Petros Markaris - Che Committed Suicide

‘I thought he might have let him go,’ I said provocatively. ‘After all, he was the father of his girlfriend.’

‘He couldn’t. He would have found himself in deep trouble. Yannelis and his group had been accused of bombings. He did stop interrogating him, however. He closed the file on him and sent him before a military tribunal. Yannelis was still in prison when they got married. He found out about it from his son.’

I could now, with hindsight, understand why Coralia Yannelis had been so tense and uneasy when talking about her father and her brother. She’d meant it when she said it was less painful for her to answer questions about Favieros’s companies. Evidently, she had fallen out with her brother over her marriage. But if she had fallen out with her brother, she must also have fallen out with her father. Yet, again, I had uncovered a secret that might lead to murder, but not to the suicides of three people. If someone had murdered Skouloudis, his marriage to Coralia Yannelis would have provided the perfect motive. But what connection could this marriage possibly have with the suicides of Favieros, Stefanakos and Vakirtzis? The only ones who could answer this question were Coralia Yannelis and Minas Logaras, whoever he might be.

‘Are you still in contact with Skouloudis?’

‘No, when I got out of prison, I didn’t want any more bother. I started this little business, married a girl from my village and kept myself to myself.’

I got up to leave, but just then I thought of one last question that I asked more by way of fishing than for any other reason.

‘Do you know anyone by the name of Minas Logaras?’

He thought about it, but came up with nothing. ‘No. Never heard the name before.’

‘That’s all, then,’ I said and walked towards the iron door that was still half-open.

‘Don’t bother coming back,’ I heard him say behind me and I turned round. ‘I’ve had my fill of military police, coppers, cells and prisons. I’ve paid through the nose and I have a right not to want to set eyes on any of you.’

I opened the door and went out without replying. He was the third person to tell me not to come back. First there was Zamanis, then Coralia Yannelis, albeit indirectly, and now it was the former military policeman, Christos Kalafatis. And everyone was happy, just like Zissis said, those who ended up making enough money to burn and those who ended up turning the revolution into T-shirts. And no one wanted to remember. It reminded me of that song I’d heard in the taxi on the day I’d returned from my meeting with Ghikas and Yanoutsos: ‘We’re getting on so well, I’m living in fear of hell.’

I called her as soon as I got back to the office.

‘You again, Inspector?’ she asked as soon as she came to the phone. ‘I thought we were done.’

‘So did I, but I was wrong, Mrs Skouloudis.’

The line went quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was calm and grave. ‘So you’ve discovered who I am?’

‘Yes. Just this morning.’

‘May I ask how?’

‘From Christos Kalafatis, who manufactures the Che T-shirts.’

Her cheeriness returned. ‘I’m happy for you. He’s the only one who knows and you found him.’

‘I need to talk to you. What time can you come by my office?’

‘I hope I won’t have to repay all your visits to me. Let’s not see it that way,’ she said laughing. Then she grew serious. ‘I suggest neither your office nor mine. Let’s meet at my home. At six this evening.’

I asked for her address. ‘Number 7, Tobazi Street, in Pefki,’ she said. ‘It’s off Chrysostomou Smyrnis Street, close to the Katsimbali Park.’

I wondered whether I should inform Ghikas and tell him what I’d learned from Kalafatis or whether I should wait till I’d talked to Coralia Yannelis. It was more a question of patience. No matter how many years you’ve spent on the Force, no matter how experienced you are, as soon as you get wind of some success, you immediately rush to your superior to gloat. It’s a kind of impulse that carries you away. I decided to be patient, because the correct thing was to talk first with Yannelis and then go bragging to Ghikas.

How do you fill five hours when you’re on tenterhooks? I kept the reporters longer than usual. They stared at me flabbergasted because it was the first time I had ever engaged in chit-chat with them. Sotiropoulos, who suspected something, decided to stay longer, for the benefit of all. He opened up his favourite discussion concerning the suicides and I answered him with a lot of twaddle simply to pass the time. In the end, I felt some remorse and told him to wait another twenty-four hours as I would have more news the following day. He pressed me for details, but I was unshakeable as a rock, and so we went on for a while tossing the ball back and forth. I went down to the cafeteria three times and got three not-so-Greek coffees, a croissant in cellophane and a packet of rusks to settle my stomach.

I reckoned that it would take me three quarters of an hour to reach Pefki. The most reasonable route was to go up Kifissias Avenue and then, at the Ivi building, to turn left into Aghiou Konstantinou Street and that would bring me to Chrysostomou Smyrnis Street. It was Monday afternoon in summer, the shops and offices were closed and I didn’t meet any traffic. I arrived a quarter of an hour early and drove round the block twice in order to arrive exactly on time. The bell at 7 Tobazi Street bore the name Coralia Yannelis. I wondered whether Skouloudis was dead or whether he had simply been struck off by the living. Her flat was a penthouse on the fifth floor.

She opened the door herself. She had the same smile and was wearing one of the same outfits that I’d seen on her at the offices of Balkan Prospect.

‘Come in,’ she said, leading me to a spacious sitting room that spilled over onto a balcony with the awnings lowered and with a variety of plants, mostly saplings, in large pots. In the wall on the right, there was a closed sliding door. The faint sound of a TV could be heard from the other side.

‘Please have a seat,’ she said, pointing to an armchair that was facing the park. ‘Can I get you something?’

‘No, thank you.’

She sat down on the sofa opposite me. She seemed to be trying to give the impression that she had invited me for coffee and a chat, but she found it difficult to conceal her anxiety completely.

‘So where shall we begin? With Minas Logaras?’

She laughed. ‘There is no Minas Logaras, as I’m sure you’ve realised.’ She suddenly became serious. ‘No, we ought to begin with my father’s arrest.’

I let her start in her own good time. Now that I was sitting opposite her, I felt more relaxed. I was in no hurry and I waited.

‘They arrested my father in the spring of ’72. They woke us up one night at around two a.m., grabbed hold of my father and began hitting him and dragging him towards the door.’ She halted and said without any emotion, as if simply stating a fact: ‘That was the last time I saw my father, Inspector.’ She let out a sigh and remained silent for a moment. ‘Throughout his life, my father was involved in movements and revolutions. So was my mother. But they wanted to keep their children away from all that. They never talked about it to us, they never explained it to us, they never said anything. They did it to protect us, but also out of fear we would let something slip. And so we grew up in the dark, in an atmosphere of indefinable fear. I’m telling you all this so you’ll understand our panic when they came to arrest my father.’ She looked at me and said with a slightly ironic smile: ‘Anyhow, you’re a police officer and I’m sure you know what I mean.’