Deadline in Athens kj-1

by Petros Markaris

  I made one last move, knowing that it would come to nothing. "A piece of the wire used to murder Kostarakou was found under Mr. Petratos's car."

  "If you try to prove that the murder was committed with that particular piece of wire, I'll prove to you that it could have been committed with wire from my own garden." He turned to Petratos. "Let's go, Nestor. We have nothing more to say." He turned to Ghikas. "My respects, Superintendent." It was a negligible thing to me, unnecessary to say anything.

  "What have we got out of all this business?" Ghikas asked me once Koula had shown them out.

  I was clutching at straws. "First, we didn't know whether the Renegade did actually belong to Petratos because our witness hadn't noticed the plate number. Now we know for certain that it was his. Second, we now have this business with Petratos's woman friend. Either he's bluffing, or he's covering for someone well known. Probably the latter."

  "And what do we do now?"

  "We'll try to find the woman so as not to leave any stone unturned."

  From his look, I could tell that I hadn't convinced him. I changed the subject, told him about Sovatzis, the transplants, and the refrigerator trucks belonging to Transpilar. After the smack in the eye with Petratos, he seemed somewhat relieved that I wasn't going to light any more fires by going straight after Pylarinos.

  I saved the matter of the customs officer for the end. "I want to find him, and as quickly as possible. You see, the worst thing about this case is that we don't know what the motive for the murder was and so have to look into every possibility. Petratos and Sovatzis, the transplants and the refrigerator trucks, all the avenues."

  "If we ever figure it out, I'll light a candle to the Virgin," he said despairingly.

  I found Sotiropoulos in front of my door. "Did you see my report on the news yesterday?"

  "Yes," I said drily.

  "Just you wait. With a little more investigation, I'll show how the whole Kolakoglou business was a setup."

  "I'd like to be there when the girl's father files a suit against you."

  "Do you think he'd risk it? He'd have to put her on the stand, and the lawyers would tear her to pieces."

  I turned the handle on my door in order to disappear into my office before I threw up, but he took hold of my arm.

  "I have something else for you."

  "What is it?"

  He leaned toward my ear and whispered confidentially: "Delopoulos sacked Petratos last night."

  "I've heard that before."

  "This time it's certain. Tomorrow or the day after, the bomb will go off. You're the first to learn about it."

  "And why are you so pleased this time?"

  "Because he'll come knocking on the door of our channel, and I'll make sure he doesn't get in."

  I was about to shut the door in his face when I saw Sotiris coming. "Sorry, but I have work to do," I said curtly.

  "I've found Hourdakis," Sotiris said when we were alone. "He has a farm in Milessi."

  "Where's Milessi?"

  "Just beyond Malakassa. On the road you turn down to go to Oropos."

  "Well done. Get ready and we'll be off."

  He looked at me surprised. "Don't you want me to have him brought here?"

  "No, I would rather that we go and find him." A little country air would do me good.

  After we'd passed Filothei, the traffic on Kifissias Avenue thinned out and we were in Kifissia in less than half an hour. But just as we turned down from Nea Erythraia to get onto the motorway, the heavens opened and the rain came down cats and dogs. Fortunately, there was no traffic on the motorway and even though I didn't go over 60 kph, we soon arrived at Malakassa. The village was deserted, not a soul on the streets. I stopped in front of the police station and sent Sotiris in to ask if they knew the farm where Hourdakis lived. While I was waiting for him, I rolled down the window to inhale the smell of the wet pine, but the rain drenched my sleeve. I rolled up the window, cursing.

  Sotiris came back on the double and jumped into the car. They didn't know where Hourdakis lived and advised us to ask at the kiosk when we got to Milessi. Why hadn't I thought of that? In Greece, whatever the police don't know you can find out by asking the kiosk vendors.

  The road to Milessi was deserted. The plain stretched out to the right. On the left was the abandoned army camp of Malakassa, gradually going to ruin. Two kilometers farther on, the plain ended and we entered a pine forest. The rain had lost its force and was now falling slowly, tiredly. The road began to wind downward. As we rounded a corner, we found the kiosk in front of us, next to the bus stop. The vendor pointed out a narrow dirt track. The Mirafiori kept getting stuck in the mud. I would have to come back in reverse.

