Che Committed Suicide (46 page)

‘It’s a wonder that he survived that long.’

What did he mean? Something told me that concealed in this simple sentence was the secret I’d been looking for, but I tried to keep my composure and not show any excitement in case I scared him and he shut up shop.

‘What makes you say that?’ I asked, as calmly as I could.

‘Because he paid more dearly than all the others. Maybe the stronger end up paying more, it’s one way of looking at it. At any rate, it was a huge blow to him and it’s a miracle he survived till the nineties.’

‘What huge blow?’

‘His daughter married Major Skouloudis.’

He looked at me, pleased with himself that he’d succeeded in shocking me. And he had succeeded in shocking me, but for other reasons. Coralia Yannelis was the wife of Major Skouloudis, her father’s torturer? Was this the secret? Was this the start of the thread that would unravel the whole case?

‘A real rosebud!’ said Kalafatis with old-fashioned admiration. ‘She was no more than eighteen and would come to the Major for news of her father, to plead with him to tell her when he would be released. And Skouloudis could be very charming. When he talked to you, you’d never imagine that this same man could torture anybody. That’s how it was with the girl. In less than a month, she was totally smitten with him.’

‘Did Skouloudis say anything to Yannelis about his relationship with his daughter?’

‘Are you kidding? It would have been like killing him. And as I told you, the major respected Yannelis.’

‘I thought he might have let him go,’ I said provocatively. ‘After all, he was the father of his girlfriend.’

‘He couldn’t. He would have found himself in deep trouble.
Yannelis
and his group had been accused of bombings. He did stop interrogating him, however. He closed the file on him and sent him before a military tribunal. Yannelis was still in prison when they got married. He found out about it from his son.’

I could now, with hindsight, understand why Coralia Yannelis had been so tense and uneasy when talking about her father and her brother. She’d meant it when she said it was less painful for her to answer questions about Favieros’s companies. Evidently, she had fallen out with her brother over her marriage. But if she had fallen out with her brother, she must also have fallen out with her father. Yet, again, I had uncovered a secret that might lead to murder, but not to the suicides of three people. If someone had murdered
Skouloudis
, his marriage to Coralia Yannelis would have provided the perfect motive. But what connection could this marriage possibly have with the suicides of Favieros, Stefanakos and Vakirtzis? The only ones who could answer this question were Coralia Yannelis and Minas Logaras, whoever he might be.

‘Are you still in contact with Skouloudis?’

‘No, when I got out of prison, I didn’t want any more bother. I started this little business, married a girl from my village and kept myself to myself.’

I got up to leave, but just then I thought of one last question that I asked more by way of fishing than for any other reason.

‘Do you know anyone by the name of Minas Logaras?’

He thought about it, but came up with nothing. ‘No. Never heard the name before.’

‘That’s all, then,’ I said and walked towards the iron door that was still half-open.

‘Don’t bother coming back,’ I heard him say behind me and I turned round. ‘I’ve had my fill of military police, coppers, cells and prisons. I’ve paid through the nose and I have a right not to want to set eyes on any of you.’

I opened the door and went out without replying. He was the third person to tell me not to come back. First there was Zamanis, then Coralia Yannelis, albeit indirectly, and now it was the former military policeman, Christos Kalafatis. And everyone was happy, just like Zissis said, those who ended up making enough money to burn and those who ended up turning the revolution into T-shirts. And no one wanted to remember. It reminded me of that song I’d heard in the taxi on the day I’d returned from my meeting with Ghikas and Yanoutsos: ‘We’re getting on so well, I’m living in fear of hell.’

I called her as soon as I got back to the office.

‘You again, Inspector?’ she asked as soon as she came to the phone. ‘I thought we were done.’

‘So did I, but I was wrong, Mrs Skouloudis.’

The line went quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was calm and grave. ‘So you’ve discovered who I am?’

‘Yes. Just this morning.’

‘May I ask how?’

‘From Christos Kalafatis, who manufactures the Che T-shirts.’

