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  George gave him an update on Mario’s case. He watched the Colonel closely as he described the visits to Eleni, the undertaker and EAP, curious to see if there was any reaction. But Sotiriou showed no surprise. He listened, gravely and impassively. At the end he asked if George thought the violence at EAP was anything more than ‘a bit of theatre to give you a fright’.

  ‘They gave someone else a fright,’ said George, and thought this a good moment to quote Dr Skouras: ‘ “Try to end this investigation, Mr Zafiris. That is my recommendation.” ’

  Sotiriou merely remarked, ‘That is an obvious thing to say.’

  ‘It may be obvious but the fact is those guys are dangerous. Would you consider watching EAP?’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t have enough men for official business, never mind off the record stuff like this. If EAP are involved I can’t make a move until they’re in the bag.’

  ‘What do you mean, “in the bag”?’

  ‘When I have rock-solid evidence.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It makes extremely good sense. Just think about it.’

  ‘Without your help what powers do I have?’

  ‘A citizen’s powers.’

  ‘Against people strong enough to cancel a police investigation! I don’t fancy my chances.’

  Sotiriou pushed a cigarette into an amber holder. He lit it and said calmly, ‘You, Mr Zafiris, can move silently and discreetly. Unlike me. Whatever I do is public and highly visible. I have very little freedom. But you have both freedom and my support.’

  ‘I’d love to know what that support is, because I’m not seeing anything.’

  ‘I’m with you. You know that.’

  ‘You might at least tell me what you know.’

  ‘I’ve told you. If Filiotis was murdered, his killer has protection at a high level.’

  ‘Could it be EAP?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You’re impossible,’ said George.

  ‘You’re asking for things I cannot give,’ replied Sotiriou.

  ‘I’ll need some money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Seven thousand five hundred.’

  ‘You’ll get it. How many days’ work is that?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘You can’t have done so many.’

  ‘With my assistant I’ve done eight. We’ll need at least another seven.’

  ‘Go up to fifteen. After that you’ll need further clearance.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘From higher up.’

  George nodded. This was typical of Sotiriou. He hoarded information like a miser, gathering it greedily to him. Never gave any away.

  ‘What do you know about Keti Kenteri?’ asked George, changing the subject.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’ve just been to her funeral.’

  ‘Are you a friend of the family?’

  ‘No. They’ve asked me to look into her death.’

  ‘I see… Tough case. No witnesses, no weapon, no motive.’

  ‘You’re familiar with it?’

  ‘Only from the weekly reports.’

  ‘Are you getting anywhere?’

  Sotiriou waved his hand, directing smoke into the sky.

  ‘Why is that?’ queried George.

  ‘It will take time.’

  ‘Can I see the notes?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Can you tell me who your men have interviewed?’

  Sotiriou smiled bitterly. ‘I’m sure you can tell me quicker than I can tell you.’

  ‘You make me feel I’m wasting my time,’ said George.

  ‘Not at all! You’ve been most informative. Let me know when you have any more to tell me.’

  17 The Musicians

  A few days later, Sunday, George and Zoe took a walk along the pedestrian boulevard that skirts the base of the Acropolis. Past the new Acropolis Museum and the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, down the hill towards the Theseion and the Keramikos. On their right lay a substantial piece of ancient landscape, miraculously undisturbed, the autumn sunshine glowing in the olive trees. This was a blessed zone of beauty that cast a mysterious spell on the city, charging it with hope, lucidity, confidence and strength.

  Yet out past the houses of Plaka, the concrete battalions were massing, choking the plain as far as the mountains – Parnis, Penteli, Hymettus – scrambling up their rocky slopes like the waves of a dirty sea. This was the grim side of Athens. Where Greeks struggled to make neighbourhoods out of pitiless channels of asphalt, glass and fume-blackened cement.

  In the gardens by the Theseion, a handful of poorly dressed traders sat behind tables crammed with superannuated objects: old wristwatches with discoloured dials, inkwells, cheap vases, chipped wine glasses, cutlery, books, battered trays. No one was buying, no one even looking. The vendors themselves were a sad and dispirited lot, men with straggly grey hair, women with exhausted eyes, waiting to light the next cigarette.

  Zoe said, ‘Why would you buy?’

  George did not answer. Someone was waving to him from a café table on Adrianou. He screwed up his eyes to see better. It was a woman in a black dress, with wild hair.

  ‘Who’s that?’ exclaimed Zoe.

  ‘I think it’s Anna Kenteri. The sister of the violinist.’

  ‘You must talk to her,’ said Zoe.

  Anna greeted them. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Enjoying the city,’ said Zoe.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful day. Have a coffee with me?’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ said Zoe.

  Anna’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘How are you?’ asked George.

  ‘I was going to call you,’ said Anna. ‘I’ve had a very disturbing conversation – with one of Keti’s friends.’

