Che Committed Suicide (7 page)

The announcement faded on the screen and the camera descended some narrow steps leading to a basement room, the size of a bedsit, with two divans against the two walls and a Formica table and two plastic chairs in the middle. White sheets were covering each of the bodies on the divans.

‘The victims, Ladies and Gentlemen, are two Kurds, who were living here, at 4 Frearion Street in the Rouf district,’ explained the newscaster. ‘Both were shot through the right eye.’

As I gazed at the screen, the questions were piling up inside me. How had we gone in the space of a few days from the suicide of Jason Favieros to the murder of the Kurds? And why did I
continue
to insist that the public suicide was a jarring note that no one else wanted to hear? At least not Ghikas or that twerp Yanoutsos. Suddenly, amidst everything, I felt a glowing sense of satisfaction run through me, because the previous day they had looked down their noses at me and now they really had their hands full. They couldn’t see what was staring them in the face. Even if we supposed that this nationalist organisation had come out after the event and claimed involvement in Favieros’s suicide, they wouldn’t have done it if Favieros’s suicide had not happened in public and they wouldn’t have needed to murder the two Kurds afterwards to convince any doubters.

What does a copper long for at such times? A patrol car. My feeling was so strong that I looked outside the refectory, sure that one was waiting for me. All I saw was some old doctor drooling over one of the nurses.

I turned to Fanis. ‘How quickly can I get a taxi?’

Two pairs of astonished eyes fixed themselves on me. Fanis’s on the right and Adriani’s on the left, because, at least according to Dimitrakos, omens coming from the left are considered not to bode well.

‘What do you want a taxi for?’ asked Adriani suspiciously.

‘I want to have a quick look round the crime scene.’

‘You’re on sick leave, have you forgotten?’

Her voice rang out like a bell and everyone turned round and stared at us in astonishment. Evidently, I had pushed her to the limit with my gradual extrication from her hands over the previous few days and she was ready to explode. I took the initiative and walked out of the refectory so that we wouldn’t create a scene.

‘Could you call a taxi,’ I said to Fanis.

‘Never mind, I’ll take you there. In any case, I only stayed for you. Yesterday I had the night shift and I’m off duty today.’

‘Well, I’m going home,’ said Adriani categorically. She had assumed the look of a crabby governess who doesn’t smack her young charge, but nevertheless makes it quite clear that from now on there are no more sweets or chocolates. To be honest, I’d missed that look and I found it amusing.

Fanis put his arm round her shoulders, took her aside and started to talk to her, breathing into her ear. Then he left her and called over to me.

‘Wait here and I’ll bring the car.’

Adriani came back over to me, but averted her gaze. As for me, by rights I should have explained to her why I wanted to see the two dead Kurds and their hovel, but I had no satisfactory explanation, not even for myself.

Fanis came and stopped in front of us. I let Adriani sit next to him. I tried to guess what they might have been saying and if she was planning to accompany me to the murder scene, which would make me a laughing stock, but I didn’t dare ask. I left it in the hands of fate.

Fortunately, I saw Fanis turning from Mesogheion Avenue into Michalakopoulou Street and realised that we were taking her home. When we got to Pangratiou Square, she told Fanis to pull over.

‘Leave me here, Fanis dear. I have some shopping to do.’ She got out without saying anything to me. It was our first tiff after nearly two months, but I couldn’t care less. I was only too happy to be back to old times.

‘What did you say to make her change her mind?’ I asked out of curiosity.

‘That as you would go anyway, it was better at least if your doctor went with you. I’ll wait for you in the car. Anyway, this whole
business
intrigues me too.’

It intrigued everyone except Ghikas and Yanoutsos, I thought with some resentment. This thought obliged me to confess one more reason why I had rushed to the crime scene: I wanted to see
Yanoutsos
’s face when he saw me there after having more or less thrown me out of the office the previous day.

We had turned into Amalias Avenue and were passing by the National Gardens. I began to feel remorse at having taken advantage of Fanis to satisfy my investigative perversions.

‘Why don’t you leave me here and I’ll get a taxi?’ I said. ‘You’re without any sleep and I’m putting you to a lot of trouble for no reason.’

