by Leo Kanaris
Frustrated, George tried to think of other things. Forcing his mind away from the obsessive microscopic mapping of that single destructive moment, he turned his gaze to the present – the fluid, slippery present, always moving, never to be seized – and the dazzling arena of sea and sky through which the Aghios Nektarios was gliding like a ghost. It was a familiar scene, yet it began changing before his eyes, flaring out into a photographic negative of itself, where white stood for black and black for white. The mountains dissolved into air, the sea into smoke, the sky hardened into sheet metal. The furious heat transformed everything, vaporising rock and condensing light and air into hard-edged solids. Even with the sea breeze blowing, the sun felt like a surgeon’s blade cutting through him. He felt light-headed, transparent, as if every atom in his body had turned to pure oxygen.
It lasted fifteen seconds, no more. Then the heat seeped into him, began cooking his brain. It was time to move.
He walked along the deck to the heavy steel door that led into the bar. As he swung it open, a blast of cold air engulfed him. He ordered an iced coffee, still in a near-hallucinatory state, hearing his voice as if it belonged to someone else. He found a seat at a small table, sipped his coffee and made an attempt to gather himself.
A television was gabbling in a corner of the saloon. A woman with swollen legs propped on a chair was eating a cake and staring at her thin, worried husband with a look of hatred. A mother sat contentedly with her two small children, one on either side of her, curled up and fast asleep.
With his head cooling down, George pursued an idea that had begun to form in the heat outside. It was to do with negatives and silhouettes, cut-outs and the shapes that are left behind.
He took out his phone and called Takis Mitropoulos.
‘Taki, can you do me a favour? I need a photocopy of the Aegina firearms register. Every page. Can you organise that?’
‘I’m not sure, George.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘They’re keeping the documents locked away for the special investigator. I broke the rules when I looked at the forensic report. I’ve been up before a superior for that.’
‘How come?’
‘I asked to see the documents and someone reported me. The papers are hot. It’s not my case and I had to explain my interest in it. That was tricky.’
‘Why?’
‘The simplest explanation fills them with suspicion. “Helping a friend” translates into “I’m a member of a criminal network”. If you’re genuine they go crazy because they can’t spot the trick.’
‘All I’m trying to do is keep an innocent man out of prison! And put a guilty one in. The police would be doing it if they weren’t such slaves to their bloody procedures!’
‘I know that, George.’
‘Is there nothing you can do?’
Takis was silent for a few moments.
‘Let me give it some thought,’ he said finally. ‘My story has to stand up.’
‘It has to be consistent with the first one, presumably.’
‘OK. So why am I going back?’
‘Different document.’
‘I can’t photocopy it, George. They’ll kill me.’
‘Photograph it?’
‘No. The most I can do is consult it. In front of an officer.’
‘Could you check it against a list of names?’
‘How long is the list?’
‘Fifteen names.’
‘Fifteen? That’s quite a few… And one of them is the killer?’
‘Very probably.’
‘Only he won’t be in the register, because the page has been removed?’
‘Exactly. The missing one is the prime suspect.’
‘Suppose there’s more than one name missing?’
‘It’s still better than fifteen.’
Takis took a few moments to think about this.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll try. Where’s the list?’
‘I’ll email it to you when I get home. A couple of hours from now.’
‘I can’t guarantee anything, George.’
‘That’s understood.’
For the next part of the journey home – entering the harbour at Piraeus, tying up, leaving the ship and dodging along the filthy pavements, through the crowd of trinket-sellers to the railway station – George fought a battle inside himself between anger and detachment. Anger was justified but useless. Detachment was necessary but unattainable. The two impulses slugged it out, too evenly matched to produce a quick result. Once he was on the train, rattling uptown towards Omonia, the tussle died down. He took a notebook and pen from his pocket and made a list of the things the police ought to be doing and probably weren’t. As soon as he arrived home he would send the email to Takis, then get on the phone to Sotiriou. Better still he would go and see him. Eyeball the man, show him some righteous rage.
28
‘I can give you five minutes,’ said Sotiriou.
‘That’s all I need. Can we go up to your office?’
‘Not now.’
They were standing in the entrance lobby of the Violent Crimes Building, a bare, grim space with nowhere to sit down. The only furniture was a desk and chair occupied by a bored young policeman.
OK, thought George, have it your way.
In a deliberately neutral voice he said, ‘I need to ask you some questions.’
Sotiriou said nothing. His eyes rested calmly on George. Waiting.
‘Question one: have you spoken to Sophocles Ghiotis about the fire at Paranoia FM?’
Sotiriou was silent.
‘Question two: have you checked the pistols carried by the Russian bikers who attacked my colleague the other night? Question three: have you investigated the abuse of the Aegina firearms register?’
