The next morning, I arrived half an hour earlier at the office, at eight-thirty, and went straight down to the records department in the basement.
"Your ears must have been burning," Yannis told me as soon as he saw me. "I was just getting ready to call you."
"Any luck?"
"I went through the lists one by one. No one has asked for those files from the day they came down to the records department. I can vouch for that."
"Thanks, Yannis."
So whoever had photocopied the reports and given them to Karayoryi had done it while they were still in the office, before they went down to records. That meant that someone in the division was making a bit on the side by selling departmental documents. I felt a tightening in my stomach. The files stayed in the office for up to six months. During that time, anyone could take a file from the cupboard, photocopy what they wanted, and put it back in its place. There was no way to find out who was doing the dirty on us.
As I came out into the hall, I saw a girl waiting for me outside the door of my office. She had blond hair tied in a ponytail. She was wearing flat shoes, and she must have been as tall as me, around five ten. She was wearing a black leather jacket, expensive, and a miniskirt, sparingly cut, as it barely covered her behind. From below the skirt streamed a pair of legs like the stems of tall crystal glasses. As I got closer to her, I saw that she couldn't have been more than twenty-five.
"Are you Inspector Haritos?" she asked me.
"Yes.'
She was without any makeup, had blue eyes and a cold expression, which made me feel uncomfortable.
"I'm Nena Delopoulou, Kyriakos Delopoulos's daughter. I need to talk to you"
I'd heard that Delopoulos had a daughter, but I never imagined she would be such a dazzling bit of skirt. "Come in," I told her and opened my door, wondering why she'd cut short her beauty sleep.
She sat in the chair and crossed her legs. Her miniskirt slid upward, offering me a view of her thighs right up to her panties, which were white and shone through her black tights. I crossed my legs too, not in imitation, but to prevent an erection. I leaned back in my chair to appear relaxed, though I wasn't at all.
"So what's it about?"
"Nestor Petratos told me that you saw his car close to Martha Kostarakou's house and that you suspect him of two murders."
"We simply asked him for an explanation," I said cautiously. "If we suspected him, we'd be holding him in custody."
"Nestor was with me on the evening that Martha Kostarakou was murdered. Between about five-thirty and seven-thirty." She looked at me and added with a touch of irony: "He was with me the whole time. I'm telling you this so that you'll leave him alone."
So this was the woman friend that Petratos had been protecting, and why he wouldn't tell us her name.
"Where do you live?"
"I own the Erodios Art Gallery on the corner of Iphikratous and Aristarchou Streets. It's an old two-story house. The gallery is on the ground floor. I live upstairs. leronos Street is two blocks away. Nestor didn't want to tell you that he was with me, as our relationship is somewhat unconventional." She fell silent and then added with the same touch of irony: "At least, it was until yesterday."
It was unconventional because they had kept it hidden from Delopoulos. She hadn't wanted any trouble with her father, and Petratos hadn't wanted any with his boss. I gazed at her and Katerina came into my mind. Whether she eventually became a magistrate or a lawyer, it would be ten years before she had any career. Whereas this pretentious girl, who was only twenty-five and already had her own gallery, bought by her father, was carrying on behind his back.
Ms. Delopoulou considered our interview over and got up.
"Are you willing to sign a statement of what you've just told me?"
She held the door half open and turned around. "My father and I see each other every three months, Inspector Haritos. Last night, when I learned of his intention to fire Nestor, I told him that if he did it, he wouldn't see me for three years. That changed his mind. So I'll sign whatever you want."
She went out and closed the door behind her. Another one who didn't bother to say good-bye to me. What was that word? Boorish. Quite so.
Strangely enough, my first thought was of Sotiropoulos. He's turned the tables on you, Robespierre, I thought. You wrote him off, but he is sitting pretty.
