Codename Xenophon Page 4

  ‘Use your head, man! He was having an affair with my wife!’

  ‘Is that why he killed himself?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? There are so many reasons to shoot yourself these days, he could take his pick!’

  ‘Did you confront your wife about the affair?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said George. ‘So why have you called me in?’

  Kakridis scowled, his eyes glinting. ‘I don’t want anyone making connections between me, my wife and Boiatzis! Police, press, anyone! This story does not exist, understood? Your investigation never took place. I want all photographs and recordings destroyed at once. Your files, correspondence, emails, everything.’

  ‘You don’t want an invoice for my work?’

  ‘Are you joking? Nothing!’

  ‘You’ll pay me cash?’

  ‘Just let me know the amount.’

  ‘Three thousand.’

  ‘I’ll get it to you.’

  ‘OK. As soon as I receive that I’ll forget the case.’

  ‘No. You forget it right now. Destroy the evidence!’

  ‘You have nothing to fear at my end. My records are secure. They will be destroyed as soon as I’m paid.’

  Kakridis glared at him. ‘That’s blackmail!’

  George returned his gaze calmly. ‘Not blackmail. Just standard policy. Which is also a form of insurance.’

  ‘Blackmail! Pure and simple!’

  George stood up. Kakridis continued to rant. ‘If any of this comes out, I’ll know exactly who’s to blame.’

  ‘Just pay your bills, Mr Kakridis.’

  He turned and left the room, closing the door on some of the filthiest language he had heard in a while.

  Out in the street a demonstration had started. A crowd faced dense ranks of riot police in front of the parliament, chanting and shouting. The mood was tense and angry. He read the banners held up above the heads of the crowd. No to austerity! No to orders from Washington! Let the plutocrats pay! We pay our taxes, politicians, how about you?

  7

  Back at his desk, George thought about how to contact the Chief of Police in Aegina, Captain Bagatzounis. This required tact and leverage. No point ringing up unannounced. Bagatzounis would only speak to senior officers and personal friends – assuming he had any.

  He considered the possibilities. One: the British Embassy, in case the professor had become a UK citizen. That was likely to be complicated. He would keep it in reserve. Two: Pazarakis, Chief of the Athens Police. Pazarakis had been helpful in the past, but he was a harassed man, badly organised and prone to panic, with a daily avalanche of work and too few staff. Crimes were not so much solved as buried in paperwork.

  There was only one person left: Takis Mitropoulos, his friend in the Kalamata police, down in the southern Peloponnese. George owed him more favours than he cared to remember, but Takis seemed not to count them.

  He dialled.

  ‘George! I’m driving. What do you want?’

  ‘A way in to the Aegina police.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’m on a case there. I need to find out what they know. The man there is a certain Bagatzounis.’

  ‘Bagatzounis? What kind of a name is that? Sounds like a pimp.’

  ‘I don’t care about his family history, I just need to talk to him.’

  ‘I’ll work on it.’

  Next he rang Madame Corneille’s friend Abbas, who had been at dinner with the professor the night before he died. Abbas was Persian but sounded entirely American. When George asked him who he thought might have shot the professor, Abbas said, ‘There’s a whole coop full of candidates. You’ve got your work cut out.’ Invited to elaborate, he said, ‘You’ll have to come over to the island and get to know the scene.’

  ‘That sounds time-consuming.’

  ‘Shortcuts will lead to the wrong places.’

  ‘I was hoping you might guide me.’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘Do you know a retired colonel who lives in the house behind Madame Corneille?’

  ‘Colonel Varzalis?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘He’s an old friend.’

  ‘Do you think he might have done it?’

  ‘I doubt it. Unless he was shooting pigeons and hit the professor by accident.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Anything’s possible, but Varzalis was an Olympic marksman. He doesn’t miss much.’

  ‘You don’t think he would have shot him deliberately?’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘We go back a long way.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘We met at the Athens Rifle Club, about twenty years ago.’

  George had never heard of the Athens Rifle Club. Abbas gave him the history – founded by British officers after the First World War, kept going by a bunch of local and expatriate eccentrics.

  ‘Are you still a member?’

  ‘I am. But haven’t pulled a trigger for nearly a decade. Certainly not on March 25th this year, in case you’re wondering.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Come and see me next time you’re over.’

  George said he would. The voice echoed in his mind. Sharp, clever, ironic. A friend of the colonel’s. Both of them gun enthusiasts. That would need looking into.

  He was on the way to the bathroom when Taki called.

  ‘I’ve asked around about your police chief in Aegina. He’s a prick apparently, and he’ll give you trouble if he can. Your best bet is a man called Sotiriou, at Violent Crimes. He’s senior to Bagatzounis, stratospherically senior, and this case is under his jurisdiction.’

  ‘Can I have his number?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He won’t talk to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Another prick?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘This is going to be fun.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to him. He’ll talk to Bagatzounis.’

  ‘That’s better than nothing.’

  ‘This is a sticky case. Everyone’s very cautious. You can ring Bagatzounis any time.’

