I found a parking spot by the French Institute and said a prayer of thanks. Number 21 Dafnomili Street was a renovated two-storey house from the time when Neapoli was still a petit-bourgeois district in the shadow of the neighbouring high-class Kolonaki. Now, Dafnomili Street and Doxopatri Street, parallel to it, were inhabited by artists, university professors, government officials and all those who couldn’t find a place or were unable to afford the Lycabettus ring road, but who wanted to be able to say that they lived in Lycabettus. Rather like the backside of the Hilton, an area ever growing in size.
The wooden door was painted crimson with a golden handle and golden letter box, which testified to the fact that the house dated back to the middle of the previous century. I rang the bell and the door was opened not as in the past by some village girl adopted by the household, but by a Thai girl. She neither greeted me nor asked my name, but turned her back to me and began leading the way. When we reached a door, she stood to one side and allowed me to pass, like a hotel groom showing you into a room in a luxury hotel.
The living room extended through two adjoining rooms separated by an open white door with glass panels. The furniture wasn’t from the same period as the house, but nor was it what you would call modern. It was Louis-style furniture, as Adriani would say; the kind that as a child you see in others’ houses and hope one day you’ll have in yours, even if it’s no longer hand-carved but is factory-made. On the table in front of the sofa, I saw the morning newspaper. I picked it up to have a quick look, but I was interrupted by a hasty and commanding voice behind me.
‘Sit down, Inspector, and let’s get on with it because I have to leave.’
I turned round and saw a man in his forties, tall and thin, with hair starting to grey at the temples. He was impeccably dressed, an exact copy of the type Adriani drools over in Glamour and all her other TV soaps. I conformed to his wish and sat down.
‘Inspector Haritos, isn’t it?’ he asked, as if trying to place me.
‘That’s right. Head of Homicide, on sick leave.’
‘Ah, yes. Chief Superintendent Ghikas told me in glowing terms of your act of self-sacrifice.’ He paused for a moment, a sign that he was through with the niceties and was about to come straight to the point. ‘Mr Ghikas also told me that you are a trustworthy officer and that I can talk quite openly to you.’ He fell silent and gave me a searching look. What did he expect? That I would confirm it for him? He saw that I had no intention of doing anything of the sort and so he continued: ‘This whole business of the suicides is particularly unpleasant, Inspector. We’re talking about people who are extremely well known in the political and business world. However much we were saddened by the suicide of Jason Favieros, we all believed that the reasons were most likely personal. Loukas Stefanakos’s suicide, however, has overturned that simple explanation. Stefanakos committed suicide just like Favieros; it’s only reasonable to suppose, then, that there’s something linking the two events. And so the government has been burdened with a problem that it wasn’t expecting and one whose solution is out of its hands.’
‘The newspapers are talking of a scandal.’
‘There is no scandal, believe me. But that is no consolation to us. If there were, it would come out into the open, we would deal with it and that would be the end of it. But a non-existent scandal is a festering wound that could remain like that for weeks, even for months.’
‘I quite understand, Mr Petroulakis,’ trying to emphasise my understanding by my tone of voice. ‘Tell me how I might help.’
‘We want you, very discreetly, to discover the reasons why Favieros and Stefanakos committed suicide.’
‘That might take us some time, without even being certain that we’ll come up with something.’ I reflected as to whether I should continue and I voted in favour. After all, it was better that they should know what they were getting into, as Ghikas had told me the previous day. ‘We have no idea what we might uncover in the course of the investigations.’
He looked at me, more out of curiosity than concern. ‘What do you think you might uncover exactly?’
I told him about the whole business with Favieros, the real-estate agencies and the foreign workers who bought flats through them. He listened to me impatiently and every so often glanced at his watch to remind me that he had an urgent meeting. When I got to what Karanikas had told me, his patience ran out and he interrupted me.
‘I don’t believe that the reasons for Favieros’s suicide had to do with business, Inspector. You should look elsewhere.’
‘Where else, Mr Petroulakis? If he had any personal problems, his family and colleagues would have been aware of it. But they know absolutely nothing. And even if there were any, it would be a huge coincidence if the same personal problems also led Stefanakos to commit suicide.’
