Petros Markaris - Che Committed Suicide

I had already thought of it, and this time it wasn’t Adriani who was holding me back. ‘I’d prefer to carry on with the investigation in a discreet way and with Koula’s help. If I start investigating officially, the reporters will be all over us and the suicides will turn into murders. I’m afraid we might run up against the families of the three men. They’re big names and they could put a spoke in our wheels whenever they wanted.’

‘So at long last you’re starting to take those with clout into consideration. In future, I’ll be able to sleep more peacefully,’ he commented, breaking into an ironic smile.

‘It’s a case that needs careful handling.’

He reflected for a moment and then sighed. ‘You’re right, though it would suit me to have you return to the office.’

‘Why? Because of Yanoutsos?’

‘No. Because of Koula. I need her back to put some order in here.’

‘Why, isn’t the officer outside any good to you?’ I asked innocently, though I knew what his reply would be.

‘Me, no. But I might send him to my wife so they can exchange magazines. When she goes to the hairdresser’s, she takes a pile of them with her.’

We both burst out laughing at the same time, as though we had been waiting for an opportunity to find a moment’s relief from the stress.

‘What are you going to do about Yanoutsos?’

‘I’ll send him back to where he came from and I’ll personally take charge of Homicide till you’re ready to return.’

I left after promising to give him regular updates. I was about to press the button to go down to the basement when I had a sudden change of mind and pressed the button for the third floor. I walked down the corridor and burst into the office where Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis, my two assistants – former assistants till just previously – were sitting. Obviously, they had written me off for good because they stared at me as if seeing a ghost. After a moment of embarrassing silence, they leapt to their feet.

‘Inspector!’ they blurted out in unison.

Because I still owed them for their conduct at the home of the two Kurds, I dispensed with the greetings and formalities.

‘I’m here to tell you that my leave is over in two weeks’ time. If you need me in the meantime, you can call me at home. I’ll be in Athens.’

‘You mean… you’re coming back?’ asked Dermitzakis timidly.

‘Why wouldn’t I be coming back, Dermitzakis? Have you heard mention of a disability pension?’

‘No, no, Inspector. It’s just that…’

‘Just what?’

‘Just that we’d lost all hope of you coming back, Inspector,’ said Vlassopoulos, who was always more forward because he’d been with me longer. ‘We’re the ones who’ve been contemplating retirement with that idiot over our heads.’ And he pointed to the door of my office. ‘Anyway. I don’t want to get started. Even the walls in this place have ears, as my old mum always says.’

They wanted to buy me a coffee for changing the terms of their retirement plan, but I used the excuse that I had jobs to do and that I was in a hurry. I had no wish to bump into Yanoutsos. I wasn’t out for revenge and seeing him with his tail between his legs would have ruined my good mood.

‘If I need your help before I’m back officially, I’ll let you know, but you’ll do what I want without asking for details,’ I told them.

They stared at me without having understood a word, but such was their delight that I was returning that they didn’t even try to fathom it out.

‘Anything you want, Inspector.’

I told them to arrange for a patrol car to take me home. I had no intention of roasting in the midday heat. In less than three minutes, the car was at the entrance waiting for me.

As we said, the situation only improves as it worsens.

The offices of Starad were in Vikela Street, opposite the Hygeia Clinic. Mrs Stathatos must have spent a small fortune on decorating her advertising company. As soon as you walked in, your feet sank into a thick carpet that deadened the sound of your footsteps. You sat down and the armchairs wrapped themselves around you lest you had any thoughts of getting up and leaving them. The paintings on the walls in their white frames depicted straight lines, cubes and circles in a variety of colours, but always with a dash of red as a trimming.

Stathatos’s office was different from the others because she had two expensive rugs on top of the carpet and on the wall behind her, where in our offices we usually put a picture of Christ wearing a crown of thorns, she had a painting of a tiny harbour, with fishing boats and a woman with a door opening in her back.

Stathatos was a well-preserved woman in her fifties, who, with make-up, would have looked much younger. That day, she was without make-up, wearing a dark blue outfit with some discreet white additions round the collar and she looked at me with a somewhat haughty expression that she had no doubt inherited from her father. Sitting at the side of Stathatos’s desk was Sotiria Markakis-Favieros. She, too, was without make-up, and wrinkled as she was and with short-cropped hair, it made her sex and age difficult to tell. When I had visited their home in Porto Rafti after Favieros’s suicide, I had been told that his family had gone away on their yacht. She must have shut herself up in the cabin all day because she was as white as white. She was sitting with her ankles glued together and was looking at us with a suspicious and frightened expression. When you saw them side by side, you understood from the first which of the two ran the business and which was there as a stand-in for her husband.

They had banished Koula and myself to the couch with its glass coffee table in front, at a distance of some ten yards from Stathatos’s desk. Koula was the one who had her work cut out for her as she tried to take notes with her notepad balanced on her knees. She had returned that morning from holidays in Aigina, suntanned and wearing linen slacks and sandals. And because she was smart and knew which way the wind blew in our house, she didn’t come to me to express her delight that we were starting the investigation again but went straight to Adriani to express her sorrow. ‘I’m so sorry you had to postpone your holidays, Mrs Haritos!’ Then she looked up to heaven and added: ‘Heaven forbid that I should marry a police officer.’ And instead of telling her that police officers are honest and sincere and, on the whole, good family men, Adriani stoically shook her head and replied: ‘Unfortunately, Koula dear, heaven has its own way of working!’

We were sitting facing the two women and trying to discover whether there was anything strange in the behaviour or actions of their husbands prior to their suicides, particularly with regard to Stefanakos, as we already had plenty of information on Favieros. The portents, however, were not good because the two widows were tight-lipped and made no attempt to hide their displeasure.

‘Why are you digging, Inspector?’ asked Stathatos. ‘Our husbands chose to kill themselves. Will your investigations bring them back?’

‘No, but we may be able to prevent others. That’s why we’re asking for your help. Up until now, we’ve had three suicides that all conform to the same model. Doesn’t that seem suspicious to you?’

‘The police may find it suspicious,’ she replied almost with contempt. ‘But as there’s no murder, I don’t understand what you’re looking for.’

‘Did your husband have any reason to commit suicide, Mrs Stathatos?’

‘As far as I know… no.’

‘Then why did he?’

She shrugged in a manner indicating resignation. ‘Why do people kill themselves, Inspector? Because their lives didn’t turn out the way they expected… Because they don’t like the world around them… Because they’re tired of life and can’t take any more…’