Then I realized that it wasn't only Sotiropoulos who had come out of it badly, but me too. I could now forget about Petratos for good. Given that he was with Delopoulou, he couldn't have killed Kostarakou. And if he didn't kill Kostarakou, then he couldn't have killed Karayoryi either. The two murders went together, a pair. His solicitor had turned out to be right. In the end, Petratos had no motive. Why would he waste time hating Karayoryi when he was screwing the boss's daughter? And why would he be afraid of losing his job? The proof being that he hadn't lost it. I didn't know whether I was sorry or relieved that Petratos had come out of it clean. At least I was now free to turn my attention exclusively to Sovatzis. I had to keep Ghikas abreast, but there was no rush. First, I had to come up with a way to get close to Sovatzis. The surest way was through Hourdakis. As soon as Sotiris got the evidence I needed, I'd put him through the mill.
Then I had an idea. I dug out the photocopies of the letters from the unknown N:
For so long now I have been doing what you asked, believing that you would keep your word, but all you do is play with me. I now know that you have no intention of doing what I ask. You only want to keep me on a string so you can blackmail me and get what you want. But no more. This time I won't give way. Don't force my hand because you'll come unstuck and you'll only have yourself to blame.
What if N was Nena Delopoulou? But what had she done for Karayoryi and why would Karayoryi be playing with her? Had she put in a good word with her father on her behalf? In exchange for Petratos? But then Karayoryi wouldn't let him go and Delopoulou threatened her, evidently, with dismissal. Until Karayoryi, who didn't want to sacrifice her career, surrendered him to Delopoulou. This version suited me because it tied up everything without burdening us with any other suspect.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted this train of my thoughts. It was Petridi, the public examiner.
"Do you remember Seki, that Albanian you asked us to question in connection with the trade in children?"
"Of course. I was going to call you; you beat me to it."
"I'd planned to interrogate him the day after tomorrow, but he was killed last night."
The news was an appalling blow. "Who killed him? Do they know?" I said, after a pause.
"One of his own kind. Stabbed him, in a lavatory."
"Does he give a reason?"
"The man claims that Seki had stolen from him. He asked for his money back, Seki denied that he owed him any money and was stabbed five times in the stomach. They took him to the General Hospital in Nikaia straightaway, but he died from loss of blood on the way. So Seki's case has been put on file."
"Thank you for telling me;' I said politely and hung up.
I racked my brain trying to understand what the murder of the Albanian might mean. At first sight, nothing. Two Albanians had had a quarrel and one of them had knifed the other. It happened every day, inside and outside of prison. But was it a coincidence that he'd been killed just when Petridi was about to question him? Kara yoryi again came into my mind, her obsession with the Albanian couple's kids. She'd gone so far as to pay to get her hands on my report. Was she so certain that the Albanian hadn't killed the couple because he fancied the woman, but because they were all involved in a circle of trade in children? Of course, this was one explanation for the five hundred thousand found in the cistern. In this case, Seki had suffered the same fate as Karayoryi and Kostarakou. As soon as they'd found out that he'd been called for further questioning, he'd been killed to keep his mouth shut. But how had they found out and from whom? Had the information been sold by the same person that Karayoryi had been bribing to get her hands on the reports? But who would he have given it to? Hourdakis? That was the only name going around the station.
The only solution was for me to go to Korydallos Prison to learn what happened firsthand. I thought of the journey, and my spirits sank, but there was no alternative.
From Alexandras Avenue to Larissa Railway Station I moved at a snail's pace, but at least I was moving. When I turned onto Konstan- tinoupoleos Avenue, however, I found a mile-long line of cars before me that kept stopping every ten meters. Cars kept getting stuck in the middle of the junctions, blocking the way; those drivers wanting to turn out of the side streets were furiously honking their horns: It was absolute bedlam. By the time I reached Petrou Ralli Street, my mind had begun to crumble like a rotten cauliflower. I'd forgotten Sovatzis, the Albanian, even Nena Delopoulou's legs. The Mirafiori couldn't take all that strain and I was afraid it would break down on me in the middle of the road.
