Petros Markaris - Deadline in Athens

"I go for woman," he said in fear, as I shook him.

"Fancied her?" I let him sink back onto the chair.

"Yes."

"That's why you were creeping around the house all day. You wanted to go in and do her, and she wouldn't open the door for you.

"Yes," he said again and smiled this time, enjoying the psychoanalysis.

"And when she didn't open the door, you went crazy and broke in at night and murdered them!"

"No!" he shouted in alarm.

I sat in the chair facing him and stared into his eyes. I let some time pass. He grew anxious. Luckily he didn't realize that I'd come to a dead end. What else could I do to him? Let him go hungry? He wouldn't give a rat's ass. He was used to eating one day in three and then only if he was lucky. Get two strong-armed boys from upstairs to give him a going-over? He'd had so many goings-over in his life that he wouldn't think twice about it.

"Listen," I said to him in a calm and friendly voice, "I'll write down everything we say on a piece of paper, you'll sign it, and you'll have nothing more to worry about."

He said nothing. He just looked at me with indecision and doubt. It wasn't that he was afraid of going to prison; he'd simply learned to be suspicious. He did not have it in his experience to believe that suffering comes to an end somewhere and you find relief. He was afraid that if you accept one thing, you'll have to face a second and third, because that had always been his fate. The poor wretch needed some gentle persuasion.

"After all, it won't be so bad in prison," I said to him in a conversational way. "You'll have your own bed, three meals a day, all courtesy of the state. You won't have to do anything, and you'll be taken care of, just like it was in your own country back then. And if you have any brains, after a couple of months you'll join one of the gangs, and you'll make a bit on the side as well. Prison is the only place where there's no unemployment. If you have your wits about you, you'll come out with a nice little nest egg"

He went on staring at me, except that now his eyes were glinting, as if he liked the idea, but he continued to say nothing. I knew he wanted to think about it, and I got up. "You don't have to give me an answer now," I said. "Think about it, and we'll talk again tomorrow"

As I was going toward the door, I saw the officer taking out his pack of Marlboros and offering him one. I made a mental note to get the kid transferred and have him work with me. I found them all milling around in front of my office. Some were holding microphones, others pocket recorders. All of them with that greedy and impatient look: a pack of wolves hungry for a statement, soldiers waiting for their rations. The cameramen saw me coming and hoisted the cameras to their shoulders.

"Step inside, all of you. I opened the door to my office, muttering under my breath, "Go to hell, you bastards, and leave me in peace." They burst through the door behind me and planted their microphones with the logo of their TV channels, their cables, and their pocket recorders all over my desk. In less than a minute, it had come to resemble the stall of an immigrant vendor in Athinas Street.

"Do you have anything more to tell us about the Albanian, Inspector?" It was Sotiropoulos, with his Armani checked shirt, his English raincoat, his Timberland moccasins, and his spectacles with their round metallic frames, the kind once worn by poor old Himmler and now worn by intellectuals. He'd stopped calling me by name some time before and now just addressed me as "Inspector." And he always began with "Do you have anything to tell us" or "What can you tell us," in order to make you feel that you were being examined and graded. He believed, you see, that he represented the conscience of the people, and the conscience of the people treated everyone equally: no name or sign of respect, courtesies that only lead to distinctions between citizens. And his eyes were always fixed on you, wary and ready to denounce you at any moment. A modern-day Robespierre with a camera and a microphone.

I ignored him and addressed myself to them all as a body. If he wanted equality, he'd have it. "I have nothing to tell you," I said genially. "We're still interrogating the suspect."

They looked at me in disappointment. A tiny, freckled woman wearing red stockings tried to get something more out of me, refusing to go down without a fight.

"Do you have any evidence that he's the murderer?" she said.

"I told you, we're still interrogating him," I said again, and to let them know that the interview was over, I picked up the croissant that Thanassis had brought me, removed the cellophane, and bit into it.

They began packing away their paraphernalia, and my office recovered its normal appearance, like the patient who, once out of danger, is unhooked from the machines.

Yanna Karayoryi was the last to leave. She hung back deliberately and allowed the others to go out. I disliked her even more than all the rest of them. For no particular reason. She couldn't have been more than thirty-five and was always dressed elegantly without being showy. Wide trousers, cardigan, with an expensive chain and cross around her neck. I don't know why, but I had got it into my head that she was a lesbian. She was a good-looking woman, but her short hair and her style of dressing gave her something of a masculine appearance. Now she was standing beside the door. She glanced outside to see that the others had gone, and then closed it. I went on eating my croissant as if I hadn't noticed that she was still in my office.

"Do you know whether the murdered couple had any children?" she said.

I turned, surprised. Her arrogant gaze was where it always was, and she was smiling at me ironically. That's what irritated me: those meaningless questions that she suddenly came out with and that she underlined with an ironic smile to make you think that she knew something more but wasn't going to tell you, just to annoy you. In fact, she knew nothing, she just liked to fish.

"Do you think there were children there and we didn't notice them?"

"Maybe they weren't there when you got there."

"What do you want me to say? If they sent them to study in America, we haven't located them, not yet at any rate," I said.

"I'm not talking about grown-up children. I'm talking about babies," she answered. "Two years old at most."

She did know something, and it was amusing her to play with me. I decided to go easy, be friendly, try to win her over. I pointed to the chair in front of my desk.

"Why don't you sit down and let's talk," I said.

"Can't. I have to get back to the studio. Another time." She was all of a sudden in a hurry. The bitch wanted to leave me wondering.

As she was opening the door to leave, she bumped into Thanassis, who was coming in at that moment with a document. They exchanged a look, and Karayoryi smiled at him. Thanassis averted his gaze, but Karayoryi kept hers fixed provocatively on him. She seemed fond of him. Truth to tell, she had every right to because Thanassis was a good-looking fellow. Tall, dark, well built. It occurred to me to get him to establish a relationship with her. That way he'd be able to answer both of my questions: whether she did, in fact, know anything about the Albanians and was hiding it from me, and whether she was a lesbian.

She waved to me, ostensibly saying good-bye, but actually it was as if she were saying, "Sit there and stew, you dummy." She closed the door behind her. Thanassis came over and handed me the document.

"The coroner's report on the two Albanians," he said. Karayoryi's smile had embarrassed him, and his hand was trembling as he handed me the paper. He didn't know if I'd noticed or how I'd react.

"Fine," I said. "Leave it and go." I was in no mood to read it. In any case, what could it tell me? Whatever the bodies had to reveal was obvious enough to the naked eye-apart from the time of the murder, but that was of no importance. It wasn't as if the Albanian was going to come up with a convincing alibi that we'd have to disprove. And Karayoryi didn't know anything. Like all reporters she was bluffing. She wanted to arouse my curiosity so that she would be the first I'd open up to and she'd be able to get more out of me. There were no children. If there were and we hadn't found them, the neighbors would have told us.