‘I’m not talking of personal problems, Inspector. I’m talking about those extreme right-wing nationalists who claim to have forced them into suicide.’
I started to wonder whether I really did have an adviser to the Prime Minister in front of me. Even the explanation put forward by Adriani and Karanikas about them being blackmailed by the TV channel was more believable.
‘What can I say…’ I replied as cautiously as possible. ‘If they had been murdered, I could understand it. Even if they hadn’t done it themselves, we would have found some lead. But suicides… It seems very unlikely to me.’
‘But they’ve admitted it themselves.’
‘When we catch them, they’ll deny everything, and we won’t have any evidence at all to indict them with.’
‘And what about the two Kurds who were murdered?’
‘We might get them for the murder of the Kurds, but we won’t have any evidence linking them to the suicides.’
He leaned over and picked up the newspaper from the table. He unfolded it and pointed to a particular spot. ‘Read it and you’ll understand,’ he said.
‘It was the leading article. I read at the spot he had pointed to.
All the rumours that the two men were being blackmailed by the TV channel that broadcast the suicides live are ridiculous and completely ungrounded.
Even in the hypothetical case that the channel was in possession of certain information, it is ethically unacceptable for anyone to claim that the channel would endeavour to urge a well-known businessman and a Member of Parliament to commit suicide, regardless of whether it might succeed or not.
‘Do you see where all this stuff and nonsense leads, Inspector? As if the supposed scandal weren’t enough, before long we’ll also have the supposed blackmailing by the channel. They’re already starting to put it around.’
‘And who will believe it, Mr Petroulakis?’
‘Everyone,’ he replied, without the slightest hesitation.
I held my tongue, because Adriani and Karanikas had already believed it. The two bodies had turned to mud that they were all throwing at each other: the Opposition at the Government over a scandal and the press at the TV over blackmail.
‘You’re right, but what connection do the nationalists have with all that?’
He stood over me and looked me in the eye from above.
‘The police officers of your generation underestimate the extreme right-wing factions, Inspector. I’m not saying that by way of reproach, I know that’s how you were weaned. But, since being a high-school pupil, I’ve been in conflict with them and I know only too well their methods and what they’re capable of doing. If you were to arrest them tomorrow, I can assure you that you would have public opinion on your side and no one would doubt that they had done it.’
So he had finally opened up and I could see now where he was leading. He couldn’t care less whether I found the reasons behind the suicides of a tycoon and a politician. All he wanted was for me to pin it on the extreme right so that the case would be closed and he would be able to relax. I was about to tell him straight when I suddenly remembered Ghikas’s words: ‘Whatever he tells you, just say “yes”.’ For once in my life, I decided to take his advice.
‘I see, Mr Petroulakis. Of course, we’ll need to get hold of some evidence to make the accusation stick.’
My reply pleased him and he smiled with satisfaction. ‘I’m certain you’ll come up with the evidence. I have every confidence in your abilities.’ He held out his hand to tell me that the conversation was over. ‘And we’ll be in touch,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘But always call me on my mobile phone, not on the landline.’
It made no difference to me where I called him. My problem was elsewhere. I wondered what I would have to tell him the next time I called him. I was met outside by the Thai girl, who, like a guard of honour, showed me to the door.
As I was going down Octaviou Merlie Street in order to turn into Ippokratous Street and come out into Solonos Street, I reflected that it was the first time that I had felt Ghikas was lending me his support. I couldn’t decide whether this was because he had a genuine liking for me or whether it was due to the fact that Yanoutsos got on his nerves more than I did. Most likely the latter. Of course, this support might simply be due to the fact that I was carrying out an unofficial investigation and, not only that, but while on sick leave too. If something were to go wrong, he hadn’t given me any official orders and consequently he didn’t bear any of the responsibility. Thinking it over again, I decided that this was the more likely explanation. It had nothing to do with his either liking or disliking me, or with his being at cross-swords with Yanoutsos. He was helping me because he was in no danger of compromising himself and, at the same time, he was getting rid of Yanoutsos. I wasn’t sure whether this thought angered me because it made me see Ghikas’s ulterior motives or whether it relieved me because it put him back in his proper place and didn’t upset the existing balance of things.
