‘For a layman, you’ve a lot of interest in Kyrie Volakis,’ said Pagounis. He drew on the cigarette and studied the fat man. ‘Yet you don’t strike me as a journalist. Them, I can smell at twenty paces. So come on, level with me. Why all the questions?’
‘To tell the truth, my interest is professional,’ said the fat man. ‘The poet’s agent, Attis Danas, hired me to look into Volakis’s disappearance from his grave. But the puzzle has evolved, now, into something different, namely his mysterious reappearance at the roadside.’
‘Do you find his reappearance mysterious?’
‘Don’t you? Don’t you think his accident might have been convenient?’
Pagounis knocked ash from the tip of his cigarette.
‘What makes you think it was an accident?’ he said.
‘That’s what I was told,’ said the fat man, with an air of naivety. ‘Is it not so?’
Pagounis smiled.
‘Kyrie Diaktoros,’ he said. ‘Your acting will never get you a job on any stage. I think you have already deduced Volakis’s death was probably no accident, and that fact will become public soon enough. So in your official capacity – if you have an official capacity – you can be told that we are treating this as a case of murder.’
‘Really? On what grounds, if I may ask?’
‘You may ask, and I will tell you, though this is information you should please keep to yourself. My reason for that request is simple: the family still believe the death was accidental. You’ll say I should have been straight with them, and you’re right, but I’m a man with a soft heart, and at the time I couldn’t do it. When his daughter came to make the identification, I felt the situation she was in was grim enough, so I decided not to add to her distress by telling her that he’d died a violent death.’
‘Was she distraught, then?’
‘Heartbreakingly so. She’s a lovely young woman, too young for such trauma as this. Plainly, she and her father were very close. To see her kiss his hand brought a tear to my own eye. The strain made her unwell whilst she was here, and I thought she should have a day or two to come to terms with the shock. So I told her he’d had a fall, a slip on the ice, or whatever. That’s the story she and the old retainer took away.’
‘But it wasn’t true?’
Pagounis stubbed out his cigarette.
‘I was born and raised in Polineri, but that doesn’t make me some backward, backwater boy,’ he said. ‘I’ve served my time on city beats, and one look was enough for me. Volakis took a blow to the head. Not just one, actually, but several. And I can go one better than that, now we’ve had the autopsy report. There were fragments of glass in the wounds.’
‘But I have just been at St Fanourios. I saw no broken glass.’
Pagounis raised his eyebrows, and smiled.
‘So you really are an investigator, Kyrie Diaktoros. You think, in some ways at least, like a policeman. No, there’s no glass there. We noticed that, too.’
‘So with glass in the wounds, you might guess at the weapon?’
‘I might.’
‘And might you also guess at who used the weapon?’
‘I might guess at that too, yes,’ said Pagounis. ‘I might guess at more than one name. But a guess is a long way from proof.’
‘Will you be attending the funeral?’
‘No, but I’ll send a couple of men. The press are taking an interest, and it seems right to protect the family from their intrusiveness.’
The fat man stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and picked up his holdall.
‘Thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘If your officers are going to be absent in the morning, I’ll leave it till the evening to bring in my paperwork. Though as I said, it worries me to be without identification. Look at Santos Volakis. Whoever would have thought of the body being a man four years dead, if he’d carried no identification?’
As the fat man crossed the car park, Inspector Pagounis watched him go. The phone on the desk rang out again; but the inspector let it ring as he left the foyer and pushed through the swing doors, back to his office.
Behind her desk, the proprietress was reading a magazine, a church-published Lives of the Saints.
The fat man took out his wallet.
‘I couldn’t supply you with my ID card earlier,’ he said, ‘but as I was going through my pockets, I came across it. Not lost after all, I’m pleased to say.’ He slipped the blue card from his wallet and placed it on the desk. ‘Please do take down whatever details you need. I should hate for you to get in trouble with the authorities.’
