Petratos lived on Assimakopoulou Street, next to the Aghia Paraskevi Youth Center. It was one of those new apartment buildings built for PR people, business executives, and academics living off EUfunded programs. There was no place to park in front of the entrance, as was usually the case, but instead a garden with a lawn and flowers. There was a separate underground garage. The doorbells were connected to a closed-circuit TV, so that they could refuse to let you in if they didn't like the look of you.
I picked a name at random and was about to ring when I saw a woman coming out of the elevator. As she opened the door, I darted inside. Petratos lived on the second floor. Each floor had three flats: two side by side and the other one on its own, across from the other two. I began with the one nearest to the elevator.
"Yes?" said the Filipino girl who opened the door.
The times were long past when well-to-do families brought girls from the villages to do all the chores and, in addition, give their darling son his first lessons in screwing. Today, you ring the bell, some Filipino girl opens the door, her English is broken, yours is irreparable, and you're supposed to communicate.
As soon as I said the word "police," she began trembling. Presumably, she was working illegally. "No problem, no here for you," I said to her, and my fluent English immediately put her at ease. I asked her whether she knew Petratos, whether she'd seen him the previous evening either coming or going and at what time. The answer to my first question was yes, to the other two no, and after the second no, she shut the door in my face.
I rang the bell of the flat that was next to Petratos's and this time fortune smiled on me. A sixty-year-old woman, and one of our people, opened the door. I explained who I was, showed her my badge, and she ushered me in. When I asked her about Petratos, she went into raptures.
"But of course I know Mr. Petratos! A wonderful man!"
"Do you happen to know what time he usually leaves his house in the evenings?"
"Why?" she said, suddenly suspicious.
I leaned over toward her as if about to divulge a Masonic secret. "You'll have heard of the murder of the two reporters at Hellas Channel, where Mr. Petratos works."
"I heard it on the news. Young women. Tragic!"
"We're trying to make sure there won't be any more victims, so we're watching the homes of all the reporters who work at Hellas Channel. That's why we want to know when they're at home, especially in the evening and at night. Yesterday evening, for example, did you happen to see him coming or leaving?"
"Why don't you ask him?"
"Reporters are strange people. They don't want the police under their feet. In any case, we're trying to be discreet, not to alarm anyone."
My reply apparently convinced her because she gave it some thought. "What can I tell you?" she said eventually. "In the morning he leaves around eleven. I know because I'm often coming back from doing my shopping at that time and we bump into each other on the landing. I rarely see him in the evening."
"When you do see him, what time is it?"
"Between six-thirty and seven. But yesterday I didn't see him at all."
I was about to go when she suddenly remembered something that I would rather she had forgotten. "The day before yesterday, there was another one of your men here asking questions," she said.
Sotiris's inquiries that had made Delopoulos and Petratos furious. "Yes, it was following the first murder. We'd suggested even then to Mr. Petratos and to the others to let us have their houses watched, but they'd refused. The result was that we had the second murder. That's why we decided to watch them discreetly, without them knowing, till we've found the murderer. You realize, I'm sure, that if there's a third victim, we'll have everyone down on our heads."
"Ah, what a line of work to be in!" she said with understanding.
I took my leave of her, but went away with empty hands. The same was true of the other flats. Most people didn't even ask me in but kept me standing at the door. And their answers were all alike: "I don't know," "I rarely see him," "Ask him yourself."
The higher I went in the building, the more my hopes fell, but I'd started to get the bit between my teeth. On the one hand, there was Kostarakou's murder and, on the other, my set-to with the gang of three-Ghikas, Delopoulos, and Petratos-not to mention Sotiropoulos, who kept sticking his nose in. All this had dented my pride. I wanted to get some evidence so I could bring Petratos in for questioning and begin to put the screws to him.
I had reached the fourth floor and was talking to a tall, lanky woman with strikingly thin lips. She told me that she minded her own business and wasn't in the slightest bit interested in what her neighbors did. This sermon was interrupted by a tall, gangly kid with shaved head and earring, who pushed past her to get out.
He'd obviously heard us talking, because he turned and said to me: "For what it's worth, his car wasn't in its parking place yesterday around six when I was putting mine in the parking lot."
"What business is that of yours?" said the woman crossly.
"What does it matter, Mum? The man asked a question, I knew the answer, and I told him. When I don't know the answers at school, you go crazy. Now, when I do know them, you still go crazy."
The woman went inside, slamming the door behind her. Her rudeness didn't bother me at all. In fact, she was doing me a favor, as I wanted to get her son on his own.
"Are you sure his car was gone?" I said.
"Look, he's the only one in the building with a black Renegade. It's a really cool set of wheels and whenever I see it, I can't take my eyes off it. I've tried to persuade the old man to get me one, but he won't hear of it. `What's wrong with the Starlet? It's a great little car,' he al ways says. Anyway, yesterday when I parked the Starlet, the Renegade wasn't there."
