The elevator stopped on the ground floor and Petratos got in. He was surprised to see me. He shot me a hostile glance and adopted his tight-lipped expression.
"I was just coming to see you," I said.
"I thought we'd finished."
"I was coming to ask for your help. You owe me."
"Why do I owe you anything?"
"Because if you hadn't made Kolakoglou into a red rag for your own channel's bull, he wouldn't have gone into hiding and we'd have caught the murderer much sooner."
"So it was him, eh? I knew it!" he said triumphantly.
"You know damn all," I told him brusquely.
My reply made the atmosphere even more hostile and we didn't exchange another word all the way to his office. As we passed the newsroom, the reporters all looked at us curiously.
"Be brief," he said coldly, as he sat down. "This is the time we prepare the nine o'clock news and we're busy as hell."
"When did Karayoryi begin her career in journalism?" I asked him.
"In 'seventy-five, if I remember correctly."
"How did she begin?"
"Same as all of us. From newspapers, magazines. Afterward, when commercial radio began, she got into radio. And finally into TV."
"Could she have worked anywhere before 'seventy-five?"
He thought about it. "Now that you mention it, she once told me something about having once worked for National TV or the Armed Forces Channel. But I don't remember when that was."
"Fine. That's all I wanted," I said and got to my feet.
Late that evening, Adriani and Katerina called me. Adriani was over the moon about Panos. What a good kid he was, how he'd taken care of her, how he'd prepared the Christmas meal on his own, and how well he cooked. Her praises left me in tatters.
"Was it worth your while staying in Athens?" Katerina asked me, when she came to the phone. "Have you solved the mystery?"
"I've solved it, but I don't like it:' I told her.
« ?„ v~ ~1Y•
"Never mind. You'll find out soon enough."
My headache didn't seem as if it would go. I wanted to go to bed but it wasn't an option. I had to go out and deal with some heavy stuff.
CHAPTER 45
We were in his living room, which didn't look at all like Antonakaki's living room or mine. An old sofa, a leftover from the fifties, a Formica table with four plastic chairs, the kind sold by gypsies for a thousand drachmas. The table was covered with a hand-embroidered cloth. The table and chairs he'd bought himself. The sofa and tablecloth had been left by his parents.
He spoke slowly, with difficulty. Every so often, he passed his tongue over his lips.
"I met her when she was working at the Armed Forces Channel. That's when it all started." He stopped and tried to gather his thoughts. "You won't believe me, but I can't recall what year it was. I've forgotten."
"It was 'seventy-three. I had it confirmed by one of the technicians from the National Network, who remembered it."
"You're right. It was 'seventy-three. She was working on a police program and she'd been sent to do a report on the academy. She came in during one of our classes to ask us questions. When the lesson was over, she was waiting for me outside. She told me that she wanted to ask me a few more questions. I was afraid of getting into any trouble and I said no. But she reassured me. `Don't worry. If there's anything objectionable, they'll cut it anyway,' she said. That's how we met." He let out a sigh.
"And so you saw each other again."
"We went out a couple of times. Then she introduced me to her friends, but without telling them that I was at the police academy. She introduced me as a law student. Yanna and her student friend. That's how they referred to us."
We sat at the table and stared at each other, just as we stared at each other every morning. Except that now, he was looking me straight in the eye, and not a fraction higher as he usually did.
"Tell me about the child. When did that happen?"
"It must have happened in August, when we went on vacation together. She told me in October."
The memory upset him and his voice grew hoarse. "I told her she must keep it. I'm from a village and when one of us gets a girl pregnant, we marry her. That's how I was brought up. But it wasn't just that. I was in love with her. I know how it is when you're only twenty-one. You fall in love at the drop of a hat. But we'd spent three weeks on our own in the islands and when we came back I couldn't bear to be apart from her for even one second. So I told her to keep it and that I'd marry her. She burst out laughing. `Are you completely mad?' was what she said. `I want a career as a journalist and you expect me to burden myself with a brat and a policeman in uniform for a husband? No way. I'm going to get rid of it. 'I begged her. I kept telling her how much I loved her and how much I wanted the child. My passion scared her and she decided that we should split up. I went off my head. From begging her, I began threatening her. And after that she disappeared. She resigned from the Armed Forces Channel, moved, changed her phone number, and I couldn't find her anywhere. I became so depressed that I left the academy."
It was then that she'd decided to keep the child and give it to her sister. But Thanassis didn't know that.
"Then, suddenly, years later, I saw her one day at the station, right there in front of me. I was stunned. She was friendly and suggested that we go for a coffee. And while we were having a coffee, out of the blue she said: `Your daughter is doing fine. She's nineteen now.' Can you imagine the shock? I'd begged her to keep it and she'd left me so that she could get rid of it. Because of her, I'd left the academy, and suddenly, all these years later, she told me she'd kept the child and that she was now nineteen years old. I told her I wanted to see the girl, but Yanna wouldn't hear of it."