Dinner at the hotel was disappointing: fried chicken livers a little burned, chips cooked in oil a little rancid, a slice of chocolate cake which, though rich with cocoa, was a little dry. The fat man ate alone, silent and thoughtful, facing the dark street and a view of his own reflection in the glass.
At a neighbouring table sat a blind man, with green-lensed spectacles covering his eyes, and a long cane leaning against his thigh. He, too, seemed disinclined to talk. He was drinking ouzo and water, and each time he reached out, the fat man feared he would topple his glass; but infallibly, the blind man’s hand closed easily on his drink.
As the fat man was eating his cake, the blind man at last spoke.
‘Don’t feel obliged to clear your plate,’ he said. ‘My daughter has many qualities, but she’s never been much of a cook. She tries, God bless her, but the talent isn’t there.’
The fat man laid down his fork. Behind his reflection, a woman hurried by on the dark street, clutching closed the neck of her coat.
‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘I’ve been fed very well.’
‘You’re probably wondering how I do it,’ said the blind man.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re wondering how I know how to find the glass, but it’s simple. Once Elli has shown me where the glass stands on the table, I memorise the angle of my arm and the distance I need to extend it. Usually, I’m right. Which isn’t to say we don’t have accidents, from time to time. Will you have a drink with me, and keep me company? Elli!’
He called out to the proprietress, and in a moment she appeared behind the reception desk, drying her hands on a towel. From the doorway behind her came voices and music, the soundtrack of a TV cartoon.
‘What is it, Papa?’
‘An ouzo for the gentleman, kori mou. She takes good care of me,’ he said to the fat man, ‘and I’m not easy. Though I’m learning a little more independence, day by day.’
‘Let me introduce myself,’ said the fat man. ‘I am Hermes Diaktoros, of Athens.’
‘They call me Denes,’ said the blind man, ‘but I won’t shake your hand. If I move my hand from its spot, my trick with the glass’ll be ruined.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but when did you lose your sight?’
Denes raised his left hand, and taking the spectacles from his face, looked directly at the fat man.
‘There’s nothing to see in them, is there?’ he asked, and his eyes did, in fact, appear healthy. ‘A degenerative disease, the doctors say. My problems began seven years ago, when full daylight began to look like evening, then evening gradually became night. I see a very small amount, still – movements, and large objects. And of course the human body is adaptable. My other senses have grown sharper, by way of compensation.’
Elli placed an ouzo before the fat man, and gathered up his plates. As she leaned over him, he caught a scent of mountain air in her hair.
‘Thank you,’ said the fat man. ‘You have fed me very well.’
She smiled, grateful for the compliment. When she had left them, the blind man said, ‘You came with Hassan, this afternoon.’
‘I did,’ said the fat man. ‘How do you know?’
‘I hear the traffic passing, and I know the sound of his engine. He still brings Elli customers when he can. He still thinks of her.’
‘Has there been then some connection between your daughter and Hassan?�
�
‘Hassan’s my son-in-law.’
‘Ah.’ The fat man recalled a conversation, on the road back to the city. ‘But as I understand, they’re not together now?’
‘They separated,’ said Denes. ‘There was some trouble, and he left. Hassan wasn’t to blame. Any man would have done the same. But I worry about the children; it’s hard on them. And I worry for my daughter. Her mother’s gone, and I’m a burden. She struggles, by herself.’
Headlights lit the wet road outside, and a car passed, its fan-belt squealing. Denes took another drink of his ouzo, and the fat man did the same, finding the drink a little watery for his taste.
‘I wonder, without being indelicate, if you’d tell me what happened between them?’ asked the fat man. ‘I like Hassan. He strikes me as being a good man, yet I feel he’s harbouring some bitterness.’
