"Where do you live?"
"I own the Erodios Art Gallery on the corner of Iphikratous and Aristarchou Streets. It's an old two-story house. The gallery is on the ground floor. I live upstairs. leronos Street is two blocks away. Nestor didn't want to tell you that he was with me, as our relationship is somewhat unconventional." She fell silent and then added with the same touch of irony: "At least, it was until yesterday."
It was unconventional because they had kept it hidden from Delopoulos. She hadn't wanted any trouble with her father, and Petratos hadn't wanted any with his boss. I gazed at her and Katerina came into my mind. Whether she eventually became a magistrate or a lawyer, it would be ten years before she had any career. Whereas this pretentious girl, who was only twenty-five and already had her own gallery, bought by her father, was carrying on behind his back.
Ms. Delopoulou considered our interview over and got up.
"Are you willing to sign a statement of what you've just told me?"
She held the door half open and turned around. "My father and I see each other every three months, Inspector Haritos. Last night, when I learned of his intention to fire Nestor, I told him that if he did it, he wouldn't see me for three years. That changed his mind. So I'll sign whatever you want."
She went out and closed the door behind her. Another one who didn't bother to say good-bye to me. What was that word? Boorish. Quite so.
Strangely enough, my first thought was of Sotiropoulos. He's turned the tables on you, Robespierre, I thought. You wrote him off, but he is sitting pretty.
Then I realized that it wasn't only Sotiropoulos who had come out of it badly, but me too. I could now forget about Petratos for good. Given that he was with Delopoulou, he couldn't have killed Kostarakou. And if he didn't kill Kostarakou, then he couldn't have killed Karayoryi either. The two murders went together, a pair. His solicitor had turned out to be right. In the end, Petratos had no motive. Why would he waste time hating Karayoryi when he was screwing the boss's daughter? And why would he be afraid of losing his job? The proof being that he hadn't lost it. I didn't know whether I was sorry or relieved that Petratos had come out of it clean. At least I was now free to turn my attention exclusively to Sovatzis. I had to keep Ghikas abreast, but there was no rush. First, I had to come up with a way to get close to Sovatzis. The surest way was through Hourdakis. As soon as Sotiris got the evidence I needed, I'd put him through the mill.
Then I had an idea. I dug out the photocopies of the letters from the unknown N:
For so long now I have been doing what you asked, believing that you would keep your word, but all you do is play with me. I now know that you have no intention of doing what I ask. You only want to keep me on a string so you can blackmail me and get what you want. But no more. This time I won't give way. Don't force my hand because you'll come unstuck and you'll only have yourself to blame.
What if N was Nena Delopoulou? But what had she done for Karayoryi and why would Karayoryi be playing with her? Had she put in a good word with her father on her behalf? In exchange for Petratos? But then Karayoryi wouldn't let him go and Delopoulou threatened her, evidently, with dismissal. Until Karayoryi, who didn't want to sacrifice her career, surrendered him to Delopoulou. This version suited me because it tied up everything without burdening us with any other suspect.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted this train of my thoughts. It was Petridi, the public examiner.
"Do you remember Seki, that Albanian you asked us to question in connection with the trade in children?"
"Of course. I was going to call you; you beat me to it."
"I'd planned to interrogate him the day after tomorrow, but he was killed last night."
The news was an appalling blow. "Who killed him? Do they know?" I said, after a pause.
"One of his own kind. Stabbed him, in a lavatory."
"Does he give a reason?"
"The man claims that Seki had stolen from him. He asked for his money back, Seki denied that he owed him any money and was stabbed five times in the stomach. They took him to the General Hospital in Nikaia straightaway, but he died from loss of blood on the way. So Seki's case has been put on file."
"Thank you for telling me;' I said politely and hung up.
I racked my brain trying to understand what the murder of the Albanian might mean. At first sight, nothing. Two Albanians had had a quarrel and one of them had knifed the other. It happened every day, inside and outside of prison. But was it a coincidence that he'd been killed just when Petridi was about to question him? Kara yoryi again came into my mind, her obsession with the Albanian couple's kids. She'd gone so far as to pay to get her hands on my report. Was she so certain that the Albanian hadn't killed the couple because he fancied the woman, but because they were all involved in a circle of trade in children? Of course, this was one explanation for the five hundred thousand found in the cistern. In this case, Seki had suffered the same fate as Karayoryi and Kostarakou. As soon as they'd found out that he'd been called for further questioning, he'd been killed to keep his mouth shut. But how had they found out and from whom? Had the information been sold by the same person that Karayoryi had been bribing to get her hands on the reports? But who would he have given it to? Hourdakis? That was the only name going around the station.
The only solution was for me to go to Korydallos Prison to learn what happened firsthand. I thought of the journey, and my spirits sank, but there was no alternative.
From Alexandras Avenue to Larissa Railway Station I moved at a snail's pace, but at least I was moving. When I turned onto Konstan- tinoupoleos Avenue, however, I found a mile-long line of cars before me that kept stopping every ten meters. Cars kept getting stuck in the middle of the junctions, blocking the way; those drivers wanting to turn out of the side streets were furiously honking their horns: It was absolute bedlam. By the time I reached Petrou Ralli Street, my mind had begun to crumble like a rotten cauliflower. I'd forgotten Sovatzis, the Albanian, even Nena Delopoulou's legs. The Mirafiori couldn't take all that strain and I was afraid it would break down on me in the middle of the road.
On Petrou Ralli Street, the situation improved somewhat and the Mirafiori began to roll along. On Grigori Lambraki Street, there was even less traffic, and within another quarter of an hour I was at the gates of the prison.
When I explained to the warden what had brought me to Korydallos, he shrugged in a gesture of perplexity. "What can I tell you? Everything points to the fact that it was a common quarrel that ended in a stabbing."
"Are you sure that there was nothing behind it?"
"How can I be sure? They always talk in their own language. Our lot don't want anything to do with them. The murderer was on the outside-the leader of a gang-that killed and robbed their own kind. He does the same on the inside. He apparently wanted something from the victim, and because he was being difficult, he killed him. Afterward, he put it around, as an excuse, that the victim had stolen from him."
"Where did he get the knife?"
"He said he took it from the kitchen." His grim laugh made plain his disbelief. "We've got him in solitary confinement. Do you want to talk to him?"
What would he tell me? Even if he'd been put up to it, he would stick to his story. Just like Seki. "No. But I would like to take a look at the victim's personal effects."
"Come this way."
He took me to the storeroom, where they'd put the Albanian's belongings. When I saw them, my mouth fell open. New underwear, new socks, two new shirts, a pair of shoes, evidently unworn, and a brand new anorak. I asked the warden: "Where did he get all this from? When he left us, he was wearing an old anorak and a patched pair of jeans."
"I'll ask. Maybe a visitor brought them for him."