The Messenger of Athens: A Novel (30 page)

He drew again on his cigarette, and exhaled a stream
of acrid smoke towards the sergeant, who blinked, twice, slowly, to protect his eyes.

The fat man smiled at him.

“So, Harris.” For a long moment, he said no more. The sergeant reached uneasily for a ballpoint.

“Speak to me, Harris,” went on the fat man, “or I will make your life a misery to you.”

“I have nothing to tell you,” said the sergeant, sullenly.

“Tell me what you know.”

The sergeant lay his pen back in its place.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Why not? Because you killed her?”

Wearily, the sergeant shook his head.

“I didn’t kill her.”

“But you know who did, don’t you?”

The sergeant glanced anxiously towards the door; the fat man leaned forward, and put his face up to the sergeant’s.

“Tell me, Harris,” he said. “My threats are never idle.”

The sergeant looked into the fat man’s eyes, then away through the window to the gray sky and the sea. His expression was of sadness, and regret. The fat man stubbed out his cigarette, and waited for the sergeant to speak.

“I didn’t kill her,” the sergeant said at last. “I moved the body. That’s all.”

“Moved it from where, to where?”

“Moved it from where it was to where it was found.”

The fat man dropped his head, and pinched the septum of his nose until the urge for sharp retort had passed.

“Are you saying,” he asked, “that you threw her over the cliff?”

The sergeant passed a hand over his face, then, eyes closed, rubbed at his forehead.

“What did it matter?” he said. “She was already dead.”

“Do you have a daughter, Harris?”

“Two.”

“I’m sure they’re lovely girls. But if one of them died, unexpectedly…”

“God forbid!” said the sergeant, crossing himself. “God forbid!”

“But what if one of them
did
die? If one of them had an accident like the one we’re going to talk about? What would you want for your daughter, Harris? I think you’d want her at home, with you, where you and your wife could take care of her. I think your wife would want to dress her in her best clothes, and have her family there to watch her, and the priest to pray for her. Isn’t that what you’d want?”

The sergeant was silent.

“So if it were your daughter—I want you to be perfectly honest with me—would it matter to you if someone—anyone, an officer of the law, say—threw her body over a cliff? It wouldn’t matter, I suppose, if she were already dead?” The sergeant shuddered, as if he felt again the coldness of Irini’s corpse. “Are you a hard man, Harris, a man without a heart? Or is it simply imagination, and empathy, that you lack? How can you say to me it didn’t matter?”

“She was dead! It didn’t matter! Not as much as…”

He stopped, and, knowing that he’d said too much, laid his head in his hands.

“As much as what, Harris?” pressed the fat man. “As much as shielding the living guilty? Now you tell me this: why would you, an officer of the law, shield someone guilty of murder?”

Again, the sergeant was silent.

“All right, let me answer my own question. You wouldn’t do it for money. Murder is too serious a crime. So what motives remain?” He tapped one forefinger with another, counting. “There’s love. Or there’s family. Or both.”

Still the sergeant didn’t speak.

“Tell me who it is you’re shielding, Harris,” said the fat man, “or I’ll pin it on you.”

The sergeant raised his head; his eyes were bright with tears.

“You can’t do that,” he said.

“But I can,” smiled the fat man. “I have a witness who saw you at the scene. A witness who doesn’t like policemen. Who would be prepared to swear he saw you dumping poor Irini’s body. It’ll be big news, Harris, a national story. I could write the headlines myself:
COP KILLS YOUNG WIFE
. Your face will be on every front page in the country. That’s something to make your daughters proud, now, isn’t it? So tell me.”

The sergeant’s hesitation was brief.

“It was an accident,” he said. “I was assured of that.”

The fat man sighed.

“Tell me everything,” he said.

And the sergeant did.

O
n the steps of the police station, on his way out, the fat man met the Chief of Police, on his way in.

“Good afternoon, Chief of Police,” said the fat man, politely. “I’m glad I’ve seen you.”

The Chief of Police looked at him with spiteful eyes.

“Then come back inside,” he said. The smell of brandy was on his breath. “I believe you and I have a matter still to settle.”

“You’re quite right,” said the fat man. “But I see no reason why it can’t be discussed just here. The matter’s simple. I want you to return the money you took from Andreas Asimakopoulos for falsifying his wife’s death certificate. Taking his money was both immoral, and illegal, as you know. And it was unnecessary, too. As I suggested to you when I first arrived, there was no suicide. Also, if you have not already done so, I want you to release Janis Psaros, and pay his father the money you owe.”

The Chief of Police smiled an inscrutable smile.

“Happily,” he said, “I was able to release Mr. Psaros this morning. I’ve dropped all charges, for which Mrs. Psaros has expressed her particular gratitude. But you’re hardly in a position to be giving orders to me, are you? I think you should know, we’ve done some checking up on you, sir, and I know you’re not who you claim to be. That’s an offense, and I’ll personally make sure you do time for it.”