He stopped, to catch his breath. He moistened his lips. Now he was talking without looking at me, as he'd covered his face with his hands. "I had an overwhelming urge to see my daughter. Don't ask me why. I don't know. Maybe it was because I had wanted the child so much. Or perhaps I simply dug in my heels because she'd deceived me. Probably both. When I saw that insisting wasn't getting me anywhere, I started to follow her. So, of course, I discovered that my daughter didn't live with her. And not only that, but no one around her seemed to be aware that she even had a daughter. The more I searched, the more my insistence turned into an obsession. I wanted to see my child."
How could she have shown her to him? She had turned her over to Antonakaki.
"One day, she came and said to me that I could meet the child if I did her a favor. She wanted me to give her all the reports that came into the department with connections to the buying and selling of children."
"And you gave them to her."
"I gave them to her because I didn't think I was doing anything criminal. All reporters get their information from somewhere. But when I asked her about the child, she kept stringing me along."
"And so you began writing letters to her and threatening her?"
"Yes."
"And why did you sign yourself N?"
"Nassos. That's what she called me. She didn't like Thanassis-she called me Nassos."
The solution is often under our noses and we can't see it.
"Until one day she asked me for another favor. She wanted to know when Pylarinos's refrigerator trucks crossed the borders and who was the customs official who checked them."
So he was the one who had been asking and had scared Hourdakis.
"I found it all out and gave her the information." He sighed again and lifted his head. "Things went downhill from there," he said.
? " Y•"
"Because I was approached by Dourou."
"By Dourou?"
"Dourou, yes. She telephoned me at home. I don't know how she found my number, but she wanted us to meet. And she proposed working together"
"And did you agree?"
"I told Yanna that things had gone far enough, that I wasn't doing any more. But she had a demon inside her. She always ha
d a way of getting around you. She told me to pretend that I was going along with them, to gather information and to give it to her. When she'd finished her investigation, she'd say that she'd uncovered the affair thanks to my help and she'd make me famous. And then she'd let me meet my daughter, because the girl had been brought up in a different environment and she couldn't suddenly tell her that her father was a common policeman."
Why hadn't Dourou admitted before now that she'd known Thanassis? Obviously because she was still not admitting her guilt to anything particular and was keeping him as the ace up her sleeve. She would let the bombshell drop when she realized that there was no way for her to get off.
"I agreed, but on one condition. That before she went on the air with it, she'd hand over all the information to you, so that you could go ahead with the arrests at the same time. She agreed and we went on with it. Whatever information I gathered, I gave it to Dourou. Whenever any kids were delivered, I made sure I was in the area so that if a patrol car suddenly appeared, I could send it away. At the same time, I also informed Yanna. When I saw Seki during the interrogation, I recognized him right away. I'd seen him coming in the van to bring the children. I told them that we were holding him. And when he signed the confession, I gave him 200,000. I told him it was a down payment and that he'd get ten times more if he kept his mouth shut. The stupid Albanian believed it and of course they silenced him for good. And it was me who told them about Hourdakis. I had heard that Sotiris was looking for him"
"Thanassis, it's me you're talking to, Haritos. Do you really think I believe that you did all this just to see your daughter?"
"You," he said to me sharply and with envy, "you've had your daughter with you to pamper for so many years. And even so, you're in a black mood every other day because you miss her. And when she phones you, you act like a little boy."
Put a sock in it, Haritos. There's nothing you can say to him. He was shaking his head back and forth to underline his despair. "I'm telling you. She had a demon inside her. And she knew how to keep your hopes alive. From the day I agreed to play along with Dourou, she started sleeping with me again. Not regularly, just now and again. Without actually saying so, she let me believe that what hadn't happened twenty years ago might happen now. That we might all live together. Her, me, and our daughter."
"When did you get wise to her?" I said.
"After the Albanian couple died, when she came to you and dropped the hint about the kids. You knew nothing, but I understood right away where she was going with it. She wanted to make you come out and announce to the media that you were looking for kids, and then she would go on the air and reveal everything, to show the public that whereas the police were only just beginning to be suspicious and were wandering about in the dark, she had everything already sewn up. She wanted to ridicule everyone, the police and the reporters, and to become a star. To show that she was miles ahead of her male colleagues. The only thing she didn't have, and which I couldn't find out for her, was how Pylarinos was involved in all this."
Because she didn't have Zissis. I had him.
"And that's why you killed her?"
The question was going to come eventually and he was expecting it. He looked at me for a moment. The thought passed through my mind that he might deny it, but he said slowly: "In part, it was your fault that I killed her."
"My fault?"
"You sent me off with her that night. I didn't want to go, but you insisted. When I told her that I knew what she was up to and reminded her of our agreement, she just laughed at me. She told me that she would honor our agreement but with one minor alteration. She'd hand over all the information, but only when the police called her, to show the public that without her we'd never have got anywhere. I threatened to tell you everything. She laughed again and told me not to even think about it, as I was involved up to the eyes and if I ruined her scoop, she'd turn me into a news item to make up for it. Before we left, she told me that she wanted to make a phone call. Then I took her as far as her car. In my madness, I hoped that she'd change her mind even at that last minute. But she rolled down the window and told me that she'd go on the air that same night with a small part of it, just enough to whet the appetite of the public, and that the next day she'd drop the bombshell on the nine o'clock news. And off she went so I didn't have time to say anything in answer to that."