‘He’s a man who’d do anyone a favour,’ said Denes. ‘He takes me to all my hospital appointments, there and back, and he won’t take a single cent in payment. Sometimes he gives me money for her, on top of what he gives her for the kids. He’s too proud to let her know he cares, and she’s too proud to let him know she’s struggling, so I say it’s from my savings, and it makes it easier, all round. But you’re right, there is some bitterness in his heart – the same bitterness I harbour myself towards that dog who crept in here and ruined their marriage. Elli was in the wrong; of course she was. But men know that women are weak, and it’s a sin to take advantage of that weakness.
‘A poet, he called himself, but I call him a snake. He wasn’t well liked in Vrisi, so he used to walk over here and honour us with his company in Polineri. He’d come in here from time to time, and sit where you are now, and have a drink or two. Always when Hassan was working: I noticed that. He’d sit, and not say much. He seemed to think having no sight made me blind to what he was up to, but I was wise to him. And I told Elli what his game was, but she didn’t listen. She’d bring him a drink, and he’d recite poetry. Love poems, and drama, fancy stuff. He scented an opportunity, and he took it; I wasn’t always here, and Hassan’s working hours are long. Then one day, he walked out of here and never came back. And that same day, Hassan packed his bags, and went.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said the fat man.
‘I’m sorry too,’ said Denes. ‘I’m sorry for us all, but for my daughter, most of all. Daughters are always special to a man. Do you have children, friend?’
‘Not in the conventional way, no.’
‘Even so, you’ll understand a father wants his children to be happy. She’s a treasure of a woman, my girl, and a wonderful mother to the children. And apart from that slip – which I don’t make light of, believe me – she was a sober and serious wife. But that snake robbed us all; he robbed Hassan of his honour, and wrecked my family, too. They were a good team, she and Hassan. He made her laugh, and she made him happy.
‘That bastard cost us dearly. He’s dead now, and though God may strike me down for saying so, I’m glad. In this family, believe me, we’re all glad.’
Sixteen
Despite a window which rattled with the lightest touch of wind, the fat man slept well and woke refreshed. Overnight, mist had fallen, dank and dense; it dulled the day’s light and muffled noise, muting the schoolchildren’s banter as they walked by on the road below, rendering the crowing of a back-yard rooster lacklustre.
The fat man stretched – arms high, then from the waist to left and right – before touching his toes a dozen times. Lifting his elbows, he pulled them back to stretch his chest. The muscles of his limbs were well defined, and satisfied with his own suppleness, he slapped his generous belly with both hands and stepped into the lukewarm shower.
In the bathroom, he dried himself and wrapped a towel round his waist. Using a badger-hair brush, he spread shaving cream over his face, and shaved with a silver-handled razor. From a bottle of his favourite cologne (the creation of a renowned French parfumier: a blend of bitter-orange neroli, the honey notes of immortelle and the earthy tang of vetiver), he splashed a few drops into his palms and patted them on to his cheeks. With a fingerful of pomade from a small jar, he smoothed his damp curls, then cleaned his teeth with powder flavoured with cloves and wintergreen, ran the tip of a steel file behind his fingernails and polished each one with a chamois buffer.
From his holdall, he chose a fresh shirt in pale lavender, and put on the suit he had hung in the wardrobe. Then he sat down on the bed, and took out a bottle of shoe-whitener.
On the road below, a police car drove by at speed.
The fat man gave both of his tennis shoes a full coat of whitener, paying particular attention to the rubber toecaps and heels, holding the shoes up to the window as he worked to check no spot was missed. When he finished, the shoes had the appearance of being new out of the box. He put them on, repacked his holdall and made his way downstairs.
He took breakfast at the same table where he had dined, looking out on nothing but the mist, which obscured even the house wall opposite. Of Denes there was no sign, though on the neighbouring table, a used napkin covered a plate of bread crusts and eggshells.
Elli served him unexceptional coffee and hard rolls with factory-made preserves, which the fat man took time to enjoy as best he might; but when he had eaten, Hassan still had not arrived.
