In the end, I spent all night in the armchair. I don’t know what time I fell asleep but I opened my eyes at one moment and saw that the book had slipped out of my hands and had fallen to the floor. The hot sun was pouring in through the half-open shutters. I looked at my watch and leapt to my feet. It was already nine and Koula would be there any moment. I threw some water over my face and thought about what my next moves should be. I would begin with Favieros’s offshore company. Even theoretically, there was half a chance that the reason for his suicide may lie in the overt or shady activities of the offshore company. It was the only point that Logaras left unclear and it required investigation. I wondered what was better: to search through the books of the Ministry of Trade or to go straight to Zamanis? I’d soon find what I was looking for in the records, but what use would a plain reference be to me? I’d still have to question Favieros’s associates. I decided upon the latter solution, but with a slight variation. I wouldn’t go in person, I’d send Koula. In that way, it wouldn’t be seen to be too important and people wouldn’t get suspicious. The next step, or rather the parallel step, would be to find Logaras, Favieros’s biographer. That was easily done by a simple visit to the publisher.
The kitchen was empty. My coffee was waiting for me on the table with the saucer covering the cup so that it wouldn’t get cold. Before I’d even taken the first sip, Adriani breezed in, wheeling her bag from the supermarket.
‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’ she asked in a honeyed voice.
‘No. I fell asleep in the armchair without realising.’
‘Tomorrow, I’ll order you a wooden bed with nails, like those that fakirs use, so you’ll be more comfortable.’
I ignored her sarcasm and went on sipping my coffee that was only lukewarm, despite the protection of the saucer. When Koula arrived, I took her straight into the sitting room and told her about Favieros’s offshore company.
‘I want you to go back to Domitis to talk to Zamanis and Favieros’s secretary and to find out everything you can about that offshore company. Where its offices are…’
‘Say no more, I’ve got it,’ she said calmly.
‘If they give you a difficult time, say that Ghikas sent you. I’ve informed him.’
‘It won’t be necessary. Where did you find out about the offshore company?’
I picked up Favieros’s biography from the floor and handed it to her. She read the title and whistled: ‘That’s fast work for you,’ she said impressed. ‘With him still warm in his grave.’
I found it amusing that she should link the publication of the biography with his remains. ‘Do you want to read it?’
She stared at me in alarm. ‘Heaven forbid. I’m quite happy driving you around all day, but don’t ask me to read big books like that!’
I opened the book and discovered that Sarantidis Press had its offices in Solomou Street, in Exarcheia. We left the house together. Koula went over to her moped which she had parked outside the house. She put her helmet on, started it up and set off, while I headed towards Iphikratous Street to get the trolley to Omonoia Square.
We had been hit by an early heatwave and it was the first really hot day of the summer. There was no breeze at all and even though it was still ten in the morning, the sun was scorching. At every step, the dose of exhaust fumes increased. The trolley was one of the old yellow ones, without air conditioning. Sitting in the seat in front of me was a fat woman furiously fanning herself with a Chinese fan. I don’t know whether it was offering any relief to her, but it was certainly filling my nostrils with her sweaty smell. By the time we reached Omonoia Square, I had decided that I was going nowhere in future without the Mirafiori.
Sarantidis Press was located on the third floor of an old apartment block which didn’t have a lift. The green iron door was closed. I rang the bell and walked into a large space, more like a storeroom than an office, with an old wooden bench and three chairs. On the walls, there was a variety of shelves and bookcases, all packed with books. A narrow path led from the door to the bench. The rest of the room was filled with packages and copies of Favieros’s biography. Sitting on the chair behind the desk was a young man with a beard and hair down to his shoulders; the kind that, were you to run into after the events at the Polytechnic School, you would take straight to Security Headquarters without them having done anything. His eyes were fixed on a computer screen and he was typing away at the keyboard.
‘Sarantidis Press?’ I asked.
He waited for the printer to start up and then replied with a sharp ‘That’s me.’
I held up a copy of the biography from one of the piles and said: ‘Where can I get hold of this Logaras fellow?’
‘Why, do you want his autograph?’ he answered ironically.
‘No, I want to ask him a few questions. Inspector Haritos.’
The irony changed to sourness when he heard I was a police officer. ‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ he replied. ‘I couldn’t even point him out to you on the street. I’ve never actually met him face to face.’
‘So how did Favieros’s biography come into your hands?’
‘By post. Together with the manuscript, there was a covering letter saying that if I was interested in the book, he would contact me concerning the details and the date of publication.’
‘When did all this take place?’
‘Roughly three months ago.’
‘Didn’t the letter have an address on it?’
‘Neither an address nor any phone number, nothing. At first, I paid no attention. You know how it is, even a small publishing company like mine receives a couple of manuscripts each week. I don’t have the time to read them all. I put it to one side to read it at the first opportunity. About one and a half months later, I received another letter saying that if I wanted the rights, I had to sign a contract straightaway. I was forced to read it overnight and I decided to go ahead with it.’