‘I told you, the whole business has aroused my curiosity.’

‘And Katerina’s too. Last night we had a whole discussion on extreme right-wing organisations.’

Fanis laughed. ‘I’ll confess something to you, but you mustn’t tell her. Every night we sit in front of our TV sets, lift up the phone and discuss the various explanations. An amateur and a semi-amateur!’

‘And the semi-amateur is Katerina?’

‘I’d say so. At least she’s studying Law. I’m only a cardiologist. What do I know?’

‘And why is she hiding it from me? Why doesn’t she say
something
?’ I again felt that lump, just as always when I realise that someone else is closer to Katerina.

‘Because she’s afraid,’ Fanis replied.

‘Afraid?’

‘Yes, of her policeman father. Afraid of coming out with some drivel and making herself look ridiculous.’

We had now reached Achilleos Street, which at that time of day was chock-a-block with traffic heading in the direction of the city centre, and we turned into Konstantinoupoleos Street. Frearion Street was on our left as we were going up and so Fanis turned and parked in Megalou Vassileiou Street.

‘I’ll wait for you here.’

‘Won’t take long,’ I replied, certain that Yanoutsos would spot me straightaway.

The apartment block was one of those overnight constructions that were originally two-storey before their owners greased the palms of the police or someone in the local authorities in order to add another couple of floors on the sly to pay for their daughter’s dowry or their son’s studies. I saw no ambulances or any TV crews and I concluded that the bodies must already have been taken to the morgue.

As I was going down the steps to the basement, I bumped into Diamantidis from Forensics.

‘What are you doing here, Inspector? Are you back on duty?’ he asked, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

‘No, but I’m back in training as you can see,’ I said and he broke into laughter. ‘What’s going on down there?’

He hesitated for a moment as if about to say something, but then changing his mind. ‘Go on in and you’ll see,’ he said.

The door to the flat was open and voices could be heard. The flat was just one room, just as it had appeared on the TV, with a sizeable recess that served as a kitchen. Beside it was a door that must have been the bathroom.

The bodies had been moved as I had thought. Standing in the middle of the room was Yanoutsos together with Markidis the coroner. They were glaring at each other like cocks, ready to begin fighting.

‘I’m not saying a word,’ shouted Makridis at Yanoutsos. It was the first time in all the years I’d known him that I saw him losing his composure. ‘You can wait and read the report.’

Standing behind were my two assistants, Vlassopoulos and
Dermitzakis
. Their backs were half-turned to the other two and they were pretending to be chatting so as not to appear to be listening in to the conversation.

Suddenly, as though on cue, they all turned and looked at me. Yanoutsos was goggling. Even more odd was my assistants’
behaviour
. They stared at me at a loss, unable to decide whether they should greet me or not. In they end, they settled for a formal nod of the head accompanied by a smile, before turning their backs again.

The most congenial of all of them was Markidis, who offered me his hand. ‘Glad to see you up and around,’ he said. His face had become somewhat friendlier as he had exchanged the huge glasses he had worn all his life for an oval-shaped, metallic frame.

‘Why are you here?’ Yanoutsos asked. ‘As far as I know, you’re still on sick leave and we’ve no need of you.’

‘I came so you could tell me again what you told me the other day in Ghikas’s office,’ I replied with spite.

‘And what was that?’

‘That if you were to take every prattling announcement seriously, you’d be running all over the place. Well now you are.’

‘This has no connection with the announcement. This is the work of the Mafia.’

The other three had now turned round and were watching the second cockfight.

‘Where were they shot?’ I asked Markidis. I knew, but I wanted everyone to hear it.

‘In the eye. Both of them.’

I turned back to Yanoutsos: ‘Mafiosos wouldn’t have wasted their time with details like that. They’d have let fly with five or six bullets and then been on their way.’

‘They might have had a reason for staging the scene.’

‘What reason when they were only two miserable Kurds? Do you know what work it requires to stage an execution by shooting someone in the eye?’

I turned and cast a look around. Everything was in its place, there were no signs of any struggle. I heard Yanoutsos say to my assistants:

‘Dermitzakis, Vlassopoulos, you can go. I’ve no further need of you.’

