The Whispers of Nemesis (23 page)

Headlights lit the wet road outside, and a car passed, its fan-belt squealing. Denes took another drink of his ouzo, and the fat man did the same, finding the drink a little watery for his taste.

‘I wonder, without being indelicate, if you'd tell me what happened between them?' asked the fat man. ‘I like Hassan. He strikes me as being a good man, yet I feel he's harbouring some bitterness.'

‘He's a man who'd do anyone a favour,' said Denes. ‘He takes me to all my hospital appointments, there and back, and he won't take a single cent in payment. Sometimes he gives me money for her, on top of what he gives her for the kids. He's too proud to let her know he cares, and she's too proud to let him know she's struggling, so I say it's from my savings, and it makes it easier, all round. But you're right, there is some bitterness in his heart – the same bitterness I harbour myself towards that dog who crept in here and ruined their marriage. Elli was in the wrong; of course she was. But men know that women are weak, and it's a sin to take advantage of that weakness.

‘A poet, he called himself, but I call him a snake. He wasn't well liked in Vrisi, so he used to walk over here and honour us with his company in Polineri. He'd come in here from time to time, and sit where you are now, and have a drink or two. Always when Hassan was working: I noticed that. He'd sit, and not say much. He seemed to think having no sight made me blind to what he was up to, but I was wise to him. And I told Elli what his game was, but she didn't listen. She'd bring him a drink, and he'd recite poetry. Love poems, and drama, fancy stuff. He scented an opportunity, and he took it; I wasn't always here, and Hassan's working hours are long. Then one day, he walked out of here and never came back. And that same day, Hassan packed his bags, and went.'

‘I'm sorry,' said the fat man.

‘I'm sorry too,' said Denes. ‘I'm sorry for us all, but for my daughter, most of all. Daughters are always special to a man. Do you have children, friend?'

‘Not in the conventional way, no.'

‘Even so, you'll understand a father wants his children to be happy. She's a treasure of a woman, my girl, and a wonderful mother to the children. And apart from that slip – which I don't make light of, believe me – she was a sober and serious wife. But that snake robbed us all; he robbed Hassan of his honour, and wrecked my family, too. They were a good team, she and Hassan. He made her laugh, and she made him happy.

‘That bastard cost us dearly. He's dead now, and though God may strike me down for saying so, I'm glad. In this family, believe me, we're all glad.'

Sixteen

Despite a window which rattled with the lightest touch of wind, the fat man slept well and woke refreshed. Overnight, mist had fallen, dank and dense; it dulled the day's light and muffled noise, muting the schoolchildren's banter as they walked by on the road below, rendering the crowing of a back-yard rooster lacklustre.

The fat man stretched – arms high, then from the waist to left and right – before touching his toes a dozen times. Lifting his elbows, he pulled them back to stretch his chest. The muscles of his limbs were well defined, and satisfied with his own suppleness, he slapped his generous belly with both hands and stepped into the lukewarm shower.

In the bathroom, he dried himself and wrapped a towel round his waist. Using a badger-hair brush, he spread shaving cream over his face, and shaved with a silver-handled razor. From a bottle of his favourite cologne (the creation of a renowned French
parfumier
: a blend of bitter-orange neroli, the honey notes of immortelle and the earthy tang of vetiver), he splashed a few drops into his palms and patted them on to his cheeks. With a fingerful of pomade from a small jar, he smoothed his damp curls, then cleaned his teeth with powder flavoured with cloves and wintergreen, ran the tip of a steel file behind his fingernails and polished each one with a chamois buffer.

From his holdall, he chose a fresh shirt in pale lavender, and put on the suit he had hung in the wardrobe. Then he sat down on the bed, and took out a bottle of shoe-whitener.

On the road below, a police car drove by at speed.

The fat man gave both of his tennis shoes a full coat of whitener, paying particular attention to the rubber toecaps and heels, holding the shoes up to the window as he worked to check no spot was missed. When he finished, the shoes had the appearance of being new out of the box. He put them on, repacked his holdall and made his way downstairs.

