your summary and bury the other half in your report like you did with the Albanians."
"I write in the summary what I consider can be announced to the public. The rest goes in the report. That's why I send them to you together" I picked up the file and the photographs, and left feeling satisfied that I'd come out on top.
They were still waiting for me outside my office. As soon as they saw me, they blocked my way. I stood confronting Sotiropoulos.
"Let's start with you. You've been around longer than most and you knew her as well as anyone among you." Their question was answered. They realized that I'd kept them waiting there to be questioned and not to make a statement. Sotiropoulos glared at me. If I forced him to give in, the rest of the herd would follow.
"Are you coming?" I asked coldly. "Or should I have a writ issued so you'll have to present yourself within twenty-four hours?"
I opened the door and waited. He hesitated for a moment, then followed me into my office.
"Sit down." I pointed to the chair opposite mine.
"Shouldn't I remain standing, given that I'm a suspect?"
"So you take Karayoryi's murder for a laughing matter, do you, Sotiropoulos? She was your colleague, damn it. You should be the first to come forward so that we might get somewhere. Instead of which, you make an issue of the fact that we want to ask you a few questions."
My shot hit him right between the eyes. He may have hated Karayoryi, but he didn't want to show his delight that her job would go to some greenhorn who he'd have under his thumb. He sat down in the chair.
"So then ... fire away," he said, serious now.
"I'm not going to ask anything. You're the one who's going to do the talking. You're an experienced reporter. You know what might be of use to me."
I'd learned this approach from Inspector Kostaras, during the dictatorship, when I'd been assigned for a time to security headquarters on Bouboulinas Street. Whenever he was sent someone new, he'd put him for a couple of days with the prisoners being tortured, to scare the living daylights out of him. On the third day, he'd sit him down and say to him: "I'm not going to ask you anything; you know what you have to say to me. If I like what I hear, I might just take pity on you." And the poor wretch coughed up everything, just to be sure. My job was to escort the prisoners for interrogation. I stood in one corner, observing Kostaras and admiring his technique. Now I knew that it was all bullshit; he had absolutely nothing to go on and was simply fishing blindly to see what he'd catch. Good luck to him.
Sotiropoulos was staring at me thoughtfully. He was trying to decide what he should say to me. "There's nothing I can tell you," he said eventually.
I saw red. "What do you think you're playing at? Don't invoke that journalistic crap about not being able to reveal your sources. We'll end up very seriously at loggerheads, you and I."
"I don't intend to invoke anything," he said calmly. "I'm only telling you the truth. I can't tell you anything." He fell silent and was obviously thinking. It was as if he were trying to find an excuse, more for himself than anything. "Karayoryi kept to herself," he went on, slowly. "She never showed her cards to anyone, neither on a professional level nor on a personal one. Besides, none of us shows our cards in our professional lives. She lived on the Lycabettus bypass. Alone. And I emphasize the "alone," because I never saw her with anyone. Whenever a group of us went out for a drink, she was always on her own."
What he said put the idea into my head again. "Was she a lesbian, do you know?"
He burst out laughing, but his eyes, behind those little round Himmler-type glasses, fixed on me as if he wanted to send me to a concentration camp. "You police officers are all perverse, like all the petits bourgeois. As soon as you hear that a woman goes around alone, you call her a lesbian." Evidently, he was making a distinction between the police and
"I write in the summary what I consider can be announced to the public. The rest goes in the report. That's why I send them to you together" I picked up the file and the photographs, and left feeling satisfied that I'd come out on top.
They were still waiting for me outside my office. As soon as they saw me, they blocked my way. I stood confronting Sotiropoulos.
"Let's start with you. You've been around longer than most and you knew her as well as anyone among you." Their question was answered. They realized that I'd kept them waiting there to be questioned and not to make a statement. Sotiropoulos glared at me. If I forced him to give in, the rest of the herd would follow.
"Are you coming?" I asked coldly. "Or should I have a writ issued so you'll have to present yourself within twenty-four hours?"
I opened the door and waited. He hesitated for a moment, then followed me into my office.
"Sit down." I pointed to the chair opposite mine.
"Shouldn't I remain standing, given that I'm a suspect?"
"So you take Karayoryi's murder for a laughing matter, do you, Sotiropoulos? She was your colleague, damn it. You should be the first to come forward so that we might get somewhere. Instead of which, you make an issue of the fact that we want to ask you a few questions."
My shot hit him right between the eyes. He may have hated Karayoryi, but he didn't want to show his delight that her job would go to some greenhorn who he'd have under his thumb. He sat down in the chair.
"So then ... fire away," he said, serious now.
"I'm not going to ask anything. You're the one who's going to do the talking. You're an experienced reporter. You know what might be of use to me."
I'd learned this approach from Inspector Kostaras, during the dictatorship, when I'd been assigned for a time to security headquarters on Bouboulinas Street. Whenever he was sent someone new, he'd put him for a couple of days with the prisoners being tortured, to scare the living daylights out of him. On the third day, he'd sit him down and say to him: "I'm not going to ask you anything; you know what you have to say to me. If I like what I hear, I might just take pity on you." And the poor wretch coughed up everything, just to be sure. My job was to escort the prisoners for interrogation. I stood in one corner, observing Kostaras and admiring his technique. Now I knew that it was all bullshit; he had absolutely nothing to go on and was simply fishing blindly to see what he'd catch. Good luck to him.
Sotiropoulos was staring at me thoughtfully. He was trying to decide what he should say to me. "There's nothing I can tell you," he said eventually.
I saw red. "What do you think you're playing at? Don't invoke that journalistic crap about not being able to reveal your sources. We'll end up very seriously at loggerheads, you and I."
"I don't intend to invoke anything," he said calmly. "I'm only telling you the truth. I can't tell you anything." He fell silent and was obviously thinking. It was as if he were trying to find an excuse, more for himself than anything. "Karayoryi kept to herself," he went on, slowly. "She never showed her cards to anyone, neither on a professional level nor on a personal one. Besides, none of us shows our cards in our professional lives. She lived on the Lycabettus bypass. Alone. And I emphasize the "alone," because I never saw her with anyone. Whenever a group of us went out for a drink, she was always on her own."
What he said put the idea into my head again. "Was she a lesbian, do you know?"
He burst out laughing, but his eyes, behind those little round Himmler-type glasses, fixed on me as if he wanted to send me to a concentration camp. "You police officers are all perverse, like all the petits bourgeois. As soon as you hear that a woman goes around alone, you call her a lesbian." Evidently, he was making a distinction between the police and
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