  George’s ear was aching from the telephone. He busied himself with tidying and filing. He locked away the folder of papers on Kakridis, just to be safe. Then he fixed himself a cup of coffee and rang the police station in Aegina.

  ‘Yes? Speak!’

  ‘I’m looking for Captain Bagatzounis.’

  ‘You’ve got him! Who are you?’

  ‘George Zafiris, private investigator.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’m researching the Petrakis murder.’

  ‘On whose authority?’

  ‘I’m working for Constantine Petrakis, brother of –’

  ‘I know the individual. He has already been to see me. I’ve told him everything there is to know.’

  ‘I come on the recommendation of Colonel Sotiriou of the Violent Crimes Unit.’

  The voice changed at once, losing its arrogance. ‘Colonel Sotiriou?’

  ‘I believe he has phoned you.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the line. George waited.

  ‘Hello, Mr Zafiris?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you come here at eight tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Police station, Aegina.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  He’s a prick all right, thought George.

  At six that evening, he stepped off the Aegina ferry, an overnight bag on his shoulder. He walked the length of the waterfront, picking a careful route between the café tables. From one of these came a greeting: ‘Mr Zafiris!’

  He looked round, and saw Madame Corneille sitting with a white-haired man of aquiline looks. They were drinking ouzo.

  Madame Corneille introduced him.

  ‘Jalal Abbas. How do you do?’

 
; They shook hands. George noticed his precise features, a smooth, coppery skin, sharp blue eyes.

  ‘Will you join us for a drink?’

  ‘In half an hour? I need to check into my hotel.’

  ‘We’ll be here.’

  George walked to the Hotel Brown. He took his key and climbed the stairs, threw open the window in his room and lay down on the bed, listening lazily to the wheels of horse-drawn calèches rattling along the harbour front. On the ceiling, reflections of sea light trembled as shadows passed across them. He closed his eyes.

  It was a micro-sleep, but it did him good. He rose, took a shower, and quickly dressed. Pen, notebook, phone, money… he was ready.

  Madame Corneille was no longer there when he reached the café. Abbas apologised on her behalf, saying she had an appointment with a client. George waved it aside.

  ‘So,’ said Abbas, ‘four hours ago I invite you to Aegina, and now, as if by royal command, here you are.’

  ‘I’ve come to meet the local police chief.’

  ‘Aha!’ Abbas’s eyes sparkled maliciously. ‘Why would a man do that?’

  ‘To move my inquiries forward.’

  ‘That’s a tactical error.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said George, ‘but he told me to come.’

  ‘Bagatzounis will move your enquiries backwards!’

  ‘Really?’

  Abbas nodded. ‘That’s his style. He will drain you of everything: understanding, hope, belief in humanity…’ He flung a handful of cocktail nuts into his mouth and crunched vigorously. ‘Talk to anyone but him.’

  ‘I’ll try to keep myself undrained,’ said George.

  ‘You’ll have to or you’re finished. Who else do you plan to meet?’

  ‘Colonel Varzalis. If that’s possible.’

  ‘It’s possible. Want me to call him?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’re aware that he suffers from Alzheimer’s?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Abbas drew a phone from his pocket, dialled, and spoke briefly in Greek.

  ‘Eight thirty,’ he said. ‘That gives us an hour. What else can I help you with?’

  ‘You said I should get to know the scene.’

  ‘Damn right!’

  ‘Well? Where do I begin?’

  ‘You begin with a drink. Ouzo? Whisky?’

  ‘Ouzo.’

  Abbas snapped his fingers and placed the order. He leaned back in his chair. ‘You’re looking for a killer. So let’s forget about all the normal people, shall we? We look at the weirdos. I know them all. I’ve studied them. Every island has its share, both local and imported. The foreigners are usually artistes of some description, many of them rather unfocussed personalities suffering from the delusion that wearing dark glasses and drinking in cafés all day is going to turn them into James Joyce. I assume you know the type.’

  ‘Not personally.’

  ‘You’re lucky. They range from the harmlessly feeble-minded to menacing psychopaths. One of these could possibly be the killer. Main objection: they are not generally very effective human beings. The idea that they might be organised enough to find a weapon, ammunition, a spot to shoot from, and a moment of sufficient lucidity and steadiness of hand to hold a rifle straight, especially at seven thirty in the evening, is, frankly, far-fetched. One or two, given the right motivation, enough concentrated hatred, might be capable of it. I can name them. But I know no reason why they would wish to kill Professor Petrakis…’

  ‘How about locals?’

  ‘Several candidates: anarchists, fascists, the disturbed, the angry, the unloved. A few of these have military fantasies, and go round in camouflage trousers to prove it. Given the right motivation, some grudge or insult, or even a paranoid-schizophrenic scenario, one of them might just do it. But what on earth did John Petrakis ever do to offend them?’ Abbas grimaced. ‘That will take a lot of digging in extremely dark and malodorous places.’

  George was curious about the resident foreigners. He asked how many there were.

  About a hundred, Abbas thought.

