by Philip Kerr
‘Which means it can hardly be the source of the substance that caused him to suffer an allergic reaction that cost him his life,’ said Varouxis. ‘But in the light of this new information I shall certainly want to speak to your team nutritionist again.’
I nodded. ‘Naturally.’
‘You don’t suppose it could just be a coincidence,’ suggested Sergeant Tsipras. ‘That Mr Develi’s death was natural after all. And that it had nothing to do with her stealing his pens.’
Varouxis looked at his subordinate with weary disappointment. ‘Policemen don’t believe in coincidence any more than they believe in the kindness of strangers. Not when there is – as Detective Inspector Considine has told us – the evidence of a substantial bet placed on the outcome of the match. By a Russian. In Russia. Quite possibly by the same person who owns the team for which Bekim Develi used to play, Semion Mikhailov, who had probable knowledge of his condition. No, someone got to him all right. Someone who was in league with this man, Semion Mikhailov. I think we can agree on that.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tsipras.
‘There’s something I’d like to show you,’ said Varouxis.
He collected his iPad off the windowsill and switched it on with a sweep of his forefinger. A moment or two later Louise and I were looking at a short, grainy black and white film of what looked like a Mercedes Benz leaving the team’s hotel in Vouliagmeni.
‘This is CCTV footage that was taken from a camera near the main gate to the hotel, which has only just come to light. We are almost certain that Nataliya is the person sitting in the back seat of the car. Unfortunately you can’t actually make out the number plate of the car, the driver or the figure sitting next to Nataliya, who might indeed be the someone she mentions in her suicide note: the man who put her up to stealing the pens.’
I watched the little bit of film several times before concluding that it left me none the wiser about what precisely had happened to Bekim Develi.
‘I don’t suppose you have an idea as to who this person in the car might be, Mr Manson,’ said Varouxis.
I was close enough to him now to smell his aftershave, which reminded me of a very pungent air freshener of the kind you sometimes smell in taxis; like the scent of an artificial flower.
‘No idea.’
‘You’re not aware of any of your players who might have hired a Mercedes limousine to go somewhere that night.’
‘Like I told you before, they were supposed to be having an early night before a big game.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You might ask all of the limousine companies in Athens if they can remember collecting a Russian woman from the hotel that night,’ suggested Louise.
‘Yes, we will certainly do that, thank you,’ said Varouxis. ‘Anyway, as it happens we now believe that the person in the car might more probably be Nataliya’s pimp, or some sort of sexual pervert who could even have been her next client.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Louise.
Varouxis ran the film again and then stopped it with a tap of his forefinger.
‘If you look on the back shelf of the car you’ll see – there, if I can enlarge this a little more – it’s a little grainy but you can see what appears to be a whip. It is what I believe is sometimes called in English a cat of nine tails.’
‘So it is,’ said Louise.
‘Again, I have to ask this,’ said Varouxis. ‘You don’t have anyone in your team who might be into this kind of sadistic behaviour?’
I shook my head. ‘No one.’
‘Were there any signs on Nataliya’s body that she’d been whipped?’ I asked, knowing full well that there were none. The sight, sound and smell of Nataliya’s mortal remains during Dr Pyromaglou’s midnight autopsy were going to linger in my mind for a long time. ‘I mean, you didn’t mention any, before.’
‘No signs at all,’ said Varouxis. ‘At least none that we know of. But now that the doctor’s strike is over we shall at last be able to organise a proper autopsy for both Bekim Develi and Nataliya Matviyenko. Today, I hope.’
‘Perhaps the whip was just a toy. All part of a sex game.’
‘Beating someone doesn’t sound like much of a sex game to me,’ said Louise. ‘Unless of course she used it to whip him. Now that’s something I can understand. A woman beating a man with a whip. There are several of my so-called superiors at Scotland Yard I’d like to take a whip to.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ confessed Varouxis. ‘Perhaps he got whipped, not her.’
