Che Committed Suicide

by Petros Markaris

‘So nothing suspicious?’ he asked me as though not believing it.

  ‘I told you. He was somewhat distant, lost his temper easily and shut himself in his office.’

  ‘Why? Why would a businessman like Favieros put himself into self-confinement when normally his day should be full of meetings and conferences? Ask me what I have to go through!’ he said, emphasising the last phrase and reminding me of the old Ghikas, who had only one point of reference: himself. But then, straightaway, he posed the very same question that had been bothering me: ‘Was there something unusual that had happened to Favieros? Why did he suddenly leave everything and withdraw into himself when, so it seems, he had no business or personal worries?’

  I had no answer and so I confined myself to simply supplying him with a bit of information. ‘Koula had a quick look at the computer in his office, but she told me it needed more thorough investigation.’

  ‘You can trust her when it comes to those things. She’s a real wizard!’ He paused for a moment and then added: ‘And if someone from Favieros’s close circle wants to contact the police, give them my name and no one else’s.’

  We hung up and, if nothing else, at least I had the satisfaction that he had given me a crutch to steady myself when I was stumbling in the dark.

  Adriani was sitting in front of the TV, watching a game show. I wasn’t in the mood to hear her answer all the questions correctly and then listen to her moaning about all the millions she’d lost. I went into the bedroom to find Dimitrakos. I was stopped, however, by the sound of the doorbell and I went to see who it was. Fanis was standing at the door holding a paper bag in his hand and smiling. I imagined it must have been a little something for Adriani because he’d often bring her little gifts as a way of repaying her for all the cooking she did for him.

  I was proved wrong, however, because he held the bag out to me. ‘Something from your daughter,’ he said.

  ‘From Katerina?’

  ‘Yes, a little gift.’

  My surprise increased because Katerina was not in the habit of sending me gifts from Thessaloniki. She even saved money on the heating so as not to be a burden on me. I opened it straightaway and discovered a book with a cheap, garish cover, white, red and black, which reminded me of history books and resolutions by the Greek Communist Party. Its title was: Jason Favieros. From the Dungeons of the Military Police to the Salons of the Stock Exchange. The author was someone by the name of Minas Logaras and the name of the publisher was Sarantidis. I flicked through it mechanically and saw that it was 320 pages long.

  I was not in the least surprised that some people were trying to exploit Favieros’s spectacular suicide. What did puzzle me, however, was how the author managed to write and publish a 320-page biography in the space of only ten days after Favieros’s suicide? Unless they had had it ready and were releasing it now. Just a coincidence? Perhaps, perhaps not.

  ‘When did this come out?’ I asked Fanis.

  ‘I don’t know. They’re advertising it though.’

  ‘And where did Katerina come across it?’

  ‘Katerina doesn’t only read dictionaries like you do,’ he said laughing and winking at me.

  ‘You’re wasting your breath, Fanis dear,’ Adriani chipped in. ‘Costas only concerns himself with small print. Fills his life with it.’

  Actually, the small print referred to the dictionary entries I read, but this time she was using it in its wider sense, to include all the little problems, usually to do with work, that filled my time and removed me from her supervision.

  I swallowed my anger because I didn’t want us to get into a row in front of Fanis. Though I didn’t admit it to myself, deep down I didn’t want him to think that his girlfriend had parents who went at it like cat and dog.

  I preferred to call Katerina to thank her. ‘How did you come across it?’ I asked her.

  ‘I saw it advertised in the newspapers and I thought it might interest you.’

  ‘Of course it interests me. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘How many pages is it?’

  ‘From what I saw, around 300.’

  She started laughing as though she found it funny. ‘I feel sorry for you,’ she said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s not at all your cup of tea and you’ll break out in spots trying to finish it.’

  ‘No, I’ll fool myself into thinking I’m reading an official file. They’re equally boring.’

  She came out with the same question I had. ‘How did they manage to write and print a 300-page biography in only ten days following Favieros’s suicide?’

  ‘They must have had it ready and simply printed it straight after the suicide.’

  ‘In that case, his family must have known about it. Usually the biographer is in contact with the person he’s writing about.’

  ‘Brilliant, Katerina!’ I shouted enthusiastically. ‘Why didn’t I think of that!’

  ‘Why do you think I want to become a public prosecutor?’ she replied, laughing. ‘Kiss Mummy for me,’ she said as we were about to hang up.

  ‘Your daughter sends you kisses,’ I shouted to Adriani, who was talking to Fanis.

  She jumped up from where she was sitting. ‘Don’t hang up, I’m coming.’

  The kisses went on for around half an hour, embellished with all the day’s events in Athens and Thessaloniki. Meanwhile I was chatting with Fanis, who found the business with the biography very suspicious and was sure that the name of the biographer would turn out to be a pseudonym.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because if it were a real name, he’d be doing the rounds of the TV channels, giving interviews, at this very moment. What writer would pass up the opportunity of free publicity for his book? But this Logaras hasn’t shown up anywhere. Do you find it logical?’