  At the end of the track, to our left, an enormous farm came into view, reaching up the hillside and most likely stretching as far back as the Oropos road. The house stood out in the distance. It was a big three-story building. It was as if they'd uprooted a tower from the Mani and planted it in Milessi.

  "Are we going in?" Sotoris said, when he'd recovered from his surprise.

  "Why? To ask why he was always on duty when the Transpilar refrigerator trucks arrived at the border? His house says it all. Now you see why I wanted us to come here, to see what kind of house he lives in.

  Sotiris looked at me without saying anything. I released the brake and began going back in reverse. A little farther and we got stuck in the mud. Sotiris got out to push. As I was stepping on the gas and Sotiris was pushing from the hood, one of the windows in Hourdakis's house opened and a woman leaned out. She remained there at the window, looking at the pickle we were in.

  "Tomorrow, you're going to go through the whole of Hourdakis's family tree," I said to Sotiris, when, after much ado, we were back to the kiosk. "Himself, his wife, his children if he has any, his parents if they're still living. You'll ask for approval from the public prosecutor to look into the bank accounts of the whole family. I want to know what amounts went into the accounts, when, and who deposited them. We'll talk to him as soon as we're ready to stand him up against the wall." I had learned my lesson with Petratos. I didn't want to come anywhere near Hourdakis before I had first collected enough evidence.

  The rain had stopped. When we were again passing through the pine forest, I opened the window and breathed in the scented air in order to clear my lungs.

  CHAPTER 34

  The next morning, I arrived half an hour earlier at the office, at eight-thirty, and went straight down to the records department in the basement.

  "Your ears must have been burning," Yannis told me as soon as he saw me. "I was just getting ready to call you."

  "Any luck?"

  "I went through the lists one by one. No one has asked for those files from the day they came down to the records department. I can vouch for that."

  "Thanks, Yannis."

  So whoever had photocopied the reports and given them to Karayoryi had done it while they were still in the office, before they went down to records. That meant that someone in the division was making a bit on the side by selling departmental documents. I felt a tightening in my stomach. The files stayed in the office for up to six months. During that time, anyone could take a file from the cupboard, photocopy what they wanted, and put it back in its place. There was no way to find out who was doing the dirty on us.

  As I came out into the hall, I saw a girl waiting for me outside the door of my office. She had blond hair tied in a ponytail. She was wearing flat shoes, and she must have been as tall as me, around five ten. She was wearing a black leather jacket, expensive, and a miniskirt, sparingly cut, as it barely covered her behind. From below the skirt streamed a pair of legs like the stems of tall crystal glasses. As I got closer to her, I saw that she couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

  "Are you Inspector Haritos?" she asked me.

  "Yes.'

  She was without any makeup, had blue eyes and a cold expression, which made me feel uncomfortable.

  "I'm Nena Delo
poulou, Kyriakos Delopoulos's daughter. I need to talk to you"

  I'd heard that Delopoulos had a daughter, but I never imagined she would be such a dazzling bit of skirt. "Come in," I told her and opened my door, wondering why she'd cut short her beauty sleep.

  She sat in the chair and crossed her legs. Her miniskirt slid upward, offering me a view of her thighs right up to her panties, which were white and shone through her black tights. I crossed my legs too, not in imitation, but to prevent an erection. I leaned back in my chair to appear relaxed, though I wasn't at all.

  "So what's it about?"

  "Nestor Petratos told me that you saw his car close to Martha Kostarakou's house and that you suspect him of two murders."

  "We simply asked him for an explanation," I said cautiously. "If we suspected him, we'd be holding him in custody."

  "Nestor was with me on the evening that Martha Kostarakou was murdered. Between about five-thirty and seven-thirty." She looked at me and added with a touch of irony: "He was with me the whole time. I'm telling you this so that you'll leave him alone."

