by Leo Kanaris
‘Of course,’ said George.
He rolled the sack down and found more tape around Haris’s hands and feet. Unfolding his knife, he sliced through it. Haris groaned and swore loudly, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders. George helped him stand but he staggered like a newborn foal.
‘How long have you been in there?’
‘No idea,’ he muttered. ‘Hours. Just let me kill those bastards!’
‘Not now,’ said George. ‘Put your arm over my shoulder. Let’s go.’
They hobbled over to Kymis Avenue, where they found a taxi.
‘Where to?’ asked the driver.
‘Corinth,’ said George.
‘No!’ said Haris. ‘My wife mustn’t see me like this. She’ll kill me. Nor my sister. I need a hotel.’
‘Change of plan,’ said George. ‘Forget Corinth. Take us to Aristotle Street, number 43.’ He turned to Haris. ‘You’ll stay with me tonight.’
‘There’s no need,’ said Haris.
‘You’re going to do what I say.’
Haris grunted. ‘That’s done me no good at all today.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said George. ‘I had no idea they would be so unpleasant.’
‘I’ll bet you had a damn good idea. Isn’t that why you sent me?’
‘Not at all!’ said George, shocked. ‘I wanted to give you a chance.’
‘A chance at what? Dying?’ He took a handkerchief and spat into it. ‘That bloody tape, it’s disgusting.’
‘You’re not meant to eat it.’
‘I had no choice.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Homicidal.’
‘Can we talk?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘What did you find out?’
Haris turned a comically bulging pair of eyes in his direction. ‘What did I find out?’ He shook his head with incredulity.
‘You spent at least six hours on the job.’
‘Two things. Two extremely obvious things. They sell cars. And they’re gangsters.’
‘That’s all? I picked that up in the first five minutes.’
‘So did I.’
‘How did you spend the rest of the time?’
‘Watching the place, asking around in the neighbourhood…’
‘Where did you watch from?’
‘The coffee bar opposite.’
George glanced down at Haris’s feet. ‘In those shoes?’
‘I didn’t bring spares.’
‘There’s your mistake. Don’t wear anything that stands out from the crowd, certainly not a pair of emerald green loafers straight off a Milan catwalk. Someone sees those, they’ll never forget them.’
‘You should have told me.’
‘I was intending to. Now you know.’
‘Damn right I do. Any other advice while we’re on the subject?’
‘Be invisible. Be ordinary. The moment people know you’re an investigator, you’re finished. The guilty ones clam up and the innocent ones want to discuss Montalbano and Poirot.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Forget it. So what did you find out as you watched them?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did anyone come or go?’
‘No.’
‘No one stopped to look at a car?’
‘No.’
‘That’s possibly significant.’
‘Why?’
‘It suggests they do very little business. Did you ask anyone about that?’
‘I asked in the café.’
‘What exactly did you say?’
‘I said the car dealer didn’t look busy.’
‘Any response?’
‘The girl behind the bar was eastern European. Cold white blonde. Tight jeans with false diamonds, pink trainers.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said “normal business”. Very bloody interesting.’
‘Did you ask her what kind of business? What kind of customers?’
‘No I did not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because those two security guards came in. That’s when my trouble started.’
‘Tell me about that. How did it start?’
‘They didn’t even order any drinks. Just walked up to me and said, “Come with us.” I asked where, and they said, “Over the road. The boss wants to see you.” ’
‘The big man with a beard? In the fancy office?’
‘That’s the one. He asked why I was snooping about in the neighbourhood, gave me a spiel about his VIP clients and their security, and when I told him the truth he turned his two cretins on me.’
‘What exactly did you tell him?’
Haris flared up. ‘The truth! I’ve already told you that!’
‘I want to know what words you used.’
‘Does it matter, for heaven’s sake?’
‘I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t!’
‘I said I was hired by you to find out about his company.’
‘Did you tell him why?’
‘How the hell could I do that? I don’t know why! But whatever I said the bastard didn’t believe me. Listen, George, I could have been killed in there! And I’m just starting to wonder if Hector died because you sent him on one of your suicide missions…’
George reacted angrily. ‘Hector went off on a lunatic mission of his own. I begged him to get out, I knew it was a death-trap, but he wouldn’t listen. He took a crazy risk to protect a woman, and they both died. It was his choice, not mine.’
Haris pulled a face. ‘He was working for you.’
‘He was working with me, on his own contract.’
Haris threw up his hands. ‘You’re splitting hairs.’
‘Absolutely not. He was his own boss.’
‘He was a brave man, not a fool.’
‘You’re right he was brave. But on that occasion he acted like a fool. And he paid for it. Much too heavily…’ George felt himself crumbling. ‘Dear God, how I miss him!’
‘You can’t miss him as much as I do.’
‘What is this, a competition?’
Haris did not reply. He had his face in his hands.
The taxi turned off Kymis and onto Spyros Louis Avenue. They were following the route Mario must have taken on his last journey. As the Olympic Stadium loomed up on their left like a floodlit skeleton, George put his hand on Haris’s arm and said, ‘Look, I’m really sorry. About everything.’