‘That would explain why there were no weals on her body,’ said Louise. ‘Which there certainly would be if she’d been whipped. It would seem impossible to participate in that sort of sexual activity without it leaving marks. Perhaps, Mr Manson, you should keep a lookout for the tell-tale marks the next time you see your team in the shower. Which will be on Wednesday night?’
‘I’ll certainly bear that in mind,’ I said.
52
‘There’s something else we need to tell you, Chief Inspector,’ I said, carefully, ‘and well, it relates to an old case of yours. Well, perhaps not that old. The Thanos Leventis case.’
Varouxis stiffened. ‘What about it?’
‘I think there might be certain similarities between that particular case and the death of Nataliya Matviyenko.’
‘Principally the fact that one of Leventis’s victims was thrown into the harbour at Marina Zea,’ added Louise. ‘Namely Sara Gill. An English woman.’
‘I spoke to Miss Gill,’ I said. ‘About the attack on her in 2008.’
‘You did?’
‘We both did.’ Louise spoke firmly. ‘In an effort to establish if there might be a connection with the death of Nataliya Matviyenko.’
‘And what did you conclude?’ asked Varouxis.
‘There isn’t any connection,’ said Louise. ‘Nevertheless, I believe I am now in a position to make a formal request through the British Ambassador to your government that the Special Violent Crime Unit here in Athens reopens that case.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘From what Miss Gill has told me,’ said Louise, ‘you came to the entirely understandable conclusion that because of the severity of her injuries she wasn’t likely to make much of a witness. She herself admits that she was confused. And that her story didn’t seem to make sense.’
Varouxis nodded and lit another cigarette, calmly. ‘Actually, it wasn’t my decision not to pursue her story,’ he said. ‘It was the decision of my police general. But please go on.’
‘Things are very different now,’ said Louise. ‘She’s much recovered and remembers a great deal more about what happened to her. In particular, we now believe that she’s in a position to identify the second attacker.’
‘We?’
‘During a Skype call I had with her on Saturday evening Miss Gill gave me a description of the man who attacked her,’ I said. ‘A very detailed description. From what she’s said I’m more or less certain that I’ve met the other man who attacked her.’
‘And who might that be? No. Wait a minute. Tsipras?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I think it’s best that you leave the room,’ said Varouxis. ‘I think if Mr Manson here is going to utter a libel against someone it’s best he does it in front of only one witness. For the sake of diplomatic relations between our two countries. I wouldn’t like Mr Manson to get into any more trouble.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Tsipras stood up and left the room.
‘All right,’ said Varouxis after his subordinate had left us alone. ‘Who do you have in mind?’
‘His name is Antonis Venizelos, and he works for—’
‘I know who Antonis Venizelos works for. Everyone in this building knows Antonis Venizelos. He’s a very popular man. Venizelos supplies us with free tickets to all Panathinaikos matches. He’s in and out of police headquarters like it was an extension of that stadium across the road.’ He nodded out of the window and si
ghed. ‘All right, tell me what makes you think that he’s the other man who attacked Miss Gill?’
‘She told me the man was hairy. Very hairy. Like Venizelos. A man with very sweet breath. Venizelos eats a lot of cardamom seeds and smokes menthol cigarettes. She also described a man who was wearing a T-shirt with a sort of UN logo on it. She told me that it was sort of like a wreath made of olive branches? Except that it wasn’t a map of the world within the branches, but what looked more like a sort of labyrinth. I’m certain that what she was describing was a Golden Dawn T-shirt. A neo-Nazi organisation of which Venizelos is or used to be a member. At least that’s what he told my assistant manager. But most tellingly she described a man who appeared to have three eyebrows. This was the detail that at the outset makes her seem unreliable. However, Venizelos has a very defined scar through one of his eyebrows that leaves one with the distinct impression that he has not two eyebrows but three. Considering Thanos Leventis drove the coach for the Panathinaikos B team, there exists a strong possibility he knew Antonis Venizelos. Also I know from my own conversations with him that Venizelos holds some very misogynistic views. Frankly, I think he hates women as much as he hates Pakistanis and Roma gypsies. I can’t say that I am a hundred per cent certain it was him, Chief Inspector. And you have my word that I certainly haven’t spoken to Miss Gill about my suspicions. However, I do think there is a very good chance that she would be able to pick him out of a police line-up.’
