Sperantzas was sitting where he sits when he reads the news, behind the oval table. He was alone because on the late-night news, he appears without any entourage. He wasn't the one with the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his jacket to wipe away the tears; he was the other one, the one who shouted the news as if he were selling watermelons in the market. He looked at me as I came in and couldn't decide whether he should lead with displeasure at being kept waiting or distress at the murder of his colleague. In the end, he settled for a deep sigh that covered both. I went and sat next to him in the seat of the girl who presents the sports news.
"How did they all find out?" I asked, referring to the reporters in the corridor, who were making so much noise that they could be heard even from where we were.
"They must have heard about it on the news."
I couldn't believe my ears. "You mean you reported Karayoryi's murder on the news, before you'd even informed us?"
"The whole of Greece was shocked," he replied passionately. "That kind of breaking news report has never happened before. The phone lines just about caught fire. I'd just begun to present the news about the new economic measures when they took me off the air and went into a commercial break. Before I'd had time to ask what was happening, Manisalis, the director, came charging in and told me that Yanna had been murdered. I shouted to them to keep on with the commercials and I sent a camera to the makeup room. When I went on the air again, I was grief-stricken. `Ladies and gentlemen,' I said, `at this moment in our own studios a tragedy has taken place. Our crime reporter, Yanna Karayoryi-the sleuth, as she was known to her colleagues-is lying dead in the next room, murdered. We don't know who the perpetrator of this heinous crime is. Sadly, the truth has many enemies. Nevertheless, Hellas Channel, the channel renowned for its exclusive reports, the leading channel for up-to-theminute news, has an obligation to inform you, its viewers, before anyone else. Ladies and gentlemen, you are hearing about the tragic end of Yanna Karayoryi at almost the same time that the fatal incident occurred, even before the police have been informed: And right on cue I showed the scene in the makeup room, with Yanna exactly as you found her. I mean, we're talking documentary art here. We have the video. You can see it if you want."
Why didn't I chew him out? Why didn't I smack him in the face? Why didn't I set up two chairs and tie him between them, remove his socks and shoes, and subject him to an hour of bastinado? The police officer who abandons the rough stuff is like a smoker who's quit cigarettes. Even though, logically, you know you were right to give it up, inside you're dying to let fly, just like an ex-smoker who deep down longs for a drag.
"Do you know what I should do to you?" I said to him. "I should frog-march you down to the station, lock you up in a cell with murderers, thugs, and pushers, and let them pin you down and shoot craps on your ass!" Words, shouting, empty threats. I'd given up cigarettes, and I was deceiving myself with chewing gum.
"How dare you talk to me like that? Who gave you the right? We will protest in the strongest possible terms to your superiors, and publicly too. You're living in the past, it seems." His voice was trembling as if he were shivering.
"First of all, it's against the law to publicize a murder before informing the police. We're the ones who decide when to make it known to the public and what evidence to reveal. Secondly, when you make known at what time the body was found, you may be helping the murderer to escape and so, albeit unwittingly, become his accomplice. If you protest, all that will happen is that I will be severely criticized for not arresting you.,,
"I'm a journalist and I did my duty. If Yanna were alive, she'd salute me."
She'd not only have saluted him, she'd have rubbed her hands in glee because he'd put one over on us. That much I knew to be true, so I said nothing.
"Why was Karayoryi due to appear on the late-night news? So far as I know, there was nothing new on the crime report."
"She was about to make a startling revelation."
"What kind of revelation?"
"I don't know. She didn't tell me."
I became irate again. "You'd better not be hiding anything from me, Sperantzas, just so you can reveal whatever it is and get all the credit. Because if you are, I'll have you hopping like a Muslim in Bosnia."
"I'm not hiding anything. I'm telling you the truth."
"And just what is the truth? That she came and announced to you she was about to make a startling revelation, without telling you what it was she was about to reveal and without asking permission from anyone? Are you saying that anyone can appear on your channel and say what they like, is that it?"
"Not anyone. Yanna Karayoryi," he replied under his breath, at the same time looking over to where the cameras were, as though afraid he might be being filmed.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He hesitated before answering. He found it hard to get the words out. "Yanna made her own decisions. She answered to no one." He bent forward and lowered his voice. "Listen. Don't expect to get it all from me. I can't tell you any more."
Hiding beneath the tailored suit was a frightened and insecure little man. I was surprised to feel a sudden liking for him, and lost all desire to push him any further.
"When did she tell you about this revelation?"
"I was in the newsroom, having a final look at the bulletin. About half an hour before I was due to go on the air."
"What time did you go on the air? Twelve?"
"Three minutes past twelve. The program on before the news was running three minutes late, and we decided not to interrupt it. We let it go on."
"Was she alone?"
"Of course," he said. "Who would she be with?"
"That's what I'd like to know." I got to my feet.
"Where's the newsroom?"
"Next to makeup."
