you.’
‘I came so you could tell me again what you told me the other day in Ghikas’s office,’ I replied with spite.
‘And what was that?’
‘That if you were to take every prattling announcement seriously, you’d be running all over the place. Well now you are.’
‘This has no connection with the announcement. This is the work of the Mafia.’
The other three had now turned round and were watching the second cockfight.
‘Where were they shot?’ I asked Markidis. I knew, but I wanted everyone to hear it.
‘In the eye. Both of them.’
I turned back to Yanoutsos: ‘Mafiosos wouldn’t have wasted their time with details like that. They’d have let fly with five or six bullets and then been on their way.’
‘They might have had a reason for staging the scene.’
‘What reason when they were only two miserable Kurds? Do you know what work it requires to stage an execution by shooting someone in the eye?’
I turned and cast a look around. Everything was in its place, there were no signs of any struggle. I heard Yanoutsos say to my assistants:
‘Dermitzakis, Vlassopoulos, you can go. I’ve no further need of you.’
I looked up, curious to see whether they would acknowledge me as they left. But they pretended to be engrossed in their conversation and left without even looking at me. I couldn’t explain their attitude and I felt infuriated, but I tried to control myself so as not to spoil my mood for riling Yanoutsos.
‘From what I see, there are no signs of struggle,’ I said to Markidis.
‘No.’ We looked at each other and Markidis shook his head. ‘You’re right. I’d noticed that too.’
‘What have you noticed?’ interrupted Yanoutsos. ‘I want to know.’
Markidis thought it superfluous to answer him. ‘If they’d shot them in the chest or the stomach or anywhere else, I’d say that they had surprised them and they hadn’t managed to resist,’ I said. ‘But the eye needs planning, preparation. Why didn’t they resist, but simply sat and let themselves be executed?’
‘Mafiosos. They knew them.’
‘Don’t keep on so much about Mafiosos, because you’ll be in for a nasty surprise,’ I told him and headed towards the door.
Markidis caught up with me at the steps. ‘So where did that idiot blow in from?’ he asked me angrily. ‘Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis would do better on their own.’
I preferred to make no reply, as I didn’t want to appear to be biased. ‘What do you think it was?’ I asked him.
‘Spray. The kind used by petty thieves to knock people out in their homes so they can rob them. They found them sleeping, knocked them out with the spray and then shot them through the eye.’
‘Can you prove it?’
He reflected for a moment. ‘It depends on the composition of the product. If we’re lucky, there may be some traces in the urine.’
We were now outside in the street and I suddenly realised that it wasn’t just the glasses. Markidis looked as if he’d had an entire facelift.
‘You’ve changed completely,’ I said to him surprised. ‘You look ten years younger.’
A wide smile spread over his usually unsmiling face. ‘I wondered whether you’d notice.’
‘How could I not notice? It stands out a mile.’
‘I got divorced. I got divorced and I’m getting married again; to my secretary in the department.’
‘How long were you married?’ I asked him in amazement.
‘Twenty-five.’
‘And you got divorced?’
‘Naturally, she got to keep the three-bedroom flat that cost me a lifetime’s savings, but it was worth it.’ He suddenly came out with it. ‘I’ve started to live again, Haritos. I’ve been in a deep sleep all these years,’ he said, with the certainty of the person who is the last to find out.
Judging from his dress, he was right. Markidis, who had been going around for the last ten years in the same suit, was now wearing an olive-green jacket with a red stripe, black trousers, an orange shirt and a tie with futuristic designs that gleamed in the sun.
‘Does your wife-to-be choose your clothes for you?’ I asked, and at that same moment I realised that my mind was done with the running-in stage of convalescence and was ticking over normally again.
‘Shows, does it?’ he replied, full of pride. ‘Post-modern dress. That’s what Nitsa calls it. Latest word in fashion.’
Post-macabre would be a better description, just the job for the morgue. But I held my tongue and went to find Fanis.
The sweet Greek coffee at the neon cafeteria in Agiou Lazarou Square was like dishwater, the waiter was a sourpuss by conviction, yet, despite everything, I berthed there every morning with my paper. Maybe I’d been won over by the peace of the square, with its two old women and three unemployed Albanians on the benches; then again it might well have been the familiar Greek magnet that always attracts you to places that irritate you, so that afterwards you can happily curse your fate.
My usual table was taken by three lads who were all drinking iced coffee. I sat down two tables further away, in the shade, as the weather had suddenly turned unpleasantly hot, and I opened my Sunday convenience store. From inside the paper I took out: a magazine of general interest, a magazine for arts and culture, a fashion magazine, a TV guide, a crossword book, an advertisement for washing powder, an advertisement with a toothpaste sample, an advertisement for mouthwash and three coupons for interest-free monthly payments. I tossed them all into the plastic bag that my local kiosk owner always gives me with the comment ‘Careful, Inspector, don’t spill the newspaper,’ and kept hold of the main section of the newspaper, which was no more than a dozen pages. I was quickly thumbing through it to find the report on the two Kurds, when I saw the waiter putting the sweet Greek coffee down in front of me and walking away in silence. He had brought it without even asking me.
‘Just a moment,’ I called out and he turned round. ‘How do you know that I don’t want an iced coffee today?’
He gave me a bored look and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You don’t strike me as someone who spends any more on Sundays,’ he said and went on his way.
I was ready to give him a mouthful, but my eye fell on a photograph of Frearion Street and a three-column article devoted to the murder. I started to read the article with relish, but after the first few lines I realised it was a rehash. Only the third column had anything new, and that was the names of the two Kurds: Kamak Talali and Masoud Fahar, who indeed had worked on the construction of the Olympic Village that was contracted to Favieros’s company. The only new information came from the rejuvenated Markidis, who confirmed what we had both suspected from the beginning: namely that the murderers had used knockout spray on the victims in order to execute them in their own good time.
I scanned quickly through the rest of the paper, but I could find nothing other than the usual screeds with analyses of foreign, domestic and financial policies. I left the exact money for the dishwater on the table and next to it the newspaper with all its accessories.
I leisurely walked up Aroni Street and tried to drive out my sinful thoughts concerning the two Kurds, Favieros and the Philip of Macedon Greek National Front. Besides, it was far more pleasant to think of Sunday lunch with Fanis, which had become established as a regular meeting of the ministerial cabinet, with the exception of those Sundays when he was on duty.
The door of the flat opened, leaving me with the key in my hand. Adriani, a worried look on her face, was standing in the doorway and blocking my way. Evidently she had been listening out for the lift so that she could rush