Sotiriou watched him as he spoke, his eyes two slits reflecting the grey light of the lobby.
‘Well?’ said George.
‘All of these matters are being investigated.’
‘Meanwhile two innocent people are arrested.’
‘Two?’
‘Colonel Varzalis and myself.’
‘I have just signed the papers for Colonel Varzalis to be released on grounds of ill health. Pending trial, that is. It will be months, if not years, before his case comes before a judge. Or yours for that matter. Meanwhile you’re free to operate, travel, work…’
‘I am not free to travel! My passport is being held.’
‘I meant in Greece.’
‘Suppose I need to go abroad?’
Sotiriou shrugged. ‘I’m sure something can be arranged.’
George felt like picking him up by the collar and smashing him into the wall. ‘When we first met,’ he said, ‘you told me you were against corruption. You gave me a great speech about discipline and order. I believed you. Now I think you’re lying like the rest of them. Worst of all, you’re lying to yourself. The system’s rotten right through! If you create a little area of discipline and order, all you do you is slow things down!’
‘OK, I’ve heard what you’ve got to say, so now…’
‘There’ll be more deaths soon. You’ll see.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Ghiotis, Varzalis, maybe me.’
‘Just be patient. It will all work out.’
‘If you do nothing else,’ said George, ‘check those Russian bikers’ guns against forensic and ballistic reports. I’ll put money on their involvement…’
‘It will be done.’
‘When? That’s the question!’
‘I have to go.’
Sotiriou turned towards the lift and pressed the call button. The lift doors opened. He was about to move forward, but stopped. Standing inside the lift was Kakridis, explosive with rage. His two bodyguards, sensing the tension, reached into their jackets.
‘Minister –’ Sotiriou began.
Kakridis cut him off impatiently. ‘Forget it,’ he said, and hurried out.
As he walked home, George considered what he had seen. It was a fair bet that Kakridis had been in Sotiriou’s office. The meeting did not seem to have gone well. And why was the minister visiting the policeman, not the policeman the minister? This was odd.
His thoughts were interrupted by a call from Pezas.
‘I’m with Mrs Kakridis,’ he said. ‘She wants to talk to us both. Urgently. In a private place.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Kolonaki.’
‘Can you come to my flat? I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
He hurried on. The phone rang again. It was Takis.
‘I tried to see the firearms register but it’s not here anymore.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘It’s vanished.’
‘Some official must have taken it.’
‘There’s no evidence of that. The special investigator’s mystified. My only guess is that it got into the wrong removal box.’
‘What a bloody circus!’
‘By the way, I know one of the names on the list.’
‘Which one?’
‘Leonardos Kotsis. The retired policeman.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing wrong with him. He’s a good man.’
‘I had that impression.’
‘I’m glad about that. Stay in touch.’
*
Mrs Kakridis sat in the armchair by the French window, a stylish figure in a cream linen dress. Her bare, tanned legs were crossed. Her nicely cut dark hair framed a troubled face. George found it hard at first not to think of the photographs he had taken of her at her husband’s request, at the window of a hotel room. Then she started to say things that made him forget the past.
‘My husband’s not a bad man,’ she said. ‘He believes in his party, believes in Greece. He’s been good to me and the children.’
‘That sounds like the prelude to bad news,’ said George.
She glanced at him darkly. ‘There’s been a change.’
‘What sort of change?’
‘His manner… His attitude to me.’
‘Are we talking about the affair with Mrs Boiatzis?’
‘No. Apart from that. Something deeper. His character has hardened. He’s lost the kindness he once had.’
‘What do you expect us to do about that?’ said Pezas. ‘We’re detectives, not marriage counsellors.’
‘He’s also keeping bad company.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Men who drive around in jeeps with tinted windows. Mean-faced. Their chauffeurs look military. Lots of muscle. They have the paranoid look of professional security men. Only these guys are on the wrong side. They’re the people you hire security to protect you against.’
‘How can you be sure they’re “on the wrong side”, as you put it?’
‘There’s an atmosphere about them. Good people don’t give me the creeps like that.’
‘Anything else?’
‘They come to the house at strange times.’
‘Have you talked to them?’
‘Never. My husband deals with them. They talk outside the house.’
‘Long conversations?’
‘Five, ten minutes.’
‘Does money change hands?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you taken any photos of these people? Or noted down the number plates of their cars?’
‘No.’
‘It would help if you could do that.’
She gave George a challenging look.
‘Isn’t that your speciality?’
He wondered if her husband had shown her the photographs of her infidelity.
‘All forms of surveillance are our speciality,’ he said. ‘But if we do it, it’s going to cost. Not just for the pictures but the waiting time. On the other hand if you do it…’
‘The cost is no problem.’