I found a space for the Mirafiori in the parking lot at the corner of Solonos Street and Mavromichali Street. Number 128 was an old building, something between a large apartment block and a small office block, quite common for buildings from the fifties. Karyofyllis’s office was on the fifth floor. I stepped out of the lift into a dim corridor with mosaic floors, the kind that still look filthy no matter how often you clean them.
However, Karyofyllis’s office dispelled the previous impression. I crossed a carpeted hallway and entered a spacious and well-lit office with two secretaries sitting in front of computers. Between the two secretaries was a door with plastic casing and gold studs, rather like a square tray of baklava. Judging from its appearance, this must have been the door leading to Karyofyllis’s office.
One of the secretaries looked up and stared at me, while the other continued punching the computer keys. I adopted my official tone of voice and said curtly:
‘Inspector Haritos. I’m here to see Mr Karyofyllis. It’s an urgent matter.’
My tone of voice made the other secretary look up from her computer. ‘Please have a seat for a moment,’ the first one said as she went through the baklava door. She came back out in less than a minute and told me to go in.
Karyofyllis’s office was the same as that of his secretaries, but one notch higher in quality. The carpet was thicker, the desk bigger and the back of his chair higher. The secretaries had a fan; here there was air conditioning. Karyofyllis was about my age, wearing a suit, with black hair and a thin moustache that made him resemble a certain popular singer of bouzouki songs from the sixties. As soon as he saw me, he got to his feet and held out his hand.
‘Good day, Inspector. How might I help you?’
Like an uncouth copper, I sat down uninvited in the chair in front of his desk and stared at him pensively.
‘The question is how you might help me and how I might help you,’ I said.
My introduction took him unawares and he looked worried. ‘I don’t understand.’
I nodded to him to sit down, as though the roles had been reversed and he were in my office.
‘Listen here, Mr Karyofyllis. What I am about to tell you is still unofficial.’ I stressed the word ‘still’. He had crossed his arms on the desk and was waiting for the rest. ‘A Russo-Pontian who bought a flat in Larymnis Street, in the area of Konstantinoupoleos Avenue has lodged a complaint with us. The sale was conducted by a certain estate agent by the name of Yorgos Iliakos.’
I didn’t ask him whether he knew the particular estate agency, and he didn’t say anything to the effect, but his eyes told me that he did.
‘The Russo-Pontian says that he paid forty-five thousand euros. He signed whatever papers were given to him, but he knew no Greek. The other day, however, he was visited by a colleague of his to whom he showed the contract. And it appeared that the price on the contract was not forty-five thousand euros but twenty-five.’
‘Let me just say…’
I didn’t allow him to go on. ‘I haven’t finished yet. It’s fortunate that the fellow happened to be Russo-Pontian. They know nothing of lawsuits or lawyers or legal proceedings… Whether they’re hit by a car or have their windows smashed or are deceived about the price of their home, they always come running to the police. This will help us keep the complaint out of the official channels for the time being. So I’m here to talk to you unofficially, Mr Karyofyllis. Is it possible that the contract might state a different price to the one received by the seller?’
I saw his expression change. He looked worried and his gaze wandered round the room with suspicion, almost with a conspiratorial gleam.
‘Yes, and it’s quite common,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t reveal to you how it’s done.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s a felony.’
‘Felony?’
He hesitated and then slowly emitted the words through his teeth: ‘Tax evasion.’
‘I’m not a tax inspector, Mr Karyofyllis. I’m a police inspector. Your relations with the tax office don’t concern me.’
‘It’s a common practice to declare a lower price in order to reduce the tax.’
‘And is that what happened in this case?’
‘I would suppose so.’
‘And what if the seller did only receive twenty-five thousand euros?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If the difference didn’t go into the seller’s pocket…’
‘So who’s pocket did it go into? The estate agent’s?’
I left the question dangling in the air and changed tack.
‘Mr Karyofyllis, I want to be honest with you. I don’t have any interest at all in you personally. If I need to, I’ll call you into the station and I’ll do it without the slightest hesitation. The same is true if I need to arrest you. But the office of Yorgos Iliakos is another matter altogether. It belongs, so we were informed, to Jason Favieros.’