Varouxis lit another cigarette and thought for a minute.
‘But then I suspect you already knew the man I was going to name,’ I said. ‘That’s why you asked Sergeant Tsipras to leave the room, isn’t it?’
Varouxis remained silent.
‘If you’ll permit me to say something,’ said Louise. ‘Surely it’s better that you should reopen the case yourself than at the behest of the British ambassador and your own Ministry of Justice.’
‘In spite of what you say, the only way I could reopen this case would be if I had the kudos of solving the death of Miss Matviyenko, or the death of Bekim Develi. No one could argue with my decision to reopen Miss Gill’s case under such circumstances as those.’
‘Might I ask why anyone would argue with it?’ said Louise.
‘My superior, Police Lieutenant General Stelios Zouranis, is the cousin of this man Venizelos. He is also a member of Golden Dawn. I dislike both the man and the organisation, but my hands are tied, at least until I crack this particular case. The minister would have to listen to me then, you understand. He could not resist it.’
Louise nodded. ‘We understand.’
‘Antonis Venizelos has that scar through his eyebrow from an injury he sustained in a football match against Thessaloniki back in 2000,’ said Varouxis. ‘Venizelos stamped on the ankle of another player, for which offence he was head-butted by a third player and received sixteen stitches in his head as a result. He was always a very dirty player. And I say that as a Panathinaikos supporter. Indeed, for a while after that incident his nickname was Minotaure.’
He opened the window and waved some of the smoke out of the conference room.
‘I tell you frankly that I always suspected that he was involved. And I would dearly love to put this man in prison. And not just because he is a rapist and a murderer but because his kind represents the worst in our society. His kind of hatred and intolerance are not the true Greek way. We might have invented democracy but we are beginning to forget what it means. In order to convict him I will need to make my voice louder and solving this case will certainly do that.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘I am impressed by what you’ve been able to discover, Mr Manson. Impressed but perhaps not that surprised after the way you were able to find out who killed João Zarco. I should have realised that you were not the type of man to sit on his hands and do nothing. I give you my word that if you help me now that I will help you.’
He held out his hand for me to shake; I took it. Then he shook hands with Louise.
‘Perhaps the three of us can bring things to a satisfactory conclusion,’ he said. ‘In fact, I am quite sure of it.’
53
After the pre-match chat with ITV – why do these guys always ask such stupid questions? – I went to find my players.
For the match against Olympiacos at the Apostolis Nikolaidis Stadium, across the road from the GADA, I chose to wear my own plain black tracksuit, matching T-shirt and a pair of black trainers. A Zegna linen suit, white shirt and silk tie hardly felt appropriate for what was certain to be a long and frenetic evening, and I wanted all of my players to fully understand what I had to say to them in the dressing room: that the game in front of us was going to require a die-in-the-ditch performance of real substance and very little style.
Not that there was much style on offer to us that night; the dressing room at Apostolis Nikolaidis was as shabby as the outside of the stadium had suggested it would be, and a sharp contrast to the shiny, brushed aluminium perfection of the facilities we enjoyed at home in Silvertown Dock. Some of the coat hooks on the walls were loose or non-existent and there were only wire hangers for shirts and jackets; the floor was uneven and it was strewn with spent matches, cigarette ends and bits of chewing gum. The chiller cabinet for water bottles wasn’t switched on but that hardly mattered since it was also empty. There was a strong whiff of drains in the air and mould growing in the corners of the dripping showers which were missing more tiles than an old Scrabble set. Nor was there any air-conditioning either, just a couple of industrial-sized fans that blew Simon Page’s player notes around the place and made me glad that I’d only brought my iPad.
