Sotiropoulos was sitting opposite me and staring at me. We were at the Green Park in Mavromataion Street. The TV company he worked for was in Melissia, but he was also a partner in a PR company that had its offices in the Pedio tou Areos and so we had arranged to meet nearby. It was ten thirty in the morning and he was sipping his ouzo and waiting for me to open up. In the past, they always served ouzo with a meze: pieces of bread with a slice of tomato and olive, a bit of salami, half an anchovy. As the number of ouzos increased so did the size of the meze, till by the time you were on the tenth, you had a whole platter in front of you. Nowadays, whether it’s ouzo you drink or whisky or brandy, it makes no difference. They toss a bowl of peanuts and hazelnuts in front of you so you have something to nibble on.
The idea to talk to Sotiropoulos about Favieros’s offshore company came to me while I was having my morning coffee. Of course, Sotiropoulos was not the kind to do something for nothing. But what could he possibly want from me given my current situation? If, by any chance, I managed to get my position back, I would pay him back in forty-eight interest-free instalments in the same way that we pay for everything today, from fridges to favours.
‘This is the second time you’ve asked me about Favieros,’ Sotiropoulos said. ‘The first time it was by phone, now it’s face to face. Why are you so interested in his suicide?’
‘No particular reason. Out of personal curiosity,’ I replied as vaguely as I could.
‘Cut the bullshit, Haritos!’ he said vexedly. ‘That’s why you and I have never been able to get on together. Every time I start to like you and think what a good copper you are, you try to bullshit me and we’re back to square one.’
‘I don’t always tell you the truth because I know very well that in less than an hour, it’ll be on the news bulletins.’
‘So you sell me a lot of hot air to keep yourself safe.’
He had forgotten his vexation and laughed. ‘Listen to me, if what you tell me is not for airing on TV, I won’t air it. Because if I did, you’d shut up shop and I’m not so stupid as to want to lose my sources. So, what’s bothering you with the Favieros business?’
I continued to look at him hesitantly. He took his identity card from his wallet and placed it on the table.
‘Keep my ID as security,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that what we used to do in the old days? If I gave you something and I wanted to be sure you’d return it to me, I’d keep your ID. So keep mine till you’re sure that I won’t shout whatever you tell me from the rooftops.’
His action persuaded me and I decided to lay my cards on the table, some of them at least. I gave him back his ID and told him that I was investigating Favieros’s suicide, but unofficially, because something didn’t ring right about it. I kept Ghikas on the sidelines and didn’t even mention Yanoutsos. As I had foreseen, he first wanted to make sure I would repay the favour.
‘Okay, I’ll tell you what I know and keep you informed of whatever I find out, but if you come up trumps, you’ll give the story to me first.’ He saw that I hesitated and added: ‘What are you looking at me like that for? If you’re carrying out an unofficial investigation, you’re under no obligation to stick to formalities when it comes to impartial dealings with the press.’ He laughed, as though suddenly coming up with an idea. ‘If I’m pushed, I’ll say I got the information from Yanoutsos.’
His argument, though he didn’t know it, left me with no choice but to agree.
‘Have you read Favieros’s biography?’ I asked him.
He shrugged. ‘No, but what could it tell me? Is there anything about Favieros that I don’t know?’
‘So tell me about his offshore company, because I have a feeling that there’s something fishy about it.’
He burst into raucous laughter. ‘You’ve obviously not found out anything, Haritos. Because if you had, you’d be reeking of fish. Favieros was up to all sorts of tricks. There wasn’t one public project that he was involved with that hadn’t been cut and tailored to suit him. If, with hindsight, he discovered that some project interested him, the competition for it would be annulled on account of some formality so that it could be repeated and his company could take part. If he wanted to set up some international consortium, the government would go out of its way to exert pressure so that he got what he wanted. There wasn’t a bank that he didn’t have dealings with and, not only was he not put under any pressure by the banks, but he was able to take out loans without any limit. He got approval for letters of guarantee for any sum simply by making a phone call.’
‘Is it true he had close ties with ministers?’
‘Close ties? He ate with a different minister every day from Monday to Saturday, and on Sundays he ate with the entire Cabinet.’
‘He said that they were friends of his from the time of the Junta.’
‘What’s the difference between pre-Junta and post-Junta Greece?’
‘From being a kingdom, we became a democracy!’
‘Wrong. Pre-Junta, when you were asked how you knew some government official, you said “from the army, we did our national service together”. Post-Junta, you said “from the Security cells in Bouboulinas Street, we were in the resistance together”. An acquaintance in the army got you, at best, a post in the civil service. An acquaintance in Bouboulinas Street made you into a millionaire in five years.’
‘If it’s as you say, it makes it even more difficult to explain why he founded an offshore company for real-estate dealings.’
‘Real-estate dealings?’ he repeated as if not having heard properly.
‘Yes. A network of real-estate agencies covering Greece and the Balkans.’
‘Are you sure it’s not just claptrap on the part of his biographer?’ he asked me.
‘The offshore company is called Balkan Prospect and its offices are in Maroussi. Its manager is a Mrs Coralia Yannelis.’
‘That’s news to me. I’ve never heard anything about it.’
‘So I found out something after all,’ I said ironically.
He stared at me with the look of someone flicking through his mental address book to find a suitable reply. ‘Wait a moment, we’ll find out,’ he said. He took out his mobile phone and dialed a number with the speed of a concert pianist.