‘Who? The businessman who committed suicide?’ he asked innocently. ‘What connection does he have with the estate agency?’
I shot him a look as though my heart were filled with pity for him. ‘Come now. The Yorgos Iliakos Real Estate Agency and a very large number of other real-estate agencies belong to Balkan Prospect, which is a company owned by Jason Favieros. The tragedy that his family has suffered and the confusion that exists at present concerning the future of his businesses obliges us to be very cautious. You stand to benefit from that.’
‘Me, how?’
‘Because you were the one to draw up the contracts.’ I said it so definitively, as though I had verified it from ten different sources, and he didn’t dare deny it. ‘There are three possibilities, Mr Karyofyllis. First, that the Russo-Pontian is lying. If that’s the case, we’ll tweak his ear and send him home. Second, an employee in one of the estate agencies is working a scam to cheat the buyers, the sellers and their own bosses. Or third, there exists an organised network of officials and public notaries who are getting rich illegally in this way.’
‘The first possibility is the only reasonable one, Inspector.’ I had thrown him a lifebelt and he was clutching hold of it.
‘So what you’re saying is that the Russo-Pontian paid forty-five thousand euros and the same sum was received by the seller minus the estate agent’s fee, but that the contract stated twenty-five thousand for tax reasons. And now the Russo-Pontian is being clever and trying through blackmail to get twenty thousand back.’
‘Precisely, Inspector. Those people are uneducated and unreliable, just like every other sly animal. They bring the sum in cash, empty it onto your desk, and all they’re interested in is getting the key to the house,’ Karyofyllis went on. ‘Once they’ve moved in and are settled in the place, their sly minds start working and they try to find ways of getting back some of the money they paid.’
I restrained myself only with difficulty and agreed with him. Given that they allowed estate agents to rob them of so much money right under their noses, what else were they but animals?
‘You may very well be right. But what will happen if the Russo-Pontian is only the beginning and from tomorrow the complaints start coming thick and fast? Then the network will come out into the open, Balkan Prospect will be ruined, even if it’s not to blame, and so will you along with it.’
‘Me, why?’
‘Because all the sales and purchases contracts for Balkan Prospect are drawn up by you. We know that from our investigations.’
I had him with his back to the wall and all he could do was jump to his feet and start shouting. ‘This is nothing but a damnable plot! Accusations are being made against the executives of a business firm, accusations are being made against a public notary company that has a history going back to 1930, that was founded by my father, just because some lousy Russo-Pontian crook is resorting to blackmail to get back money!’
‘No one is being accused of anything yet,’ I replied calmly. ‘As I told you, this is an unofficial investigation and our aim is to close the case quietly. There’s a very simple way for doing that. Give me the particulars of the seller and provided that he confirms that he did, in fact, receive the forty-five thousand euros, the case will be closed immediately.’
He became more and more distraught and hostile. ‘That, unfortunately, is something I am unable to do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because by doing so I would be revealing an illegal transaction and I would be compromising both the seller and the real-estate agency.’
‘I told you, I’m not a tax inspector.’
‘Agreed. And that may be enough for me, but it won’t be enough for the other two parties.’
‘I can get the particulars from the land registry.’
He hesitated a moment and then said with resolve: ‘That’s another matter that doesn’t concern me. I’m not interested in where you get the particulars, provided it’s not from me.’ His refusal confirmed my suspicions, but I kept this to myself. ‘In the past, the police would give those good-for-nothings a pasting and threaten them that if they persisted it would be the worse for them,’ he said almost complainingly as he gave me his hand.
He knew that only too well, coming as he did from a historic company. I let it go by, so he could make of it what he wanted.
I stopped at the first cardphone I came across and phoned home. I told Adriani to put Koula on the line.
‘I want you to go straightaway to the land registry office and find the Russo-Pontian’s file,’ I told her. ‘I want the particulars of the seller. It’s urgent and I don’t want any delay because of cookery lessons.’
She was silent for a moment and than answered gravely: ‘I’m on my way.’
I found her very likeable, but if I left her in Adriani’s hands, I ran the risk of her getting the better of me.