Her cheeriness returned. ‘I’m happy for you. He’s the only one who knows and you found him.’

‘I need to talk to you. What time can you come by my office?’

‘I hope I won’t have to repay all your visits to me. Let’s not see it that way,’ she said laughing. Then she grew serious. ‘I suggest neither your office nor mine. Let’s meet at my home. At six this evening.’

I asked for her address. ‘Number 7, Tobazi Street, in Pefki,’ she said. ‘It’s off Chrysostomou Smyrnis Street, close to the Katsimbali Park.’

I wondered whether I should inform Ghikas and tell him what I’d learned from Kalafatis or whether I should wait till I’d talked to Coralia Yannelis. It was more a question of patience. No matter how many years you’ve spent on the Force, no matter how experienced you are, as soon as you get wind of some success, you immediately rush to your superior to gloat. It’s a kind of impulse that carries you away. I decided to be patient, because the correct thing was to talk first with Yannelis and then go bragging to Ghikas.

How do you fill five hours when you’re on tenterhooks? I kept the reporters longer than usual. They stared at me flabbergasted because it was the first time I had ever engaged in chit-chat with them.
Sotiropoulos
, who suspected something, decided to stay longer, for the benefit of all. He opened up his favourite discussion concerning the suicides and I answered him with a lot of twaddle simply to pass the time. In the end, I felt some remorse and told him to wait another twenty-four hours as I would have more news the following day. He pressed me for details, but I was unshakeable as a rock, and so we went on for a while tossing the ball back and forth. I went down to the cafeteria three times and got three not-so-Greek coffees, a croissant in cellophane and a packet of rusks to settle my stomach.

I reckoned that it would take me three quarters of an hour to reach Pefki. The most reasonable route was to go up Kifissias Avenue and then, at the Ivi building, to turn left into Aghiou Konstantinou Street and that would bring me to Chrysostomou Smyrnis Street. It was Monday afternoon in summer, the shops and offices were closed and I didn’t meet any traffic. I arrived a quarter of an hour early and drove round the block twice in order to arrive exactly on time. The bell at 7 Tobazi Street bore the name Coralia Yannelis. I wondered whether Skouloudis was dead or whether he had simply been struck off by the living. Her flat was a penthouse on the fifth floor.

She opened the door herself. She had the same smile and was wearing one of the same outfits that I’d seen on her at the offices of Balkan Prospect.

‘Come in,’ she said, leading me to a spacious sitting room that spilled over onto a balcony with the awnings lowered and with a variety of plants, mostly saplings, in large pots. In the wall on the right, there was a closed sliding door. The faint sound of a TV could be heard from the other side.

‘Please have a seat,’ she said, pointing to an armchair that was facing the park. ‘Can I get you something?’

‘No, thank you.’

She sat down on the sofa opposite me. She seemed to be trying to give the impression that she had invited me for coffee and a chat, but she found it difficult to conceal her anxiety completely.

‘So where shall we begin? With Minas Logaras?’

She laughed. ‘There is no Minas Logaras, as I’m sure you’ve
realised
.’ She suddenly became serious. ‘No, we ought to begin with my father’s arrest.’

I let her start in her own good time. Now that I was sitting
opposite
her, I felt more relaxed. I was in no hurry and I waited.

‘They arrested my father in the spring of ’72. They woke us up one night at around two a.m., grabbed hold of my father and began hitting him and dragging him towards the door.’ She halted and said without any emotion, as if simply stating a fact: ‘That was the last time I saw my father, Inspector.’ She let out a sigh and remained silent for a moment. ‘Throughout his life, my father was involved in
movements
and revolutions. So was my mother. But they wanted to keep their children away from all that. They never talked about it to us, they never explained it to us, they never said anything. They did it to protect us, but also out of fear we would let something slip. And so we grew up in the dark, in an atmosphere of indefinable fear. I’m telling you all this so you’ll understand our panic when they came to arrest my father.’ She looked at me and said with a slightly ironic smile: ‘Anyhow, you’re a police officer and I’m sure you know what I mean.’

