whatever it is and get all the credit. Because if you are, I'll have you hopping like a Muslim in Bosnia.'
'I'm not hiding anything. I'm telling you the truth.'
'And just what is the truth? That she came and announced to you she was about to make a startling revelation, without telling you what it was she was about to reveal and without asking permission from anyone? Are you saying that anyone can appear on your channel and say what they like, is that it?'
'Not anyone. Yanna Karayoryi,' he replied under his breath, at the same time looking over to where the cameras were, as though afraid he might be being filmed.
'What's that supposed to mean?'
He hesitated before answering. He found it hard to get the words out. 'Yanna made her own decisions. She answered to no one.' He bent forward and lowered his voice. 'Listen. Don't expect to get it all from me. I can't tell you any more.'
Hiding beneath the tailored suit was a frightened and insecure little man. I was surprised to feel a sudden liking for him, and lost all desire to push him any further.
'When did she tell you about this revelation?'
'I was in the newsroom, having a final look at the bulletin. About half an hour before I was due to go on the air.'
'What time did you go on the air? Twelve?'
'Three minutes past twelve. The program on before the news was running three minutes late, and we decided not to interrupt it. We let it go on.'
'Was she alone?'
'Of course,' he said. 'Who would she be with?'
'That's what I'd like to know.' I got to my feet.
'Where's the newsroom?'
'Next to makeup.'
'Inspector.' I was almost at the door, and I turned around. 'There aren't too many in here who'll shed any tears for Karayoryi. Talk to Martha Kostarakou. She does the medical reports. She knows plenty.'
That said, he began rapidly to gather the papers on the desk, avoiding my gaze.
'Come with me to the newsroom.'
'I've told you what I know. If you need me for anything else, I'm always here at the studio. But right now I'm going home because I'm beat.'
'Come with me.' From his expression, it was obvious that he wanted to tear me off a strip, but he controlled himself. He picked up his papers and went with me.
The reporters had all left, and the corridor was empty; we bumped into the director, so I didn't have to go looking for him. In any case, as it turned out, Manisalis knew nothing of any importance. After the news bulletin had begun, his girl assistant had come running in and told him that she'd found Karayoryi dead. He had taken a quick look from the makeup room doorway and realized that there was no point in going into the room. He'd gone on running the ads, but he hadn't rushed to the phone as Zoumadaki had told me. First, he had informed Sperantzas. He had telephoned the police only after first sending a camera to makeup at around ten past twelve.
I still had no idea why she had been killed, but at least I was clear as to how and when the murder had occurred. Sometime between eleven-thirty and twelve, Karayoryi had gone to see Sperantzas and told him that she wanted a slot on the late-night news. At three minutes past twelve, Zoumadaki had found her dead. So the murder had taken place in the course of that half hour. She had known the murderer. He'd been sitting beside her in makeup, talking to her. He'd got up, probably still talking, and had started playing with the light stand. He'd gone up to her, still chatting away. She'd seen him in the mirror while she was putting on her makeup, but her thoughts hadn't turned to anything bad. And once he'd got behind her, he'd raised the rod and run her through with it. If there were fingerprints on the rod, his might be among them. If there weren't any, that meant he'd wiped it before opening the door and disappearing. If the murderer was someone from outside the Hellas Channel, then I had to keep my fingers crossed and hope that he had been seen entering or leaving. If he was someone who worked there, then we were sailing in the southern Aegean against a gale-force wind.
The newsroom was a large open area with ten desks arranged in three rows of three, three, and four. The walls were bare. No one had thought to hang a picture, even a calendar-a sign that those who used it were merely passing through. They stayed there as long as they needed to do their work and then left, either for the studio or the street. At one end was a space separated by a glass partition. It was small, like a cubicle, just big enough for a desk and two chairs with a coffee table between them.
'The news editor's office,' Sperantzas said.
'Which was Karayoryi's desk?' He pointed it out, the second one in the second row. I took out her keys, found the one that fitted the drawer, and opened it. 'I won't be needing you any further,' I said to Sperantzas, as I began looking through its contents. He appeared to hesitate. He was curious and wanted to stay. 'I thought you said you were beat? Go on then.' He'd said it and he couldn't take it back, so he turned and left.
Her desk was one of the smaller ones and it had only two drawers on the right-hand side. In the first drawer I found two notepads, a reporter's pad and a larger one for correspondence, and some cheap Biros, the kind that companies issue to their staff. I opened the second drawer. At the front was a small packet of colorfully wrapped toffees. It seemed that she liked chewing, perhaps to help her come up with ideas when she got stuck with her writing. There was a desk set, consisting of a letter opener and some scissors, in an expensive leather case still in the cellophane wrapping. Obviously a gift that she hadn't opened. And at the back there was a desk diary bearing the logo of some insurance company. I flicked through the diary. It was empty; she'd made no notes.
Puzzled, I stood over the drawers. There was something missing. Didn't she have a Filofax, damn it? It was unheard of for a reporter not to have a Filofax. That was where they noted everything: telephone numbers, information, loans and debts, professional and personal contacts, loves and hates, friendships and enmities. Filofax, the gospel of the modern Christian. Didn't Karayoryi have a gospel? Impossible. So where had it disappeared to? Usually, they carried it with them, so it should have been in her bag, but it wasn't. She might have locked it in her desk, but it wasn't there either. Could she have left it at home? Perhaps, but I thought it unlikely. Most probably the murderer had taken it, either because he was looking for something, or because it contained some incriminating information about him.
'Delopoulos, the studio director, would like to see you in his office,' said Sotiris from the doorway.
'Right. Tell him I'll be along shortly.'
'Do you want me for anything else, or can I go home?' he said, significantly.
'You can stay here,' I told him severely. 'You can go and find the security guard who was on duty around eleven at the entrance and tell him to wait for me, because I want to talk to him.'
'Yes, sir,' he said and went off sulking. I could have taken care of it over the phone from Delopoulos's office, but it didn't seem right to me for a subordinate to be at home snoring in his bed while his superior was slaving away into the small hours. These new officers were all milksops. They wanted to do nothing but lounge about all day at their desks wittering on about their Hyundai Excel or their Toyota Starlet. If there was a way to do it, they'd issue a memo demanding that crimes take place only between nine and five, not including Sundays and federal holidays.
CHAPTER 11
Delopoulos's office was a three-roomed penthouse suite, seventy meters square, with a lounge, dining area, bedroom, hall, and bathroom, all open plan, except for the bathroom. He was sitting behind a desk that was a basketball court compared to Ghikas's Ping-Pong table. On the south-facing side of the suite, there was a huge oblong table with ten high-backed chairs around it. The chair at the head of the table had a higher back and arms, whereas the others were armless. Across from Delopoulos's desk was a TV screen, five times bigger than the normal ones. It was off and the screen reflected his face and mine.
I wondered whether I should play the TV soap policeman who yelled all the time, given that I was in a TV studio, but that dickhead only shouted at women and small fries, whereas I had to deal with Delopoulos.
He was a tall, lanky man, balding, and with a sour expression. Right now his expression was a picture of grief, but given his face, this too appeared sour.
'I am completely shocked, Inspector Haritos,' and he repeated it so as to leave me in no doubt. 'Completely shocked. Yanna Karayoryi was an exceptional woman and a talented reporter. Her colleagues called her the sleuth.