  George glanced at Zoe. ‘Go ahead and talk,’ said Zoe. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said George.

  ‘A few days before she disappeared, Keti told this friend that she was frightened.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Her husband, Paris. And his jealousy. His insane jealousy.’

  ‘OK. Do we know any more about this?’

  ‘He used to question her about where she went every day, who she saw, who she rehearsed with, where they went for a drink. Endless details.’

  ‘Did he have any reason to be jealous?’

  ‘She led a busy life.’

  ‘That’s not an answer to my question.’

  ‘I’m thinking about it… I doubt it very much.’

  ‘Did she say anything about this to you?’

  ‘No. She kept her marriage private.’

  ‘Was she happy with him?’

  ‘I always thought so. But how happy can you be with someone who interrogates you like that?’

  ‘You used the word insane. Was that Keti’s word?’

  ‘It was her friend’s word.’

  ‘What exactly was insane about it?’

  ‘It was getting out of control. He was following her, calling her friends and colleagues. Turning up at rehearsals, apparently to give her a message but in fact to check that she was really there…’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She had an uncomfortable feeling. That he had become a stranger. That he meant to punish her.’

  ‘Even though she did nothing wrong?’

  Anna nodded.

  ‘Have you checked this friend’s story?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Have you spoken to Keti’s colleagues? Have they witnessed any of this jealousy?’

  Anna dismissed the idea. ‘This girl wouldn’t lie about such a thing. She’s totally straight.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure. She may have some grudge against Paris.’

  ‘I know her. She’s not like that.’

  ‘We have to be cautious. Unsupported accusations can be as bad as the crime itself.
’

  ‘Maybe. But how can I possibly check? Many of Keti’s friends are also his friends.’

  George considered the matter. Anna took a packet of cigarettes from her bag. She lit one.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked George.

  ‘Talk to Paris.’

  ‘He’ll deny it.’

  ‘Of course. But still you might learn something.’

  ‘He’s not an easy man to talk to.’

  ‘I know that…’ She flashed a sudden smile at him. An electrifying smile. ‘But you on the other hand are very easy to talk to…’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ said George. ‘Can you give me his details?’

  ‘Stephanou Delta 44, Filothei. The number is 376 9852.’

  ‘Is that home or office?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘One more thing,’ said George. ‘Is he a musician too?’

  ‘He’s a composer and piano teacher.’

  ‘Successful?’

  Anna frowned. ‘So-so.’

  ‘Was he jealous in that way too?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘I’ll go and see him,’ said George.

  Late that afternoon George took the bus to Filothei. It was an uncomfortable journey. After jolting about through leafy backstreets and squares, the bus sighed to a halt outside a shack selling lottery tickets and ice creams – an odd relic among the enormous white villas and elegant apartment blocks. George walked down the hill, past lush gardens and security gates, past Jeeps and Range Rovers gleaming in the October sun, wondering how many of their owners ever paid any tax.

  Delta Street lay to his right, a gently undulating road with houses along one side and a park densely planted with pine trees on the other. Number 44 was a simple but substantial old house with cream stucco and the palest of grey shutters. It stood out from its neighbours for its quiet good taste.

  He pressed the bell and waited for a reply. A private security patrol car drove by, slow and watchful. A minute later he pressed the bell again. Still no reply. He looked up at the house. An upstairs window was open. The sound of piano practice could be heard, repeatedly attacking a difficult passage of Beethoven. Whoever was inside must be deaf or very determined. He pressed the bell again, keeping his finger on the button until it hurt.

  Paris came to the window, dishevelled and unshaven.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked angrily.

  George said, ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  George explained.

  ‘I’m giving a lesson!’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  Paris said brusquely, ‘I’ll come down.’

  George waited. Ten minutes later Paris appeared, looking fresher and tidier. A fleck of blood on his throat betrayed a recent shave.

  ‘Excuse the delay,’ he said, ‘I was not presentable.’

  ‘How about your pupil?’

  ‘She’s fine.’ He waved a shapely hand. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Are we going to stay out in the street?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t invite you in.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The house is in a terrible state.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘No, but I do.’

  ‘I see. Well, this is not a suitable conversation for a public place, but it’s your choice. I want you to tell me what you know about Keti’s death.’

  Paris recoiled in surprise. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’

  George did not say he had been hired by Anna. Merely that he had been ‘retained’.

  ‘I’ve already told the police the whole story,’ said Paris.

  ‘What you’ve told them is becoming harder and harder to believe.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ The young man’s eyes were calm.

  ‘Keti’s colleagues have started to talk.’

  ‘They’ve always talked. They’re artists. Friends. They gossip.’

  ‘This isn’t just gossip. Bad stories are coming out.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Stories of jealous behaviour.’

  Paris shuddered fastidiously.

  ‘Excuse me, but I call that gossip! They don’t realise what harm they’re doing.’

  ‘This is serious stuff. Potential evidence.’

