Che Committed Suicide (14 page)

On the wall behind him was a shelf full of files and folders. He turned and took down a file.

At that moment, I remembered something that Lefaki had told me the previous day, when Koula was taking a look at the
computer
. She told me that, when she had once asked Favieros if he was writing a novel, he had replied that he had already written it and was working on the corrections. It suddenly flashed through my mind that perhaps Favieros himself had written the biography before
committing
suicide.

Sarantidis found the address and wrote it on the back of a piece of paper.

‘When did Logaras inform you that you could publish the book?’

He burst into laughter. ‘Never. Did he have to inform me? As soon as I saw the suicide, I sent it to the printers.’

‘And he never called you?’ I persisted with my question.

He reflected and suddenly looked puzzled. ‘No, he never
contacted
me,’ he said. ‘It’s only just occurred to me now that you asked me. With all the madness surrounding the publication and the sales of the book, I completely forgot about it.’

Sarantidis’s reply strengthened my suspicions. He didn’t call, because in the meantime he had taken up residence in the cemetery.

‘Is the book selling well?’ I asked.

He looked at me and his eyes lit up: ‘If it goes on the way it is, in a month’s time I’ll be able to move into a bigger office and get myself a secretary.’

Pity, I thought to myself. Favieros’s heirs have lost an extra source of income that will be pocketed by the publisher.

When I was back out on the street, I looked at the piece of paper. The address was 12 Nisaias Street, in the area of Attikis Square. I worked out that the quickest way to get there would be to take the electric train from Omonoia Square. As I was walking along
Patission
Street towards Omonoia Square, I looked straight down Aiolou Street towards the Acropolis, but I could see nothing. The Acropolis had vanished behind a white veil.

The only consolation with the electric train is that it doesn’t smell of exhaust fumes, and a slight breeze blew in through the windows along the underground route before reaching Attiki Station. The kiosk owner at the station told me that Nisaias Street was exactly at the other side of the station and joined Sepolion Street and
Konstantinoupoleos
Street.

I found Nisaias Street easily, but as I started to walk down it, I was gripped by an intense desire to escape. It was a dark and narrow backstreet, that probably only saw the sun at noon when at its highest point. The street didn’t only smell of exhaust fumes, you were in danger of suffering apoplexy and needed a portable oxygen apparatus with you.

I walked down the side of the street with the even numbers. I passed by three three-storey houses put up overnight and two cheap apartment blocks whose balconies were decorated with washing lines, mops and cupboards instead of plants. Number 12 was an old house with a wooden door and half-broken closed shutters. Its yellow paint had started to peel. I halted for a moment and gazed at it. I was sure that I wouldn’t find Logaras living there, nor even the lowest Tamil dishwasher from Sri Lanka. Nevertheless, with that irrational hope that comes only with desperation, I went up and knocked at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone to open it but I knocked again. The third time, I knocked harder and the door half-opened of its own accord, dragging a piece of paper with it. It was a recorded delivery notice, evidently the contract sent by Sarantidis. No one had been to collect it from the post office.

I went inside and looked around me. Broken furniture, scattered in the two rooms and in the hallway, torn curtains ripped down, the stench of mould. The house hadn’t been lived in for at least twenty years. I went back outside and closed the door behind me.

Number ten, next door to the abandoned house, was a two-storey construction. The bells had no names on them. Why would there have been? When you sink to this level, no one looks for you any more, I thought to myself. I rang the first bell and the front door opened. On the top step, a thin, middle-aged woman was waiting for me.

‘Do you know if anyone comes to the house next door?’ I asked. She put her arms in the air and stared at me. She hadn’t understood a word.

I tried the second floor and this time I found myself facing a Muslim woman, her head covered by a scarf, in that oven of a place. She didn’t understand either what I was asking her. At the third attempt, I came across a Bulgarian woman, who spoke a couple of words of Greek: ‘Don’t know.’

It was pointless to go on. Favieros had chosen the house for that reason; so that the postman wouldn’t find anyone there to hand over the contract to. He hadn’t given any telephone number, the address was that of an abandoned house, consequently, no one could track him down.