  So this was the woman friend that Petratos had been protecting, and why he wouldn't tell us her name.

  "Where do you live?"

  "I own the Erodios Art Gallery on the corner of Iphikratous and Aristarchou Streets. It's an old two-story house. The gallery is on the ground floor. I live upstairs. leronos Street is two blocks away. Nestor didn't want to tell you that he was with me, as our relationship is somewhat unconventional." She fell silent and then added with the same touch of irony: "At least, it was until yesterday."

  It was unconventional because they had kept it hidden from Delopoulos. She hadn't wanted any trouble with her father, and Petratos hadn't wanted any with his boss. I gazed at her and Katerina came into my mind. Whether she eventually became a magistrate or a lawyer, it would be ten years before she had any career. Whereas this pretentious girl, who was only twenty-five and already had her own gallery, bought by her father, was carrying on behind his back.

  Ms. Delopoulou considered our interview over and got up.

  "Are you willing to sign a statement of what you've just told me?"

  She held the door half open and turned around. "My father and I see each other every three months, Inspector Haritos. Last night, when I learned of his intention to fire Nestor, I told him that if he did it, he wouldn't see me for three years. That changed his mind. So I'll sign whatever you want."

  She went out and closed the door behind her. Another one who didn't bother to say good-bye to me. What was that word? Boorish. Quite so.

  Strangely enough, my first thought was of Sotiropoulos. He's turned the tables on you, Robespierre, I thought. You wrote him off, but he is sitting pretty.

  Then I realized that it wasn't only Sotiropoulos who had come out of it badly, but me too. I could now forget about Petratos for good. Given that he was with Delopoulou, he couldn't have killed Kostarakou. And if he didn't kill Kostarakou, then he couldn't have killed Karayoryi either. The two murders went together, a pair. His solicitor had turned out to be right. In the end, Petratos had no motive. Why would he waste time hating Karayoryi when he was screwing the boss's daughter? And why would he be afraid of losing his job? The proof being that he hadn't lost it. I didn't know whether I was sorry or relieved that Petratos had come out of it clean. At least I was now free to turn my attention exclusively to Sovatzis. I had to keep Ghikas abreast, but there was no rush. First, I had to come up with a way to get close to Sovatzis. The surest way was through Hourdakis. As soon as Sotiris got the evidence I needed, I'd put him through the mill.

  Then I had an idea. I dug out the photocopies of the letters from the unknown N:

  For so long now I have been doing what you asked, believing that you would keep your word, but all you do is play with me. I now know that you have no intention of doing what I ask. You only want to keep me on a string so you can blackmail me and get what you want. But no more. This time I won't give way. Don't force my hand because you'll come unstuck and you'll only have yourself to blame.

  What if N was Nena Delopoulou? But what had she done for Karayoryi and why would Karayoryi be playing with her? Had she put in a good word with her father on her behalf? In exchange for Petratos? But then Karayoryi wouldn't let him go and Delopoulou threatened her, evidently, with dismissal. Until Karayoryi, who didn't want to sacrifice her career, surrendered him to Delopoulou. This version suited me because it tied up everything without burdening us with any other suspect.

  The ringing of the telephone interrupted this train of my thoughts. It was Petridi, the public examiner.

  "Do you remember Seki, that Albanian you asked us to question in connection with the trade in children?"

  "Of course. I was going to call you; you beat me to it."

  "I'd planned to interrogate him the day after tomorrow, but he was killed last night."

  The news was an appalling blow. "Who killed him? Do they know?" I said, after a pause.

  "One of his own kind. Stabbed him, in a lavatory."

  "Does he give a reason?"

  "The man claims that Seki had stolen from him. He asked for his money back, Seki denied that he owed him any money and was stabbed five times in the stomach. They took him to the General Hospital in Nikaia straightaway, but he died from loss of blood on the way. So Seki's case has been put on file."

  "Thank you for telling me;' I said politely and hung up.

