. So, after Jason Favieros, we were also obliged to force the traitor, Loukas Stefanakos, to take his own life. Stefanakos was the biggest rat among all the anti-Greeks. It wasn’t enough for him that all the scum from the Balkans has settled in Greece, he also wanted to pollute the Greek schools with their languages and spread the infection that would destroy us as a nation. Of all the politicians who, today, are betraying our national interests, he was the one leading the round of underbidding. Loukas Stefanakos received the punishment he deserved. We hope, this time, that all the other zealots and champions of the Balkan rabble will get the message. We will continue with our executions till the stables of Augeias are finally cleansed and the Greek Nation is resurrected.

  I thought of Petroulakis’s face the following morning after this announcement and I felt like calling in ill and cancelling the appointment.

  21

  I found a parking spot by the French Institute and said a prayer of thanks. Number 21 Dafnomili Street was a renovated two-storey house from the time when Neapoli was still a petit-bourgeois district in the shadow of the neighbouring high-class Kolonaki. Now, Dafnomili Street and Doxopatri Street, parallel to it, were inhabited by artists, university professors, government officials and all those who couldn’t find a place or were unable to afford the Lycabettus ring road, but who wanted to be able to say that they lived in Lycabettus. Rather like the backside of the Hilton, an area ever growing in size.

  The wooden door was painted crimson with a golden handle and golden letter box, which testified to the fact that the house dated back to the middle of the previous century. I rang the bell and the door was opened not as in the past by some village girl adopted by the household, but by a Thai girl. She neither greeted me nor asked my name, but turned her back to me and began leading the way. When we reached a door, she stood to one side and allowed me to pass, like a hotel groom showing you into a room in a luxury hotel.

  The living room extended through two adjoining rooms separated by an open white door with glass panels. The furniture wasn’t from the same period as the house, but nor was it what you would call modern. It was Louis-style furniture, as Adriani would say; the kind that as a child you see in others’ houses and hope one day you’ll have in yours, even if it
’s no longer hand-carved but is factory-made. On the table in front of the sofa, I saw the morning newspaper. I picked it up to have a quick look, but I was interrupted by a hasty and commanding voice behind me.

  ‘Sit down, Inspector, and let’s get on with it because I have to leave.’

  I turned round and saw a man in his forties, tall and thin, with hair starting to grey at the temples. He was impeccably dressed, an exact copy of the type Adriani drools over in Glamour and all her other TV soaps. I conformed to his wish and sat down.

  ‘Inspector Haritos, isn’t it?’ he asked, as if trying to place me.

  ‘That’s right. Head of Homicide, on sick leave.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Chief Superintendent Ghikas told me in glowing terms of your act of self-sacrifice.’ He paused for a moment, a sign that he was through with the niceties and was about to come straight to the point. ‘Mr Ghikas also told me that you are a trustworthy officer and that I can talk quite openly to you.’ He fell silent and gave me a searching look. What did he expect? That I would confirm it for him? He saw that I had no intention of doing anything of the sort and so he continued: ‘This whole business of the suicides is particularly unpleasant, Inspector. We’re talking about people who are extremely well known in the political and business world. However much we were saddened by the suicide of Jason Favieros, we all believed that the reasons were most likely personal. Loukas Stefanakos’s suicide, however, has overturned that simple explanation. Stefanakos committed suicide just like Favieros; it’s only reasonable to suppose, then, that there’s something linking the two events. And so the government has been burdened with a problem that it wasn’t expecting and one whose solution is out of its hands.’

  ‘The newspapers are talking of a scandal.’

  ‘There is no scandal, believe me. But that is no consolation to us. If there were, it would come out into the open, we would deal with it and that would be the end of it. But a non-existent scandal is a festering wound that could remain like that for weeks, even for months.’

  ‘I quite understand, Mr Petroulakis,’ trying to emphasise my understanding by my tone of voice. ‘Tell me how I might help.’

  ‘We want you, very discreetly, to discover the reasons why Favieros and Stefanakos committed suicide.’

  ‘That might take us some time, without even being certain that we’ll come up with something.’ I reflected as to whether I should continue and I voted in favour. After all, it was better that they should know what they were getting into, as Ghikas had told me the previous day. ‘We have no idea what we might uncover in the course of the investigations.’

  He looked at me, more out of curiosity than concern. ‘What do you think you might uncover exactly?’

  I told him about the whole business with Favieros, the real-estate agencies and the foreign workers who bought flats through them. He listened to me impatiently and every so often glanced at his watch to remind me that he had an urgent meeting. When I got to what Karanikas had told me, his patience ran out and he interrupted me.

  ‘I don’t believe that the reasons for Favieros’s suicide had to do with business, Inspector. You should look elsewhere.’

  ‘Where else, Mr Petroulakis? If he had any personal problems, his family and colleagues would have been aware of it. But they know absolutely nothing. And even if there were any, it would be a huge coincidence if the same personal problems also led Stefanakos to commit suicide.’

  ‘I’m not talking of personal problems, Inspector. I’m talking about those extreme right-wing nationalists who claim to have forced them into suicide.’

  I started to wonder whether I really did have an adviser to the Prime Minister in front of me. Even the explanation put forward by Adriani and Karanikas about them being blackmailed by the TV channel was more believable.

