Leonidas took out a photograph and laid it on the table.

Four boys, nineteen, twenty years old, in a square. Among them one with a wide smile, skinny, with eyes that looked as if he probably laughed easily.

“Sotiris,” Leonidas said.

Andreas looked at him. “Who’s Sotiris?”

“A friend of mine.”

Marina did not move.

“When he was twenty they picked him up one night for a check,” Leonidas said. “Only the check got out of hand. It always got out of hand with boys like him. Too much shouting, too little helmet, too much authority. We found him in the hospital hours later.”