‘Stathis, Sotiropoulos here. Tell me, does the name Coralia Yannelis mean anything to you?’ It appeared that the answer was negative because he went on with a second question: ‘Some real-estate agency by the name of Balkan Prospect…? Exactly, Favieros… Fine… Listen, I’m sending a police officer over, Costas Haritos, who wants the lowdown, okay?’
He hung up and turned to me. ‘That was Stathis Horafas. He’s an estate agent who sold me my apartment and since then we’ve been friends. Go and see him and he’ll tell you all he knows. His office is 25 Karneadou Street in Kolonaki.’
I told Sotiropoulos I’d be in touch and left him in order to go and see the estate agent. I soon got to Karneadou Street, but it took me a good half hour driving around the block between Herodotou and Ploutarchou Streets to find somewhere to park. In the end, I left the Mirafiori right at the top of Herodotou Street, close to Dexameni Square.
Horafas’s real-estate office was located in an old, stately apartment block from the fifties, the kind built immediately after the Civil War, in a period when economic growth was identified with building work. Horafas was a smartly-dressed fellow of around forty-five. He ushered me into his office, told his secretary that we didn’t want to be disturbed, and closed the door behind us.
I came straight to the point. ‘Mr Sotiropoulos has explained to you, I think…’
‘Yes,’ he said, interrupting me. He leaned across his desk and brought his face close to mine, at the same time keeping an eye on the door.
‘What I’m about to tell you must stay between these four walls, Inspector,’ he said in a whisper. ‘If you make use of it, you mustn’t say where you got the information.’
‘Don’t worry. Besides…’
Again he didn’t let me finish my sentence. ‘Listen, I’m a well-known estate agent with a very select clientele. I don’t want to make an enemy of a colossus like Balkan Prospect, owned by the late Jason Favieros.’
‘But is Balkan Prospect such a big company.’ I still couldn’t see what profit a tycoon like Favieros could have got out of a medium-sized business like real-estate dealings. ‘Its manager told me of a network of real-estate agencies.’
Horafas smiled. He was more relaxed. ‘Correct. It is a network, but you won’t find it under the name Balkan Prospect.’
‘Why? Is there some other company?’
He reflected whether he should go on and voted in favour. ‘Favieros’s company is not a very old one. If you remember, it was founded in 1995. Five years ago, it made a dynamic appearance and began buying up real-estate agencies, without, however, changing their business names. Today, there is a whole series of real-estate agencies that still bear the names of their previous owners, while being run by managers belonging to Balkan Prospect.’
Because I’m a complete dunce when it comes to real estate, I wanted to make sure I had understood: ‘You mean that the corner estate agents might be called Yorgiou’s or Sotiriou’s, but in fact belong to Balkan Prospect?’
He burst out laughing. ‘Not on this corner anyhow. Balkan Prospect has no interest in Kolonaki.’
‘What areas is it interested in?’
‘In Sepolia, the area to the left of Acharnon after Aghios Nikolaos, in Liossia and Ano Liossia. And lately, in Oropos and Eleusis.’
I stared at him like a moron, but Horafas wasn’t at all surprised. ‘Do you find it strange? So do I,’ he said with a smile.
‘I don’t understand why Favieros would buy real-estate agencies in depressed areas like that. With the money he had, he could have easily set up a network in Psychiko or Kifissia or Ekali.’
‘What can I say? Perhaps one answer is that there’s plenty of work in those areas and no one has to sell his agency.’
‘He could have opened his own.’
‘But it seems he didn’t want to. He preferred to remain inconspicuous.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s something I don’t know.’
Maybe he did know and wasn’t telling me because he thought that he’d already said too much. ‘Could you give me the names of some of the real-estate agencies that belong to Balkan Prospect?’ He grew anxious again and looked at me hesitantly. ‘You have my word that I won’t use your name.’ He looked pensive and continued to hesitate. ‘Mr Sotiropoulos will no doubt assure you that I won’t compromise you in any way.’
Quite naturally, the client’s word was more reliable than the copper’s and he was persuaded. He took a thick catalogue out of one of his drawers and began flicking through it. He stopped at a couple of pages and noted down names and addresses on a piece of paper. He closed the catalogue and handed me the paper.
‘I’m a hundred per cent certain that these two belong to Favieros’s company. The one is in Sepolia, the other in Liossia.’
I thanked him and got up to leave. I didn’t have anything else to ask him and, if I had, he wouldn’t have answered. He had revealed as much as he was going to.
‘Inspector,’ he said as I was about to open the door to leave. ‘If you want my advice, don’t say anything to the estate agents about being interested in buying or renting a flat.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they won’t believe you. Our people neither buy nor rent in those districts. The only way you’ll get them interested is if you tell them you have property to sell.’
I thanked him for his advice and left. I walked up Herodotou Street with mixed feelings. On the one hand I was pleased because my nose for things hadn’t let me down. When you set up an offshore company to buy up real-estate agencies in depressed areas, without changing their original names, then there’s certainly some kind of operation behind it. Favieros wasn’t the kind to throw his money away on foundering estate agencies in districts where Greek was a foreign language. On the other hand, my theory that Favieros had himself written his biography had been shaken. If there really was a scam, as I suspected, why would Favieros open our eyes to it and tarnish his name? Unless, of course, he considered it unlikely that anyone would go to the trouble of looking into his offshore company.
The place where I had parked the car was directly exposed to the sun. The seat was like that hot pan on which my mother made me sit to get over the gripes. As soon as I took hold of the wheel, my hands were scorched and I let go of it. The Mirafiori lurched into the Toyota parked in front of me. Blasted summer!