I looked up, curious to see whether they would acknowledge me as they left. But they pretended to be engrossed in their conversation and left without even looking at me. I couldn’t explain their attitude and I felt infuriated, but I tried to control myself so as not to spoil my mood for riling Yanoutsos.

‘From what I see, there are no signs of struggle,’ I said to Markidis.

‘No.’ We looked at each other and Markidis shook his head. ‘You’re right. I’d noticed that too.’

‘What have you noticed?’ interrupted Yanoutsos. ‘I want to know.’

Markidis thought it superfluous to answer him. ‘If they’d shot them in the chest or the stomach or anywhere else, I’d say that they had surprised them and they hadn’t managed to resist,’ I said. ‘But the eye needs planning, preparation. Why didn’t they resist, but simply sat and let themselves be executed?’

‘Mafiosos. They knew them.’

‘Don’t keep on so much about Mafiosos, because you’ll be in for a nasty surprise,’ I told him and headed towards the door.

Markidis caught up with me at the steps. ‘So where did that idiot blow in from?’ he asked me angrily. ‘Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis would do better on their own.’

I preferred to make no reply, as I didn’t want to appear to be biased. ‘What do you think it was?’ I asked him.

‘Spray. The kind used by petty thieves to knock people out in their homes so they can rob them. They found them sleeping, knocked them out with the spray and then shot them through the eye.’

‘Can you prove it?’

He reflected for a moment. ‘It depends on the composition of the product. If we’re lucky, there may be some traces in the urine.’

We were now outside in the street and I suddenly realised that it wasn’t just the glasses. Markidis looked as if he’d had an entire facelift.

‘You’ve changed completely,’ I said to him surprised. ‘You look ten years younger.’

A wide smile spread over his usually unsmiling face. ‘I wondered whether you’d notice.’

‘How could I not notice? It stands out a mile.’

‘I got divorced. I got divorced and I’m getting married again; to my secretary in the department.’

‘How long were you married?’ I asked him in amazement.

‘Twenty-five.’

‘And you got divorced?’

‘Naturally, she got to keep the three-bedroom flat that cost me a lifetime’s savings, but it was worth it.’ He suddenly came out with it. ‘I’ve started to live again, Haritos. I’ve been in a deep sleep all these years,’ he said, with the certainty of the person who is the last to find out.

Judging from his dress, he was right. Markidis, who had been going around for the last ten years in the same suit, was now wearing an olive-green jacket with a red stripe, black trousers, an orange shirt and a tie with futuristic designs that gleamed in the sun.

‘Does your wife-to-be choose your clothes for you?’ I asked, and at that same moment I realised that my mind was done with the
running
-in stage of convalescence and was ticking over normally again.

‘Shows, does it?’ he replied, full of pride. ‘Post-modern dress. That’s what Nitsa calls it. Latest word in fashion.’

Post-macabre would be a better description, just the job for the morgue. But I held my tongue and went to find Fanis.

The sweet Greek coffee at the neon cafeteria in Agiou Lazarou Square was like dishwater, the waiter was a sourpuss by conviction, yet, despite everything, I berthed there every morning with my paper. Maybe I’d been won over by the peace of the square, with its two old women and three unemployed Albanians on the benches; then again it might well have been the familiar Greek magnet that always attracts you to places that irritate you, so that afterwards you can happily curse your fate.

My usual table was taken by three lads who were all drinking iced coffee. I sat down two tables further away, in the shade, as the weather had suddenly turned unpleasantly hot, and I opened my Sunday convenience store. From inside the paper I took out: a
magazine
of general interest, a magazine for arts and culture, a fashion magazine, a TV guide, a crossword book, an advertisement for washing powder, an advertisement with a toothpaste sample, an
advertisement
for mouthwash and three coupons for interest-free monthly payments. I tossed them all into the plastic bag that my local kiosk owner always gives me with the comment ‘Careful, Inspector, don’t spill the newspaper,’ and kept hold of the main section of the
newspaper
, which was no more than a dozen pages. I was quickly
thumbing
through it to find the report on the two Kurds, when I saw the waiter putting the sweet Greek coffee down in front of me and walking away in silence. He had brought it without even asking me.