  I racked my brain trying to understand what the murder of the Albanian might mean. At first sight, nothing. Two Albanians had had a quarrel and one of them had knifed the other. It happened every day, inside and outside of prison. But was it a coincidence that he'd been killed just when Petridi was about to question him? Kara yoryi again came into my mind, her obsession with the Albanian couple's kids. She'd gone so far as to pay to get her hands on my report. Was she so certain that the Albanian hadn't killed the couple because he fancied the woman, but because they were all involved in a circle of trade in children? Of course, this was one explanation for the five hundred thousand found in the cistern. In this case, Seki had suffered the same fate as Karayoryi and Kostarakou. As soon as they'd found out that he'd been called for further questioning, he'd been killed to keep his mouth shut. But how had they found out and from whom? Had the information been sold by the same person that Karayoryi had been bribing to get her hands on the reports? But who would he have given it to? Hourdakis? That was the only name going around the station.

  The only solution was for me to go to Korydallos Prison to learn what happened firsthand. I thought of the journey, and my spirits sank, but there was no alternative.

  From Alexandras Avenue to Larissa Railway Station I moved at a snail's pace, but at least I was moving. When I turned onto Konstan- tinoupoleos Avenue, however, I found a mile-long line of cars before me that kept stopping every ten meters. Cars kept getting stuck in the middle of the junctions, blocking the way; those drivers wanting to turn out of the side streets were furiously honking their horns: It was absolute bedlam. By the time I reached Petrou Ralli Street, my mind had begun to crumble like a rotten cauliflower. I'd forgotten Sovatzis, the Albanian, even Nena Delopoulou's legs. The Mirafiori couldn't take all that strain and I was afraid it would break down on me in the middle of the road.

  On Petrou Ralli Street, the situation improved somewhat and the Mirafiori began to roll along. On Grigori Lambraki Street, there was even less traffic, and within another quarter of an hour I was at the gates of the prison.

  When I explained to the warden what had brought me to Korydallos, he shrugged in a gesture of perplexity. "What can I tell you? Everything points to the fact that it was a common quarrel that ended in a stabbing."

  "Are you sure that there was nothing behind it?"

  "How can I be sure? They always talk in their own language. Our lot don't want anything to do with them. The murderer was on the outside-the leader of a gang-that killed and robbed their own kind. He does the same on the inside. He appa
rently wanted something from the victim, and because he was being difficult, he killed him. Afterward, he put it around, as an excuse, that the victim had stolen from him."

  "Where did he get the knife?"

  "He said he took it from the kitchen." His grim laugh made plain his disbelief. "We've got him in solitary confinement. Do you want to talk to him?"

  What would he tell me? Even if he'd been put up to it, he would stick to his story. Just like Seki. "No. But I would like to take a look at the victim's personal effects."

  "Come this way."

  He took me to the storeroom, where they'd put the Albanian's belongings. When I saw them, my mouth fell open. New underwear, new socks, two new shirts, a pair of shoes, evidently unworn, and a brand new anorak. I asked the warden: "Where did he get all this from? When he left us, he was wearing an old anorak and a patched pair of jeans."

  "I'll ask. Maybe a visitor brought them for him."

  "You didn't find a wallet? Any money?"

  "No, but if he had any on him, it would be at the General Hospital in Nikaia, together with the clothes that he was wearing."

  From what the warden found out, the Albanian didn't have a single visitor all the time that he was in the prison.

  I went back the same way along Grigori Lambraki Street, more worried than I had been on the outward journey. The new clothes lent even more credence to the idea that the Albanian had been killed to keep his mouth shut. For that good-for-nothing to have had enough money to buy an entire wardrobe meant that someone had been paying him for his trouble. And the only trouble he'd gone to was to kill the couple. How he had got hold of the money, yet had no visitors, was simple. They'd sent it to him by means of a guard. After the first interrogation, they hadn't been worried because he'd convinced me that he'd killed them on account of the girl. They'd paid him and their minds were at rest. But when the public examiner had called him for a second interrogation, they'd been scared and had bumped him off so as to leave no loose ends.

  Preoccupied as I was, I missed the turn for Chrysostomou Smyr- nis. I had to go back onto Petrou Ralli Street and return via Thivon Street.