Large drops of perspiration glistened on his forehead. He pulled out a tissue to wipe them away. And then, to break the intensity, he changed the subject to something completely unrelated.
"I'm sorry. I haven't offered you anything. Can I make you a coffee?" he said.
"No. I don't want anything. Go on."
He realized that he couldn't escape and submitted to his fate. "I didn't leave right away. I waited awhile so as to recover from the shock and to be able to think more calmly. It was then that I saw that the whole thing had been a lie. She never had any intention of allowing me to meet my daughter or of letting me share in her success. I got into my car and followed after her. Her car was parked outside the studios. I don't know whether I'd already decided to kill her, but perhaps I must have decided already, because I waited for the security guard to leave before sneaking inside. I knew my way around. She'd told me herself. I found her putting on her makeup in front of a mirror. She was angry when she saw me there. I told her that she hadn't kept her side of the bargain and either she tell me there and then where my daughter was or she would have to give me back all the information I'd handed her." He stopped and smiled. "Cometh the hour, cometh the words. I must have been completely out of my mind to talk about bargains.... She told me that she had given our daughter to some couple without children and that she certainly wouldn't take me to her or tell me where she was ..."
He paused, then began to laugh. An insane laughter, paranoid. "I didn't have a gun with me. Which is why she wasn't afraid. How could she imagine that I'd run her through with the stand from the spotlight?" The laughter stopped. "I snatched her papers from her bag, together with her Filofax, just in case. I got into the elevator and went down to the basement. I hid among the cars and nipped out behind the first car that left."
She'd been afraid, but not of him. She was afraid of Sovatzis and Dourou and all their people. That's why she'd phoned Kostarakou.
He got up and went over to a cupboard on which his TV was sitting. As he opened it, it dawned on me that I wasn't carrying any weapon myself, and that if he were to take out a gun, I'd be in a fix. But he took out a brown envelope and a Filofax, and he handed them to me.
"Here, take these," he said.
I left them on the table in front of me, without opening them.
"You cannot know what a shock it was when you introduced me to her niece," I heard him say. "From the first glance I knew that she was my daughter, but it was far too late by then. What could I have said to her? That I was her father and that I had killed her mother?"
"And why did you murder Kostarakou?"
"It was you again who pushed me to do it. You told me that Yanna had telephoned Kostarakou to tell her to go on with the investigation. I was afraid that she might have given copies of the evidence to Kostarakou. And what if it contained my name somewhere? I couldn't risk it. I told her who I was and that I had something for her from Yanna. She opened the door to me immediately. I did in fact have the envelope with me. As she was going through it, I put the wire around her throat and strangled her."
He paused once more and again burst into that appalling laughter. "Then I came straight to you to report on Kolakoglou," he said. "You were my alibi. You were looking everywhere for the murderer and the murderer was sitting in your living room."
He stared at me and I reflected that this would be the last time. From the next day we would no longer be staring at each other, and so I wouldn't have the opportunity to reverse the rules of the game: to look him in the eye and tell him that I was a moron, and for him to answer: "I know you're a moron."
Then he became serious, "
Now everything will come out, right?" he said, and heaved a sigh under the weight of his thoughts. "I'll be ruined and my daughter will find herself with a father who's a murderer."
"There's no other solution," I said.
"Are you going to arrest me?"
"That depends on you. I came alone to talk to you. If you prefer, I can have you arrested tomorrow."
"Tonight, tomorrow, what difference does it make? In any case, I'm done for. Let's go tonight and get it over with. Just wait a moment, if you don't mind, so I can get a few things to take with me."
"All right, I'm in no rush."
I opened Karayoryi's envelope. In it was another role of film, a pack of papers from a printer, and four photographs. One photograph was of Dourou. The other three were taken at night on Koumanoudi Street. Each one showed a different person taking a child out of the van. I recognized Seki. The other two must have been the Albanian couple, but it wasn't easy to make them out in the dark. I looked at them and felt like tearing up the prints. If we'd had this evidence from the beginning, we would have wrapped up the case within two days. And both Karayoryi and Kostarakou would still be alive. It's stupid, I know, but it's not at all pleasant to be told that you were the cause of two people dying, albeit unwittingly. Whatever, there was no way Dourou would get off now.
The sound of the shot came from the other room, shattering the silence. I rushed into the hall. The papers flew to the floor. The bedroom was at the back. Through the open door, I could see Thanassis's legs on the bed. When I went in, I found his head on the pillow. His left arm was hanging down, dangling loosely. His right hand, which was holding his service revolver, was on the mattress beside him. The bed was unmade and the blood slowly spread everywhere, dyeing the pillow.
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