  No, I didn’t. The biography, together with Katerina’s observations and Fanis’s comments had roused my interest and I was in a hurry to begin reading. Fanis left at around eleven thirty, Adriani went to bed and I got comfortable in the sitting room with the book in my hands.

  Logaras didn’t provide much information about Favieros’s childhood; he got it out of the way in the first twenty-five pages. Favieros had been born in Koliatsou Square. His father was a lawyer and his mother a school teacher. He had gone to the local primary and secondary schools and had got into the Athens Polytechnic School with exceptional exam grades. From that point onwards, Logaras appeared to know in detail all aspects of Favieros’s student life: how good he was as a student, who he mixed with both inside and outside the Polytechnic School, which of his fellow students he was close to. Favieros was one of the leading members of the student movement and he had become involved in the struggle against the Junta from the outset. The Security Forces had arrested him in ’69, but they released him six months later. He was taken into custody again in ’72, this time by the Military Police. Logaras knew how badly Favieros had been tortured, by whom, even what kinds of torture they used. It made you wonder where he had found and gathered all this information, if not from Favieros himself. Whatever the case, the portrait that emerged from the book was that of an exemplary young man. An exceptional student, liked by everyone, politically active, in the front line of the struggle, who had been subjected to terrible torture but who hadn’t broken.

  Just as I was coming to the end of Favieros’s early years, Adriani, half-asleep and in her nightie, poked her nose round the door. ‘Are you right in the head?’ she said. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s three in the morning.’

  ‘I’d no idea. So that’s why it’s so quiet.’

  ‘Do you intend staying up all night?’

  ‘I don’t know. I want to finish the book that Katerina sent me.’

  She crossed herself so the evil spirits wouldn’t visit her in her sleep and went back to bed.

  Favieros’s student life came to an end roughly halfway through the book, which is where the account began of
his professional life and his rise in the business world. Logaras didn’t hide the fact that Favieros received favourable treatment through his contact with ministers and people in high places in the government. He had been in the student struggle with at least four ministers and numerous party cadres. With their help, he had also met the rest of the government cabinet. He had started out with nothing: a small company that constructed pavements and drains for the Water Company, and in less than seven years he found himself the owner of Domitis Construction, plus a ready-mix concrete company, plus a company that manufactured asbestos-cement pipes. According to his biographer, however, over and above any contacts he may have had in the government, he owed all this primarily to his own entrepreneurial instincts, to the profitable operation of his businesses and to his skill in choosing the right people for the job. It was the first construction company to expand its activities in the Balkans following the collapse of the communist regimes and had projects underway in all the neighbouring countries. In short, Logaras was saying what Favieros himself had said just before committing suicide. Instead of giving information which might have helped to explain Favieros’s suicide, it merely confirmed what we already knew: namely that he had no reason for committing suicide. In general, it was a biography that flattered him outright.

  Only towards the end did Logaras drop one or two hints about suspicious dealings. He devoted just two paragraphs to talk of an offshore company, with numerous international links and with somewhat shady business goals. This was the only slight stain on Favieros’s otherwise immaculate suit, even though Logaras barely touched on the offshore company and didn’t go very deeply into its activities. This was strange given that he had information on the most intimate aspects of Favieros’s life. It was as though he wanted to drop a hint and leave it dangling there.

  I shut the book and looked at my watch. It was five o’clock. I wondered whether that offshore company might offer any clue. I decided that, the following day, I would send Koula back to Domitis to see if she could get anything more out of Zamanis. Of course, if we kept on questioning him, he would start to smell a rat, but I didn’t care. If the worse came to the worst, I’d direct him to Ghikas.

  14

  In the end, I spent all night in the armchair. I don’t know what time I fell asleep but I opened my eyes at one moment and saw that the book had slipped out of my hands and had fallen to the floor. The hot sun was pouring in through the half-open shutters. I looked at my watch and leapt to my feet. It was already nine and Koula would be there any moment. I threw some water over my face and thought about what my next moves should be. I would begin with Favieros’s offshore company. Even theoretically, there was half a chance that the reason for his suicide may lie in the overt or shady activities of the offshore company. It was the only point that Logaras left unclear and it required investigation. I wondered what was better: to search through the books of the Ministry of Trade or to go straight to Zamanis? I’d soon find what I was looking for in the records, but what use would a plain reference be to me? I’d still have to question Favieros’s associates. I decided upon the latter solution, but with a slight variation. I wouldn’t go in person, I’d send Koula. In that way, it wouldn’t be seen to be too important and people wouldn’t get suspicious. The next step, or rather the parallel step, would be to find Logaras, Favieros’s biographer. That was easily done by a simple visit to the publisher.

  The kitchen was empty. My coffee was waiting for me on the table with the saucer covering the cup so that it wouldn’t get cold. Before I’d even taken the first sip, Adriani breezed in, wheeling her bag from the supermarket.

  ‘Good morning. Did you sleep well?’ she asked in a honeyed voice.

  ‘No. I fell asleep in the armchair without realising.’

  ‘Tomorrow, I’ll order you a wooden bed with nails, like those that fakirs use, so you’ll be more comfortable.’