I stopped when I reached the corner of Sepolion Street because my investigations had come to an end and all hope of my
returning
to Homicide had evaporated. Favieros had gone to the trouble of first writing his autobiography in order to immortalise himself before committing suicide. The reason behind his suicide concerned no one; the important thing was that there was nothing suspicious about it. I would remain with empty hands, as I had foreseen all along, and Yanoutsos would permanently step into my position. 

The thought came to me on the electric train, while returning from Attiki Station to Omonoia Square. It was one of desperation, the kind that you have when logic lays down its arms and looks to madness for salvation. So in the grip of madness, I decided to take a chance on Favieros’s offshore company because it was my only hope of keeping the investigation open. Of course, I would have to make a slight breach of faith. I would have to keep quiet about my belief that the biography was in fact an autobiography and, on the contrary, blow up the idea that the secret behind the suicide was to be found in the offshore company. If I got lucky and uncovered any shady dealings, or scandals or scams, I would be able to return to my position via another route. Yes, all this fell under the
jurisdiction
of the Fraud Squad, but this was a mere detail: when the bombshell burst, it would cover up anything else. Then, again, if the company turned out to be kosher, I would close the investigation and I wouldn’t come out any worse for it, given that things couldn’t be any worse.

The small extension given to my hopes filled me with a sense of relief, and I went home, if not exactly overjoyed then certainly not down in the dumps. I found Koula in the kitchen getting cookery lessons from Adriani.

‘What did you find out about Favieros’s offshore company?’ I asked her in my strictest professional voice.

‘I can tell you now what I came up with.’

‘Not now, we have to finish with the food first,’ Adriani chipped in, and turning to me she said: ‘You go to your dictionaries and I’ll call you.’

I was ready to give Koula a mouthful, to tell her that Ghikas had given her leave to help me and not to learn how to make moussaka and dolmades. But on further consideration I had to admit to myself that the smoothing of the relations between Koula and Adriani freed my hands, so I would do well to keep my mouth shut so as not to undermine the newly-established truce. However, I didn’t go to the bedroom to get out my dictionaries, but to the sitting room, where I sat doing nothing, to underline the fact that I was in a hurry and they had better get a move on.

Koula came in after about half an hour. ‘I’m sorry, but as you weren’t here …’ she said apologetically.

‘Never mind. Tell me what you found out.’

‘Quite a lot about the business done by the offshore company.’

‘Did Zamanis give you a difficult time?’

‘But I didn’t go to Zamanis.’

‘Who did you talk to? Lefaki?’

She grinned at me. ‘As my daddy always says, better marry over the midden than over the moor.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that I’m not in the same league as Zamanis and Lefaki. So I spoke to someone I could deal with.’

‘And who was that?’

‘Aristopoulos. The lad who took us to Zamanis’s office. Do you remember?’

‘Vaguely, but what did he know about the company?’

‘Inspector Haritos, Aristopoulos is so intent on climbing the ladder that he does exactly what he used to do at school. There he learned all his lessons by heart in order to get good marks and now he’s learned by heart the whole history of Favieros and his
companies
in order to get promoted. He bought me a coffee and told me everything.’

‘What did he tell you exactly?’

‘Just a moment, I’ve written it all on the computer so as not to forget anything.’

She went over to the computer, pressed a few keys and began reading. ‘Favieros’s offshore company deals in property.’

‘Another construction company?’

‘No real estate. It’s called …’ She read out the name in English with the same difficulty that I read English. ‘Balkan Prospect. Real Estate Agents. They have offices throughout Greece and in the Balkans.’

‘And what do they sell?’

‘Land, property, apartments …’ She stopped and stared at me. ‘Don’t you find it strange?’

‘What?’

‘Why would Favieros transform his real-estate agency into an
offshore
company? Anyhow, Ilias had no idea.’

‘Who’s Ilias?’

‘Aristopoulos.’

‘So we’re on first name terms now, are we?’ I said, teasing her.

She shrugged resignedly. ‘There are no free lunches.’ I knew that. I might play the untouchable but I’d come unstuck more than once. ‘He asked me out on a date,’ Koula added with a wily grin.