I knew. Although in my line of work I rarely saw the panic of the innocent. It was usually the panic of the guilty that I saw.

‘I was in the final year of high school then. Kimon was in junior school. Our mother had died two years previously. We didn’t have anyone, we didn’t know anyone. The following morning, I began asking discreetly where those who had been arrested by the soldiers were taken. And so I learned about the Military Police
Headquarters
. I got together a bag with clothes because my father hadn’t had time to take anything with him and I went to the Headquarters. They told me I should see Major Skouloudis. He received me very cordially. He said he would personally see to it that my father got the clothes, that they were holding him for interrogation and that he didn’t know when he would be released, but that I shouldn’t worry because he was fine in his health, and that if I wanted to know
anything
or leave anything for my father, I should always go to him.’ She stopped again and looked at me. ‘Perhaps you’ve already guessed what I’m about to tell you. When you’ve lived all your life in fear and in the dark, when you’re on your own and with a younger brother and you don’t know where to turn and suddenly you meet someone who is friendly to you and seems ready to help you, then that person sooner or later wins you over. But it wasn’t only that. I never got any answers from my parents. Skouloudis, however, was always ready with an answer. He answered all my questions. Agreed, a lot of what he told me was make-believe, but frightened, little children are
reassured
by make-believe, it’s as simple as that.’ She again let out a sigh. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’ she asked.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Then I’ll fix myself a drink.’

She got up and went out of the sitting room. I’ve done countless interrogations in my life and I knew how confessions are extracted: like getting blood out of a stone, with hesitations, long-
windedness
and pauses. I waited patiently, with the sound of the TV still coming from the adjoining room. Yannelis returned holding a glass of whisky with ice.

‘That’s why I fell in love and married my husband, Inspector. For the sense of security that he gave me,’ she said, sitting down again. ‘I was still a minor. I don’t know how Yangos managed to get hold of a marriage licence. We got married quietly. I had Kimon with me, Yangos had invited two friends of his. After the marriage, I asked to see my father. Yangos said that it would be bad for me
psychologically
, but it would also be bad for him because no one looked kindly on his marriage to the daughter of a bomber. So I sat down and wrote my father a long letter. I didn’t receive any reply. I wrote to him again. Again there was no reply.’

She paused and took a sip of her whisky. It seemed she wanted to get her breath before moving on to the more difficult stuff. ‘The reply came after the fall of the Junta.’

She got up and went over to a cabinet that was on the wall facing the sliding door. She took a folded piece of paper from one of the drawers and handed it to me. I wouldn’t have called it a letter. It was more of a note, written on a white sheet of exam paper.

The signature was a capital ‘T’. I returned the note to Yannelis.

‘I made countless attempts to see him, tried numerous times to phone him, but to no avail. Both my father and my brother cut all ties with me.’ She was upset and took a deep breath in order to calm herself. ‘When I read the news of his suicide, I managed to find out where he lived and rushed to his home. My brother opened the door. He told me to go away and not to attend the funeral because he would have me thrown out of the church.’

‘Didn’t you show your husband the note that your father sent you?’

‘By the time I received the note, it was my husband’s turn to be in prison. They arrested him a week before the first Karamanlis
government
was sworn in.’

‘And afterwards? Didn’t you ask him to explain himself?’

She let out a bitter laugh. ‘Are you surprised?’

‘A little surprised, yes.’

‘Come with me,’ she said, getting to her feet.

She opened the sliding door and let me go through. I found myself in a smaller room with a sofa, a coffee table and four
high-backed
chairs against the walls. On the wall facing the sofa there was a TV with an enormous screen. Sitting midway, between the sofa and the TV, was a man in a wheelchair. It was clear at first sight that he had suffered a severe stroke. His left arm was paralysed, his head was resting on his left shoulder and was shaking constantly, while his mouth was twisted to the point of disfiguration. He could only move his right hand, and then with some difficulty.