The fat man carried his holdall to the reception desk, where Elli was adding up the figures on a pile of creditors’ bills.
He took out his wallet, and laid two banknotes on the desk.
‘This will cover my food and lodging,’ he said. ‘I shall pay you now, but it is possible I shall need to return tonight. If I do, will you be able to accommodate me?’
‘You’d be most welcome,’ said Elli, ‘especially if you’ll keep Papa company again. He enjoyed talking to you last night. Would you be wanting to eat?’
The fat man remembered last night’s dinner.
‘Don’t trouble yourself about food,’ he said. ‘If I need a room, it shall be a room only; I shall take my meal elsewhere. Then you and I are not beholden to each other. Is that agreeable to you?’
She looked appreciatively at the banknotes on the counter.
‘Perfectly,’ she said.
‘I was expecting Hassan to be here by now,’ he went on. ‘He was to collect me and take me to Vrisi. Do you think you could telephone, to make sure there is no problem?’
Elli hesitated.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll call.’
The previous day’s edition of Ta Nea was in the magazine rack. The fat man took it to his table and for a few minutes browsed its most interesting stories: a lucky fisherman who’d found a rare coin in a fish’s belly; an accountant who’d searched thirty years for a girl glimpsed once, on a train. The fisherman’s coin had sparked a fruitless search by treasure hunters; the long-term admirer was soon to marry his dream girl, but in a photograph with his arm around his middle-aged fiancée, was struggling to raise a smile.
Ten minutes went by. The fat man glanced at his watch, and frowned as he turned the page.
In the road outside, three women met; one carried newly baked loaves from the bakery, the others were dressed for attending church. The fat man, at first, paid them no attention; but there was excitement in their gestures as they pointed up and down the road, and the volume of their voices was increasing as they strove to make themselves heard over each other.
The fat man recognised the indicators of fresh gossip. He folded the newspaper and laid it on the table, and, picking up his holdall, he made his way casually outside and stood close to the women to light a cigarette.
‘Don’t talk so loud,’ said one. ‘She’ll hear you.’ She moved her head to indicate Elli, inside.
‘She’ll find out, soon enough,’ said another. ‘They’ll tell her themselves, no doubt.’
‘Why should they tell her? They’re divorced, aren’t they?’
‘Not divorced, no. They haven’t signed the papers.’
‘Th
ey’ll be taking him away,’ said the first. ‘They’ll charge him, and then it’ll be prison.’
‘Do you think he did it?’ asked one, doubtfully.
‘Of course he did it. They wouldn’t have come for him if he didn’t do it. They came early, so they’d catch him in his bed. They bundled him in the car and took him away. Blue lights and sirens, a real drama.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said the oldest. ‘I saw them myself. They went in one car, and he followed in his own. There were no lights or sirens.’
‘They’re lucky, then, he didn’t make a run for it.’
‘Maybe he did. Maybe he’s become a fugitive from the law.’
‘Do you think we should tell her?’
They all looked through the hotel window, where Elli was still sitting at the desk.
‘Better not,’ said the oldest. ‘It’s not our job to interfere in official business.’
The fat man, too, glanced through the glass at Elli, and considered, briefly, going back inside. The women’s conversation was moving on to other matters.
‘Ladies, kali mera sas,’ said the fat man politely, as he passed them, heading in the direction of the police station.
In the car park, the same moped and the Citroën saloon were parked where they had been the previous day, but alongside them now was a police car and Hassan’s taxi. Through the swing doors, the foyer was somewhat warmer, and smelled of brewing coffee. Behind the desk sat a police constable in a blouson jacket, warming his hands in front of the glowing bars of an electric fire. On the switchboard, two extensions were lit.
‘Kali mera sas,’ said the fat man, as he approached the desk.
The constable looked up at him, hard-eyed.
‘I wonder if I might speak to Inspector Pagounis,’ said the fat man. ‘I have some information which I think will interest him.’
The Whispers of Nemesis Page 16