  I ignored her sarcasm and went on sipping my coffee that was only lukewarm, despite the protection of the saucer. When Koula arrived, I took her straight into the sitting room and told her about Favieros’s offshore company.

  ‘I want you to go back to Domitis to talk to Zamanis and Favieros’s secretary and to find out everything you can about that offshore company. Where its offices are …’

  ‘Say no more, I’ve got it,’ she said calmly.

  ‘If they give you a difficult time, say that Ghikas sent you. I’ve informed him.’

  ‘It won’t be necessary. Where did you find out about the offshore company?’

  I picked up Favieros’s biography from the floor and handed it to her. She read the title and whistled: ‘That’s fast work for you,’ she said impressed. ‘With him still warm in his grave.’

  I found it amusing that she should link the publication of the biography with his remains. ‘Do you want to read it?’

  She stared at me in alarm. ‘Heaven forbid. I’m quite happy driving you around all day, but don’t ask me to read big books like that!’

  I opened the book and discovered that Sarantidis Press had its offices in Solomou Street, in Exarcheia. We left the house together. Koula went over to her moped which she had parked outside the house. She put her helmet on, started it up and set off, while I headed towards Iphikratous Street to get the trolley to Omonoia Square.

  We had been hit by an early heatwave and it was the first really hot day of the summer. There was no breeze at all and even though it was still ten in the morning, the sun was scorching. At every step, the dose of exhaust fumes increased. The trolley was one of the old yellow ones, without air conditioning. Sitting in the seat in front of me was a fat woman furiously fanning herself with a Chinese fan. I don’t know whether it was offering any relief to her, but it was certainly filling my nostrils with her sweaty smell. By the time we reached Omonoia Square, I had decided that I was going nowhere in future without the Mirafiori.

  Sarantidis Press was located on the third floor of an old apartment block which didn’t have a lift. The green iron door was closed. I rang the bell and walked into a large space, more like a storeroom than an office, with an old wooden bench and three chairs. On the walls, there was a variety of shelves and bookcases, all packed with books. A narrow path led from the door to the bench. The rest of the room was filled with packages and copies of Favieros’s biography. Sitting on the chair behind the desk was a young man with a beard and hair down to his shoulders; the kind that, were you to run into after the events at the Polytechnic School, you would take straight to Security Headquarters without them having done anything. His eyes were fixed on a computer screen and he was typing away at the keyboard.

  ‘Sarantidis Press?’ I asked.

  He waited for the printer to start up and then replied with a sharp ‘That’s me.’

  I held up a copy of the biography from one of the piles and said: ‘Where can I get hold of this Logaras fellow?’

  ‘Why, do you want his autograph?’ he answered ironically.

  ‘No, I want to ask him a few questions. Inspector Haritos.’

  The irony changed to sourness when he heard I was a police officer. ‘I’ve no idea where he is,’ he replied. ‘I couldn’t even point him out to you on the street. I’ve never actually met him face to face.’

  ‘So how did Favieros’s biography come into your hands?’

  ‘By post. Together with the manuscript, there was a covering letter saying that if I was interested in the book, he would contact me concerning the details and the date of publication.’

  ‘When did all this take place?’

  ‘Roughly three months ago.’

  ‘Didn’t the letter have an address on it?’

  ‘Neither an address nor any phone number, nothing. At first, I paid no attention. You know how it is, even a small publishing company like mine receives a couple of manuscripts each week. I don’t have the time to read them all. I put it to one side to read it at the first opportunity. About one and a half months later, I received another letter sayi
ng that if I wanted the rights, I had to sign a contract straightaway. I was forced to read it overnight and I decided to go ahead with it.’

  ‘What made you decide to publish it?’ I asked out of curiosity.

  He reflected for a moment. ‘That strange mishmash of political activist and business tycoon. I thought it would sell and I was right. Though he imposed one condition on me.’

  ‘What condition?’

  ‘That he would decide when the book would be published.’

  ‘And you accepted?’

  ‘I modified it slightly. I stipulated that the publication date would be decided jointly.’

  ‘And how did you send the contract to Logaras?’

  ‘By recorded delivery. To an address that was on the second letter. He put the same address on the contract.’

  ‘Can you get it for me?’

  On the wall behind him was a shelf full of files and folders. He turned and took down a file.

  At that moment, I remembered something that Lefaki had told me the previous day, when Koula was taking a look at the computer. She told me that, when she had once asked Favieros if he was writing a novel, he had replied that he had already written it and was working on the corrections. It suddenly flashed through my mind that perhaps Favieros himself had written the biography before committing suicide.

  Sarantidis found the address and wrote it on the back of a piece of paper.

  ‘When did Logaras inform you that you could publish the book?’

  He burst into laughter. ‘Never. Did he have to inform me? As soon as I saw the suicide, I sent it to the printers.’

  ‘And he never called you?’ I persisted with my question.

  He reflected and suddenly looked puzzled. ‘No, he never contacted me,’ he said. ‘It’s only just occurred to me now that you asked me. With all the madness surrounding the publication and the sales of the book, I completely forgot about it.’

  Sarantidis’s reply strengthened my suspicions. He didn’t call, because in the meantime he had taken up residence in the cemetery.