Petros Markaris - Deadline in Athens

"The news editor's office," Sperantzas said.

"Which was Karayoryi's desk?" He pointed it out, the second one in the second row. I took out her keys, found the one that fitted the drawer, and opened it. "I won't be needing you any further," I said to Sperantzas, as I began looking through its contents. He appeared to hesitate. He was curious and wanted to stay. "I thought you said you were beat? Go on then." He'd said it and he couldn't take it back, so he turned and left.

Her desk was one of the smaller ones and it had only two drawers on the right-hand side. In the first drawer I found two notepads, a reporter's pad and a larger one for correspondence, and some cheap Biros, the kind that companies issue to their staff. I opened the second drawer. At the front was a small packet of colorfully wrapped toffees. It seemed that she liked chewing, perhaps to help her come up with ideas when she got stuck with her writing. There was a desk set, consisting of a letter opener and some scissors, in an expensive leather case still in the cellophane wrapping. Obviously a gift that she hadn't opened. And at the back there was a desk diary bearing the logo of some insurance company. I flicked through the diary. It was empty; she'd made no notes.

Puzzled, I stood over the drawers. There was something missing. Didn't she have a Filofax, damn it? It was unheard of for a reporter not to have a Filofax. That was where they noted everything: telephone numbers, information, loans and debts, professional and personal contacts, loves and hates, friendships and enmities. Filofax, the gospel of the modern Christian. Didn't Karayoryi have a gospel? Impossible. So where had it disappeared to? Usually, they carried it with them, so it should have been in her bag, but it wasn't. She might have locked it in her desk, but it wasn't there either. Could she have left it at home? Perhaps, but I thought it unlikely. Most probably the murderer had taken it, either because he was looking for something, or because it contained some incriminating information about him.

"Delopoulos, the studio director, would like to see you in his office," said Sotiris from the doorway.

"Right. Tell him I'll be along shortly."

"Do you want me for anything else, or can I go home?" he said, significantly.

"You can stay here," I told him severely. "You can go and find the security guard who was on duty around eleven at the entrance and tell him to wait for me, because I want to talk to him."

"Yes, sir," he said and went off sulking. I could have taken care of it over the phone from Delopoulos's office, but it didn't seem right to me for a subordinate to be at home snoring in his bed while his superior was slaving away into the small hours. These new officers were all milksops. They wanted to do nothing but lounge about all day at their desks wittering on about their Hyundai Excel or their Toyota Starlet. If there was a way to do it, they'd issue a memo demanding that crimes take place only between nine and five, not including Sundays and federal holidays.

Delopoulos's office was a three-roomed penthouse suite, seventy meters square, with a lounge, dining area, bedroom, hall, and bathroom, all open plan, except for the bathroom. He was sitting behind a desk that was a basketball court compared to Ghikas's Ping-Pong table. On the south-facing side of the suite, there was a huge oblong table with ten high-backed chairs around it. The chair at the head of the table had a higher back and arms, whereas the others were armless. Across from Delopoulos's desk was a TV screen, five times bigger than the normal ones. It was off and the screen reflected his face and mine.

I wondered whether I should play the TV soap policeman who yelled all the time, given that I was in a TV studio, but that dickhead only shouted at women and small fries, whereas I had to deal with Delopoulos.

He was a tall, lanky man, balding, and with a sour expression. Right now his expression was a picture of grief, but given his face, this too appeared sour.

"I am completely shocked, Inspector Haritos," and he repeated it so as to leave me in no doubt. "Completely shocked. Yanna Karayoryi was an exceptional woman and a talented reporter. Her colleagues called her the sleuth. I regarded that as a mark of honor, one she had most justly earned." He paused, looked at me, and added, stressing each word, "And apart from being a colleague here at the channel, she was also a personal friend."

I had to stop myself from wondering aloud if she was also his bit on the side, because the way that Karayoryi did as she pleased meant that she had someone high up watching over her.

"Do you have any clues? Any information to give me? Is there anyone you suspect?"

"It's too early to say, Mr. Delopoulos. We do know, at least, the time of the murder and that the murderer was someone she knew because, before he killed her, they were chatting together in makeup."

"Then it must be someone she'd exposed, someone who had been damaged by her revelations and was looking for revenge. That's where you should begin your investigations."

Now he was telling me where I should start looking. I'd got another Ghikas on my hands. "Mr. Sperantzas told me that Karayoryi had asked to appear on the late-night news because she had a bombshell to deliver."

"That's what Sperantzas told me too, but I knew nothing. And I didn't need to know what it was; I had total confidence in her."

"Do you know what she was investigating in particular of late?"

"No, but even if there was something in particular, I wouldn't have known. Karayoryi never disclosed what she was working on, or the information she had unearthed. She never got it wrong, and I'd given instructions that she be left alone to get on with her work." He stopped, leaned toward me, and said, "Come what may, you will have as much help as you need from us. Tomorrow morning, I will put two of my reporters on the case. They will be in constant contact with you."

"Let them search, of course. Any help is welcome;" I said with an excessive willingness, which seemed to please him. "But let's not make any bets as to who finds something first, and let's make sure we don't get under each other's feet."

That took the wind out of his sails, because he suddenly turned cold toward me. "What do you mean exactly? Speak openly. You realize, of course, that Yanna Karayoryi was one of our star reporters and her murder is of direct concern to us."

"I do realize that, Mr. Delopoulos. But this evening, Mr. Sperantzas gave the news of Karayoryi's murder on the late-night bulletin before informing the police. I'm not saying that this will cause us serious problems, but it could. So it would be wise if your people consulted you before taking any similar initiatives."

"A reporter's work is to inform the public, Inspector Haritos," he said in the same icy tone. "Swiftly and accurately. When he steals a march on a rival, even on the police, that is a bonus for the channel. I should congratulate Mr. Sperantzas and not threaten him, as you did."

I should have expected it. Sperantzas had shot off his mouth about Kostarakou, his colleague; why wouldn't he have done the same about me?

"We wish to cooperate with the police. But for us, Karayoryi's murder is in the nature of a family matter. I require, therefore, that you keep us informed as to the course of your investigations, and exclusively us, not the other channels. Objectivity and impartiality do not apply in this case" He paused, looked at me, and went on deliberately: "Otherwise, I shall have no choice but to convey the information we gather to the minister responsible, who as it happens is a friend of mine, and you'll get it relayed to you from him."

In case the point needed underlining, he also gave me a meaningful look-apparently he regarded all police officers as backward third worlders, so speaking to them rudely wasn't enough; you also had to browbeat them with looks and hints to be sure the message had sunk in.