‘You feel you are in this man’s power.’
‘There were things I did as a kid – taking a hundred drachmas from my mother’s purse, playing practical jokes on the next-door neighbour. I broke a favourite piece of Mother’s china, once. My brother knew it all, and sometimes, in spite, or if I refused some favour, he’d snitch. The punishments I got were terrible to me – a slap from my mother’s hand, banishment from meals until Grandma complained about stunting my growth. But it was my mother’s disappointment in me I couldn’t stand. I hated her not to think well of me. And that, you know, is how it is now. Exposure amongst strangers I can stand. Hell, down at the station they’ll pat me on the back and tell me, Well done, son, you’re a randy lad and one of us – too bad you got caught. There’ll be handshakes and drinks all round on my way out the door. A hero, I’ll be to them. No, it’s not them I care about. Except for Sergeant Gazis.
‘It’s those at home I can’t face, and it’s not my own shame, but theirs. How would Mama face the sniping when the news comes from the mainland that her son’s disgraced, and fired from the police force? How could she go to church, knowing what they were whispering behind her back? How could my father play poker at the kafenion where I was the butt of every joke? How would I face my grandmother, when she couldn’t keep her disappointment from her smile? And Yorgia, my lovely Yorgia! She’ll cut me in the street, as if she and I never met, as if I never kissed her in the dark . . . I can’t face them. I can’t face my own heartbreak when I think of all I’ve wasted – the interviews, the examinations, the weeks at the academy. One night in the wrong company, and I pissed it all away! How will I bear it, when I hand back the uniform I was so proud to wear: the shirts my aunt presses just so, my cap and the badge I’ve polished . . .’
He stopped. Overhead, a waking jay cackled in the branches of a pine tree.
‘Your gun,’ said the fat man. ‘You’re thinking of your gun.’
Petridis looked down at his hand; he seemed to see the weapon there, black and menacing, to feel its weight, its coldness, its potency.
‘It was given to me for protection,’ he said.
‘To protect the public,’ corrected the fat man.
‘My loved ones are the public.’ Hatred for Dinos filled Petridis, sweeping away good sense and reason, and seeming to empower him.
Shaking his head in admonition, the fat man laid a hand on Petridis’s forearm, and at his touch the hatred was diminished; but a residue remained, as if a stain on the policeman’s character were spreading, and in his heart he understood that, where his new enemy was concerned, Constable George Petridis could not be trusted to do his duty to protect him.
‘Violence is a certain road to ruin your life,’ said the fat man. ‘Don’t think of it again.’
‘Are you suggesting my life is not already ruined? I am no longer fit to be a serving police officer. I am compromised. I have compromised myself. There’s no way out of the mire that I can see.’
‘But my eyes see better than yours,’ said the fat man. ‘Long experience of life gives clearer vision. If you wish to sink into your mire, you are at liberty to do so. But if you wish to be hauled out, I offer you my hand. And our immediate concern is anyway not you, but Sergeant Gazis. In my assessment of the man, it’s likely he’ll move heaven and earth on your behalf. In other words, he’s likely to do something both precipitate and unwise. Though he means well, of course.’
‘What do you think he’ll do?’
‘That remains to be seen. But he is not a man to watch you fall out of the sky and do nothing, wouldn’t you agree? Still, the day’s only beginning, so we have time. Are you on duty today?’
‘This afternoon, at 5. But how can I face it?’
‘You’ll face it. And no more coffee. What you need is sleep. Is there any news at all, by the way, on my good friend’s death?’
Petridis explained about the damage on the radio station’s car.
‘But it was Dinos. He gave me the address of the guy he hit. So that’s a dead end.’
‘You have the address he gave you?’
Petridis found the paper in his pocket.
‘No one has been there yet?’
‘There’s been no time.’
‘Excellent. Leave it to me. Look!’
A slender sector of the sun had risen above the horizon, its brilliance filling the sky.
