had been expecting something, and I accepted it calmly. Grief was oozing from the features of the newscaster, like snot from a runny nose. If he didn't get out his handkerchief to wipe his tears now, he never would. But he didn't. I guess he sensed that even hypocrisy has its limits.
'Mystery continues to surround the killing of Yanna Karayoryi. The determination of the police not to reveal any information has caused an unprecedented uproar. The channel's telephone lines have been busy all day. Viewers have been desperately seeking information and expressing their indignation at the police's indifference to public opinion. Over and above anything else, one vital question remains to be answered: What was the story that Yanna Karayoryi had intended to break on our late-night news bulletin? Let's hear what Martha Kostarakou has to say.'
Martha Kostarakou appeared and spoke about the telephone call Karayoryi had made to her. She gave the bare bones, without any trimmings. Perhaps that's why she seemed so bland alongside the newscaster.
'Why did Yanna Karayoryi phone Martha Kostarakou? And why did she ask her to carry on the investigation should anything happen to her? Who was Yanna Karayoryi afraid of?' The newscaster looked penetratingly into the camera, as though waiting for the viewers to solve the mystery. 'Our own reporters have been working to find an answer to this question and have come up with a sensational discovery.' He paused for a moment, then fixed his gaze, as though looking at each of us individually, and asked: 'Ladies and gentlemen, do you remember this man?'
The scene changed and we were in the grounds of the law courts in Evelpidon Street. The camera came to rest on a short, thin man. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, and looked like a bank official or some bureaucrat. But this first impression was immediately undermined because the man was in handcuffs and was being escorted by two plainclothes policemen, who were pushing him through a crowd of reporters. I recognized him immediately. It was Petros Kolakoglou.
The scene changed again. A girl was speaking with her back to the camera so she couldn't be identified. The voice asking the questions belonged to Karayoryi.
'And then what did he do to you?'
'He fondled me,' said the girl with her face hidden.
'Where did he fondle you?'
There was a pause. Then the girl broke into tears.
'What we've shown you today, ladies and gentlemen, requires no comment. It speaks for itself.' The newscaster was there again. His expression had changed, and he was all smiles. Self-satisfaction had replaced the mask of mourning. We'd wept for our aunt, now it was time for the inheritance and we were rubbing our hands with glee.
Back to Evelpidon Street. Kolakoglou, the two policemen at his sides, was walking toward the police van. His head was bowed, and he kept his gaze focused on the ground. As he was approaching the van, a crowd of reporters swarmed around him, their microphones held out like bayonets. Karayoryi was in the vanguard.
'What do you have to say about the court's decision, Mr. Kolakoglou?' she asked him.
Kolakoglou suddenly raised his head and fixed his gaze on her. 'You're the one who got me sent down, you bitch!' he screamed in fury. 'But you'll pay for it! You'll pay big-time!' The policemen broke through the ring of reporters and bundled him into the back of the van. The camera remained on Karayoryi, who followed Kolakoglou with her eyes, smiling her satisfaction.
The newscaster appeared once more. 'Ladies and gentlemen, Petros Kolakoglou was released on parole just one month ago for good conduct. The Kolakoglou case was one that Yanna Karayoryi took intensely seriously. She regarded Kolakoglou as a dangerous individual. She had already published a book on the subject, but we have reason to believe that she was continuing her investigations and that's why she had reason to fear for her life.' He stared into the camera with a grave expression, leaving open every possibility. 'We have searched for Kolakoglou, but we have not yet been able to locate him. No one knows where he is, or, at least, no one is willing to talk.'
I stopped following what was happening on the screen. The scenes flashed before me, but I didn't see them. Now all of Greece would believe that Karayoryi's murderer was Petros Kolakoglou. Tomorrow, reporters from every channel would rush out to find him. And whoever found him first would be the channel's plat du jour.
Not a minute had passed before my thoughts were confirmed, at least as to the first part. 'It's a good thing that there are reporters to bring certain things to light. Because if we waited for the police ...'
