Che Committed Suicide (11 page)

‘Good morning, my dear.’

You can tell how much Adriani likes or dislikes someone from the shape of her lips. If she likes you, she smiles with her lips at their normal size. The more she dislikes you, the more she purses them. In Koula’s case, her lips had virtually disappeared.

Koula went on smiling as though not having noticed her attitude. I, however, was ready to explode. After all, it wasn’t the girl’s fault if I had decided to clock in for work again. While Koula was
connecting
up the computer, I informed her about the previous day’s visits to Favieros’s house and construction site. When I told her that Favieros had been leaving later in the mornings because he had been working on his computer at home, she stopped what she was doing and looked at me.

‘How can I get a look at his computer?’ she asked me.

‘I don’t think the butler will let us in before the family returns. But what else might Favieros’s computer have on it apart from plans and static studies?’

‘You never know, Inspector. Now, with computers, you can
discover
the entire biography of the user if you know where and what to look for. From his professional business to his personal interests and from the games he liked playing to who he talked and corresponded with. You can come up with the most amazing things.’

I found all this a bit excessive, but we wouldn’t lose anything by taking a look. What took priority, however, was a visit to the offices of Domitis Construction so that I might make the acquaintance of Favieros’s close circle. I didn’t expect to discover anything
sensational
. What I mainly wanted was to see what kind of atmosphere prevailed following the voluntary exit of its founder and owner.

Koula had switched on her computer and was playing around with it. I left her to go and ask Adriani for the keys to the Mirafiori. I was resolved to keeping my promise and letting Koula drive so as not to overdo it.

Adriani was making dolmades with lemon sauce and was at the stage of rolling the vine leaves with the filling. She heard me come in but didn’t turn round.

‘Where are the keys for the Mirafiori?’ I asked calmly. And I made it clear: ‘Koula will drive.’

‘You’ve got them.’

‘I don’t have them. After the shooting, they gave them to you together with my clothes and all the rest.’

‘I gave them to you.’

‘You didn’t give them to me nor did I ask you for them, because I’ve had no need of them since then.’

‘I gave them to you and you just don’t remember.’

I started to get hot under the collar because I knew where she was leading. She wanted to send the keys to the Lost Property
Department
so that I wouldn’t be able to take the Mirafiori. Nevertheless, I succeeded in putting the brakes on my anger and said to her calmly:

‘Okay, I’ll call the Fiat dealers and get them to send me a
locksmith
to open up the car and put new locks on. The bill will be around 300 euros because it’s an old model and they cost a fortune.’

She tossed the half-wrapped dolma into the pan and went out of the kitchen. In two minutes she was back with the keys to the Mirafiori.

‘There!’ she said, throwing them onto the table, ‘you’d put them in the wardrobe next to your underwear and you’d forgotten!’

I cursed myself for not following her into the bedroom. I’d have caught her red-handed taking the keys out of her hiding place, whereas now she was throwing the blame on me and I had no incriminating evidence to refute her.

Without saying anything, I picked up the keys and walked out of the kitchen. Koula had turned off the computer and was waiting for me.

‘Let’s be off,’ I said to her, explaining that we were going to pay a visit to Favieros’s offices.

She stood for a moment in the doorway to the sitting room, then, instead of coming with me, she made a beeline for the kitchen.

‘Are you making dolmades?’ she asked Adriani with admiration in her voice. ‘Will you show me how to wrap them because whenever I do it they always come undone!’

There was a short pause and then Adriani said: ‘All right, I’ll show you, it’s not so difficult, you know!’ This last phrase sounded more like: ‘Why, are you so incompetent!’ But Koula went on undeterred.

‘You know, since my mother died, I’m the one who has to do all the cooking for my father. He loves dolmades, but whenever I make them, the poor man ends up eating the filling and the vine leaves separately.’

Adriani had lifted her head and was staring at her. Though her expression hadn’t changed, I realised, because I knew her well, that she had been impressed by the fact that Koula took care of her father.