 

He took breakfast at the same table where he had dined, looking out on nothing but the mist, which obscured even the house wall opposite. Of Denes there was no sign, though on the neighbouring table, a used napkin covered a plate of bread crusts and eggshells.

Elli served him unexceptional coffee and hard rolls with factory-made preserves, which the fat man took time to enjoy as best he might; but when he had eaten, Hassan still had not arrived.

The fat man carried his holdall to the reception desk, where Elli was adding up the figures on a pile of creditors' bills.

He took out his wallet, and laid two banknotes on the desk.

‘This will cover my food and lodging,' he said. ‘I shall pay you now, but it is possible I shall need to return tonight. If I do, will you be able to accommodate me?'

‘You'd be most welcome,' said Elli, ‘especially if you'll keep Papa company again. He enjoyed talking to you last night. Would you be wanting to eat?'

The fat man remembered last night's dinner.

‘Don't trouble yourself about food,' he said. ‘If I need a room, it shall be a room only; I shall take my meal elsewhere. Then you and I are not beholden to each other. Is that agreeable to you?'

She looked appreciatively at the banknotes on the counter.

‘Perfectly,' she said.

‘I was expecting Hassan to be here by now,' he went on. ‘He was to collect me and take me to Vrisi. Do you think you could telephone, to make sure there is no problem?'

Elli hesitated.

‘All right,' she said. ‘I'll call.'

The previous day's edition of
Ta Nea
was in the magazine rack. The fat man took it to his table and for a few minutes browsed its most interesting stories: a lucky fisherman who'd found a rare coin in a fish's belly; an accountant who'd searched thirty years for a girl glimpsed once, on a train. The fisherman's coin had sparked a fruitless search by treasure hunters; the long-term admirer was soon to marry his dream girl, but in a photograph with his arm around his middle-aged fiancée, was struggling to raise a smile.

Ten minutes went by. The fat man glanced at his watch, and frowned as he turned the page.

In the road outside, three women met; one carried newly baked loaves from the bakery, the others were dressed for attending church. The fat man, at first, paid them no attention; but there was excitement in their gestures as they pointed up and down the road, and the volume of their voices was increasing as they strove to make themselves heard over each other.

The fat man recognised the indicators of fresh gossip. He folded the newspaper and laid it on the table, and, picking up his holdall, he made his way casually outside and stood close to the women to light a cigarette.

‘Don't talk so loud,' said one. ‘She'll hear you.' She moved her head to indicate Elli, inside.

‘She'll find out, soon enough,' said another. ‘They'll tell her themselves, no doubt.'

‘Why should they tell her? They're divorced, aren't they?'

‘Not divorced, no. They haven't signed the papers.'

‘They'll be taking him away,' said the first. ‘They'll charge him, and then it'll be prison.'

‘Do you think he did it?' asked one, doubtfully.

‘Of course he did it. They wouldn't have come for him if he didn't do it. They came early, so they'd catch him in his bed. They bundled him in the car and took him away. Blue lights and sirens, a real drama.'

‘Don't be silly,' said the oldest. ‘I saw them myself. They went in one car, and he followed in his own. There were no lights or sirens.'

‘They're lucky, then, he didn't make a run for it.'

‘Maybe he did. Maybe he's become a fugitive from the law.'

‘Do you think we should tell her?'

They all looked through the hotel window, where Elli was still sitting at the desk.

‘Better not,' said the oldest. ‘It's not our job to interfere in official business.'

The fat man, too, glanced through the glass at Elli, and considered, briefly, going back inside. The women's conversation was moving on to other matters.

‘Ladies,
kali mera sas
,' said the fat man politely, as he passed them, heading in the direction of the police station.

 

In the car park, the same moped and the Citroën saloon were parked where they had been the previous day, but alongside them now was a police car and Hassan's taxi. Through the swing doors, the foyer was somewhat warmer, and smelled of brewing coffee. Behind the desk sat a police constable in a blouson jacket, warming his hands in front of the glowing bars of an electric fire. On the switchboard, two extensions were lit.

