Free The Labyrinth of Osiris by Paul Sussman Page A

not had many dealings with your community,’ he resumed, sipping. ‘As I’m sure you’ve heard, she was –’ he made a garrotting motion around his neck. ‘Probably some lone nutter, but we need to look at all the options.’
    George didn’t say anything, just stirred his coffee and puffed on his cigarette.
    ‘Have you heard of any . . . I don’t know . . . feuds within the community? Turf wars?’
    No response.
    ‘Vendettas?’ pushed Ben-Roi. ‘Any problems among the priests, the people who use the cathedral regularly? Grudges, grievances? Anything . . . out of the ordinary?’ He was scraping around, fumbling for leads. ‘Anything, basically, that might give us some sort of steer on this?’
    George lifted his coffee cup, slurped, and tamped his cigarette out in the dribble of dark liquid pooled at the bottom of his saucer.
    ‘Listen, Arieh,’ he said. ‘We have our squabbles, like every community. Our bad apples, our troublemakers. Our priests get in fights with Greek Orthodox priests, this person dislikes that person, someone swindled someone else – these things happen, we’re human. But let me tell you, unequivocally –’ he looked up at Ben-Roi – ‘no Armenian would do something like this to another Armenian. And certainly not within our own cathedral. We’re a family. We look out for each other, we protect each other. It just wouldn’t happen. Whoever committed this crime, Arieh, I can guarantee you they’re not Armenian. Guarantee it.’
    He turned and spoke to his mother, who jabbered back at him before putting her face through the serving hatch.
    ‘No Armenian,’ she said. ‘No Armenian do this.’
    She scowled at Ben-Roi to make sure he’d got the point, then returned to her cooking. Ben-Roi finished his coffee.
    ‘Well, at least that narrows the field,’ he said.
    There was a hubbub of voices and half a dozen people clumped down the stairs from the street above: tourists, elderly, American or English judging by their guidebooks. George went over to seat them and hand out menus. Soft music started playing through the restaurant’s speaker system, although who had turned it on Ben-Roi couldn’t see.
    ‘You haven’t heard anything about who the victim is?’ he asked when George returned. ‘Rumours on the grapevine?’
    George shook his head. ‘Not an Armenian, that’s for sure. Or at least, not one from Jerusalem. Everyone here knows everyone else.’
    ‘From outside Jerusalem?’
    George shrugged. ‘Possible.’ He tapped out another cigarette and put it in his mouth, then thought better of it and laid it on the table.
    ‘The person you should speak to is Archbishop Petrossian. He knows everyone and everything in our community. Not just Jerusalem, the whole of Israel.’
    ‘Already saw him,’ said Ben-Roi. ‘Back in the cathedral. He said he didn’t know anything.’
    ‘Well, there’s your answer. Petrossian knows more than the Patriarch and the other archbishops put together. More than the whole community put together. Nothing happens in our world that he doesn’t know about.’
    He looked round as if to make sure no one was listening, then leant forward. ‘We call him the octopus. He’s got tentacles everywhere. If he can’t help you . . .’ He threw up his hands, the gesture substituting for the words ‘nobody can’. On the other side of the restaurant one of the tourists called ‘Hello’ and waved a menu, indicating they were ready to order.
    ‘Sorry, Arieh, I’ve got to deal with this.’
    ‘No problem. I should be getting back to the station.’
    Ben-Roi stood and pulled out his wallet, but George motioned him to put it away.
    ‘On the house.’
    ‘You’ll let me know if you hear anything?’
    ‘Sure. And say hi to Sarah. Tell her we hope everything’s OK with the—’ he patted his stomach, and moved away to take the order. Ben-Roi started back up the stairs to the street, juggling a vague feeling of disappointment that he hadn’t managed to