Deadline in Athens by Petros Márkaris

Sperantzas. He had telephoned the police only after first sending a camera to makeup at around ten past twelve.
    I still had no idea why she had been killed, but at least I was clear as to how and when the murder had occurred. Sometime between eleven-thirty and twelve, Karayoryi had gone to see Sperantzas and told him that she wanted a slot on the late-night news. At three minutes past twelve, Zoumadaki had found her dead. So the murder had taken place in the course of that half hour. She had known the murderer. He'd been sitting beside her in makeup, talking to her. He'd got up, probably still talking, and had started playing with the light stand. He'd gone up to her, still chatting away. She'd seen him in the mirror while she was putting on her makeup, but her thoughts hadn't turned to anything bad. And once he'd got behind her, he'd raised the rod and run her through with it. If there were fingerprints on the rod, his might be among them. If there weren't any, that meant he'd wiped it before opening the door and disappearing. If the murderer was someone from outside the Hellas Channel, then I had to keep my fingers crossed and hope that he had been seen entering or leaving. If he was someone who worked there, then we were sailing in the southern Aegean against a gale-force wind.

    The newsroom was a large open area with ten desks arranged in three rows of three, three, and four. The walls were bare. No one had thought to hang a picture, even a calendar-a sign that those who used it were merely passing through. They stayed there as long as they needed to do their work and then left, either for the studio or the street. At one end was a space separated by a glass partition. It was small, like a cubicle, just big enough for a desk and two chairs with a coffee table between them.
    "The news editor's office," Sperantzas said.
    "Which was Karayoryi's desk?" He pointed it out, the second one in the second row. I took out her keys, found the one that fitted the drawer, and opened it. "I won't be needing you any further," I said to Sperantzas, as I began looking through its contents. He appeared to hesitate. He was curious and wanted to stay. "I thought you said you were beat? Go on then." He'd said it and he couldn't take it back, so he turned and left.
    Her desk was one of the smaller ones and it had only two drawers on the right-hand side. In the first drawer I found two notepads, a reporter's pad and a larger one for correspondence, and some cheap Biros, the kind that companies issue to their staff. I opened the second drawer. At the front was a small packet of colorfully wrapped toffees. It seemed that she liked chewing, perhaps to help her come up with ideas when she got stuck with her writing. There was a desk set, consisting of a letter opener and some scissors, in an expensive leather case still in the cellophane wrapping. Obviously a gift that she hadn't opened. And at the back there was a desk diary bearing the logo of some insurance company. I flicked through the diary. It was empty; she'd made no notes.

    Puzzled, I stood over the drawers. There was something missing. Didn't she have a Filofax, damn it? It was unheard of for a reporter not to have a Filofax. That was where they noted everything: telephone numbers, information, loans and debts, professional and personal contacts, loves and hates, friendships and enmities. Filofax, the gospel of the modern Christian. Didn't Karayoryi have a gospel? Impossible. So where had it disappeared to? Usually, they carried it with them, so it should have been in her bag, but it wasn't. She might have locked it in her desk, but it wasn't there either. Could she have left it at home? Perhaps, but I thought it unlikely. Most probably the murderer had taken it, either because he was looking for something, or because it contained some incriminating information about him.
    "Delopoulos, the studio director, would like to see you in his office," said Sotiris from the doorway.
    "Right. Tell