The fat man laughed.

“I gather from Sergeant Chadiarakis you’ve been confused as to my identity,” he said. “I can’t believe you took me for a policeman. Do I look like a policeman? And I should be ashamed of myself if you thought I
acted
like a policeman. As for who I am, I’ve made no claims. So choose for yourself. Perhaps I am a mere philanthropist. Or maybe I am a man of means who simply enjoys meddling in the lives of the less fortunate. Perhaps the Police Authority employs me to combat corruption in our remote police forces. Maybe I am all these things. Or none. Maybe I was sent here by a higher authority still. A
supreme
authority. It’s hard to know, isn’t it, Chief of Police? Perhaps…” the fat man winked, “I am here to investigate
you
.”

The smile was long gone from the Chief of Police’s lips. He enclosed his left fist in his right hand, and tightened his grip until the bones cracked.

“I think your leaving this island is long overdue,” he said, quietly, “
friend
.”

“If you’re telling me to leave,” said the fat man, frowning, “I think you’ll find you’re on sticky ground. This is, after all, a free country.”

“It’s only free as long as I say it’s free.”

“You have an inflated sense of your own powers, Chief of Police. Give back the money. Don’t make me tell you again.”

The fat man put a foot on the step below him, but the Chief of Police placed a hand on the wall, and moved to block the fat man’s way down the stone staircase.

“Mind how you go,” he said. “Accidents will happen.”

“Indeed they will,” said the fat man, “but not to me. Happily, I am very steady on my feet.”

“I should have you locked up. For interfering in police business.”

“But interference seems to be necessary, doesn’t it?” said the fat man, reasonably. “Since the police could hardly be accused of taking care of things themselves. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Chief of Police.”

He looked expectantly at the policeman, but as Zafiridis stepped unwillingly aside, the fat man put a finger thoughtfully to his lips.

“There was one more thing I meant to ask you,” he said. “I was wondering if you were fond of birds.”

“Birds?”

“Caged birds, song birds. Canaries. Larks.”

The Chief of Police regarded the fat man suspiciously.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I can’t abide them. I have an allergy to feathers. Why do you ask?”

The fat man smiled.

“Just curious,” he said, running nimbly away down the steps.

A
s the sky grew pale at the eastern horizon, a white cockerel stretched its throat and made its startling call. Head tilted, it blinked its vacant eyes, and seemed to listen; until from far away, a crowing answer came, and soon a second, and a third.

The window of the fat man’s room stood open, and the grave-cold of the night sea had crept in. Shivering, the fat man dressed as quickly as he could, in clothes infected by an unseen rime of damp. He placed an empty matchbox in his pocket, and made his way light-footed down the staircase, onto the deserted harborside. In the stillness, the sea slapped and gurgled at the harbor wall; out on the water, the red and green lights of a distant fishing boat rocked to its rhythm.

The fat man took the road around the headland, where the barren rocks gave way to more level ground. Here, while the cold-blooded creatures still slept, he searched beneath the likeliest stones until he found what he was seeking; then, with the greatest possible care, he lifted his prey from the darkness of its lair and closed it tight inside his matchbox.

T
he call to early mass went out; the Sunday bells were ringing around the island, from the tinny clang of those rope-rung to the melodic, alpine tinkling of Ayia Triander’s automated peal.

In the doorway of his
kafenion
, once-handsome Jakos smoothed his Brylcreemed hair and gazed out across the sea, as if his heart and thoughts were very far away.

The fat man sat down at a table, and, cupping the flame of his lighter to protect it from the breeze, lit a cigarette; in silence, Jakos moved from the doorway to stand at his side.

“Kali mera,”
said the fat man. There was, today, no smiling cheerfulness in his greeting, and Jakos did not answer him, but waited, in silence, for the fat man’s order.

“Coffee,” said the fat man, “and an omelet, if you’ve eggs. With cheese and ham, but no tomatoes.”

“We’ve eggs,” said Jakos, dourly, “but the bread’s not fresh. It’s Sunday.”

“Then toast it,” said the fat man. “And no tomatoes, don’t forget.”

The omelet was good, well-flavored and bright yellow from the yolks of backyard hens. The fat man lit another cigarette, and called to Jakos for a second cup of coffee; Jakos, placing the fresh cup on the table, sat down beside him, and looked out across the sea.

The fat man took a sip of bitter coffee.

“I’m thinking of a spot of fishing this morning,” he said, “if someone can tell me where to drop my line.”

Jakos turned his eyes from the sea to the fat man.

“You’re too late for fish this morning, captain,” he said. “The fish have had their breakfast hours ago.”

“The fish I have in mind doesn’t eat breakfast on a Sunday,” said the fat man. “At least, not before it’s been to mass. It goes by the name of Eleni Tsavaris.”

Jakos scratched behind his ear, and smoothed the clipped line of his moustache with the side of his forefinger.