Petros Markaris - Che Committed Suicide

Once again she had read my mind. I decided to change tack. ‘Let’s look at it from another angle,’ I said. ‘Does an offshore company by the name of Balkan Inns have dealings or any connection with Balkan Prospect?’

‘What sort of dealings?’

‘For instance, has Balkan Inns ever purchased any real estate in the Balkans from Balkan Prospect in order to build hotels?’

She shrugged. ‘That’s something only our local estate agencies would know.’

‘Come now. Surely, you’re not telling me that the local offices don’t keep Headquarters informed?’

‘Even if there were any such dealings, what would that prove?’

I left her question unanswered and continued: ‘Do you know whether the local construction companies belonging to Jason Favieros had been contracted to build such hotels?’

‘The person able to answer your question is once again Xenophon Zamanis, but personally I wouldn’t rule it out.’ She paused for a moment and then leaned forward. ‘Why do you suspect illegal practices in all this, Inspector? What’s more natural than for three companies belonging in whole or in part to the same owner to cooperate?’

‘I repeat what I told you at the outset. I’m not looking into illegal practices but into the cause of Jason Favieros’s suicide. And now, too, into the cause of Loukas Stefanakos’s suicide.’

‘And do you think you’ll find it in the businesses owned by Jason Favieros or by Favieros and Mrs Stathatos or by Mrs Favieros and Mrs Stathatos? Both Jason Favieros and Loukas Stefanakos committed suicide before the eyes of thousands of TV viewers. So any criminal action is out of the question. Jason left no explanation for his suicide, not even a letter. He took the secret with him to the grave. You have to respect that and stop your investigations.’

She looked at me with some satisfaction thinking she had closed all the doors so that I had nowhere to turn. But she had said it all in a way that suited her and had left out the most important element.

‘Do you find it natural that two such well-known personalities, a businessman and a politician, should commit suicide in public and in such a violent way? And do you find it natural that ten days after the death of the one and one week after the death of the other, two biographies of them should appear, both written by the same person?’

She reflected for a moment. ‘I have to admit that it’s not so natural,’ she answered. ‘But it may just be a coincidence. This Logaras fellow may simply have wanted to exploit all the fuss in order to sell books.’

‘The biographies had been sent to the publishers three months previously and more or less on the same day. Whoever this Logaras is, he knew very well what was going to happen.’

She was thinking about it, either because I had convinced her or because she was searching for some counter-argument, when the secretary came in and whispered something in an agitated fashion in Yannelis’s ear. As soon as Yannelis heard it, she jumped up out of her chair.

‘What? When?’

‘Just two minutes ago,’ replied the secretary, leaving the office and closing the door behind her.

Yannelis turned to me. ‘There’s no need for you to continue with your investigations into the causes of the suicides, Inspector,’ she said slowly. ‘Just a short while ago the police arrested three members of that nationalist organisation…’

‘Philip of Macedon?’

‘Yes. They’ve been charged with the murder of the two Kurds and as accessories before the fact in the suicides of Jason Favieros and Loukas Stefanakos.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘It’s just been announced in a special news bulletin.’

I don’t remember how I got to Aristokleous Street. I suppose I must have been led by my reflexes – both in my choice of route and in my observance of the highway code. As for the rest, the only collision I tried to avoid throughout the journey was the one between my thoughts and my feelings. On the one hand, I was trying to think calmly in order to understand what was behind this act, and on the other my thoughts were being confounded by my anger and indignation.

I barged into the sitting room and found Adriani, as every evening, with the remote control in her hand.

‘Where on earth have you been? All hell’s broken loose!’ she shouted, as though I’d been down to the beach at Varkiza for a swim.

I stood facing the screen waiting anxiously for the world-shattering news, but the TV was earning its name as the gogglebox. A presenter was testing the general knowledge of two young contestants. He was apparently overjoyed when they gave a right answer and he had to pay out and grief-stricken when they got it wrong and he saved his money. I grabbed the remote control and began switching channels, but I ended up flicking from one piece of tripe to the next.

‘Don’t be like that,’ Adriani said by way of consolation. ‘They’ve been putting it on every hour. It was on at seven, and it’s sure to be on again at eight.’

It was the voice of years of viewing experience so I gave up. I waited for fifteen minutes for the programme to end and another ten minutes for the ads to finish. Finally, after half an hour, the title appeared: ARREST OF RIGHT-WING EXTREMISTS FOR MURDER OF TWO KURDS AND AS ACCESSORIES IN SUICIDES OF FAVIEROS-STEFANAKOS.

The same instant, three close-cropped, brawny types appeared on the screen. They were handcuffed with two of our lot on either side of them and were walking down the familiar corridor outside my office. The first was wearing a T-shirt with some monster from hell depicted on it. The other two were so close together that their trademarks weren’t visible. Lined up along the sides of the corridor were reporters trying to thrust their microphones in the faces of the youths. The questions were coming thick and fast: ‘What do you have to say about the charges against you? Did you kill the two Kurds? How did you feel when you shot them? What do you think about racism? How did you convince Favieros and Stefanakos to commit suicide?’ The youths had their heads bowed and didn’t answer, while the police officers were pushing them in an effort to break through the ring of reporters. As soon as they disappeared, the main attraction was gone and the screen split into various windows.

‘The arrest of the three suspects took place today at three in the afternoon following a coordinated operation on the part of the police,’ said one reporter, who had made his appearance just prior to my being shot. ‘The suspects are Stellios Birbiroglou, aged twenty-three, unemployed, Nikos Seitanidis, aged twenty-two, a student at the Physical Education Academy, and Haralambos Nikas, aged twenty-five, an electrician by trade. All three are are being held at Security Headquarters, where their interrogation is ongoing.’

‘Have the police made any statement, Vaso?’ the newscaster asked.

‘Yes. We have a statement from the Head of Homicide, Inspector Polychronis Yanoutsos.’

‘And when on earth did he take over your position,’ Adriani asked in astonishment.

‘As I’m on sick leave, someone had to fill my position.’

‘Yes, but shouldn’t they say that he’s only standing in for you?’

‘Now you’re asking for too much.’

Nevertheless, I was surprised that it was Yanoutsos who was making the statements and not Ghikas. Ghikas considered statements to the press his own little domain. How come he was letting Yanoutsos trespass on his patch and in such an important case too? Yanoutsos read out the the previously prepared statement from a piece of paper, but the microphones pressed up close to his mouth made him feel uneasy and he coughed at every second word.