‘Leave it,’ said Haris. ‘He’s gone and it’s over.’
George wanted to ask more about the interrogation, but decided to leave it for now.
It was well past midnight when they reached Aristotle Street. The apartment was quiet and dark, lit only by the street lamps. George led Haris softly into the kitchen and closed the door before switching on the light. In the harsh white glare he could now see properly what the ‘cretins’ had done.
Haris’s face reminded him of a rugby player’s after a particularly brutal game. The skin was discoloured, purple in places, the flesh swollen and misshapen. One of his lips was split, and a blur of dried blood covered half his chin.
‘You’re right not to go home,’ said George. ‘Go and clean up in the bathroom. I’ll bring you some fresh clothes, fix you a drink.’
He took a whisky bottle and two glasses from the cupboard.
‘I don’t drink,’ said Haris.
‘Tonight you should.’
‘Why?’
‘To numb the pain.’
Haris shrugged his shoulders and made for the bathroom.
12 Unboxed
As he waited in the kitchen, his phone rang. It was Colonel Sotiriou.
George swore to himself. In a flash he remembered that he was supposed to ring Petros, who must have called Sotiriou.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked the policeman.
George described the evening’s events, stressing the violence.
‘Was I woken up to be told about this?’
‘I
t was a mistake. I meant to call a friend to give him the all clear.’
‘And you gave him my number?’
‘In case of emergency.’
‘That’s 112.’
‘This was special. We might have needed your help.’
‘Might have? Don’t you dare do that again.’
‘It’s OK. My friend doesn’t know who you are.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s OK!’
‘Very well,’ said George.
He expected the call to end there, but the Colonel stayed on the line, silent and irritated.
George could hear the sound of a match being struck, the first drag on a cigarette.
‘Where does this take us?’ the Colonel drawled.
‘I have only suppositions,’ said George.
‘Let’s start with them.’
‘EAP may be legitimate and blameless. But they overreacted. They behave as if they have something to hide.’
‘They have a motive for that.’
‘Which is?’
‘High-end clients.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
‘How do you know?’ asked the Colonel.
George back-pedalled. ‘OK, I don’t know it’s bullshit. But my experience of high-end operations is the opposite of that. They don’t create an atmosphere of fear.’
‘What kind of atmosphere do they create?’
‘Pleasant. Smooth. Everyone obeys the rules. Everyone is polite.’
‘Until someone breaks the rules, or poses a threat. Then all hell breaks loose.’
‘Haris Pezas is no threat to anyone.’
‘They don’t know that.’
‘They should. He wears bright green suede shoes for heaven’s sake! Who is going to be a threat looking like that?’
Sotiriou inhaled again. ‘It’s the man that carries the threat, Zafiris, not the shoes.’
‘He’s a shopkeeper! And he looks like one! You’d have to be pumped up on steroids and paranoia to think that man could be up to anything.’
Sotiriou insisted. ‘This man of yours was going around asking awkward questions.’
‘I wish they had been awkward! In fact he didn’t even ask questions. He said things like “not much business at EAP” to a girl serving in the coffee bar. Where’s the menace in that?’
Sotiriou did not reply for a few moments. When he did he sounded weary. ‘Listen, Zafiris, I’ve never met any of these characters, and I certainly don’t intend to. But let’s suppose for a moment that you’re right. Where do we go next?’
‘I managed to get some information. They told me Mario was there for a financial meeting. An introduction to a rich client. That needs following up.’
‘How do you propose to do that?’
‘Ideally I’d like a full police check on EAP: tax returns, accounts, background, plus surveillance.’
‘That’s not going to happen. And you know very well why. This is a very delicate operation.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Just do the job properly. And keep me out of it. I must be at arm’s length, or we’re all finished.’
George laid down the phone and poured two glasses of whisky. He was watching the ice cubes crackle and dissolve as Haris reappeared.
‘Nice shower gel,’ said Haris, ‘but it stings like hell if you get it you know where.’
‘Don’t put it there.’
‘I’ll know next time.’
‘You look a lot better,’ said George.
They clinked glasses.
‘Who were you talking to?’ asked Haris.
‘Someone you don’t need to know about.’
Haris looked offended. George tried to reassure him.
‘This whole operation is undercover. I’d like to tell you more, but I can’t. The less you know the better.’
Haris seemed unimpressed. ‘I’ve always believed that if you ask a man to do something, it helps if he understands it.’
‘In general yes. In this case absolutely not!’
‘OK,’ said Haris sceptically. ‘I shall stop asking myself questions. Only this – is there any work for me tomorrow?’
George responded nervously. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he said. ‘But if you mean it –’
‘Of course I mean it!’
‘I still need to know more about EAP.’
Haris put his head in his hands.
‘You mustn’t go back there,’ said George.
‘Don’t worry! I’m not.’
‘Do you have any friends in the used car business?’
‘Not in Athens.’
‘Corinth?’
Haris thought for a moment. ‘In Corinth yes.’
‘Someone you can trust?’
‘As long as you’re not buying a car.’
