Che Committed Suicide by Petros Márkaris Read Free Book Online

organisation!’ she said scornfully. ‘A dozen or so wackos and as many again who just go along to gawp. Do you know what the biggest gathering they ever managed was?’
    ‘No, what?’
    ‘When they turned up outside the Officer’s Club in Ethnikis Amynis Street to protest because at an academic conference someone had given a paper claiming that Philip II of Macedon was a homosexual and that he’d had a thing for Pausanius, his general.’
    I laughed and hung up, but despite the laughter, my mind was working overtime. How could an organisation that only made an appearance once a year to cut a birthday cake for Alexander the Great force Favieros to commit suicide? Maybe because they threatened that they’d kill his whole family if he didn’t? So why didn’t he send his family to the Alps for an extended holiday?
    All this led to the only conclusion that Favieros’s suicide was for other, still unknown, reasons and that the little group of nationalists had simply seized the opportunity for some free publicity. Perhaps this was the right explanation but it didn’t bring me even one step nearer to the reasons that led Favieros to his public suicide. And I would continue to torment myself with the ‘public’ aspect until some convincing explanation could be found.
    I knew that all these thoughts were of no practical value, that it was just a crossword puzzle that I was creating for myself and trying to solve, yet I still preferred this a hundred times more to the crosswords in the newspapers that turned me into a nervous wreck at the first word.
    The only way I was going to learn anything more was from the newspapers again. I decided to pop out to the kiosk and as I passed by the kitchen I saw Adriani stuffing tomatoes and peppers.
    ‘I could smell them even before you put them in the oven,’ I said to her jokingly.
    ‘All very well, but I’m warning you, they won’t be as tasty as usual because I’ve used very little onion. Don’t tell me afterwards that they’re not up to standard.’
    She has had a complex about stuffed vegetables from the time that she was in competition with my mother and she trembles at the thought of not getting them right.
    ‘For a first step back to normality, it’s fine,’ I replied and she seemed relieved.
    If someone were to ask me why, instead of turning right into Aroni Street, I turned left and from Nikiphoridis Street emerged into Formionos Street, I wouldn’t have been able to explain. Nor could I explain what was in my mind when I hailed a taxi and said to the driver: ‘Alexandras Avenue. Police Headquarters.’
    Nevertheless, as soon as I got out of the taxi and crossed the road at the lights, my reflexes started to kick in. I decided to avoid making a stop on the third floor, where my own department was. I was in no mood to open my office door and see Yanoutsos lolling in my chair and reading the Trikala News . After thirty years in Athens, the only newspaper he reads is his village local.
    The guard at the entrance was about to ask me for some identification , but my face was familiar to him and he hesitated.
    ‘Inspector Haritos, I’m on my way up to Security,’ I told him to help him out of his difficult situation. He was about to get to his feet, but I stopped him. ‘I’m on sick leave. There’s no need for formalities.’
    The lift was playing its old tricks and I waited a full ten minutes before it did me the honour of opening its doors. I prayed I wouldn’t bump into my two assistants, Vlassopoulos and Dermitzakis, and even more so into Yanoutsos. Fortunately, the lift raced up to the fifth floor.
    I wish I’d had a camera to take Koula’s photo when she saw me. The barometer that tells you just how much a person likes you or not is to suddenly appear before them after a long illness or absence. It’s then that you can see on their face whether you bring with you high or low pressure. Koula’s face shone. She leapt up and shrieked with