On Petrou Ralli Street, the situation improved somewhat and the Mirafiori began to roll along. On Grigori Lambraki Street, there was even less traffic, and within another quarter of an hour I was at the gates of the prison.
When I explained to the warden what had brought me to Korydallos, he shrugged in a gesture of perplexity. "What can I tell you? Everything points to the fact that it was a common quarrel that ended in a stabbing."
"Are you sure that there was nothing behind it?"
"How can I be sure? They always talk in their own language. Our lot don't want anything to do with them. The murderer was on the outside-the leader of a gang-that killed and robbed their own kind. He does the same on the inside. He apparently wanted something from the victim, and because he was being difficult, he killed him. Afterward, he put it around, as an excuse, that the victim had stolen from him."
"Where did he get the knife?"
"He said he took it from the kitchen." His grim laugh made plain his disbelief. "We've got him in solitary confinement. Do you want to talk to him?"
What would he tell me? Even if he'd been put up to it, he would stick to his story. Just like Seki. "No. But I would like to take a look at the victim's personal effects."
"Come this way."
He took me to the storeroom, where they'd put the Albanian's belongings. When I saw them, my mouth fell open. New underwear, new socks, two new shirts, a pair of shoes, evidently unworn, and a brand new anorak. I asked the warden: "Where did he get all this from? When he left us, he was wearing an old anorak and a patched pair of jeans."
"I'll ask. Maybe a visitor brought them for him."
"You didn't find a wallet? Any money?"
"No, but if he had any on him, it would be at the General Hospital in Nikaia, together with the clothes that he was wearing."
From what the warden found out, the Albanian didn't have a single visitor all the time that he was in the prison.
I went back the same way along Grigori Lambraki Street, more worried than I had been on the outward journey. The new clothes lent even more credence to the idea that the Albanian had been killed to keep his mouth shut. For that good-for-nothing to have had enough money to buy an entire wardrobe meant that someone had been paying him for his trouble. And the only trouble he'd gone to was to kill the couple. How he had got hold of the money, yet had no visitors, was simple. They'd sent it to him by means of a guard. After the first interrogation, they hadn't been worried because he'd convinced me that he'd killed them on account of the girl. They'd paid him and their minds were at rest. But when the public examiner had called him for a second interrogation, they'd been scared and had bumped him off so as to leave no loose ends.
Preoccupied as I was, I missed the turn for Chrysostomou Smyr- nis. I had to go back onto Petrou Ralli Street and return via Thivon Street.
The doctor who had dealt with the Albanian had gone, but I found a supervisor who was willing to help. She took me herself to the storeroom. The Albanian's clothes had been put into a large bag. I took everything out and went through them piece by piece. He had been wearing the same anorak he'd had when he left us, but his jeans were new. But again, I found no money.
"Didn't he have any cash on him?" I asked the supervisor, who had stayed to help me.
"If he did, it would be in the accounts department."
The head of the accounts department was getting ready to leave and made no attempt to conceal his displeasure at being delayed. He opened the safe and handed me a wallet. It was a cheap plastic one with a gold outline of the Acropolis on it, the kind you find at any of the kiosks in Omonia Square. It was stuffed and difficult to fold. I opened it and took out a fistful of 5,000-drachma notes and three 1,000-drachma notes. I counted the 5,000s. There were twenty-five. The scoundrel had been carrying 128,000 on him. Add to that what he'd spent on his wardrobe. He must have had around 200,000. The rest of what was in his wallet were papers written in Albanian, so I couldn't read what they said, but they resembled official documents. Last of all, I unfastened the pocket for loose change. I didn't find any coins, but I did find a crumpled piece of paper and I opened it up. Someone had written in Albanian characters and in capital letters: 34 KOUMANOUDI STREET, GIZI. I studied the paper, then shoved it into my pocket, thanked the supervisor, and left.