‘Didn’t the letter have an address on it?’
‘Neither an address nor any phone number, nothing. At first, I paid no attention. You know how it is, even a small publishing company like mine receives a couple of manuscripts each week. I don’t have the time to read them all. I put it to one side to read it at the first opportunity. About one and a half months later, I received another letter saying that if I wanted the rights, I had to sign a contract straightaway. I was forced to read it overnight and I decided to go ahead with it.’
‘What made you decide to publish it?’ I asked out of curiosity.
He reflected for a moment. ‘That strange mishmash of political activist and business tycoon. I thought it would sell and I was right. Though he imposed one condition on me.’
‘What condition?’
‘That he would decide when the book would be published.’
‘And you accepted?’
‘I modified it slightly. I stipulated that the publication date would be decided jointly.’
‘And how did you send the contract to Logaras?’
‘By recorded delivery. To an address that was on the second letter. He put the same address on the contract.’
‘Can you get it for me?’
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