"Inspector." I was almost at the door, and I turned around. "There aren't too many in here who'll shed any tears for Karayoryi. Talk to Martha Kostarakou. She does the medical reports. She knows plenty."
That said, he began rapidly to gather the papers on the desk, avoiding my gaze.
"Come with me to the newsroom."
"I've told you what I know. If you need me for anything else, I'm always here at the studio. But right now I'm going home because I'm beat."
"Come with me." From his expression, it was obvious that he wanted to tear me off a strip, but he controlled himself. He picked up his papers and went with me.
The reporters had all left, and the corridor was empty; we bumped into the director, so I didn't have to go looking for him. In any case, as it turned out, Manisalis knew nothing of any importance. After the news bulletin had begun, his girl assistant had come running in and told him that she'd found Karayoryi dead. He had taken a quick look from the makeup room doorway and realized that there was no point in going into the room. He'd gone on running the ads, but he hadn't rushed to the phone as Zoumadaki had told me. First, he had informed Sperantzas. He had telephoned the police only after first sending a camera to makeup at around ten past twelve.
I still had no idea why she had been killed, but at least I was clear as to how and when the murder had occurred. Sometime between eleven-thirty and twelve, Karayoryi had gone to see Sperantzas and told him that she wanted a slot on the late-night news. At three minutes past twelve, Zoumadaki had found her dead. So the murder had taken place in the course of that half hour. She had known the murderer. He'd been sitting beside her in makeup, talking to her. He'd got up, probably still talking, and had started playing with the light stand. He'd gone up to her, still chatting away. She'd seen him in the mirror while she was putting on her makeup, but her thoughts hadn't turned to anything bad. And once he'd got behind her, he'd raised the rod and run her through with it. If there were fingerprints on the rod, his might be among them. If there weren't any, that meant he'd wiped it before opening the door and disappearing. If the murderer was someone from outside the Hellas Channel, then I had to keep my fingers crossed and hope that he had been seen entering or leaving. If he was someone who worked there, then we were sailing in the southern Aegean against a gale-force wind.
The newsroom was a large open area with ten desks arranged in three rows of three, three, and four. The walls were bare. No one had thought to hang a picture, even a calendar-a sign that those who used it were merely passing through. They stayed there as long as they needed to do their work and then left, either for the studio or the street. At one end was a space separated by a glass partition. It was small, like a cubicle, just big enough for a desk and two chairs with a coffee table between them.
"The news editor's office," Sperantzas said.
"Which was Karayoryi's desk?" He pointed it out, the second one in the second row. I took out her keys, found the one that fitted the drawer, and opened it. "I won't be needing you any further," I said to Sperantzas, as I began looking through its contents. He appeared to hesitate. He was curious and wanted to stay. "I thought you said you were beat? Go on then." He'd said it and he couldn't take it back, so he turned and left.
Her desk was one of the smaller ones and it had only two drawers on the right-hand side. In the first drawer I found two notepads, a reporter's pad and a larger one for correspondence, and some cheap Biros, the kind that companies issue to their staff. I opened the second drawer. At the front was a small packet of colorfully wrapped toffees. It seemed that she liked chewing, perhaps to help her come up with ideas when she got stuck with her writing. There was a desk set, consisting of a letter opener and some scissors, in an expensive leather case still in the cellophane wrapping. Obviously a gift that she hadn't opened. And at the back there was a desk diary bearing the logo of some insurance company. I flicked through the diary. It was empty; she'd made no notes.
Puzzled, I stood over the drawers. There was something missing. Didn't she have a Filofax, damn it? It was unheard of for a reporter not to have a Filofax. That was where they noted everything: telephone numbers, information, loans and debts, professional and personal contacts, loves and hates, friendships and enmities. Filofax, the gospel of the modern Christian. Didn't Karayoryi have a gospel? Impossible. So where had it disappeared to? Usually, they carried it with them, so it should have been in her bag, but it wasn't. She might have locked it in her desk, but it wasn't there either. Could she have left it at home? Perhaps, but I thought it unlikely. Most probably the murderer had taken it, either because he was looking for something, or because it contained some incriminating information about him.
"Delopoulos, the studio director, would like to see you in his office," said Sotiris from the doorway.
"Right. Tell him I'll be along shortly."
"Do you want me for anything else, or can I go home?" he said, significantly.
"You can stay here," I told him severely. "You can go and find the security guard who was on duty around eleven at the entrance and tell him to wait for me, because I want to talk to him."
"Yes, sir," he said and went off sulking. I could have taken care of it over the phone from Delopoulos's office, but it didn't seem right to me for a subordinate to be at home snoring in his bed while his superior was slaving away into the small hours. These new officers were all milksops. They wanted to do nothing but lounge about all day at their desks wittering on about their Hyundai Excel or their Toyota Starlet. If there was a way to do it, they'd issue a memo demanding that crimes take place only between nine and five, not including Sundays and federal holidays.