‘What made you decide to publish it?’ I asked out of curiosity.
He reflected for a moment. ‘That strange mishmash of political activist and business tycoon. I thought it would sell and I was right. Though he imposed one condition on me.’
‘What condition?’
‘That he would decide when the book would be published.’
‘And you accepted?’
‘I modified it slightly. I stipulated that the publication date would be decided jointly.’
‘And how did you send the contract to Logaras?’
‘By recorded delivery. To an address that was on the second letter. He put the same address on the contract.’
‘Can you get it for me?’
On the wall behind him was a shelf full of files and folders. He turned and took down a file.
At that moment, I remembered something that Lefaki had told me the previous day, when Koula was taking a look at the computer. She told me that, when she had once asked Favieros if he was writing a novel, he had replied that he had already written it and was working on the corrections. It suddenly flashed through my mind that perhaps Favieros himself had written the biography before committing suicide.
Sarantidis found the address and wrote it on the back of a piece of paper.
‘When did Logaras inform you that you could publish the book?’
He burst into laughter. ‘Never. Did he have to inform me? As soon as I saw the suicide, I sent it to the printers.’
‘And he never called you?’ I persisted with my question.
He reflected and suddenly looked puzzled. ‘No, he never contacted me,’ he said. ‘It’s only just occurred to me now that you asked me. With all the madness surrounding the publication and the sales of the book, I completely forgot about it.’
Sarantidis’s reply strengthened my suspicions. He didn’t call, because in the meantime he had taken up residence in the cemetery.
‘Is the book selling well?’ I asked.
He looked at me and his eyes lit up: ‘If it goes on the way it is, in a month’s time I’ll be able to move into a bigger office and get myself a secretary.’
Pity, I thought to myself. Favieros’s heirs have lost an extra source of income that will be pocketed by the publisher.
When I was back out on the street, I looked at the piece of paper. The address was 12 Nisaias Street, in the area of Attikis Square. I worked out that the quickest way to get there would be to take the electric train from Omonoia Square. As I was walking along Patission Street towards Omonoia Square, I looked straight down Aiolou Street towards the Acropolis, but I could see nothing. The Acropolis had vanished behind a white veil.
The only consolation with the electric train is that it doesn’t smell of exhaust fumes, and a slight breeze blew in through the windows along the underground route before reaching Attiki Station. The kiosk owner at the station told me that Nisaias Street was exactly at the other side of the station and joined Sepolion Street and Konstantinoupoleos Street.
I found Nisaias Street easily, but as I started to walk down it, I was gripped by an intense desire to escape. It was a dark and narrow backstreet, that probably only saw the sun at noon when at its highest point. The street didn’t only smell of exhaust fumes, you were in danger of suffering apoplexy and needed a portable oxygen apparatus with you.
I walked down the side of the street with the even numbers. I passed by three three-storey houses put up overnight and two cheap apartment blocks whose balconies were decorated with washing lines, mops and cupboards instead of plants. Number 12 was an old house with a wooden door and half-broken closed shutters. Its yellow paint had started to peel. I halted for a moment and gazed at it. I was sure that I wouldn’t find Logaras living there, nor even the lowest Tamil dishwasher from Sri Lanka. Nevertheless, with that irrational hope that comes only with desperation, I went up and knocked at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone to open it but I knocked again. The third time, I knocked harder and the door half-opened of its own accord, dragging a piece of paper with it. It was a recorded delivery notice, evidently the contract sent by Sarantidis. No one had been to collect it from the post office.
I went inside and looked around me. Broken furniture, scattered in the two rooms and in the hallway, torn curtains ripped down, the stench of mould. The house hadn’t been lived in for at least twenty years. I went back outside and closed the door behind me.
Number ten, next door to the abandoned house, was a two-storey construction. The bells had no names on them. Why would there have been? When you sink to this level, no one looks for you any more, I thought to myself. I rang the first bell and the front door opened. On the top step, a thin, middle-aged woman was waiting for me.
‘Do you know if anyone comes to the house next door?’ I asked. She put her arms in the air and stared at me. She hadn’t understood a word.
I tried the second floor and this time I found myself facing a Muslim woman, her head covered by a scarf, in that oven of a place. She didn’t understand either what I was asking her. At the third attempt, I came across a Bulgarian woman, who spoke a couple of words of Greek: ‘Don’t know.’
It was pointless to go on. Favieros had chosen the house for that reason; so that the postman wouldn’t find anyone there to hand over the contract to. He hadn’t given any telephone number, the address was that of an abandoned house, consequently, no one could track him down.
I stopped when I reached the corner of Sepolion Street because my investigations had come to an end and all hope of my returning to Homicide had evaporated. Favieros had gone to the trouble of first writing his autobiography in order to immortalise himself before committing suicide. The reason behind his suicide concerned no one; the important thing was that there was nothing suspicious about it. I would remain with empty hands, as I had foreseen all along, and Yanoutsos would permanently step into my position.