The Last Symphony

by Tonia Lalousi

  I take Peter’s hand and pull him behind me. I have been trying to convince him that I should approach Aris this time by invoking his sense of logic and his emotions since we called informed about the new murder. I think that his condensation has been marked wordlessly and the time I have to pose my own questions is counting down.

  ‘‘It is very logical to be in this position. Even the strongest personalities, even the leaders are not gods. We are humans. Perishable. We bend. Under stressful conditions, we can lose our strength.’’

  I am trying to approach him in my own way, which is a little more diplomatic, peaceful and completely opposite to Peter’s methods, who lacks empathy, maybe due to his experience. Maybe due to his egoism. He stands beside the window ignoring our conversation.

  ‘‘What is that which calms you the most?’’

  My question imprints signs of surprise on the male faces in the room. Peter is snubbing me. He is supporting his weight on the wall opposite the bed, crossing his hands under his chest and passing his right leg around his left. Aris is processing me. His forehead comes to an absolute parallel line with the ceiling.

  I am also asking myself silently. Images, sounds, textures. An album with moments is passing my eyes.

  What calms me more?

  ‘‘My mother,’’ he answers and lowers his look on his fingers, making bridges between his right and his left hand. ‘‘She doesn’t live anymore.’’

  ‘‘For many people it is music.’’

  ‘‘Not for me. Music upsets me.’’

  ‘‘Even the piano?’’

  ‘‘My father’s order. I haven’t played on it for years,’’ he confesses in a stable voice.

  Peter takes his mobile out of his coat and shows Aris the new victim’s photo. ‘‘Do you know her?’’

  My interrogation time is just over.

  Aris carefully observes the Forensic’s image. The seconds he needs to answer worry me. He may simply know her or just be pretending.

  ‘‘No, I don’t know her.’’

  Peter puts his mobile back into his inside pocket, making a grimace of awareness of the answer. He winks his facial features a little lower. ‘‘She was found dead last night. They killed her like your sister. In the same way.’’

  ‘‘What do you want from me?’’

  ‘‘We are trying to find if there is any clue that connects the two girls,’’ I explain to him and I claim again a place in the attack.

  ‘‘And do you think that I am the link?’’

  ‘‘Mr Nomikos, in a strange way you are related to every crime,’’ Peter intervenes again. This is not an interrogation. It is a query speed game. ‘‘The last person who saw your sister alive, the one who was holding the gun at the pool, the one who was ringing the doorbell of Apostolos Maniatis, who was inside dead…’’

  Peter’s words hit like a bullet Aris’s face which becomes red in a few seconds, accompanied by a rhythm of breath which develops in conditions of hypoxia. A panic attack. An intense cough comes to peak his disorganizing and two nurses rush to calm him down with a sedative injection.

  ‘‘May we talk to you for a while?’’

  Peter calls the old, aged man to approach us, detaching him from the bodyguards of the room. ‘‘How is his medical condition?’’

  ‘‘The doctors said he suffers from burnout. He was very tired lately…’’ he says rubbing his chin.

  I lean my back against the wall and think that he handled the case hurriedly. It irritates me that he did not let me handle the interrogation of Aris wholly. But it irritates me more that I get irritated by this.

  ‘‘If you know anything more, you have to tell us. I feel that Aris is guilty of something in your eyes.’’ Peter risks again openly attacking. ‘‘If somebody can prevent the worse, but he doesn’t do it, maybe he will be the next victim.’’ A second shot. He is desperately looking for a mistake from the opponents; a mistake that will give the right answer.

  The man’s eyes roll among each living existence in the corridor of the hospital to end up in the icy, white light of the ceiling.

  ‘‘Do you recognize this girl? Had she ever come to the villa?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ The negative answer comes in the first second.

  ‘‘What a shame!’’ Peter shakes his head in frustration arousing his interlocutor’s interest.

  ‘‘What is Aris’s relationship with this girl?’’

  The bait finds its target.

  ‘‘The truth is that what should concern you most is the kind of relationship Aris will have with you after all of these…’’ A third shot. ‘‘Why are you afraid of him? From the first moment I met you, I saw the agony in your eyes. Is he blackmailing you for anything?’’