  ‘What can I say …’ I replied as cautiously as possible. ‘If they had been murdered, I could understand it. Even if they hadn’t done it themselves, we would have found some lead. But suicides … It seems very unlikely to me.’

  ‘But they’ve admitted it themselves.’

  ‘When we catch them, they’ll deny everything, and we won’t have any evidence at all to indict them with.’

  ‘And what about the two Kurds who were murdered?’

  ‘We might get them for the murder of the Kurds, but we won’t have any evidence linking them to the suicides.’

  He leaned over and picked up the newspaper from the table. He unfolded it and pointed to a particular spot. ‘Read it and you’ll understand,’ he said.

  ‘It was the leading article. I read at the spot he had pointed to.

  All the rumours that the two men were being blackmailed by the TV channel that broadcast the suicides live are ridiculous and completely ungrounded.

  Even in the hypothetical case that the channel was in possession of certain information, it is ethically unacceptable for anyone to claim that the channel would endeavour to urge a well-known businessman and a Member of Parliament to commit suicide, regardless of whether it might succeed or not.

  ‘Do you see where all this stuff and nonsense leads, Inspector? As if the supposed scandal weren’t enough, before long we’ll also have the supposed blackmailing by the channel. They’re already starting to put it around.’

  ‘And who will believe it, Mr Petroulakis?’

  ‘Everyone,’ he replied, without the slightest hesitation.

  I held my tongue, because Adriani and Karanikas had already believed it. The two bodies had turned to mud that they were all throwing at each other: the Opposition at the Government over a scandal and the press at the TV over blackmail.

  ‘You’re right, but what connection do the nationalists have with all that?’

  He stood over me and looked me in the eye from above.

  ‘The police officers of your generation underestimate the extreme right-wing factions, Inspector. I’m not saying that by way of reproach, I know that’s how you were weaned. But, since being a high-school pupil, I’ve been in conflict with them and I know only too well their methods and what they’re capable of doing. If you were to arrest them tomorrow, I can assure you that you would have public opinion on your side and no one would doubt that they had done it.’

  So he had finally opened up and I could see now where he was leading. He couldn’t care less whether I found the reasons behind the suicides of a tycoon and a politician. All he wanted was for me to pin it on the extreme right so that the case would be closed and he would be able to relax. I was about to tell him straight when I suddenly remembered Ghikas’s words: ‘Whatever he tells you, just say “yes”.’ For once in my life, I decided to take his advice.

  ‘I see, Mr Petroulakis. Of course, we’ll need to get hold of some evidence to make the accusation stick.’

  My reply pleased him and he smiled with satisfaction. ‘I’m certain you’ll come up with the evidence. I have every confidence in your abilities.’ He held out his hand to tell me that the conversation was over. ‘And we’ll be in touch,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘But always call me on my mobile phone, not on the landline.’

  It made no difference to me where I called him. My problem was elsewhere. I wondered what I would have to tell him the next time I called him. I was met outside by the Thai girl, who, like a guard of honour, showed me to the door.

  As I was going down Octaviou Merlie Street in order to turn into Ippokratous Street and come out into Solonos Street, I reflected that it was the first time that I had felt Ghikas was lending me his support. I couldn’t decide whether this was because he had a genuine liking for me or whether it was due to the fact that Yanoutsos got on his nerves more than I did. Most likely the latter. Of course, this support might simply be due to the fact that I was carrying out an unofficial investigation and, not only that, but while on sick leave too. If something were to go wrong, he hadn’t given me any official orders and consequently he didn’t bear any of the responsibility. Thinking it over again, I decided that this was the more li
kely explanation. It had nothing to do with his either liking or disliking me, or with his being at cross-swords with Yanoutsos. He was helping me because he was in no danger of compromising himself and, at the same time, he was getting rid of Yanoutsos. I wasn’t sure whether this thought angered me because it made me see Ghikas’s ulterior motives or whether it relieved me because it put him back in his proper place and didn’t upset the existing balance of things.

  I found a space for the Mirafiori in the parking lot at the corner of Solonos Street and Mavromichali Street. Number 128 was an old building, something between a large apartment block and a small office block, quite common for buildings from the fifties. Karyofyllis’s office was on the fifth floor. I stepped out of the lift into a dim corridor with mosaic floors, the kind that still look filthy no matter how often you clean them.

  However, Karyofyllis’s office dispelled the previous impression. I crossed a carpeted hallway and entered a spacious and well-lit office with two secretaries sitting in front of computers. Between the two secretaries was a door with plastic casing and gold studs, rather like a square tray of baklava. Judging from its appearance, this must have been the door leading to Karyofyllis’s office.

  One of the secretaries looked up and stared at me, while the other continued punching the computer keys. I adopted my official tone of voice and said curtly:

  ‘Inspector Haritos. I’m here to see Mr Karyofyllis. It’s an urgent matter.’

  My tone of voice made the other secretary look up from her computer. ‘Please have a seat for a moment,’ the first one said as she went through the baklava door. She came back out in less than a minute and told me to go in.

  Karyofyllis’s office was the same as that of his secretaries, but one notch higher in quality. The carpet was thicker, the desk bigger and the back of his chair higher. The secretaries had a fan; here there was air conditioning. Karyofyllis was about my age, wearing a suit, with black hair and a thin moustache that made him resemble a certain popular singer of bouzouki songs from the sixties. As soon as he saw me, he got to his feet and held out his hand.