‘Right, you noisy sods,’ said Gary Ferguson throwing his man-bag onto the bench, ‘stop complaining and get your fucking kit on. Just remember, if this shithole is for the home team then imagine what the away team dressing room looks like. There’s probably a turd in the bath. In fact, I know there is because I left one floating there yesterday.’
That got a big laugh.
‘Are you going to eat that banana?’ said Zénobe Schuermans.
‘Actually, I was thinking of throwing it into the crowd,’ said Daryl Hemingway. ‘Just in case they run short during the game.’
‘Count yourself lucky they just throw bananas here,’ said Kenny Traynor. ‘When Hearts used to play Hibs the cabbage bastards threw fucking coins.’
‘At Anfield they used throw toilet rolls,’ said Soltani Boumediene.
‘I swear,’ said Ayrton Taylor, ‘if someone throws a coin at me I’m going to throw it back.’
‘Listen, son,’ said Gary, ‘if someone throws a coin on the pitch at this place it’s more likely to be an offer to buy the fucking football club.’
‘When are those illiterate Scouse fuckers going to realise that it’s “a field” not “an field”? asked Jimmy Ribbans.
All this was just nerves and I let them have a few more moments of levity before settling them down.
‘Right then,’ I said. ‘Could I have your attention please, gentlemen?’
I waited for a long minute and outlined my strategy – the one I’d described to Vik and Phil on The Lady Ruslana. Then I told them the hard truth about our chances. Like a lot of truths this one contained an important constituent that wasn’t required to make any sense. That’s a manager’s job; to remind players that football is one of those magical places where the truth is often stranger than fiction.
‘It’s no small thing to turn over a 4–1 deficit,’ I told them. ‘This would seem difficult even on our own ground at Silvertown Dock. But here, in Athens, in this third-world slum that Panathinaikos call a stadium, in the dilapidated capital city of a shit-stormed country that’s going to the dogs but which still manages to bark very loudly indeed?’
I paused for a moment so we could all hear the noise of the capacity crowd, which was mostly Greek; about fifty per cent Olympiacos, thirty per cent Panathinaikos hoping to see their old rivals beaten, ten per cent City fa
ns, and ten per cent impartial tourists come to watch what they hoped might be a fascinating game of football.
‘You hear that? That’s the sound of those dogs barking now. All that barking means the same thing: no one expects us to win tonight. No one here in Greece. And no one back in England, either. Everyone has written us off. I just got a tweet from Maurice in London: on ITV Roy Keane has just said our chances of going through to the next round are less than they were for the blokes in The Guns of Navarone. Which is almost true; it certainly seems to me we’ve been through our own Greek tragedy, gentlemen. They used to give a goat to the Greek poet who could tell the best story. Well, you can keep the goat; this particular tragedy could have won you the fucking Booker prize.
‘For ten days we’ve had to endure being away from homes and our families; we’ve had whole armies of TV and press all over us like jock-rash; we’ve had the local filth asking us questions about hookers and drugs and all kinds of shit that were nothing to do with football. They’ve thrown bananas at us on the pitch and brickbats in the newspapers. Our champion, our Ajax is dead and yes, they think it’s all over. Would you believe that Proto Thema – the biggest selling Sunday newspaper in Greece – said that this match we’re about to play had been reduced to the status of a mere testimonial? That we were just turning up to give us something to do in Athens while we were under effective house arrest? To which I say, fuck off. We’re made of stronger stuff than that. This team doesn’t just “turn up”. We turn up to play. And when we play we play to win.
‘Certainly we can win tonight. I look around this room and I see faces that are serious about winning this game. Which is all that I would expect of the men I pick to defend the reputation of this team. So let’s forget the rumours about bent referees, shall we? Maybe we are playing twelve men plus the crowd but that isn’t going to stop us playing our game.