  I guess the man belongs to Nomikos’s staff and Aris met him when he went to the villa. I approach them. A few drops of sweat leave sheen on the big forehead of the man who removes them by inverting his palm towards his thin, gray hair.

  ‘‘I am upset because of Natalie’s murder. There is nothing else, officer.’’

  ‘‘I hope so…’’ He leaves and approaches again. He is ready to talk but stops. ‘‘Good afternoon.’’

  We proceed in the corridor. We descend speechless on the ground floor. I look out of the corner of my eye left and instead of Peter, I see a man in a white apron holding two black envelopes. I turn back. Peter is standing in front of the information desk talking with a red-haired secretary. He turns towards me and makes me a gesture to wait for him in the waiting room. The secretary seems oppressed by his words. He smiles at her and walks down the aisle behind her.

  Exclusiveness. This is the element of the relationship that I am seeking and the impossibility of obtaining it leads me to impulsive movements. I want to take the initiative at work, not because I feel I can solve the case, but because I want to limit Peter’s power. I want to feel emotionally secure. I want to feel that I am not the best solution, but his choice. I see his passion for work and I am desperately looking to find it in our relationship as well. He loves Violeta, his son, his grandmother, his father, and me. An internal question mark for the last defendant leads me to depression.

  How was he in his relationship with Catherine? Didn’t he tell her he loved her? I must persuade myself that this is his character; that every person has his own way of expressing his love and devotion. Perhaps I am irrational or I am passing through some psychological disorder. That is why our job helps us forget everything psychological, filling us with new problems.

  I see him approaching me and I recognize a pale complexion on his face which makes me forget every prior thought and get worried about what he is about to announce to me.

  ‘‘Magda…’’ He has turned white. I am scared. ‘‘I saw the files from the security cameras. He didn’t exit the room at all since yesterday afternoon. Aris isn’t the killer.’’

  One - Zero

  We arrive at the Department. Antonella is chatting with Andrew and they stop when they notice Peter’s anger. He is puffing and blowing and falls in his chair as if he just finished a marathon. In the last position.

  ‘‘The woman in charge of the dance school stayed there to inform the classes for the postponement of the lessons. But the dancer is here waiting to talk to you. Only…’’ Andrew goes out into the corridor and raises his hand. ‘‘…he doesn’t speak Greek.’’

  The boy who was sitting in the vestibule appears next to him. I estimate that the dancer is around one-eighty as he is at least one head taller than Andrew. He enters and sits in front of us, explaining the situation in English. I bet that his birthplace will blow up Peter’s mind.

  ‘‘I left Moscow around a quarter to five and arrived in Athens around eight in the morning. I went straight to the dancing school because we had arranged a rehearsal at ten. I was waiting outside until the secretary came to open and we found the girl dead in the kitchen.’’

  ‘‘Did you know her?’’

  ‘‘Not personally, sir. I had
seen her only once in the dance school.’’

  ‘‘Have you come to Greece again?’’

  ‘‘On Wednesday I came for the first time but returned on the same day to my country.’’

  ‘‘And now the obvious question. What are you doing here?’’

  ‘‘I have been called by the dance school to make a choreography, sir.’’

  Peter places his palms on the desk and tilts his body forward. ‘‘So, you are collaborating with Dima Vladimirov and Vasilikos. The choreography is for your appearance in Eurovision. Why are you lying?’’ Peter asks him with an irrational aggressive tone, while his face is turning red again, which makes me worry about his pressure values.

  I can definitely justify his outburst. It is a result of the awkward moment we have found the edge in the tangle of the case and suddenly it gets out of our hands and gets even more entangled, incriminating the composer.

  The Russian dancer hesitates to answer directly positively, taking time to process what Peter said.

  Cool.

  ‘‘It would be good to watch your accusations since you don’t have evidence to prove your claim. My job is to give a report only to those I work with, sir. Whoever they are…’’ he avoids naming the composer, provoking Peter’s next outburst in a natural and authentic way.

