the chair and smiling at everyone in turn. She was simply dressed, but her clothes seemed too tight for her; she was wearing sandals, but they were pinching her feet. I suddenly thought how much more relaxed Koula would be if she were in Katerina’s place. She would have taken part in conversation, she would have had something to say to everyone and it wouldn’t have taken ten minutes before she was liked by all. My daughter was educated, knew what she wanted, no doubt she would have a brilliant career, but I was obliged to admit that in circumstances like those, Koula could leave her standing.
Adriani got up to start getting the meal ready. Katerina jumped up, too, probably because Adriani had forewarned her that when she got up, that would be the signal for Katerina to go with her into the kitchen.
‘You sit with the men, Katerina dear,’ said Sevasti. ‘I’ll go and help Mrs Haritos.’
Adriani was about to protest, but Sevasti wouldn’t hear of it. ‘But I insist, Mrs Haritos!’ she said. ‘If you were in my house, wouldn’t you want to help? Don’t even mention it!’
Katerina was stuck in the middle and didn’t know whether she should obey her mother and go into the kitchen or her future mother-in-law and stay in the sitting room. Fortunately, Fanis got her out of her dilemma.
‘Stay here,’ he said, smiling. ‘Didn’t you know that the kitchen is where housewives get to know each other better?’
Adriani and Sevasti went off, Katerina remained, and the atmosphere became more relaxed. Ouzounidis
However, perhaps I would have been somewhat less understanding had I known that once he’d finished his report, I would have to begin mine. He reminded me with a ‘And what do you do in your line of work?’
The easiest thing would have been for me to tell him that all my life I’d been dealing with corpses, murders and, of late, suicides, but I was afraid that it might be too much for him. So I endeavoured to be as vague as possible, but it seemed that Mr Ouzounidis had seen what the cameras show on the news bulletins countless times and he was keen to learn in every detail what they didn’t show. He demanded that I recount everything from the moment the Flying Squad took the call to the moment they opened the plastic bag with its contents.
I did it to please him, answering all his questions one by one. Fanis was about to intervene and restrain his father, but he saw how I was dealing with the questions willingly and in detail, in a way that Ghikas would no doubt have envied, so he suspected that perhaps I was enjoying myself and remained silent.
I wasn’t enjoying it at all, however, and I was relieved when I saw Adriani coming in with the dish of stuffed vegetables and Sevasti behind her with the veal
‘You’re certain to like it,’ Sevasti said warmly. ‘It’s a quiet place with clean air. And besides, when you go to see Katerina in Thessaloniki, Veria is on your way.’
Adriani agreed without a second thought, while I reflected that they would only have to cater for half the family, Adriani that is, because in all the years that Katerina had been in Thessaloniki, I couldn’t have gone there more than a couple of times.
As soon as she had closed the front door, Katerina flung her arms round my neck and kissed me on both cheeks.
‘Thanks, you’re the best,’ she said, full of enthusiasm.
‘Come on. You must have had a dim view of me. Your grandfather was from a farming family too.’
‘That’s not why I kissed you, but because of your patience in answering all the questions about the police. I know how much you hate it.’
‘I did it for Fanis,’ I said completely spontaneously.
‘I know. And he knows it too. That’s why you’re so fond of each other.’
When Katerina had taken up with Fanis, I had been afraid she would give up her PhD studies to marry him. Now that I was convinced she would finish it, it seemed I was starting to hear the sound of wedding bells.
The telephone rang early on Monday morning while I was in the bathroom shaving. Sunday had passed quietly with that pleasant languor that follows on from the previous night’s festivities. Adriani was pleased because everyone had commented on her cooking and she had every reason to be happy, Katerina because a weight had been taken off her shoulders and she felt relieved and, finally, I was pleased because I had managed not to let the suicides affect me and had been smiling and affable to the point that Fanis’s parents must have been wondering whether they had had a mistaken view of coppers, who weren’t all sour and sullen, as perhaps they had thought.
I heard Adriani’s voice from the hallway: ‘Vlassopoulos!’
I wiped my face and rushed to the phone. I must have had a look of terror in my eyes because I was filled with panic that perhaps there had been another suicide. Thankfully, I heard Vlassopoulos full of enthusiasm and that reassured me.
‘I’ve found him!’ he shouted.
‘Who?’
‘The one who makes the T-shirts. Do you know who it is?’ I half expected to hear the name Minas Logaras. ‘Christos Kalafatis.’
The name meant absolutely nothing to me and I tried to place it. Vlassopoulos realised from my silence.
‘Doesn’t the name remind you of anything?’ he asked surprised.
‘No.’
‘Christos Kalafatis … That big strapping military policeman, who was tried for torture and got ten years. The prosecution witnesses at his trial were Favieros, Stefanakos and Vakirtzis. It’s all documented. I looked into it.’
‘And now he’s making Che T-shirts?’
‘Exactly!’
A military policeman, a former torturer for the Junta, who was manufacturing Che Guevara T-shirts. Could it be that the suicides had been an act of revenge because the three men had testified as prosecution witnesses and Kalafatis had been put away for ten years? If that was the case, then he most certainly would have been blackmailing them with something from their past. And the secret must have been from the period of their incarceration in the cells of the Military Police. Otherwise, how would Kalafatis have known about it?
‘Do you have an address?’
‘Yes. His factory is at 8 Liakou Street, near the Aghiou Nikolaou Station, between Ionias Avenue and Acharnon Street.’
‘If Ghikas asks for me, tell him I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Well done, you did a good job.’
‘Eh, we can’t be having the Chief’s secretary running rings round us!’ he said ironically and hung up.
The shortest route in the Mirafiori was by way of Patission Street, then down Agathoupoleos Street and into Ionias Avenue. On second thoughts, it occurred to me that the next suicide victim would be me. So I decided to leave the Mirafiori in the Security Headquarters garage and take the metro. Changing twice, at Syntagma and Omonia, I would be at the Aghiou Nikolaou Station in no more than twenty minutes. Liakou Street was more or less opposite.
Number 8 was an old warehouse, built of stone and concrete, with small windows and a double iron door that was half-open. I pushed it open. The area inside wasn’t particularly spacious. It was just big enough for the three machines that made the T-shirts, a machine for stamping the design on them, an ironing board and a packaging machine. The T-shirts were piled all around the walls. Six women, all foreign, were operating the machines. The floor was covered with boxes, cardboard and rags, as though the place hadn’t been cleaned up for months. At the back, sitting behind a desk, was a tall, brawny man of around forty-five, with a beard and thinning hair. His build told me that he might very well have been a military policeman in his youth and I approached him. He looked up and
