Petros Markaris - Che Committed Suicide

‘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.