‘Great Helios is always punctual,’ said the fat man, referring again to his watch. ‘Your problems may seem overwhelming to you, George, but Helios has seen it all before. Nothing new under the sun, as they say! Trust me, and trust Sergeant Gazis, because we are both friends to you. You have been honest in your confession and your admission of your fault, and your sins are weakness and bad company, not worse. Trust me for a day or two, and, one way or another, we’ll haul you out of the mire. Now, ride carefully on your journey home, and then sleep. Don’t be late for your shift. And whilst you’re sleeping, you can be assured I have everything in hand.’
Eighteen
In the radio station’s lobby, FM107 was piped through speakers. As Gazis entered, he caught the last words of a commercial for a bank. Last year, this building hadn’t been here; contractors’ tools still littered the unplanted flowerbeds, and the car park was marked with the clay-drawn tracks of heavy plant. The offices’ design was contemporary, modelled on the modern architecture of Northern Europe and fronted with smoked glass, which, from outside, mirrored their surroundings: similar office blocks half-completed, a new service road, a Toyota dealership. Inside, the glass’s tint reduced the sun’s glare so efficiently it leached the blue from the sky, the heat from the day, the season from the year, so if he hadn’t walked in from enervating heat Gazis could not have said, looking out, whether it was mid-winter or high summer.
At a curved reception desk, a girl with blonde curls to her shoulders (who, Gazis suspected, might be quite plain without eye make-up and lipstick) wished him a sullen kali mera.
Gazis smiled, but the girl did not smile back.
‘I’d like to speak to Dinos Karayannis,’ he said.
‘Who shall I say wants him?’
‘Thanos Gazis. Sergeant Thanos Gazis.’
‘Take a seat.’
She pointed to a sofa upholstered in chocolate-brown leather. On the wall above its back was a gallery of steel-framed portrait photographs of the station’s DJs, all labelled with their names and work-shifts: Vassilis Kakamoutsos, Early Morning Call, Panayiotis Rondis, Midnight Express. Through unseen speakers, the broadcast ran on; the commercials over, this shift’s DJ talked fast about nothing at all. His voice was smooth, dark and deep. Gazis looked up at the wall of portraits, and found the voice’s owner: a middle-aged man, whose obesity and drooping jowls could not be hidden by soft focus.
‘Mr Gazis.’
Dinos stood behind him. His ponytail hung halfway down his back, the hair on his scalp pulled tight; his T-shirt showed the emblem of a French designer. He was smiling but, as he held out his hand, his eyes were wary. Gazis looked at the hand. When he took it in his own, Dinos’s smile grew broader.
‘I wouldn’t have known you, out of uniform,’ said Dinos. ‘You look different. Shorter. So what’s going on – have you transferred to plain clothes?’
‘I’m off duty.’
‘This isn’t an official visit, then? But it can’t be a social call, I’m sure.’
‘You and I have business. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
Dinos shrugged.
‘Follow me.’
He led Gazis through an office, where the air was blue with the smoke of cigarettes. Five women sat at desks heavy with paperwork; all wore headsets, and talked loudly into their microphones. Gazis heard dates, times, prices, days of the week. At the centre of the office, a man with his shirtsleeves rolled up over the elbows spoke angrily into a phone.
‘Advertising sales,’ said Dinos. ‘The lifeblood of this station. Without these ladies, FM107 would cease to exist. The
media is so glamorous, isn’t it?’
Exiting the office, they followed a short corridor, passing a door on their left labelled Newsroom.
‘That’s my office,’ he said, jerking his thumb towards the door. ‘And there . . .’ He pointed two fingers in a pistol towards a door ahead of them. ‘That’s the engine room – the broadcasting suite. We can talk in here.’
Gazis followed Dinos into a small lunch room, where the sink was full of unwashed china and the light on the drinks vending machine flickered on and off, the ashtray on the table overflowed with butts and the upholstery on the cheap chairs was stained. Beside the water-cooler, a mop stood in an empty bucket; Gazis smelled chlorine bleach, and the mustiness of growing bacteria. The smoked-glass window showed a view of the car park; looking out, Gazis saw his own car baking in the sun.