‘And you accepted?’

‘I told him I’d call him.’ She laughed. ‘You know how it works. You say you’ll call him, then you forget once you’ve gone and only remember the next time you want something from him.’

‘Never mind Ilias, I’ll tell you why he turned it into an offshore company,’ I said, ready to return the lesson. ‘Because his lawyers and accountants discovered all the benefits he would have from an
offshore
company. Fewer taxes, certainly fewer inspections and
whatever
else. Does the company have offices on the mainland?’

‘Yes.’ She consulted the computer again. ‘They’re at 54 Aigialeias, in Maroussi. The manager is a Mrs Coralia Yannelis.’

‘We’ll see what Mrs Yannelis has to say to us.’

I said it though I was certain that she wouldn’t have anything to say to me. A woman who manages a real-estate agency might tell you at most in what areas of Athens property values were rising or falling. Or maybe what the building coefficient is for Pangrati. But what could she tell you about Favieros’s suicide? If he’d fallen from the penthouse of some apartment block, all well and good. But he had staged his own suicide on TV, what information might you get from a real-estate agency? The signs were not particularly auspicious, but, as I had given myself that flicker of hope, I decided to try my luck.

Adriani caught up with us at the front door. ‘Don’t forget to take your share of the moussaka with you,’ she said to Koula. ‘You deserve it. We made it together!’

Koula turned and gave me an embarrassed look. ‘You can go home with your food parcel,’ I said to her. ‘I don’t need you any more today. We’ll get back down to it tomorrow morning.’

I found the Mirafiori parked in Souliou Square. Once I was out in Vassilissis Sofias Avenue, I realised that I should have waited till sunset to take to the streets. The windows were open and the heat was pouring into the car, while the sun was beating down vertically on the roof and singeing my head. At the Pharos junction, I was held up by the works for the flyover with the traffic bumper to bumper. I curse my fate whenever I stay in Athens in the summer, because I can’t bear the scorching heat and I swear to high heaven whenever I go on holiday because I can’t stand all the noise and bustle.

I turned right into Frangoklisias Street and again right into
Aigialeias
Street. Number 54 was close to the Riding Club, one of those ultramodern office blocks, all glass and indoor plants, that look like an aquarium with tropical fish.

The offices of Balkan Prospect were on the third floor. The entrance to the company had nothing impressive about it. A simple white door with a small sign that you had to look at close up in order to be able to read ‘Balkan Prospect. Real Estate Agents’ in both Greek and English.

The frugality was evident inside too. The outer office was of medium size with simple furniture: a desk with a computer and a small sofa for visitors. Sitting behind the desk was a secretary, who couldn’t have been much more than twenty-five and who was dressed simply and wore a modicum of make-up. Evidently, the mourning didn’t extend to Favieros’s subsidiary companies.

‘Inspector Haritos. I’m here to see Mrs Yannelis.’

She had taken me for a client and I’d turned out to be a copper. That took her aback. She lifted the receiver to make a call, but changed her mind. She preferred to get up and go into Yannelis’s office through the door on her right. She re-emerged a moment later and told me I could go in.

Yannelis was the fourth fifty-year-old in a row that I had counted in Favieros’s companies. She was wearing a blue and white two-piece, was dark-haired and quite stunning for her age, though the marks of fatigue were plain on her face. She greeted me extremely politely, with a smile and a handshake, then sat back down in her chair and stared at me without speaking.

‘This is an unofficial visit, Mrs Yannelis,’ I said by way of an
introduction
. ‘We are carrying out a routine investigation into the suicide of Jason Favieros. We’re simply trying to discover what it was that drove him to that – how shall I put it? – spectacular suicide.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, Inspector,’ she said politely and without any hint of irony.

‘Why? Doesn’t Balkan Prospect belong to the Favieros Group?’

‘Yes, but Jason Favieros rarely came here. If he wanted anything, he would summon me to Domitis, where he had his office. So I really don’t know what it was that drove him to suicide or what kind of mental state he was in before he committed suicide. I hadn’t seen him for months.’