‘Come here and watch me one day and I’ll show you,’ she said with a smile. The smile was still acerbic, but with a bit more lip.

Once outside I handed over the keys to the Mirafiori, which was parked at the corner of Aroni and Protesilaou Streets.

‘You drive,’ I said to her, ‘Adriani has exercised her veto on me.’

She chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, I passed my driving test with distinction.’

The car doors opened okay, but there the Mirafiori’s willingness came to an end. When Koula tried to start it up, it rumbled slightly and then stopped. At the fourth attempt, it lurched so violently that it almost catapulted us through the windscreen, before starting up with a wheezing sound.

The offices of Domitis Construction were in Timoleontos Street, close to the First Cemetary. I was glad it wasn’t far from my home so we wouldn’t have to overwork the Mirafiori after it had been
stationary
for two months. Turning into Vassileos Konstantinou Avenue, we hit a wall of traffic. Because of the Olympics, Athens had turned into a ploughed-up field and the drivers who hadn’t got themselves a tractor in time were now seeking safety on roads that had still not been dug up, with the result that the traffic had come to a standstill. A policeman at the junction between Vassileos Konstantinou Avenue and Rizari Street gestured at us abusively, not because we would move any quicker like that, but because his eyes had tired of seeing us. Then just as I was breathing a sigh of relief at the fact that the Mirafiori was managing bravely with all the stopping and starting, it gave up the ghost at the red light in Diakou Street. The engine gave out and, when the lights turned to green, it wouldn’t start up no matter what. Those behind honked their horns like people
possessed
, Koula was getting more and more exasperated because with each new attempt, she drowned the engine even more, while those cars that managed to slip out and pass us stuck their fingers up at us just to boost our morale.

‘Let me get it started,’ I said

While I was trying various tricks to get the thing moving, a
convertible
pulled up beside us. Sitting behind the wheel was a
youngster
with a crocodile on his T-shirt and spiked hair. In the past we used to starch our collars, now it seems we starch our hair.

‘Eh, you old fogey. What are you doing with the chick in that pile of scrap?’ he shouted angrily. ‘Get yourself a convertible like us, birdbrain. Look at the face on the old fogey!’ And stepping on the accelerator, he smothered us in exhaust fumes to get his own back. In my consternation, I had forgotten that the Mirafiori was stuck at the lights. I cast a sideways glance at Koula, who was trying to remain composed, but failed, and broke into loud peals of laughter.

‘At times like these, the bad copper comes out in me and I want to arrest whoever I see in front of me,’ I told her.

‘Come on, show a little understanding.’

‘Understanding?’

‘Don’t you get it? His girl has dumped him and he’s taking it out on you.’

That’s one explanation that hadn’t occurred to me at all and it filled me with such delight that I turned the key as though caressing it and the Mirafiori started up at the first attempt.

I was expecting to find myself before a modern office block of dark concrete and one-way windows, but what I found was a three-storey neoclassical building, recently renovated. The modern office block was behind it. At first, I thought they were two separate buildings, but when I looked from the side, I discovered that there was a small bridge, rather like a glass tube, connecting the two buildings. The same social disguise employed by Favieros could be seen even in his business. At first sight, he didn’t want to live in the same
neighbourhood
with the moneybags in Ekali; his house in Porto Rafti, however, was the house of a moneybag. At first sight, he preferred neoclassical buildings to the modern office blocks; behind the neoclassical
building
, however, was the modern block. He wore Armani suits, but crumpled and without a tie. Of course, to blame for this might have been the prudishness that leftists feel about their wealth and so they cover it up with a fig leaf, not to stop other people seeing it, but so as not to see it themselves. But perhaps equally to blame is the outlaw syndrome that leftists suffer from and that makes them persist with the disguise, albeit pointlessly, out of an acquired momentum.

Dominating the spacious hallway, facing the entrance, was a
portrait
of Favieros, draped in black out of mourning. Beneath it was a pile of floral bouquets. The receptionist was a pleasant-looking
fifty-year
-old woman, simply dressed and without make-up.

‘Good morning. How might I help you?’ she asked us politely.