‘You want something to drink?’
‘Nothing,’ said Gazis.
‘Sit down.’
‘I’ll stand.’
Dinos leaned on the sink, and folded his arms.
‘So,’ he said, ‘are you going to tell me what this is about?’
‘Petridis,’ said Gazis. He watched Dinos’s face for his reaction; there was nothing there, except, perhaps, a slight narrowing of the eyes. ‘George Petridis, my constable. You know Petridis, don’t you?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Don’t give me any crap,’ said Gazis quietly. ‘I’ve had his side of the story. Now I want yours.’
‘Story? I don’t know any story.’ He dug for change in the pocket of his shorts, turning his back on Gazis to feed it into the drinks machine. ‘Sure you won’t have anything?’
‘Very sure.’
Money rattled in the machine; Dinos pressed a button, and a can of orange soda thumped into the dispenser. Popping the top and drinking, Dinos turned back to Gazis.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gazis, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Then I’ll explain. The way he tells it, he’s been getting into bad company. Yours, amongst others.’
Dinos shrugged, and drank again from his can. Now, Gazis read something in his face: bravado, or insolence.
‘We hung out one night. Is that a crime?’
‘More an error of judgement on his part,’ said Gazis. ‘But the actual crime came later. Last night, in fact.’
Dinos raised his eyebrows.
‘If there’s been a crime, lucky you’re on the case, Mr Gazis.’
‘Don’t mess with me, Dinos.’ Gazis’s voice was cold with anger. ‘Blackmail is an ugly business. It’s the kind of crime only scum would sink to, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’d say that was open for debate. And I’d say, if someone has some leverage, they should be entitled to use it. Especially if someone else has made an error of judgement, as you put it. Business is business.’
‘Compromising a young man’s career is a very dirty business indeed.’
‘If there’s been any compromising, it needed no help from me. Your man compromised himself. What did you take him for, some kind of choirboy?’
‘In a manner of speaking. The innocent are the most easily corrupted.’
‘He’s a man like any other. Is he some relative of yours? Is that what this is about?’
‘He’s no relative to me. He’s a young man with a very bright future, which I’m not going to let you screw up.’
‘Well, now. It’s interesting you mention futures, because that’s exactly where my eyes are – on my future. You know how it is. To get where I’m going, I need contacts. Sources. That’s the business I’m in – good, reliable sources. There’s no need to get excited, Mr Gazis. Press and police have worked that way for ever.’
‘There’s a difference between a mutual exchange of information and extortion.’
‘Extortion! That’s a very strong word. Who’s extorting anything?’
‘You are.’
‘How so?’
‘Photographs.’
Smiling, Dinos nodded.
‘Now we get to it. He’s told you I have some interesting pictures. And he’s right. They’d make a great story. The policeman and the whore. It’s no big deal. He knows I won’t write it. We have an understanding.’
Gazis shook his head.
‘No. There’ll be no understanding between you and him. That’s why I’m here.’
‘To threaten me? To bully? That would be the icing on my cake, wouldn’t it? You threaten me, and I’d really have a story worth writing. Go ahead, beat me up. It’s the big break I’ve been waiting for.’
‘I know that. That’s one reason it’s not going to happen. The other reason is, it’s not my style. I’m not here to threaten, Dinos. I’m here to trade.’
‘Trade? What on earth could you offer me in place of pictures of a policeman screwing a whore?’
‘What happened about the money?’
‘Well, in fairness to George, he brought the money back. I don’t think he knew he was meant to keep it. Perhaps you’re right about his innocence. But I just happen to have a picture of George stuffing banknotes in his pocket. People would draw the wrong conclusions, obviously. But you’re getting things out of proportion; I’ve no intention of publishing. And I’ve no idea, either, why he came crying to you. It’s between me and him. It’s just a little insurance policy I’ve taken out to encourage him to use me as his exclusive media contact. Nothing more.’
‘It’s plenty more. It’s the end of his integrity as a serving officer.’
Dinos laughed loudly.