  Paris sighed. ‘I don’t know what you expect me to do about this. People talk maliciously about my wonderful Keti, and I have to live with it. Not just the pain of losing her – a pain which will never leave me – but also the sorrow of hearing these rumours being spread by her so-called friends!’

  ‘You’re not listening, Paris. These stories aren’t about Keti. They’re about you. And they’re extremely damaging.’

  ‘It’s their word against mine! How can I defend myself?’

  ‘Forget defence. That’s up to your lawyer. Your decision is a moral one. Do you lie or tell the truth?’

  A flash of anger lit the musician’s face. ‘You’ve clearly made up your mind!’

  ‘Not at all. But I take these stories seriously, and the police will too.’

  ‘The stories are false. Utterly false. And that too is a moral matter!’

  ‘You’re very good at deflecting the argument.’

  ‘Am I?’ Paris suddenly blazed with fury. ‘Do you know what happened to Keti?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just tell me!’

  ‘She fell, or was pushed, over a cliff.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Tourkovounia.’

  ‘You know that? Good! Because I knew nothing for six days! Six days of indescribable agony!’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘I don’t believe you can. This is beyond imagining. Torture of the soul! A freezing emptiness that grows and grows into the immensity of space! How can you imagine that? Are you a poet? Have you lost someone in precisely that way?’

  ‘No,’ said George.

  ‘And then they find her. The most terrible day of my life. How could anyone harm that lovely creature?’

  George saw the torment in the man’s eyes, the appeal for sympathy. He was determined to resist it.

  Taking a card from his pocket he said with cold formality, ‘This is my number. I’m giving you an hour.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Your decision.’

  ‘There’s no decision to be made. I’ve told the truth.’

  ‘One hour. Then I’m calling the police.’

  Paris looked appalled. ‘I don’t know why you’re threatening me, what you hope to gain. No doubt someone in Keti’s family is behind all this. They’re the world’s most poisonous people, with the sweetest of coatings. If you’ve given them your trust, watch out! You never know where the sting will come from, but it will come, be sure of that! And you can tell them from me – officially – that I regard this visit of yours as an act of harassment. If I ever hear from you again I shall go to the police.’ He held up George’s card, his eyes gleaming defiantly. ‘Thank you for this. I shall keep it so I know where to find you.’

  George eyeballed him. ‘Don’t fool yourself, Paris. This is only going to get worse for you.’

  ‘It cannot possibly get worse!’

  ‘Oh yes it can.’

  Paris returned his stare. There was a furious strength in his eyes, an authority, that made George doubt for a moment his whole line of approach.

  Then Paris said, ‘You think I killed Keti, and you’re wrong. And while you harass me, the guilty man is free to strike again.’

  ‘Let’s hope he knows when to stop,’ said George. He turned and walked off down the road, hearing the gate click shut behind him.

  18 Missing

  At his desk again, George switched on his computer and searched for the Bartley & Corrubbio Funeral Home. There it was: 145 Henry Street, Brooklyn. ‘A proud sixty-year history of cremation and fun
eral services to the community.’ The website was rich in lilies, purple-draped family portraits, tributes from grateful customers.

  A sleepy voice answered the phone. George apologised for calling so early – it must be seven in the morning in New York – and explained his problem. The voice quickly became more alert. ‘Let me just bring up the name on our system,’ it said. Then, after a few seconds, ‘OK, I have it here. Philip Medouris. Arrived September 3rd. Delivered Brooklyn crematorium on the 4th. Funeral and cremation September 5th.’

  ‘So he’s a pile of ash now.’

  ‘He has been cremated.’

  George swore.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  He asked if he might be put in touch with the family of Mr Medouris.

  ‘That’s not possible, sir, but if you write care of us we will gladly pass on your letter.’

  ‘Is there a family?’ he found himself asking.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘There was something odd…’ he began, then thought better of it. ‘I suppose you didn’t open the casket?’

  ‘We would not normally do that.’

  ‘Did the family open it?’

  ‘I really don’t know. We handed over the casket to the crematorium as stated in the contract.’

  ‘But you stored it overnight, between the 3rd and 4th of September.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I need to know if anybody from the family spent time with the coffin, enough time to open it and look inside.’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, sir.’

  ‘Did you see any of the family?’

  ‘Not personally.’

  ‘I have reason to believe the casket contained the wrong body.’

  ‘That would not be our responsibility.’

  ‘No. I understand that. But maybe the family would have checked.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  George explained. ‘The Medouris family are Greek, and the tradition in Greece is an open coffin up to the time of burial.’

  ‘This is the United States of America.’

  ‘Don’t people want to see their loved ones in America? Take a last look?’

  ‘It depends on the people, sir. I don’t know why you’re asking these things, but –’

  ‘Did anyone there, from your company, from the Medouris family, or anybody else at all, check inside the coffin?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘It’s the one thing I very much need to know.’