Petros Markaris - Deadline in Athens

Petros Kolakoglou was a tax consultant who had been convicted three years ago of the rape of two young girls. One was his goddaughter, who was only nine at the time. Kolakoglou had taken her out one afternoon to buy her clothes. The little girl had later told her mother that her godfather had taken her to his home. There, he'd undressed her, on the pretext that she try on the clothes, and had started caressing her. Straightaway the parents had gone to the local police station. It seems, however, that they came to some arrangement with Kolakoglou during the course of the initial investigations, because the girl suddenly retracted her statement, the parents withdrew their accusation, and the case was put on file. At precisely that point, Karayoryi came on the scene with one of her amazing revelations: There had been a second child, the daughter of Kolakoglou's assistant in his tax adviser business. The woman took her daughter to work with her during the school breaks, as she had nowhere to leave her. Kolakoglou showed a great fondness for the girl, bought her sweets and gifts, and she called him uncle. But, once again, there were some dark aspects, so it seems, that Karayoryi discovered, and she persuaded the mother to go to the police. The second case reignited the first. The goddaughter's parents gave way and brought the charge again. Kolakoglou got eight years, reduced to six in the appeals court. That series of startling revelations made Karayoryi famous. Her last had been the death of her.

I put the book down as it came to me why I had gone there so early in the morning: to look for Karayoryi's Filofax. There were cupboard doors on each side of the desk, as on most old desks. You opened the cupboards and the drawers shot out, three on each side. In the first drawer on the right I found a Nikon camera, a very expensive one, with all the accessories, including a telescopic lens. I looked at how many exposures had been used: none. There probably wasn't any film inside, but, just to be sure, I left it on top of the desk for the records people. In the bottom drawer on the left, I found four color photographs of a couple sitting arm in arm on a sofa. The woman was Karayoryi, just as I'd known her. The man was unrecognizable because someone had marked up his face with a black felttip pen. They'd added a mustache and beard and had lengthened his nose to look like an eggplant. In one of the photographs, they'd even given him a hat.

In the top drawer on the right, I saw a folder. There was nothing else in the drawer, and the folder was lying there, seemingly forgotten. Opening it, I discovered six letters, all addressed to Karayoryi. All written in the same handwriting, a scribble of the kind for which, had we done it at school, the teacher would have rapped our knuckles with the sharp edge of her ruler. The most recent one was dated two weeks before; the oldest was from 1992, eighteen months earlier. All began with the same plain form of address: "Yanna." In the first one, the writer described his surprise at meeting her by accident after so many years and asked her to "meet up for a chat." It seemed, however, that Karayoryi didn't do as he asked, because a month later he was back with another letter and asked her again. After the third one, the letters became more interesting. It was clear that the writer wanted something from Karayoryi, something that she had and wouldn't give him. He never said what it was exactly; he was always vague, as if it were something very familiar that they had discussed on innumerable occasions. At first, he implored and entreated. It sounded as though Karayoryi had simply played with him, because he became more and more demanding, until in the last letter, he threatened her straight out:

For so long now I have been doing what you asked, believing that you would keep your word, but all you do is play with me. I now know that you have no intention of doing what I ask. You only want to keep me on a string so you can blackmail me and get what you want. But no more. This time I won't give way. Don't force my hand because you'll be sorry and you'll only have yourself to blame. There was no signature as such on the letters, just "N." I sat there staring at it. What name was hidden behind that N? Nikos, Nondas, Notis, Nikitas, Nikiforos? Whoever it was, this N was known to her and had threatened her. And Karayoryi had been talking to her murderer before he killed her.

The other two drawers were empty. No sign of her Filofax. To be honest, I hadn't expected to find it. As it wasn't in her bag or in her desk, it was probably taken by the murderer. There was nothing else either; nothing about kids, other than the book about Kolakoglou. No file, no paper, nothing. So why, then, had she dropped me the bait in connection with the Albanians? Unless, of course, we were going to find something in her computer files.

I took the folder with the letters, gathered up the photographs, and went out of the room. In that rain, I would need at least an hour, crawling along, to get to the office. I had all the time in the world to do my thinking.

I found my croissant and my coffee on my desk and three urgent messages from Ghikas saying that he wanted to see me. The journey from Karayoryi's place to security headquarters had only made my headache worse. I opened my drawer, took out two aspirins, and swallowed them with the cold coffee, which turned my stomach. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, hoping that the pounding would go away. Hopeless. It was as if I were in dry dock and they were beating my keel with giant hammers. I gave up. I grabbed the file and the photographs and set off for Ghikas's office.

As soon as I opened my door, I saw them. Sotiropoulos at their head. Now that Karayoryi was gone, no one was going to dispute his role as leader.

"So what's going to happen, Inspector?" he asked, in a tone implying that he'd taken all he could from me and was about to set up the guillotine.

"Don't go away. I want to see you."

The way I said it, vaguely and unspecifically, I might have meant that I wanted to question them, or that I was going to make a statement. Because they didn't want to miss the chance of the latter, they were willing to risk the former. I left them wondering and made for the elevator. It must have intuited the state I was in and taken pity on me, because it came immediately.

Koula had been waiting for me in the chief's outer office and launched straight in. "What a thing to happen to Karayoryi. I heard about it this morning."

That gave me a boost without her knowing it. I reflected that Sperantzas's supposed bombshell had turned out in the end to be a damp squid, because most people at that time of night are getting ready for bed and are in no mood for hearing about murders, rapes, famines, earthquakes, and deluges.

"A crime of passion, you mark my words," Koula rattled on confidently.

"What makes you think that?"

"Listen to me, I had her figured out. She knew how to drive men crazy. She didn't give a damn about them, and she had them all running after her like little puppies. In the end, one of them must have flipped and killed her. But doesn't it seem strange to you that they ran her through with a metal rod?"

"No, why?"

"It symbolizes the penis," she said triumphantly.

"Is he in?" I asked quickly, before she began analyzing me too.

"Yes, and he's expecting you."

As I closed the door, Ghikas raised his head, leaned back into his chair, and folded his arms. His expression beckoned me to approach his desk, the better that he could give me a roasting. Before I'd got halfway there, he launched his attack.

"I said I wanted you in my office at nine o'clock. I've been calling you all morning."

I said nothing. I stood there with the file under my arm and stared at him.