yearold sister-in-law. Just as I was feeling a sense of relief that we'd been left out, the newscaster put on a grievous expression. His face darkened, his hands rose slightly from the desk in a show of despair at the upset he was going to cause the viewers, and he gave forth a sigh that was barely perceptible. The words emerged disjointed, one by one, like the last customers out of a cafe just before it closes who scatter into the street. He always had that handkerchief in his jacket pocket. I kept expecting him to take it out and wipe away his tears, but he'd never done it. He should have kept it up his sleeve for when the ratings fell.
'And in other crime, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'in the brutal murder of the two Albanians, there have been no further developments.'
Yanna Karayoryi appeared right on cue. She was holding the microphone and wearing the same attire that she'd been wearing that morning. It was hardly surprising, as she was speaking in the corridor with her back to my office.
'The police have no new evidence concerning the murders, other than the arrest of an Albanian, who is being held at Athens Security Headquarters. According to a statement made by the head of homicide, Inspector Costas Haritos, the interrogation of the Albanian is continuing. The police suspect that the couple had a child, who has not yet been found.'
Furious, I lunged to grab hold of her on the screen. But she disappeared, and in her place appeared the chubby woman who'd identified him. She began spouting into the microphone about the Albanian and about how she had notified us. It was the third straight evening that they'd shown the same scene. With the woman saying exactly the same things, wearing the same eye-catching blouse and the same skirt hitched up at the back, not at all glamorous. And how would I explain to the chief the next day that this was a fabrication on Karayoryi's part and that everything was under control?
'Now, who's glued to the screen?' I heard Adriani's gloating voice from the kitchen.
'I have some news,' she said, just as I'd put the fork with the moussaka to my mouth.
'What news?'
'Katerina phoned today,' she said, smiling.
'Why didn't you tell me before?'
'I wanted to tell you over supper, to give you an appetite.'
Rubbish. She kept it from me on purpose to get back at me for not watching TV with her. She knew what a soft spot I had for our daughter.
'She's coming for Christmas, after all,' she said with a satisfied grin.
Katerina was studying law in Thessaloniki. She was breezing through her second year. Her aim when she finished was to become a public prosecutor. Deep down, I only hoped I wouldn't have retired, so I'd be able to send her plenty of defendants. And then I'd sit in the courtroom and feel a father's pride as she read the charge, questioned the witnesses, and addressed the court.
'I must send her some money for the airfare.'
'Don't bother-she said that she'd take the coach, with Panos,' Adriani said.
Of course, I'd forgotten about that hulk. Or rather, I was trying not to remember him. He wasn't a bad kid underneath; he was studying to be an agriculturist. It bothered me, though, that he was muscular, the athletic type, always in a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. The ones we had like that on the force were all dimwits. But it wasn't his fault; he was one of that fifties generation. Not the first post-war generation, but the one of today. I call them the fifties generation because their vocabulary extends to no more than fifty words. And if you exclude 'fuck,' 'creep,' and 'asshole,' you're left with a net taxable income of forty-seven, as the revenue people would say. I remember the period between '71 and '73, the events at the Polytechnic, the student demonstrations, the sit-ins at the universities, the slogan 'Food, Freedom, Education,' and I recall how they'd send us to keep them under control or even to break them up. Confrontations, chases through the streets, broken limbs, with them swearing at us and with us cursing them. How could we have known then that all the fighting was just so that we would arrive today at those fifty words? We might as well have all gone home, because it simply wasn't worth the effort.
'Do you have the money for the airfare, or did you intend to borrow it?' It sounded like an innocent question, but I could see the cunning in her eyes.
'No, I have it,' I replied. 'I've put a bit aside from the back pay we got.'
'As you're not going to need it for the fare, why don't you give it to me so I can buy those boots I was telling you about?' She tried for a seductive smile, but it only gave her away.
'We'll see.' I'd give it to her, but I left it open on purpose to rankle her and get a bit of my own back. The first stage of family life is the joy of living together. The second is children. The third and longest stage is getting your own back at every opportunity. When you get to that stage, you know that you're secure and nothing is going to change. Your kids are off on their own, and you come home each evening knowing that waiting for you is your wife, your meal, and those little opportunities to get your own back.
'Oh, come on, Costas. I haven't got any boots for going out in!'
'We'll see!' I said sharply, putting an end to the conversation.
In bed, she cuddled up to me. She put her arm around my waist and began kissing me on my ear and neck. I lay there motionless. She brought her leg up to my knee and began rhythmically sliding it up and down from my shin to my penis.
'How much do you need for the boots?' I said.
'I saw a really lovely pair, but they're a bit expensive. Thirty-five thousand drachmas. But they'll last me for years.'
'All right. I'll buy them for you.'
Her leg slid down for the last time, like the elevator from the third floor to the ground floor, and it stopped there. She removed her arm from around my waist. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and immediately withdrew into her own territorial waters.
''Night,' she said, with relief in her voice.
''Night,' I said, also with relief, and I opened my Liddell & Scott, which I'd taken down from the shelf before getting into bed.
But it was impossible for me to concentrate. My mind was on Karayoryi and the matter of the child she kept going on about. She couldn't have simply invented it, out of thin air; she was keeping something from me. It suddenly came to me: Ask the Albanian. He might know something. I'd ask him first and then worry about Karayoryi. If nothing else, I could do what I'd thought of that morning. I'd tell Thanassis to get it on with her and see what he could discover.
In my dream, I was in the home of the two Albanians. Except that their corpses were no longer there and the mattress was covered with a blanket. On the folding table was a bassinet. I leaned over and saw a baby. It was no more than three months old and was crying its eyes out. Standing by the gas stove, I saw Karayoryi warming the baby's bottle.
'What are you doing here?' I said.
'Babysitting,' she said.
CHAPTER 4
I'd swallowed my first mouthful of croissant and was taking my first gulp of coffee when the door opened and in walked Thanassis. He looked at me and smiled. It was one of the rare occasions on which he didn't tell me that he was a moron. This happened once a year, twice at most.
'This is for you;' he said, handing me a piece of paper.
'Okay. Leave it there.'
Over the years I've developed a standard practice: never to take papers handed to me. Usually, they're orders, restrictions, cutbacks, something, at any rate, to get your goat. So I let them lie on my desk and psychologically prepare myself to read them. Thanassis, however, stood there holding it out to me and said, triumphantly: 'It's the Albanian's confession.'
I froze. I reached out and took the statement. 'How did you manage it?' I said, unable to conceal my incredulity.
'Vlassis told me,' he said with a smile.
'Vlassis?'
'He's the officer on cell duty. We were having a coffee in the canteen, and he told me that you wanted to