"Let's go down to the garage so you can show me where he parks it." I wanted to take a look myself.
"Sure, come on," he said.
It was a spacious garage, easily big enough for twenty cars. Most of the parking spots were empty. Only five of them were occupied, one by the black Renegade. The car to the right of it was covered over; the space on the left side was empty.
"There it is!" the kid shouted in admiration. "Cool, eh?"
I looked at my watch. It was already four. It seems he came back late in the afternoon, took a rest, and returned to the studio around seven-thirty. It wasn't at all improbable that the woman in the flat next to Petratos's had rung his bell and told him absolutely everything I'd said. I couldn't care less. Let him phone Delopoulos and tell him that I was still harassing him. I walked around the Renegade, but saw nothing from the outside that looked unusual. I went closer and looked through the window. There were some videocassettes on the passenger seat. The backseat was strewn with newspapers and magazines. That was all. The kid walked over to the Starlet.
"Are you staying here?" he called.
"No, I'm coming."
"As I turned to walk to the exit, something under the covered car caught my eye. I bent down and saw a length of wire, carelessly wound up.
"Just come here a second!" I called to the young man.
He turned and looked askance at me. "My mum was right, I should have kept my mouth shut," he said, irritated.
"Come here, I said!" My tone brooked no objection, and he came over.
"What's that there, under the car?"
Curious, he bent down and took hold of the wire. "A piece of wire," he said, not giving a damn. He had no idea that this wire might possibly lead him to court as a prosecution witness to testify that he had found it next to Petratos's car.
"How long has it been there?"
"How should I know?" That's Kalafatis's car. He died three months ago. It's just been standing there ever since. Why, is it important?"
"Important. Of course it's important. Don't you know that wire can puncture the tires? And you want a Renegade." I took the wire from him. He shot me a venomous look and went to his Starlet. He started it up, opened the garage door using a magnetic card, and sped off. I followed him out, while the door slowly closed behind me.
I sat in my Mirafiori and looked at the wire, which I'd put on the seat beside me. It seems I'd underestimated Petratos. The second murder may have been premeditated, but the murder weapon had again been something at hand, something chosen at random, as was the case with Karayoryi's murder. He'd seen the wire as he was getting into his car; he'd cut off a piece and later used it to strangle Kostarakou before pocketing it and leaving. If it had been a knife or a gun, we would have been able to prove that it was his or find out where he'd got it from. But the wire? You could find it in any hardware store, in homes, all over the place. How could anyone prove that the murder had been committed with that particular piece of wire, tossed down next to his car? Any two-bit lawyer would be able to get the evidence thrown out immediately. Perhaps that was why he hadn't bothered to get rid of the rest of the wire. It had been lying there for three months under the dead man's car. "If I'd killed her, would I have left the wire lying there? Wouldn't I have gotten rid of it?" Most certainly, the judge would agree, you don't find murderers as stupid as that, not even made to order.
It took me around a quarter of an hour to get from Aghia Paraskevi to Hellas Channel in Spata. There was only Sperantzas in the newsroom. He was preparing the six o'clock news bulletin. He'd lost his resentful expression and stared at me with a nervous, frightened look.
"Who's going to be next?" he said. "Are we all going to get caught up in this?"
I made no effort to reassure him. Having him frightened suited me. "Did no one wonder where Kostarakou was when she didn't turn up at the studio yesterday evening?"
"Why should she turn up here? She came, handed over her report, already edited, and left at around five. She'd have come back only if something special had come up for the nine o'clock news. We don't clock in here."
"So not even Petratos is here all the time?"
"Not even him. He leaves around four and comes back between seven and seven-thirty."
"What time did he get back yesterday?" He looked at me inquisitively. "Don't go getting any ideas," I told him. "I'm just trying to form a clear picture."
"I have no idea. But he wasn't back at seven, which is when I left."
I left him to get on with his work in peace. On my way back from Spata, I dropped in at the lab and gave the wire to Dimitris. He took a look at it, and when I saw him shrug his shoulders, my fears were confirmed.
"We can examine it," he said, "but as soon as the prosecutor gets hold of it, he'll chuck it straight out. It's easy for us to prove that he strangled her with a wire like this one, but practically impossible for us to prove that the murder was committed with this one that you found in the garage."
"I know," I replied, disappointed all the same. "But examine it anyway.
A wind had kicked up and the air smelled like an autumn downpour. As I drove back to the office, I reflected that everything pointed to Petratos, but I had no evidence. If it had been anyone else, I would have hauled them down to the station and put the screws on until they confessed. But for Petratos, I needed Ghikas's okay. And I didn't think he'd give it to me.