‘Integrity! Mr Gazis, you never cease to surprise me! There’s so little integrity in your line of work, why expect it in George? Present company excepted, of course. It’s well known you’re a candidate for canonisation. But your colleagues . . .’
‘There are some good men in there. And Petridis is going to be one of them.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘No maybe. We’re going to trade.’
‘Are we? Well, you’d better have something good to offer.’
The door opened, and the receptionist entered, hooking blonde curls behind her ear. As though Dinos were not in the room, she acknowledged Gazis with an inclination of her head. Opening a wall cupboard, she reached up for a packet of coffee from a high shelf, drawing Dinos’s eyes to the stretched curves of her body: thighs, buttocks, breasts. Closing the cupboard, she clutched the coffee to her chest, and turned to leave.
But Dinos stopped her.
‘You’re still mad at me,’ he said.
She lifted her chin in a show of disdain.
‘I’m not mad at you,’ she said. ‘Why should I be?’
He placed his orange soda on the table, and crossed the room to stand close to her, keeping his voice low as he spoke. But the room was small, and Gazis caught every word.
‘I told you how it was. She came on to me. I’d had a drink. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re always sorry.’
‘I’ll make it up to you. I’ll take you to the beach this afternoon.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Don’t be busy. I miss you, Mina.’
‘You should have thought of that before you tangled yourself up with her.’
He leaned in closer and, placing his lips to her exposed ear, whispered something Gazis didn’t catch.
As Dinos stepped back, Mina was smiling.
‘Come on,’ said Dinos. ‘I’ll take you to the beach. You choose where we’ll go. Kastro. Let’s go there. I’ll pick you up at 3, 3:30. OK, agapi mou?’
For only a moment, Mina hesitated.
‘If you’re late,’ she said, ‘it’s over.’
‘I won’t be late.’
She left them, pausing in the doorway to adjust the neck of her blouse, where the lace of her bra was showing.
‘Stupid,’ said Dinos, as the door closed. ‘Stupid, but compliant.’ He moved back across the room, picking up his soda. ‘You were saying something about a trade. What you hadn’t said was what you
’re actually trading.’
Gazis held Dinos’s eyes.
‘Me,’ he said. ‘You can have me.’
Dinos laughed.
‘And what on earth would I do with you, Mr Gazis?’
‘I’ll be your story.’
‘You? I’m sorry to have to tell you, but there’s no story in you.’
‘There is if you substitute me for Petridis. It’ll work, if the photographs aren’t very clear. Change them digitally, if you like. Swap my face for his. Then tell me I’m not a better story than Petridis. He’s a rookie with a few weeks’ service. Him going to the bad is only a little story. But me, I’ve got thirty years, and two years to my pension. True or not, the general public’ll believe I’ve been on the take all that time. Whoring, too. You’ll bring down a senior man. There’ll be repercussions. Investigations. You’ll make the nationals.’
Dinos’s expression showed shrewd, calculating interest.
‘Now, why on earth would you do that?’ he asked. ‘Is it possible I’ve misread you all this time? You’re looking for a percentage on the story, aren’t you?’
‘You’d never understand my reasons, Dinos. I don’t want a cut. Take it or leave it. You’ll take it, of course. And to make it even sweeter for you, I’ll tell you something else. If I retire now – of course they’ll let me retire quietly, if they can get away with it – I’ll lose a quarter of my pension.’
‘Quarter of your pension? You’ve gone mad.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Why on earth would you sacrifice that – sacrifice yourself – for a boy you hardly know?’
‘Because I do know him. He’ll be a great policeman one day. And he’ll come back and get you. That’s the part you need to understand. If I know Petridis, you won’t be comfortable in this town ever again.’
‘So what? Who’d need this town? You’d be my ticket out of here.’
‘So do we have a deal?’
‘I think we might.’
‘OK. Buy me a soda, and I’ll tell you how we’re going to play it.’
As Dinos searched for change, Gazis crossed to the window. In his face was sadness he wanted to hide, and he looked out across the new road to where a building crew sat resting in the shade.
The Taint of Midas Page 20