‘There are logistical difficulties too. We would need to install video cameras without your husband’s knowledge.’
‘Suppose you just waited outside the house? When they come I’ll alert you.’
‘24-hour live surveillance? That’s extremely expensive.’
‘I’ve told you, the cost is irrelevant.’
‘Are there plenty of cars parked in your street?’ asked Pezas.
‘A few. Why?’
‘We don’t want to be noticed. How about security firms patrolling the area?’
‘Several.’
‘Then the street’s too risky. They’ll be onto us quick as anything.’
‘I have another idea,’ said George. ‘Can you borrow your husband’s phone for an hour?’
‘Possibly at night, when he’s asleep. Why?’
‘I want a list of the numbers he’s called in the last two weeks.’
‘He’s very touchy about his phone.’
‘Of course…’
‘But then he’s touchy about a lot of things.’
‘What about his computer?’
‘Out of bounds!’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He says women don’t understand technology.’
‘Predictable. His desk?’
‘He doesn’t like me to touch anything.’
‘Can you take a discreet look?’
‘He’d notice.’
‘When he’s away from home?’
‘He locks everything. He’s incredibly precise and methodical. I’d need to copy his keys, sneak in there when the staff aren’t looking, and leave everything exactly as I found it. To the nearest millimetre.’
‘It can be done if you’re careful.’
‘I don’t trust myself.’
‘Does he have security cameras? Alarms?’
‘The full package.’
‘What do you think your husband’s up to?’ asked Pezas.
‘I wish I knew!’
‘This is all so vague…’
‘I understand that. But a wife knows when her husband changes.’
‘What do you hope to achieve by getting us involved?’
‘If he’s doing something illegal, I want to stop him.’
‘How will you stop him?’
‘I’ll confront him.’
‘Will that be enough?’
‘It always has been in the past. I don’t think he’ll risk losing me.’
‘Is there a special reason for that?’ asked Pezas.
‘You don’t need to know. Just take my word for it.’
‘OK,’ said George, ‘I think we can make a start. Find a time to borrow your husband’s phone. It may cost you a sleepless night.’
‘That’s OK.’
They agreed terms and Mrs Kakridis left.
‘Unhappy woman,’ said Pezas.
‘Wouldn’t you be, married to that man?’
‘What do you think he’s up to?’
‘I don’t know. I bumped into him today at the Violent Crimes Unit. My guess is he’s trying to frighten Sotiriou.’
‘Was Sotiriou helpful?’
‘To Kakridis or me?’
‘You.’
‘No. I don’t know whose side he’s on. I’m not even sure he does.’
Pezas sat thinking in silence.
‘Somewhere this must all crack open,’ he said.
Feeling suddenly thirsty, George suggested, ‘Beer?’
‘Sounds good to me.’
He brought two cold Amstels from the fridge and levered off the caps.
‘I see two ways to go forward,’ said Pezas. ‘One through Mrs Kakridis. The other through your radio man, Ghiotis.’
‘He’s no help.’
‘True, but he’s stirring things up. Maybe we can give him a lead or two?’
‘I’ve tried that. He’s made of the same hard stuff as Sotiriou. Knows it all. Won’t listen.’
; ‘Let’s see what his website says. That might give us an opening.’
George opened his laptop and brought up Paranoia FM. A bland corporate website appeared, with studio shots of the presenters and too many advertising links.
‘This is bullshit,’ said George.
‘I think Ghiotis has a blog,’ said Pezas. ‘Try that.’
George quickly found it: a crude, urgent page, without a hint of commerce. They scrolled through some recent entries.
Greece’s enslavement to the IMF continues… New humiliations… What happened to our rights? Pensioners betrayed… The slow death of a railway network… Whose environment? Democracy for sale… Is your workplace a death trap?
‘Hold on,’ said George. ‘Let’s look at that.’
They clicked on the ‘workplace’ link and found a short article about the fire in the bank in May. ‘People who throw molotov cocktails into banks are idiots – we all know that. What turned them into killers was the bank’s indifference to the lives of their staff. By locking the fire exits, the bank turned a political gesture into a murder. The police should prosecute the executives of the bank. They are the real killers.’
‘Is that right?’ asked George. ‘About the fire exits?’
‘I haven’t checked.’
‘The bank could be liable for compensation.’
‘Even if he’s right, I don’t like his tone.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s nasty, snide, accusing.’
‘Understandably!’
Pezas was getting animated. ‘He’s a communist. Usual crap. Banks, capitalism, government. Plenty of criticism. No constructive programme.’
‘Usable fire exits seems like a pretty constructive programme to me.’
‘Look at the rest of it. He’s supporting all these strikes, attacking the EU and the IMF, he’s totally irresponsible!’
‘Let’s see what he says about defence contracts…’