George laughed. ‘OK… Ask this person about EAP. But maintain total discretion. You can start whenever you like. Take your time.’
They sipped their scotch quietly, until Haris yawned and said, ‘Well, it’s been a hell of a day. I’d like to sleep now…’ He emptied his glass and was about to put it down on the table when a thought occurred to him. ‘By the way there was one thing I didn’t tell you about.’
George said, ‘Really?’
‘I didn’t just go to the café,’ said Haris. ‘I visited the other businesses in the neighbourhood. There was a paint shop, a petrol station, a sign-maker, a woodyard, a print shop…’
‘I remember the woodyard,’ said George. ‘It was just next to the showroom, on the right-hand side.’
‘That’s it.’
‘There’s a big fence between them.’
‘No. It looks like that, but in fact it’s a cage.’
‘Is that important?’
‘No. I just wanted to point out it isn’t a fence.’
‘Whatever,’ said George.
‘And in fact the building with the car showroom runs right across the two lots. They’re connected.’
‘Really?’
‘In more ways than one. All the other businesses talked about EAP as if they couldn’t give a damn. They had no contact with them. It was different at the woodyard. The girl in there, dark-haired, nicely dressed, hell of a figure, she spoke well of them. “First class people, the best cars in Athens.” All 24-carat bullshit of course, but interesting to note. It was right after talking to them that I went to the café and the two gorillas came and got me.’
George was now listening carefully. The truck that knocked down Mario had been full of firewood.
‘Now at last we might possibly be getting somewhere,’ he said.
Haris frowned. ‘If I knew where we were heading I might share your happiness.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said George. ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Haris. ‘Just don’t give me another day like today. I wasn’t born to be a parcel.’
13 A Body in the Bushes
George was sitting in the Café Agamemnon the next morning, waiting for Dimitri to bring a cup of coffee, when he heard his phone ring.
‘Mr Zafiris? Anna Kenteri. I have bad news. The police have found my sister’s body.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I knew she was dead. I knew it!’
‘Where did they find her?’
‘In an old quarry between Galatsi and Filothei. A place called Tourkovounia.’
He knew the spot. It was used by dog-walkers and mountain bikers during the day, by drug dealers at night. A strange place. It should have been lovely, with views to the mountains around Athens, south to the sea, even the distant Peloponnese. Yet there was something disturbing about it. The suburbs were ugly. Loners and no-hopers hung about there. The atmosphere was sinister. He remembered a fez-shaped rock that blocked a stretch of the horizon. That too was called ‘Tourkouvouni’, the Turkish mountain, after the old Ottoman barracks at its base, a reminder of the foreign occupation that had stunted the Greek nation for four hundred years, conditioned its thinking a
nd carried the blame for its failures ever since.
‘Are they sure it’s her?’ he asked.
‘Quite sure.’
‘What happened?’
‘She fell off a cliff twenty metres high. She was lying in the bushes with a broken neck.’
‘Who found her?’
‘A man walking his dog.’
She tried to go on, but her voice disintegrated into sobs.
George waited before asking, ‘Would it help to meet?’
‘Not now. I’m in a terrible state.’
‘Of course. Take your time.’
‘What do you do, Mr Zafiris, when someone dies? Someone you love more than yourself?’
‘I don’t know. It’s very difficult.’
‘I believe she was murdered.’
‘Really? You have reason to say that?’
‘I do.’
‘Talk to the police. That’s all you can do. Tell them everything you know.’
‘Can you help us?’
‘I don’t see how. Let the police start their investigation. They’ll talk to the family. Let’s see how they get on.’
‘Can you keep an eye on them?’
‘Who?’
‘The police.’
‘That’s hard to do.’
‘Please try. You must have contacts.’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘Thank you, Mr Zafiris. I’m relying on you.’
She hung up and left George feeling empty, nauseous. When his coffee arrived he found it impossible to drink. He walked down the hill towards Panepistimiou Street, hoping to settle his troubled thoughts. He passed the familiar shops, struggling after six years of crisis to do any business at all: the upholsterer and curtain-maker, who had once laid out luxurious Italian fabrics in his window and now displayed a single dowdy chair with a yellowing card saying ‘all work undertaken’; the model aeroplane shop, dusty with unsold boxes; the music store, no longer frequented by hopeful young guitarists and drummers; the bookshop, the shoe-shop, the printer, all empty of customers. Only Evantheia the florist struck a positive note. Between the shops and along the apartment blocks every piece of spare wall had been sprayed with graffiti. Property is theft. Banking is terrorism. Merkel is Hitler. Pay up or we’ll quit the euro… Simplistic slogans and hideous cartoon graphics. Hooded figures of death, swastikas and dollar signs. Did anyone believe this nonsense?
He turned right on Panepistimiou. Once a river of honking traffic, shimmering in its own exhaust fumes, it was relatively deserted now. Just a few lonely cars and buses rumbling along the spacious boulevard, the shop-fronts shuttered. He walked a block towards Omonia Square, thought better of entering its atmosphere of despair, and turned right again up the hill.