  ‘‘The girl was killed around one o'clock in the morning. You think you are innocent because of the fact that you have an alibi, but…’’

  ‘‘…but we are all guilty for something?’’ The dancer catches my husband’s question, interrupting him as if he has set as a purpose in life to irritate him. He raises his right eyebrow and the irony is imprinted with satisfaction in every corner of his face. His own attitude is justified, in response to the attack of our leader.

  Peter sends him a evil smile and he reciprocates. ‘‘First…’’ he says pointing to his thumb. ‘‘You won’t interrupt me again. Second…’’ he is now pointing his index finger. ‘‘You will answer only to what I ask you and third…’’ last shot on the middle. ‘‘I have the pleasure to inform you that the false deposition is prosecuted by law.’’

  ‘‘I will reveal everything I can, without interrupting you again and without any false deposition, provided that you talk to me calling me ‘‘sir’’ too. Are you satisfied with this agreement?’’ The eyebrow is raised again. It is automatically placed some inches above its natural position at the end of every sentence of his.

  Peter’s fingers start a nervous dance on the desk, offering the young man a small trophy of victory. ‘‘Calling you ‘‘sir’’ presupposes respect between the two interlocutors.’’

  ‘‘It actually enhances the respect between the interlocutors, sir,’’ the dancer corrects him. ‘‘A necessary condition for its use is the education of the interlocutors.’’ Eyebrow two levels above.

  My husband’s face is armed with limited patience. ‘‘It seems that you have got an answer for everything… Sir…’’ He obeys the demand. ‘‘Tell me, please, what is the difference between a clever person and one who thinks he is clever?’’

  ‘‘The smart one would never ask such a question, which expresses a desperate need to excel.’’ Eyebrow three levels above its natural position.

  Peter smiles murderously and turns towards me. ‘‘Magda, take him away from here because I’ll also be accused of murder in a little while…’’ he tells me in Greek and I am trying to find a pen to note down the moment of Peter Deligiannis’s leveling by an…

  ‘‘How old are you?’’ I ask him spontaneously.

  ‘‘Twenty.’’

  I am pleasantly surprised, and I want to make a poster of the phrase: Deligiannis was beaten by a twenty year old boy! ‘‘Come outside with me so I can write down your contact information.’’

  The smart man stands up and I notice that I estimated his height correctly, as he is nearly equal to Peter.

  ‘‘I wish you find the killer soon, sir…’’ he extends his hand towards my husband, stretching his chest.

  ‘‘Something tells me we will talk again soon… Sir…’’

  Peter responds although this is definitely something he would like to avoid even more than a possible defeat in an argument with the commander.

  ‘‘My pleasure, sir.’’ He greets Antonella with his eyes and follows me outside the meeting room. He moves forward and I notice his wide torso and his slender legs.

  ‘‘Could you remind me of your name?’’

  ‘‘Ildar.’’

  ‘‘You know Ildar, my husband is a little irritable…’’ I justify him wearing Gioconda’s smile.

  ‘‘Is he your husband? I didn’t know, I am sorry…’’ he replies, and I recognize an honest humor that excites me. ‘‘Generally, I am a calm person, but when I am attacked for no reason, I can’t help but react,’’ he claims and runs his fingers through his blonde hair.

  He is right. ‘‘A war situation prevails in the Department these days. Let’s say you have found us in a difficult moment,’’ I apologize to him bringing in my mind Peter’s immodesty. He looks at me reluctantly.

  ‘‘We all confront stressful situations, alas if we start attacking whoever is found in front of us.’’ Ildar must give Andrew lessons in self-defense. ‘‘Being right doesn’t have to do with ‘‘difficult’’ situations,’’ he notes the quotation marks with his thin and long fingers.

  I store his point of view in my subconscious and make a gesture to Christine to take his statement. ‘‘You will give a statement to this girl.’’ I reciprocate his kind handshake and return to the office.

  Peter’s mobile phone slips on the desk, but thanks to friction it stops on the edge. It would have fallen down if he had thrown it with a slightly greater strength. He gets up at the board, takes the marker, and throws it on the floor.

  ‘‘What happened?’’ I ask Antonella whispering.