‘Inspector Haritos. This is Officer Koula …’ I suddenly realised that I didn’t know Koula’s surname and I got stuck. Fortunately, she understood and cut in.

‘… Kalafati. Koula Kalafati.’

‘We’d like to see whoever’s in charge,’ I added politely.

‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked worriedly. She had just been through one tragic event and now, fatalistically, she was waiting for the next one.

‘Nothing at all. It’s purely routine. I’m sure you can imagine that when such a well-known figure commits suicide, and publicly as well, the police are obliged to carry out a routine investigation so as not to be accused of not looking into it.’

Privately, I was hoping that she would go for my little spiel and not suddenly decide to phone the police to verify it.

‘Take a seat for just a moment,’ she said, picking up the phone.

We sat down in the two metal chairs facing her desk. The hallway had been meticulously renovated. Wooden panelling halfway up the wall, with the rest of the wall painted a light pink colour. The
carvings
on the ceiling had been restored to their original form and they made you nostalgic for the old light fittings with candles or bulbs. The furnishings were the usual design as in all offices: metal chairs, desks of metal and wood, computers. But it didn’t jar; perhaps because it was all so neutral and was absorbed by the neoclassical restoration, rendering it inconspicuous.

The woman put down the receiver. ‘Our General Manager, Mr Zamanis, will see you. Please follow Mr Aristopoulos,’ she said, motioning to a young man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and tie, who had come and was waiting for us.

We went up to the third floor, over the bridge of sighs and entered the modern block. Here, the decoration was minimalist, not at all recalling the period of the first Bavarian Kings of Greece. Chipboard cubicles, like a line of theatre sets. Sitting inside were men and women either typing away at the keys on their computers or talking on their mobile phones.

Aristopoulos led us to a door at the end, the only door on the whole floor. In olden times, the rich lived in neoclassical houses and the servants in hovels. Now only a door divides them. The actors up front and the impresario behind the door. That was all there was to it.

The second fifty-year-old woman that we encountered had her hair tied back, was wearing white linen slacks and blouse, but like the first woman had no make-up on. I suddenly realised that this was their way of showing they were in mourning for Favieros, and I quite liked it.

‘Do go in. Mr Zamanis is waiting for you,’ she said, immediately adding: ‘Can we get you anything?’

I politely declined and Koula was quick to comply.

Zamanis must have been around the same age as Favieros, but that’s where the similarities ended. Favieros was of average height and was ostentatiously unkempt; Zamanis was tall and wearing a smart suit. Favieros had thick hair and was always unshaven; Zamanis was clean-shaven and starting to go bald. He got to his feet to receive us and held out his hand. Then he also shook Koula’s hand, but
mechanically
, without looking at her, because his eyes were fixed on me.

‘I have to admit that your visit surprises me somewhat.’ He stressed the words one by one as if to underline them. ‘Why this sudden interest on the part of the police in the tragedy that’s befallen us?’

‘It’s hardly sudden,’ I replied. ‘We simply waited for the first few difficult days to pass before bothering you. Besides it’s not
something
urgent. It’s purely a formality.’

‘Let’s get on with the formality, then.’ He waited for us to sit down and then shooting his words out at us in a sharp, categorical tone: ‘So what do you want to know? Whether I expected Jason to commit suicide? The answer is “no”. Whether he had any reason to commit suicide? No, everything was going just fine for him. Whether he was forced into suicide by those fascist idiots? Again no, they simply used it as an opportunity to do their own thing. Whether I expected Jason to make a spectacle of his suicide? Again, the answer is “no” for a fourth time. And now that I’ve answered all your questions, please allow me to get back to my work. Time is pressing and all the work has fallen on my shoulders.’

Koula wasn’t sure whether she should get to her feet or remain seated and looked at me uncomfortably. She saw that I didn’t budge and went along with me.

‘Thank you for saving us the trouble of asking you the questions,’ I said politely and without the slightest irony. ‘But you haven’t answered the question as to why Jason Favieros committed suicide.’