Petros Markaris - Che Committed Suicide

‘You had the other tests, you may as well have a cardiograph, you’ve nothing to lose,’ he said.

I accepted in silence as I couldn’t say no to my daughter’s boyfriend.

We entered the lift to go to the Cardiology Department together with two nurses who seemed agitated and were talking to each other in an intense tone.

‘Is it certain?’ the one asked the other.

‘They just announced it on the radio.’

The first one crossed herself. ‘Dear Lord. The world’s gone mad.’

We got out on the second floor, so I didn’t find out what had been announced on the radio. That the world had gone mad, I already knew.

‘Your heart is like clockwork,’ Fanis said to me satisfied, after studying the cardiograph. ‘How are you doing as regards medicine?’

‘He’s out of diuretics, Fanis dear. Give him a prescription for another box just in case,’ said Adriani, who, like a proper quartermaster, knew off by heart exactly what medicines I had left.

‘Get two Frumil and a Pensordil for the Inspector,’ Fanis said to the nurse.

A nurse of about fifty, who was waiting for the other cardiologist, raised her head and looked at me oddly. ‘You’re lucky to be here at the hospital, today,’ she said. ‘Your colleagues outside have got their hands full.’

‘Why?’ I asked a little testily. It always irritates me when people start up a conversation with me without knowing me.

‘Haven’t you heard? That organisation that claimed to have forced Favieros to commit suicide?’

‘The Philip of Macedon Front?’

‘Exactly. They murdered two Kurds last night. They just announced it on the news.’

I immediately turned to Fanis. ‘Is there a TV in here?’

‘In the refectory.’

‘Why are you in such a rush?’ Adriani asked. ‘It’s going to be on TV for the whole of next week.’

She was right, but I couldn’t stop myself. The refectory was situated in a little park full of pine trees. It was packed. Male patients in pyjamas, female patients in nighties, visitors, young doctors and nurses were squashed together at the tables and against the walls and were watching the special bulletin on the TV that was positioned on a bracket on the wall. I happened to get there halfway through the organisation’s announcement as it was scrolling down the screen:

… Because certain people didn’t take our announcement concerning Favieros’s suicide seriously, we were obliged last night to execute two foreign workers who were working on Favieros’s construction sites, to prove to all concerned that we mean business. We call upon everyone to see sense and take what we say very seriously. From now on, the responsibility for whatever happens rests with the relevant authorities.

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!’