  ‘What brings them here?’

  ‘Oh, every fantasy under the sun. “I lived here in a former existence” – that’s a standard one. Or the lure of antiquity. Or nature. The pagan gods. The Orthodox Church. The sea. The light. The mountains. The people. Any damn thing! But the biggest and best is the Byronic impulse to escape failure at home and live in a sunlit land posing as a genius.’

  ‘I trust you don’t include yourself in that category?’

  ‘I do not!’ said Abbas indignantly. ‘I had a job!’

  ‘Which of them could have killed the professor?’

  Instead of replying, Abbas sipped his ouzo, his pale blue eyes on the masts of the fishing boats at the quayside.

  ‘There are just two. One is so crazy he wouldn’t even need a motive. The other is an evil man whom I know all too well. But I wouldn’t want to point the finger at him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s done me wrong – great wrong! He’s an enemy. The enemy, to be precise. I suspect him of every crime that’s committed on the island… I don’t want my vendetta to get in the way of your investigation, so let’s forget about him.’

  ‘Could he have killed the professor?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Ernest Hemingway.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘It’s a false name. He thinks it’ll make publishers take notice.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s right.’

  ‘It’s no damn good if you write crap.’

  ‘Who’s the other crazy foreigner?’

  ‘Mad Terry. You only meet him by chance. No point looking for him. He moves according to his own celestial timetable… But we must go and find the colonel now. He doesn’t like you to be late.’

  8

  They walked along the harbour front, past Kapodistria and his sad little arc of palm trees, with the great grey rampart of the Peloponnese across the straits to the east. They turned inland, up a long, narrow lane. After two hundred metres the lane opened into a small, well-kept square. To the right a pair of wrought-iron gates were set into a high stone wall. Abbas tugged on the bell-pull. A goat bell clattered above their heads and an old lady in a faded floral dress came hobbling along the garden path.

  Abbas kissed her on both cheeks, calling her ‘Kyra Sophia’. She led them around the side of the house, past ranks of lemon and orange trees, their trunks white with lime-wash. Behind the house, in a vine-shaded courtyard, a lean old man with close-cut white hair and a precise little moustache sat studying a newspaper under a magnifying glass. At the sound of their steps he looked up, caught sight of Abbas and rose shakily to his feet.

  ‘The Gurkhas have arrived!’

  ‘I’m not a Gurkha, Colonel, as I’ve often told you. I’m a Parsee.’

  ‘To me you’re a Gurkha. You’d better accept it.’

  Abbas introduced George.

  ‘Have we met before?’ asked the colonel.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Forgive my asking. My memory…’

  ‘No problem,’ said George.

  The colonel invited them to sit down, indicating the rusting metal chairs around the table. Kyra Sophia asked them what they would like to drink and shuffled away to the kitchen. They discussed the recent hot weather. The colonel seemed absent from the conversation.

  ‘Did you say we’ve met before?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘No,’ said George. ‘Not as far as I know.’

  The colonel tapped his forehead. ‘Empty as an old shoe box.’

  ‘At least you know it,’ said Abbas.

  ‘Too well,’ said the colonel. Then, to George, ‘What are you doing in Aegina?’

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of Professor Petrakis.’

  The colonel looked blank. ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘Tha
t’s what I wanted to ask you.’

  ‘I can’t remember. What do you think, Abbas?’

  ‘You never mentioned his name to me.’

  ‘There you are then.’

  ‘You knew his brother Constantine.’

  ‘Constantine is a familiar name. Constantine Petrakis. That’s a name I would happily forget!’

  ‘Really?’

  The colonel scowled. ‘We had a disagreement. He behaved badly. He and his even more unpleasant partner. Men from good families, mind you. Proof of the decline of our nation, if proof were needed.’

  ‘What did you disagree about?’

  ‘Have a guess!’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Correct!’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They wanted to build a hotel. Just there.’ The colonel pointed to the end of his garden. ‘An extremely large and ugly hotel. Unsuitable in every way for a historic town.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I stopped them.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘With all the means at my disposal.’ He took evident satisfaction from the memory.

  George was struck by the exactness of the colonel’s recollection of this incident. It contrasted oddly with his earlier vagueness.

  ‘I hear from Abbas that you’re a great sportsman?’

  The colonel nodded. ‘Four Olympic Games. Four gold medals.’

  ‘You must have a fine collection of trophies.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you still shoot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have your guns still?’

  ‘Of course. All in working order.’

  ‘But you don’t use them?’

  The colonel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Only in an emergency.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You never know when your country may need you.’

  ‘One man and a few rifles can’t do much.’

  ‘No, but a group of armed men, skilled in the arts of war, can cause endless trouble to an invader. History provides many examples.’

  ‘You’re prepared for an invasion?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘By the International Monetary Fund perhaps?’

  The colonel seem not to understand the reference. ‘By anyone at all,’ he said.

  ‘Can you call on a group of volunteers?’

  ‘I can!’

  Intrigued, George said, ‘I would be curious to see your arsenal.’