The Messenger of Athens: A Novel by Anne Zouroudi

nonetheless, expressed a wish to die. Withouthis paramour, he said, life was not worth the living. Our ‘Mr. Zafiridis’ took him at his word, and helped him over the side twelve miles off Halkidiki. But not before he helped himself to the real Mr. Zafiridis’s papers. He presented himself here as the new Chief of Police—and has been here ever since.”
    The fat man drained his coffee cup.
    Nikos’s eyes were bright with excitement.
    “How has he got away with it?” he asked. “And what happens if someone who knows the
real
man comes looking for him?”
    The fat man licked a fingertip, and rubbed with it at a blemish on the trim of his right shoe.
    “The false Mr. Zafiridis is not bright, but he is cunning. He is adept at making himself scarce when danger threatens. But his life here has not been comfortable. He spends a great deal of time looking over his shoulder. Chance, and Fate, are always there, ready to take a hand; and Chance is one thing in life no one can make provision for. In the end, his sins will find him out. His time will come. Sooner or later.”
    Nikos frowned.
    “How do you know all this?”
    The fat man smiled.
    “It’s quite simple. I read his mind.”
    Nikos smiled back.
    “It’s a good story. A very good story, in fact.”
    “You could dine out on it for months, no doubt.”
    “But is it true?”
    The fat man shrugged.
    “It may be. It may not be. You choose. After all, does it really matter, to you?”
    There was a brief silence, and Nikos had the uncomfortable sense of being chastised. But his curiosity pricked again.
    “So, if it’s not Mr. Zafiridis you’re after, what
is
your concern here?” he asked. “If I am allowed to inquire.”
    The fat man looked out across the sea. The tiny silhouette of a ship moved slowly on the distant horizon, passing them by.
    “I am here,” he said, “to protect the interests of a young lady named Irini Asimakopoulos.”
    “Ah.” All animation left Nikos’s face; it fell into sadness made poignant by welling tears he tried to wipe away like tiredness.
    “You knew her.”
    “Irinaki mou,”
sighed Nikos. He signed the triple cross, and laid his hand over his heart. “Yes, I knew her. The dear girl was my niece.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Can I offer you a nip of something?” asked Nikos, suddenly. “Metaxa, ouzo? Whisky?”
    “A small whisky, then.”
    Nikos limped into the house, and for some minutes the fat man was left alone. When Nikos reappeared, he carried two tumblers and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, three-quarters full. He slammed the glasses down on the table, unscrewed the cap from the whisky and poured out two generous measures.
    He sat down, and held up his glass to the fat man.
    “To Irini, God rest her,” he said.
    “To Irini,” agreed the fat man. They clinked their glasses together, and drank.
    “Tell me about her,” said the fat man, quietly. “I want to know how she died.”
    Nikos looked at him with troubled eyes.
    “I’m not sure,” he said.
    “But what do you think? What does your gut tell you?”
    “My gut tells me many things, none of them pleasant. My gut tells me that, on the balance of probabilities, her death was not an accident. If only because, in all the years I’ve lived here, I’ve never known anyone fall off the mountain. Not by accident. Not on foot, anyway. That idiot Stefanos from the wine shop in the harbor, he fell off it in his truck, but he was drunk at the time. And even he walked away from it. Not a mark on him.”
    The fat man took another sip of the whisky, and waited until he felt the warmth of the spirit hit his chest.
    “Mr. Zafiridis told me it was suicide,” he said. “Did you know that’s what they were saying?”
    Nikos nodded, slowly.
    “Might they be right?”
    “You’re the detective.”
    “But you knew her.”
    “I thought I did. I knew her as a little girl. I worked abroad, for many years; when I came back, she was all grown. We’re not from here, you