I heard Adriani's disdainful commentary, and I felt doubly infuriated. The police force fed us, clothed us, paid for our child's education, and yet she was having a go at it. You don't bite the hand that feeds you. And second, because she was doing it expressly because I hadn't gone overboard in my enthusiasm for her new boots.
'What do you know about police investigations to even have an opinion, you stupid shit?' I yelled at her.
'Don't you talk to me like that!' She jumped up in anger.
'What do you think the police are like? Like that arsehole that you watch every evening yelling his head off? They make them like that to delude credulous cows like you!'
'I won't allow you to talk to me like that!'
'As if I need your permission. Go on, get your boots on and get me something to eat!'
'Get it yourself, you pig! You bastard!' She went out, shaking from head to foot, just at the moment that I picked up the coffee table and threw it back down. It was like the coffee table that Antonakaki had in her living room, except that ours had a vase of flowers on it that fell over and soaked the carpet.
All I'd needed was one small provocation. I'd had it bottled up inside me all day and I'd taken it out on her. But I'd done it on this occasion because I'd wanted to take her down a peg or two. I knew what would be waiting for me otherwise. She'd make my life unbearable. She'd want to verify every little piece of nonsense that she heard on TV about Karayoryi's murder and ask me for details about the investigation. And I wasn't going to make two reports a day. One to Ghikas in the morning and one to Adriani in the evening. She'd stop talking to me for at least two weeks now. I'd lie on the bed with my dictionary, and I'd get some peace.
I switched off the TV and tried to put my thoughts into some order. So Kolakoglou had been released from prison after serving three-fifths of his sentence. And he had openly threatened Kara yoryi, there was no denying that. He'd spent three and a half years in prison with the thought of revenge. That's all that had kept him going. During this time, Karayoryi had published her book, which was only fat on the fire. Within a month of getting out, he'd done her in. The fact that he'd disappeared from the face of the earth was the more incriminating, together with the fact that Karayoryi was afraid for her life. She had heard that Kolakoglou had been released, and that's why she'd been frightened. The whole scenario suited me to a T, as it left out Petratos. You grab a pederast, who's already done three and a half years inside, you lock him up again, this time for life, and everybody's happy, above all Ghikas, who credits me with another twenty-five points.
Fine so far, but there was one snag in the whole imbroglio. Why would Kolakoglou risk going to the studio to kill Karayoryi? He certainly ran the risk of being recognized at any moment. Wouldn't it have been easier and safer if he'd waited for her on some street corner at night? Let's suppose, however, that he'd decided to take the risk and that he'd gone there. Wouldn't he have had a knife or something with him to cut her throat, or a rope to strangle her? Would he have left it to chance, hoping that he'd find a light stand there to do the job? I had no liking at all for Kolakoglou-I'd have been only too happy to put him away again. That was one thing, but it was another matter entirely to arrest the first villain who came to mind. Besides, there was the threatening letter among Karayoryi's papers. Kolakoglou's first name was Petros. There was no persuasive connection with the N who had signed the letters. And since there was no connection, there must have been someone else, someone other than Kolakoglou, who was threatening Karayoryi.
All this got my goat because the tidy solution I'd come up with, that left out Petratos, didn't seem so tidy in the end. I picked up the telephone and called the studio. I asked the operator, who answered in a couldn't-care-less tone, to put me through to Petratos.
'Yes,' said a sharp voice.
'This is Inspector Haritos, Mr. Petratos. I saw your report about Karayoryi's murder on the news and I'd like to talk to you. Please remain there and I'll be right over'
'I can appreciate your urgency,' he said with heavy irony. 'Come on over. I'll be waiting for you.'
It was an opportunity for me to get out of the dilemma of having to get my own meal and of losing face before Adriani. I thought that on the way back I'd stop and get a couple of souvlaki with all the spicy garnishing rather than have the spinach and rice that I hated. Not to mention that I'd reek of garlic from fifty paces and Adriani wouldn't get a wink of sleep because of the smell.
