Deadline in Athens kj-1

by Petros Markaris

  The reporters had all left, and the corridor was empty; we bumped into the director, so I didn't have to go looking for him. In any case, as it turned out, Manisalis knew nothing of any importance. After the news bulletin had begun, his girl assistant had come running in and told him that she'd found Karayoryi dead. He had taken a quick look from the makeup room doorway and realized that there was no point in going into the room. He'd gone on running the ads, but he hadn't rushed to the phone as Zoumadaki had told me. First, he had informed Sperantzas. He had telephoned the police only after first sending a camera to makeup at around ten past twelve.

  I still had no idea why she had been killed, but at least I was clear as to how and when the murder had occurred. Sometime between eleven-thirty and twelve, Karayoryi had gone to see Sperantzas and told him that she wanted a slot on the late-night news. At three minutes past twelve, Zoumadaki had found her dead. So the murder had taken place in the course of that half hour. She had known the murderer. He'd been sitting beside her in makeup, talking to her. He'd got up, probably still talking, and had started playing with the light stand. He'd gone up to her, still chatting away. She'd seen him in the mirror while she was putting on her makeup, but her thoughts hadn't turned to anything bad. And once he'd got behind her, he'd raised the rod and run her through with it. If there were fingerprints on the rod, his might be among them. If there weren't any, that meant he'd wiped it before opening the door and disappearing. If the murderer was someone from outside the Hellas Channel, then I had to keep my fingers crossed and hope that he had been seen entering or leaving. If he was someone who worked there, then we were sailing in the southern Aegean against a gale-force wind.

  The newsroom was a large open area with ten desks arranged in three rows of three, three, and four. The walls were bare. No one had thought to hang a picture, even a calendar-a sign that those who used it were merely passing through. They stayed there as long as they needed to do their work and then left, either for the studio or the street. At one end was a space separated by a glass partition. It was small, like a cubicle, just big enough for a desk and two chairs with a coffee table between them.

  "The news editor's office," Sperantzas said.

  "Which was Karayoryi's desk?" He pointed it out, the second one in the second row. I took out her keys, found the one that fitted the drawer, and opened it. "I won't be needing you any further," I said to Sperantzas, as I began looking through its contents. He appeared to hesitate. He was curious and wanted to stay. "I thought you said you were beat? Go on then." He'd said it and he couldn't take it back, so he turned and left.

  Her desk was one of the smaller ones and it had only two drawers on the right-hand side. In the first drawer I found two notepads, a reporter's pad and a larger one for correspondence, and some cheap Biros, the kind that companies issue to their staff. I opened the second drawer. At the front was a small packet of colorfully wrapped toffees. It seemed that she liked chewing, perhaps to help her come up with ideas when she got stuck with her writing. There was a desk set, consisting of a letter opener and some scissors, in an expensive leather case still in the cellophane wrapping. Obviously a gift that she hadn't opened. And at the back there was a desk diary bearing the logo of some insurance company. I flicked through the diary. It was empty; she'd made no notes.

  Puzzled, I stood over the drawers. There was something missing. Didn't she have a Filofax, damn it? It was unheard of for a reporter not to have a Filofax. That was where they noted everything: telephone numbers, information, loans and debts, professional and personal contacts, loves and hates, friendships and enmities. Filofax, the gospel of the modern Christian. Didn't Karayoryi have a gospel? Impossible. So where had it disappeared to? Usually, they carried it with them, so it should have been in her bag, but it wasn't. She might have locked it in her desk, but it wasn't there either. Could she have left it at home? Perhaps, but I thought it unlikely. Most probably the murderer had taken it, either because he was looking for something, or because it contained some incriminating information about him.

  "Delopoulos, the studio director, would like to see you in his office," said Sotiris from the doorway.

  "Right. Tell him I'll be along shortly."

  "Do you want me for anything else, or can I go home?" he said, significantly.

  "You can stay here," I told him severely. "You can go and find the security guard who was on duty around eleven at the entrance and tell him to wait for me, because I want to talk to him."

