Deadline in Athens Read Online Free Page A
Author: Petros Márkaris
two Albanians, there have been no further developments."
Yanna Karayoryi appeared right on cue. She was holding the microphone and wearing the same attire that she'd been wearing that morning. It was hardly surprising, as she was speaking in the corridor with her back to my office.
"The police have no new evidence concerning the murders, other than the arrest of an Albanian, who is being held at Athens Security Headquarters. According to a statement made by the head of homicide, Inspector Costas Haritos, the interrogation of the Albanian is continuing. The police suspect that the couple had a child, who has not yet been found."
Furious, I lunged to grab hold of her on the screen. But she disappeared, and in her place appeared the chubby woman who'd identified him. She began spouting into the microphone about the Albanian and about how she had notified us. It was the third straight evening that they'd shown the same scene. With the woman saying exactly the same things, wearing the same eye-catching blouse and the same skirt hitched up at the back, not at all glamorous. And how would I explain to the chief the next day that this was a fabrication on Karayoryi's part and that everything was under control?
"Now, who's glued to the screen?" I heard Adriani's gloating voice from the kitchen.
"I have some news," she said, just as I'd put the fork with the moussaka to my mouth.
"What news?"
"Katerina phoned today," she said, smiling.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I wanted to tell you over supper, to give you an appetite."
Rubbish. She kept it from me on purpose to get back at me for not watching TV with her. She knew what a soft spot I had for our daughter.
"She's coming for Christmas, after all," she said with a satisfied grin.
Katerina was studying law in Thessaloniki. She was breezing through her second year. Her aim when she finished was to become a public prosecutor. Deep down, I only hoped I wouldn't have retired, so I'd be able to send her plenty of defendants. And then I'd sit in the courtroom and feel a father's pride as she read the charge, questioned the witnesses, and addressed the court.
"I must send her some money for the airfare."
"Don't bother-she said that she'd take the coach, with Panos," Adriani said.
Of course, I'd forgotten about that hulk. Or rather, I was trying not to remember him. He wasn't a bad kid underneath; he was studying to be an agriculturist. It bothered me, though, that he was muscular, the athletic type, always in a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. The ones we had like that on the force were all dimwits. But it wasn't his fault; he was one of that fifties generation. Not the first post-war generation, but the one of today. I call them the fifties generation because their vocabulary extends to no more than fifty words. And if you exclude "fuck," "creep," and "asshole," you're left with a net taxable income of forty-seven, as the revenue people would say. I remember the period between '71 and '73, the events at the Polytechnic, the student demonstrations, the sit-ins at the universities, the slogan "Food, Freedom, Education," and I recall how they'd send us to keep them under control or even to break them up. Confrontations, chases through the streets, broken limbs, with them swearing at us and with us cursing them. How could we have known then that all the fighting was just so that we would arrive today at those fifty words? We might as well have all gone home, because it simply wasn't worth the effort.
"Do you have the money for the airfare, or did you intend to borrow it?" It sounded like an innocent question, but I could see the cunning in her eyes.
"No, I have it," I replied. "I've put a bit aside from the back pay we got."
"As you're not going to need it for the fare, why don't you give it to me so I can buy those boots I was telling you about?" She tried for a seductive smile, but it only gave her away.
"We'll see." I'd give it to her, but I left it open on purpose to
Yanna Karayoryi appeared right on cue. She was holding the microphone and wearing the same attire that she'd been wearing that morning. It was hardly surprising, as she was speaking in the corridor with her back to my office.
"The police have no new evidence concerning the murders, other than the arrest of an Albanian, who is being held at Athens Security Headquarters. According to a statement made by the head of homicide, Inspector Costas Haritos, the interrogation of the Albanian is continuing. The police suspect that the couple had a child, who has not yet been found."
Furious, I lunged to grab hold of her on the screen. But she disappeared, and in her place appeared the chubby woman who'd identified him. She began spouting into the microphone about the Albanian and about how she had notified us. It was the third straight evening that they'd shown the same scene. With the woman saying exactly the same things, wearing the same eye-catching blouse and the same skirt hitched up at the back, not at all glamorous. And how would I explain to the chief the next day that this was a fabrication on Karayoryi's part and that everything was under control?
"Now, who's glued to the screen?" I heard Adriani's gloating voice from the kitchen.
"I have some news," she said, just as I'd put the fork with the moussaka to my mouth.
"What news?"
"Katerina phoned today," she said, smiling.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I wanted to tell you over supper, to give you an appetite."
Rubbish. She kept it from me on purpose to get back at me for not watching TV with her. She knew what a soft spot I had for our daughter.
"She's coming for Christmas, after all," she said with a satisfied grin.
Katerina was studying law in Thessaloniki. She was breezing through her second year. Her aim when she finished was to become a public prosecutor. Deep down, I only hoped I wouldn't have retired, so I'd be able to send her plenty of defendants. And then I'd sit in the courtroom and feel a father's pride as she read the charge, questioned the witnesses, and addressed the court.
"I must send her some money for the airfare."
"Don't bother-she said that she'd take the coach, with Panos," Adriani said.
Of course, I'd forgotten about that hulk. Or rather, I was trying not to remember him. He wasn't a bad kid underneath; he was studying to be an agriculturist. It bothered me, though, that he was muscular, the athletic type, always in a sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. The ones we had like that on the force were all dimwits. But it wasn't his fault; he was one of that fifties generation. Not the first post-war generation, but the one of today. I call them the fifties generation because their vocabulary extends to no more than fifty words. And if you exclude "fuck," "creep," and "asshole," you're left with a net taxable income of forty-seven, as the revenue people would say. I remember the period between '71 and '73, the events at the Polytechnic, the student demonstrations, the sit-ins at the universities, the slogan "Food, Freedom, Education," and I recall how they'd send us to keep them under control or even to break them up. Confrontations, chases through the streets, broken limbs, with them swearing at us and with us cursing them. How could we have known then that all the fighting was just so that we would arrive today at those fifty words? We might as well have all gone home, because it simply wasn't worth the effort.
"Do you have the money for the airfare, or did you intend to borrow it?" It sounded like an innocent question, but I could see the cunning in her eyes.
"No, I have it," I replied. "I've put a bit aside from the back pay we got."
"As you're not going to need it for the fare, why don't you give it to me so I can buy those boots I was telling you about?" She tried for a seductive smile, but it only gave her away.
"We'll see." I'd give it to her, but I left it open on purpose to
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