  ‘‘I don’t know either…’’

  ‘‘Everything OK with the genius boy, Magda?’’ he asks me resting one hand on the window, behind his chair.

  Part of his is upset due to the Russian dancer. I wonder where the rest is attributed. ‘‘Yes, of course. What did they tell you on the… phone?’’ I avoid pointing it out with my gaze because I am afraid it will find its place next to the marker.

  ‘‘We must proceed carefully. There are well-wishers for the journalists everywhere. The case is very serious, nothing should be leaked…’’ he monologues without looking at us. ‘‘A melody… A new melody…’’ he turns the laptop towards us.

  The built-in speakers present us with music which I would say is quite similar to the previous one. Probably its composer has lost his inspiration. With the migraine having - temporarily - subsided, I am trying to process the new information.

  ‘‘Two melodies. Two dead girls. I don’t know why the dancer didn’t admit his collaboration with the composer, but I take it for granted. Maybe he wants to protect him. He seemed very diplomatic… But it’s better not to refer to him again…’’ he crooks his lips and frowns, thinking of the winner of the previous argument. It is very difficult, even unbearable, for Peter Deligiannis to encounter people smarter than him.

  ‘‘So, we turn to the composer,’’ Antonella takes her position, stating indirectly that she deserves to be rewarded for her initial negative attitude towards Dima Vladimirov. However, Peter does not show much willingness to admit that he fell - again - out into his evaluation.

  ‘‘For a start, yes…’’ Forced admission.

  ‘‘Antonella, try to find as much as you can about this girl. Get her details from the forensics. Magda, you come with me. We will go to the dance school and talk to the person in charge.’’

  The dance school is located in St. Nicholas Street and the first thing I notice is the impressive front with glass which depicts a boy in a dancing figure with legs outstretched in the air. Its tinted coating does not allow passers-by to look inside. I catch myself wanting to attend some choreography.

  The entra
nce is at the left corner. The colored epigraph LET’S DANCE covers vertically the glass door, which is wide open and leads us directly to the school reception. There is a blonde lady behind a circular corner bench. She spots us as we enter the room and opens wide her already huge eyes.

  ‘‘Good morning. We are from the police.’’

  She blinks several times. She shakes her head right and left and a trace of fear overwhelms her forehead, beneath her manicured hair bangs.

  ‘‘I still can’t believe it!’’

  ‘‘We too…’’ Peter whispers looking at the glossy tile. ‘‘Were you here in the morning?’’

  She goggles her eyes a little. She is a little scary. ‘‘I… I was…’’ she slaps her right hand on her thigh and her breath gets faster. ‘‘Officer, I can’t believe it!’’

  ‘‘Say something different!’’

  I shake Peter on his waist and choose to take over the questions. ‘‘What is your name?’’

  ‘‘Maria. Maria Politi. Will you take me to the Department?’’

  ‘‘It is not necessary. May you tell us what happened exactly?’’

  ‘‘I come to school every morning at nine, but normally we open the door at ten and the lessons start at eleven. We start with the adult classes and at noon we continue with the younger.’’

  ‘‘We are not particularly interested…’’ Peter rebukes, interrupting her. Maria seems to be one of those people who you answer to more questions than asked. Such people enter my husband’s blacklist.

  ‘‘He means you should focus on what happened this morning…’’ I encourage her and she immediately regains her brightness. The shine that exists in excessive quantity on her face makes her a petite, bright firefly.

  ‘‘When I arrived, Ildar was waiting for me outside. He is the best dancer I have seen until now in my life.’’

  My husband approaches her with controlled aggression and smiles at her joining his lips in a straight line. ‘‘We – don’t - care!’’ he pronounces the words one-by-one slowly, understandably. Threateningly.

  ‘‘Yes of course…’’ she chokes and throws me a look searching for defense. ‘‘He had a rehearsal with Victoria at ten. We went inside and I went to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee first. With two small children at home, I just have the time to wake them up, make breakfast, get their things ready, take the bus for work…’’ She talks incessantly and we cannot catch up with her to interrupt her. ‘‘So, I enter the small kitchen to make coffee…’’