  "Yes, sir," he said and went off sulking. I could have taken care of it over the phone from Delopoulos's office, but it didn't seem right to me for a subordinate to be at home snoring in his bed while his superior was slaving away into the small hours. These new officers were all milksops. They wanted to do nothing but lounge about all day at their desks wittering on about their Hyundai Excel or their Toyota Starlet. If there was a way to do it, they'd issue a memo demanding that crimes take place only between nine and five, not including Sundays and federal holidays.

  CHAPTER 11

  Delopoulos's office was a three-roomed penthouse suite, seventy meters square, with a lounge, dining area, bedroom, hall, and bathroom, all open plan, except for the bathroom. He was sitting behind a desk that was a basketball court compared to Ghikas's Ping-Pong table. On the south-facing side of the suite, there was a huge oblong table with ten high-backed chairs around it. The chair at the head of the table had a higher back and arms, whereas the others were armless. Across from Delopoulos's desk was a TV screen, five times bigger than the normal ones. It was off and the screen reflected his face and mine.

  I wondered whether I should play the TV soap policeman who yelled all the time, given that I was in a TV studio, but that dickhead only shouted at women and small fries, whereas I had to deal with Delopoulos.

  He was a tall, lanky man, balding, and with a sour expression. Right now his expression was a picture of grief, but given his face, this too appeared sour.

  "I am completely shocked, Inspector Haritos," and he repeated it so as to leave me in no doubt. "Completely shocked. Yanna Karayoryi was an exceptional woman and a talented reporter. Her colleagues called her the sleuth. I regarded that as a mark of honor, one she had most justly earned." He paused, looked at me, and added, stressing each word, "And apart from being a colleague here at the channel, she was also a personal friend."

  I had to stop myself from wondering aloud if she was also his bit on the side, because the way that Karayoryi did as she pleased meant that she had someone high up watching over her.

  "Do you have any clues? Any information to give me? Is there anyone you suspect?"

  "It's too early to say, Mr. Delopoulos. We do know, at least, the time of the murder and that the murderer was someone she knew because, before he killed her, they were chatting together in makeup."

  "Then it must be someone she'd exposed, someone who had been damaged by her revelations and was looking for revenge. That's where you should begin your investigations."

  Now he was telling me where I should start looking. I'd got another Ghikas on my hands. "Mr. Sperantzas told me that Karayoryi had asked to appear on the late-night news because she had a bombshell to deliver."

  "That's what Sperantzas told me too, but I knew nothing. And I didn't need to know what it was; I had total confidence in her."

  "Do you know what she was investigating in particular of late?"

  "No, but even if there was something in particular, I wouldn't have known. Karayoryi never disclosed what she was working on, or the information she had unearthed. She never got it wrong, and I'd given instructions that she be left alone to get on with her work." He stopped, leaned toward me, and said, "Come what may, you will have as much help as you need from us. Tomorrow morning, I will put two of my reporters on the case. They will be in constant contact with you."

  "Let them search, of course. Any help is welcome;" I said with an excessive willingness, which seemed to please him. "But let's not make any bets as to who fin
ds something first, and let's make sure we don't get under each other's feet."

  That took the wind out of his sails, because he suddenly turned cold toward me. "What do you mean exactly? Speak openly. You realize, of course, that Yanna Karayoryi was one of our star reporters and her murder is of direct concern to us."

  "I do realize that, Mr. Delopoulos. But this evening, Mr. Sperantzas gave the news of Karayoryi's murder on the late-night bulletin before informing the police. I'm not saying that this will cause us serious problems, but it could. So it would be wise if your people consulted you before taking any similar initiatives."

  "A reporter's work is to inform the public, Inspector Haritos," he said in the same icy tone. "Swiftly and accurately. When he steals a march on a rival, even on the police, that is a bonus for the channel. I should congratulate Mr. Sperantzas and not threaten him, as you did."

  I should have expected it. Sperantzas had shot off his mouth about Kostarakou, his colleague; why wouldn't he have done the same about me?

  "We wish to cooperate with the police. But for us, Karayoryi's murder is in the nature of a family matter. I require, therefore, that you keep us informed as to the course of your investigations, and exclusively us, not the other channels. Objectivity and impartiality do not apply in this case" He paused, looked at me, and went on deliberately: "Otherwise, I shall have no choice but to convey the information we gather to the minister responsible, who as it happens is a friend of mine, and you'll get it relayed to you from him."