‘
Kali mera sas
,' said the fat man, as he approached the desk.

The constable looked up at him, hard-eyed.

‘I wonder if I might speak to Inspector Pagounis,' said the fat man. ‘I have some information which I think will interest him.'

The constable glanced at the switchboard.

‘He's on the phone,' he said.

‘I'm afraid I can't wait,' said the fat man. ‘I'm on my way to the funeral in Vrisi. Perhaps you're one of the officers who'll be attending? The information I have relates to the poet's death. Maybe you could interrupt the inspector's call?'

‘He doesn't like to be interrupted when he's on the phone.'

The fat man smiled.

‘I gathered as much, yesterday. Please tell him Hermes Diaktoros is here. If he doesn't recall the name, you might remind him he and I spoke of ID cards.'

Unwillingly, the constable left his chair, and went through the double doors to the station's offices. The fat man looked up at the ceiling and around the walls; the carrion flies no longer crawled there, though several were dead in a spider's web at the corner of the ceiling. Five minutes went by, and the constable did not return; then there came quick footsteps from the corridor, and Inspector Pagounis burst through double doors.

As the inspector approached, the fat man held out his hand, and Pagounis briefly shook it. The pouched skin below his eyes seemed more swollen, as if he'd passed another sleepless night.

‘
Kyrie
Diaktoros,' he said. ‘You're back again. Have you brought the paperwork for your ID card?'

‘I'm pleased to report,' said the fat man, ‘that in fact I found my ID card. It was in my wallet all the time.'

Pagounis's eyebrows lifted slightly.

‘How fortunate,' he said. ‘Somehow, I'm not surprised. So, how can I help you this morning?'

‘I've been thinking about Santos Volakis's death,' said the fat man, ‘and I wanted your opinion on whether my conclusions are correct. By the way, I see a taxi outside. Is the driver here with you, by any chance? I had booked him as my transport to the funeral.'

‘What conclusions?' asked Pagounis.

‘You're a busy man, of course, and I should get to the point,' said the fat man. ‘So I'll be as brief as I am able. There are two aspects of the case which concern me. Firstly, the flies. Which you have managed to exterminate, I see.'

‘We used a spray,' said Pagounis. ‘What about the flies?'

‘When the snowfall began, I myself left Vrisi ahead of the storm, via the chapel. I will happily swear a statement that there was no body there then, so the corpse must have arrived after I left. From that time to this seems a very short time for carrion flies to hatch, given the low temperatures. And it occurred to me also, that your remark about how the poor man stank suggests decomposition was advanced. Which seems impossible, again given the cold temperatures, if he died here.'

‘What are you suggesting?'

‘I'm only an amateur, of course,' said the fat man. ‘But it seems to me that only one explanation fits the facts. Namely, that the body was already decomposing before it arrived in Vrisi. And so, by implication, the poet could not have arrived here under his own steam, because when he arrived here, he had already been dead some little time.'

Pagounis sniffed.

‘Coupled with the fact there is no broken glass up at St Fanourios,' went on the fat man, ‘it seems highly likely to me Santos was killed somewhere away from Vrisi. Which might broaden the range of suspects quite considerably.'

‘Go on,' said Pagounis.

‘What I can't figure out, is this. Why bring the corpse to Vrisi? Left a few more days where it was first hidden – wherever that was, it hadn't come to anyone's attention – it might have decayed beyond any recognition, and indeed might even never have been found. With no corpse, there's no murder investigation, and the murderer goes free. But here Santos is, laid out in full view – except for the chance snowfall – by a public road. Better yet, in case anyone should have doubts, the corpse has effectively been labelled with identification. Now, in my experience, and as you will know, most killers attempt to baffle the law by removing identifying marks. Some go to the extreme lengths of removing hands to prevent fingerprinting, or even of decapitating their victims. But in this case, we have the opposite. Someone wanted the poet found quickly, and identified. Does that not strike you as odd?'