Petros Markaris - Che Committed Suicide

‘I’ve no idea, though I can offer a guess. It’s almost certain that Logaras is a pseudonym.’

‘That much I’ve worked out for myself. Go on.’

‘Who’s to say that the man hasn’t died in the meantime, is six feet under, and no one has the slightest idea that he wrote two biographies that are selling like hot cakes?’

His explanation suited him to a tee because, in this way, he would never have to pay any author’s rights. If Adriani had set eyes on him, she would have immediately come to the conclusion: large, pointed nose equals skinflint and money-grabber.

I knew what he said was wrong since in Sarantidis’s case there was both a contract and a fake address, but I didn’t say anything. Why should I give him cause for concern, when in any case Logaras wasn’t going to show up? I was beginning to understand the way he thought, though I didn’t know how this might be of benefit to me. In the case of Favieros, it was the first biography and he wanted to make sure, albeit theoretically, that it would get published. That’s why he signed the contract and gave a false address. On the contrary, in the case of the Stefanakos biography, he did nothing because he was certain that Yoldasis’s eyes would light up after Sarantidis’s success and that he would publish the biography without delay in order to cash in on the suicide. That’s why he sent the second biography to Europublishers, who bring out anything so long as there’s profit in it.

Logaras couldn’t care a jot about the rights. For some reason, he simply wanted to be sure that the biographies would be published. I wish I knew why but I didn’t have the faintest idea.

‘Can I ask you one last thing?’ I said to Yoldasis. ‘No doubt you know that Sarantidis Publications brought out the biography of Jason Favieros following his suicide?’

‘Yes. Those highbrow publishers look down on us, but when they find themselves with a winner, they’re far more ruthless than we are when it comes to making the most of it. Compare our publication with Sarantidis’s and tell me which is the more attractive of the two.’

Whichever, I couldn’t have given a monkey’s. ‘All right, but given the other biography, didn’t you think to contact someone when, after Stefanakos’s suicide, you found yourself with a second biography in your hands?’

‘Contact who?’

‘How should I know? His family… The police.’

He shrugged. ‘I’m under no obligation to inform the family that I’m going to publish the biography of a well-known politician, even less so when it’s full of eulogies about the deceased. As for the police, the era of censorship has long gone, Inspector.’

I had no counter arguments so I got to my feet to leave. The goodbyes were much more formal than my welcome had been.

After the coolness of the office, the oven outside seemed unbearable. I arrived home, where Koula was waiting for me on tenterhooks.

‘Spyros and I have discovered another company,’ she said as soon as I walked in.

‘What company?’

‘An offshore one.’

‘Belonging to Favieros, his wife or Stathatos?’

‘Stathatos and Favieros. Hotel and tourist enterprises in Bulgaria, Romania and the Dalmatian coast.’

She handed me a piece of paper on which the name of the business was written: ‘Balkan Inns – Hotels and Cruises.’

So there it is, I thought to myself. Like father like daughter. Stathatos had only renounced her father inside Greece. Outside Greece, and in the area of the Balkans, she was carrying on in the same line of business. I suddenly found myself faced with a network of businesses both inside and outside Greece run by two families: one belonging to a businessman and the other to a politician. The common denominator in both cases was student activism, resistance to the Junta and the Military Police. How all this resulted in pan-Balkan enterprises and how it was linked to the suicides of the two heads of the families was a puzzle I had little hope of solving.

Nevertheless, because attack is the best form of defence, I decided to pay another call on Coralia Yannelis at Balkan Prospect, since she was an expert on Favieros’s offshore companies.

I was about to telephone her when the phone rang and it was Sotiropoulos: ‘A bummer. Andreadis won’t agree to talk.’

‘Why? What did he say?’

‘He didn’t say anything. He simply started yelling at me: how those who agree to appear on my show regard me as being trustworthy and that it’s not right for me to abuse their trust and talk to others, and if I go on like that, before long I won’t be able to find people who’ll agree to appear on my programme.’

‘All that?’

‘Yes. I sensed that he was scared, but it may have just been my imagination.’

Whatever the case, that door had closed for good and I would have to look for information elsewhere.’

Yannelis welcomed me in her office. Our appointment had been for five and I arrived twenty minutes late, but that didn’t seem to bother her. I once again confirmed her weakness for outfits because this time she was wearing a pale orange one with an enormous sunflower on the bust, while her trousers were of a single colour. As soon as I had sat down, her secretary appeared with a tray and put in front of me a glass of fruit juice and a plate of assorted biscuits. I was unprepared as I hadn’t been expecting such a welcome and I felt obliged to thank her even though I detest fruit juice and I generally don’t eat anything between meals, apart from souvlaki that is. In spite of my thanks, she read the surprise on my face and smiled.

‘I know you’re here for a friendly chat,’ she said, ‘so let’s start with some refreshments.’

Yannelis was something of a mystery to me. She somehow managed to remain likeable even when she wasn’t on your side, as had been the case a few days previously in Zamanis’s office. However, you also got the feeling that somewhere she set a limit, that you’d come up against a wall if you went a step further.

‘My visit is neither a friendly nor an unfriendly one,’ I said to put an end to the joking. ‘I simply want you to confirm a piece of information for me.’

‘Normally, I shouldn’t say anything to you. Because of the conversation we had the other day in the office of Xenophon Zamanis but also because, thanks to you, Leventoyanni threatened to sue us if we didn’t give her the extra money we are supposed to have taken from the Russo-Pontian.’

Not exactly ‘supposed to’, I thought to myself, but I preferred not to open up old wounds. ‘I haven’t come to ask you about Balkan Prospect but about Balkan Inns, the other offshore company owned by Jason Favieros dealing with hotel and tourist enterprises.’

‘You’re very thorough, Inspector,’ she said with the same calm smile. ‘You leave no stone unturned. You don’t miss a thing.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘As you’re so good at your job, it can’t have escaped you that the company you’re referring to now belongs to Jason Favieros’s heirs and to Mrs Lilian Stathatos.’

‘It didn’t escape me.’

‘So, why have you come to me? If you want information about Balkan Inns, you should talk to Mrs Lilian Stathatos.’

‘I came to you because I considered it still a little early for me to bother Mrs Stathatos.’

I had recourse to my standard argument, but this time it didn’t seem to work because she burst out laughing.

‘Let’s leave mourning out of it, Inspector. The problem is elsewhere. You’re afraid that if you go to Mrs Stathatos with some indiscreet questions, it may reach the ears of your superiors, perhaps even those of the Minister of Public Order, and that will no doubt have consequences for you. And you can’t go to Xenophon Zamanis either because he doesn’t appear to like you particularly. So you’ve come to me because you find me more manageable. I don’t intend, however, to talk about matters or about companies which have nothing to do with Balkan Prospect.’