  In case the point needed underlining, he also gave me a meaningful look-apparently he regarded all police officers as backward third worlders, so speaking to them rudely wasn't enough; you also had to browbeat them with looks and hints to be sure the message had sunk in.

  "I'm sure that our cooperation will be of the best possible kind," he said, cordial once more and holding out his hand.

  As I was shaking his hand, it occurred to me that I was at that moment inaugurating an agreement between the FBI and CNN and that we wouldn't catch the murderer in a month of Sundays, unless, that is, we bumped into a good fortune teller.

  I left with my tail between my legs.

  Sotiris was waiting for me in the entrance. Standing beside him was a young kid dressed like a security guard. Blue-eyed with closecropped hair, he held his arms and legs apart to make himself seem stockier. A chubby backstreet marine. And a lucky kid. If he'd been in a gang selling protection, we might very well have run him in. Whereas now he was working for a company, drawing a salary every month and eyeing me like a colleague.

  "Did you know Karayoryi?" I asked him.

  "Of course I knew her. I know them all, every one of them. My memory is like a computer."

  "Forget the computers and tell me about Karayoryi. What time did she arrive tonight?"

  "Eleven-fifteen. I always check."

  He was playing with fire, this one. He'd no idea how close I was to the end of my tether. "Was she alone?"

  "All alone'

  "Perhaps she came with someone who left her at the gate."

  "If someone dropped her outside on the road, that I wouldn't know, because you can't see it from here. She was alone when she got to the studio."

  "Did you see anyone unfamiliar leaving the studio? Or someone you've never seen before?"

  "No. No one."

  "Did you leave your post at any time?"

  He didn't answer this last question immediately. He appeared to be giving it some thought. Finally, he mumbled, "For two minutes only. Vangelis, my colleague, who was on duty in the boss's office, came and told me that Karayoryi had been found dead. I ran back upstairs with him, because I thought that most people are inexperienced in such matters-they might have made a mess of it."

  "And you, with all your years of experience, what were you going to do? Bring her back to life?" I screamed, furiously. It seemed that this computer had crashed, because he didn't know how to answer and remained silent.

  "Take his details and arrange for him to come to make a statement," I said to Sotiris.

  As I went out to the street to retrieve my car, which I had left parked up on the curb, it began drizzling. That, at least, was something.

  CHAPTER 12

  Karayoryi lived in Lycabettus, not far from the Doxiadis building. She woke up every morning, saw the wood from her window, and lived with the illusion of being in the countryside. Now, too, it was morning, nine o'clock, except that it was raining cats and dogs. The windshield wipers on my Mirafiori were working only at slow. By the time they'd swept one wave of water off and were ready to get to work in reverse, the windshield was awash again. I had to strain my eyes to maintain a steady distance from the car crawling in front of me. I missed the house. I'd almost gone past it when I saw the patrol car parked outside and I braked sharply. "Where did you learn to drive, moron?" shouted the driver of the car behind me. "Is that how you brake on a wet road? You'd have been better off sticking to a donkey!" And all this to the accompaniment of his horn. In the end, he held up the flat of his hand to me, end quotes. I pretended not to notice any of it. There was a space behind the patrol car. I backed into it.

  The house was an old two-story building, yellow with orange shutters and a wrought-iron door with leaf patterns. It recalled the elegant houses on Akritas Street in the good days. I switched off the engine but stayed in the car. I'd slept for no more than two hours and had woken up with a fearful headache. The aspirin I'd taken before leaving home did nothing for me. My head was bursting and my temples felt as if they were clamped in a vise. I looked at the door to the house, which was half open. From the car to the front door was three strides, but in the rain it seemed enormous and I didn't dare move.

  I must have looked suspicious to the two police officers in the patrol car because one of them got out and came over to me. I opened the door and sprang out. "Inspector Haritos," I barked as I hurried past him. By the time I got into the house I was soaking and my socks were squelching inside my shoes. God-awful weather.

