Philip Kerr - Hand of God

Nataliya’s bag and all its contents, including Bekim Develi’s EpiPens lay in evidence on the table in front of me next to an ashtray that contained my still-smoking cigarette. I’d needed a couple of hits off it while I’d been telling Chief Inspector Varouxis my story and the smoke was now drifting towards him. I reached forward and stubbed it out.

‘So, let me get this straight,’ said Varouxis. ‘You say that a Romanian gypsy found a lady’s handbag on the harbour quay at Marina Zea and, recognising that it might have belonged to the girl who was drowned there, he handed it in to your lawyer, Dr Christodoulakis, for the ten-thousand-euro reward.’

‘That’s correct,’ I said. ‘His name is Mircea Stojka and he lives in the Roma encampment at Chalandri.’ I pushed a piece of paper across the long table on which was written the man’s address.

Varouxis regarded the address at arm’s length as if he had forgotten his glasses.

‘I know it. The camp is by the Mint. Where we make the money, ironically enough. You should take your boss there sometime. To see how some people live in this country since the recession bit.’

I was in the top floor conference room of the GADA on Alexandras Street, with Varouxis, Louise and a junior detective I hadn’t met before who was also the shortest person in the room. His name was Kaolos Tsipras and he was examining Nataliya’s purse from which I had previously removed the banknotes; it was impossible to imagine that anyone would have handed in a thousand euros in cash, even for a substantial reward. Since I’d last seen him Varouxis had shaved off the ridiculous little tuft of a beard underneath his bottom lip revealing a Harry Potter sort of scar on his chin. He was leaning on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette of his own, arms folded, his blue shirtsleeves rolled up and his top button undone; he looked as if he’d been working all night. His iPad lay on the windowsill beside him. From time to time he glanced out of the grimy window at the Apostolis Nikolaidis stadium where City were soon to be playing Olympiacos, as if wishing that he could have banished me to sit in the dilapidated stand.

‘And you also say that when you looked at her phone you found what appears to be a suicide note stuck in the outbox of her email app? Which you’ve already had translated from Russian into English.’

‘Yes. And Greek. Well, of course, I knew I was coming here today and I thought it might expedite your inquiry.’

‘That was very thoughtful of you, sir.’

I shrugged. ‘Of course, I know I shouldn’t really have touched the phone at all, Chief Inspector. And I’m very sorry about that. But honestly, there didn’t seem to be much point in worrying about any fingerprints. It was quite clear that Mr Stojka had already handled the phone quite extensively. I know that because he told us he had done so to sidestep the passcode, intending to sell her phone on the black market. He only handed it in to us because he knew we were paying a lot more as a reward than he could have got for a new one.’

Varouxis nodded, patiently.

I’d met enough policemen in my time to know that the Greek believed not a word of my story; a weary sigh and a look of doubt is the same in any language. But having made so little headway with his own investigation he wasn’t about to challenge me, not yet anyway. All the same, I still felt obliged to follow Louise’s previous advice and eat some more humble pie.

‘It would seem that I owe you another apology, Chief Inspector. You were quite right: Nataliya Matviyenko was well known to Bekim Develi. At least that’s the impression you get from her suicide note. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Would you be kind enough to read her email out again please, Mr Manson?’

‘Certainly, Chief Inspector.’

‘Let me,’ said Louise, and collecting another sheet of paper off the tabletop, she started to read aloud in a posh, butter-wouldn’t-melt voice.

‘ Everything is horrible and hopeless. I thought I knew what it was to feel low but I now see I was wrong. I have now reached a very dark place in my soul from which there can be no return and I just want to go to sleep and not wake up again, ever. So, I am writing this email because I want to explain a few things and to apologise to everyone who’s helped me in the last few months. You all tried very hard to make me feel better but I know now I can no longer go on with my life. I’m at the end of what I can cope with. I’m so very, very sorry for what’s happened. I feel so guilty. Please forgive me. It was me who killed Bekim Develi. If I hadn’t taken his EpiPens then he might still be alive. I didn’t mean to hurt him at all because he was always very kind to me, and a good friend. I was told that he might feel a bit ill and that was all. I had absolutely no idea that he could actually die. If I had known that this was even possible I would never ever have done it. When I saw what happened during the football match I was horrified. And when I heard that he was dead I wanted to die myself. Nothing I can do could ever bring him back. As usual I’ve made a big mess of things. But worse than that I keep thinking about Bekim’s girlfriend, Alex, and his beautiful baby boy, Peter. Bekim was so proud of him. He showed me so many pictures of him that his face is now imprinted on my brain. I am responsible for taking away Peter’s father. Peter will never know his father. The simple fact of the matter is that I cannot come to terms with it. Not now. Not ever. I’m sorry but I can’t live with the memory of what I’ve done .’

Louise sighed and put down the sheet of paper from which she had been reading. I could see that it had affected her.

‘In spite of what Nataliya writes,’ I said, ‘she obviously didn’t kill him. But she seems to have held herself responsible for doing what someone else obviously did: the person who put her up to this, and who must have doctored Bekim’s food here in Greece.’

‘It’s a pity she didn’t say who that someone was,’ observed Varouxis.

‘The curious thing is,’ I added, ‘I’ve spoken to our team nutritionist, Denis Abayev, and he insists that the only thing Bekim consumed before the match was a banana protein shake that Denis made himself and using ingredients that he brought on the plane from England. That was at least two hours before the match.’

‘Which means it can hardly be the source of the substance that caused him to suffer an allergic reaction that cost him his life,’ said Varouxis. ‘But in the light of this new information I shall certainly want to speak to your team nutritionist again.’

I nodded. ‘Naturally.’

‘You don’t suppose it could just be a coincidence,’ suggested Sergeant Tsipras. ‘That Mr Develi’s death was natural after all. And that it had nothing to do with her stealing his pens.’

Varouxis looked at his subordinate with weary disappointment. ‘Policemen don’t believe in coincidence any more than they believe in the kindness of strangers. Not when there is — as Detective Inspector Considine has told us — the evidence of a substantial bet placed on the outcome of the match. By a Russian. In Russia. Quite possibly by the same person who owns the team for which Bekim Develi used to play, Semion Mikhailov, who had probable knowledge of his condition. No, someone got to him all right. Someone who was in league with this man, Semion Mikhailov. I think we can agree on that.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Tsipras.

‘There’s something I’d like to show you,’ said Varouxis.

He collected his iPad off the windowsill and switched it on with a sweep of his forefinger. A moment or two later Louise and I were looking at a short, grainy black and white film of what looked like a Mercedes Benz leaving the team’s hotel in Vouliagmeni.