  The hall was small, marble-floored, and had two doors, one to the right and one to the left. At the far end was a narrow wooden staircase, with a polished handrail, leading to the second floor. I opened the door on the right and found myself in Karayoryi's study. Dimitris, from records, was standing in front of a small fitted bookcase, looking through some folders.

  "Do we have anything?"

  He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Computers," he said.

  I looked at the computer screen facing the desk chair and I realized what he meant. They'd have to take the computer and all the disks to the lab to begin looking: to see what was stored, to do a first check, to print out whatever was there, and then send it all to us for evaluation. At the rate they worked in the lab, it would be three to four days at best. Long gone were the good old days when we had to deal with handwritten scripts, typed pages, notes on scraps of paper, on cigarette boxes, on the backs of old bills. We'd take them down to the station and find clues from the style of the handwriting or from a typewriter's a missing its tail. Nowadays, you don't know whether you're watching Ben Hur or reading a purchase agreement. You don't know where to start.

  "Leave that to me and go and do something else," I said to Dimitris. He didn't need telling twice. He was off before I could change my mind.

  The room was square, as in all the old houses. The desk was a wooden one, with carved legs. A solicitor's desk. She must have inherited it from her father or an uncle. When you sat at the desk, you could see the Lycabettus bypass through the window. The rain was coming down in torrents still, and the traffic poured on, nose to tail, horns honking like the devil. The window was small, and the room must have been dark even when the sun was out. Now, with the rain, if you didn't put the light on, you'd be feeling your way in the dark. On either side of the window were two old leather armchairs, which matched the desk.

  The wall on the right was floor-to-ceiling shelves. In places the books were tightly packed, and in others they we
re sparse. They were arranged according to subject. I was more interested in the fitted bookcase on the left-hand wall because there were files on the top shelf, while on the rest were heaps of envelopes and papers, either loose or in plastic folders.

  I'd be a real moron to waste my whole day going through that pile of paper. It was the job of the boys in records, after all, to sort it and bring me the findings. But, as if wanting to prove that I was a moron, I reached up and took down the first file. I flicked through it and put it down immediately. It was full of bills: electricity, telephone, and water bills. I took the second file down: her tax declarations. For the previous year, she'd declared twelve million drachmas net. The largest amount, 8,400,000, was her salary at the channel. I did a quick calculation. She earned six hundred thousand a month. Six hundred thousand for getting information from me and coming out with it on the screen. Whereas I, who handed it to her on a plate, had worked for twenty-five years to get to the point of earning half what she earned. Given the chasm that separated us, it was only natural that she should look down on me and that I should think she was a lesbian.

  The rest of her income was from renting a two-room apartment she owned in Ambelokipi and from a book she'd published, entitled A Quiet Man. Attached to the declaration was a copy of the statement from the publishing company. I went over to the large bookcase, took it down from the third shelf, and saw that the book was based on her big success investigating the Kolakoglou affair.

  Petros Kolakoglou was a tax consultant who had been convicted three years ago of the rape of two young girls. One was his goddaughter, who was only nine at the time. Kolakoglou had taken her out one afternoon to buy her clothes. The little girl had later told her mother that her godfather had taken her to his home. There, he'd undressed her, on the pretext that she try on the clothes, and had started caressing her. Straightaway the parents had gone to the local police station. It seems, however, that they came to some arrangement with Kolakoglou during the course of the initial investigations, because the girl suddenly retracted her statement, the parents withdrew their accusation, and the case was put on file. At precisely that point, Karayoryi came on the scene with one of her amazing revelations: There had been a second child, the daughter of Kolakoglou's assistant in his tax adviser business. The woman took her daughter to work with her during the school breaks, as she had nowhere to leave her. Kolakoglou showed a great fondness for the girl, bought her sweets and gifts, and she called him uncle. But, once again, there were some dark aspects, so it seems, that Karayoryi discovered, and she persuaded the mother to go to the police. The second case reignited the first. The goddaughter's parents gave way and brought the charge again. Kolakoglou got eight years, reduced to six in the appeals court. That series of startling revelations made Karayoryi famous. Her last had been the death of her.