Erzählungen und Bilder in Acrylfarben

Introduction to the book

"The Incredible Adventures of Inspector K" is a dark, atmospherically dense crime novel set in Thessaloniki in the interwar period. In a city caught between Orient and Occident, modernity and superstition, Inspector Koulouris - known as Kokonje - becomes embroiled in a series of gruesome ritual murders. What begins as a classic murder investigation unfolds into a sinister puzzle of madness, secret societies, ancient myths and the aftermath of the Great War. With precise language, historical depth and cinematic power, the author tells the story of a man who fights not only against murderers, but also against the shadows of his own past.

A crime novel in the spirit of 1914-1918, steeped in the psychological turmoil of a generation that survived the war - but can no longer find peace.

The incredible adventures of Inspector K

The figure slowly emerged from the shadows. It was a man dressed in an old, worn coat, with deep circles under his eyes and a crazed expression on his face. His hands were covered in blood and in one of them he held a scalpel that flashed in the moonlight.

"It's too late for you, inspector," the man whispered in a hoarse voice, "the city is mine. I'll cleanse it of its sins."

Kokonje's heartbeat accelerated, but his mind remained clear. He raised the pistol and pointed it at the man. "Put the scalpel down," he said calmly, "you won't hurt anyone else."

But the man only laughed, an eerie, hollow laugh that echoed off the walls of the deserted sanatorium. "You don't understand, Kokonje," he whispered. "I'm not the killer. I'm just the tool. The city itself demands cleansing. And I am its messenger."

With a sudden leap, the man threw himself at the inspector. But Kokonje was prepared. A shot echoed through the room, followed by a dull thud. The man slumped to the floor, the scalpel clattering onto the tiles beside him.

Kokonje breathed heavily and carefully approached the motionless body. The man was dead. But something made the inspector pause. The insane look in the murderer's eyes was not that of an ordinary person. It was as if something had driven him - something darker that he could not immediately understand.

He slid the gun back into its holster and stepped out of the room into the cold corridor. The night was still young, and Kokonje knew that this was only the beginning. Something was wrong with this city - and the beast he was looking for had not yet been caught.

He was dreaming again.

Not of the alleyways of Thessaloniki, but of Verdun. Of the grey walls of the trenches, echoing with the sound of shells. The dirt stuck to his boots and the smell of death could not be dispelled. Next to him: Lieutenant Hervé Maréchal. Shoulder to shoulder, as so often.

"Nous mourrons pas ici, mon frère - we're still dancing, remember?" Hervé had said as the sky burned.

And they danced. In the midst of war. A zeibekiko without music, just the beat of the heart and survival.

He saw Hervé's face, scarred, smiling. Then the whistle of the grenades. A shadow. Blood. And a voice. A cold, French voice: "Tu n'as rien compris, mon frère. Le mal est éternel..."

He woke up in a cold sweat. The smell of gunpowder was still there.

The gaiters on his shoes clicked rhythmically as Inspector Koulouris - Kokonje, as everyone called him - climbed up the steep path that would lead him to the abandoned sanatorium . The moon hung pale in the sky, its light casting ghostly shadows on the hills of Thessaloniki. The city lay low below, its lights flickering dimly in the distance, as if it were a world unto itself, far removed from the dark mission that had brought him here.

The sanatorium had been built in the years before the Great War, an imposing but cold building with high walls and broken windows. Since the fire of 1917 and the wave of refugees from Asia Minor, no one had had the courage to enter it again. It was rumoured that experiments had been carried out on patients there in the past - experiments that did not always comply with the rules of medical ethics. Kokonje could feel the whiff of corruption hanging over the place as he approached the front door, which was hanging half off its hinges.

He had not come unprepared. Under his coat, which he had pulled tightly around him, he carried an old but trusty pistol, and in his pocket was a small lamp. But Kokonje had another weapon that had saved him in many situations - he was a master of aikido, a martial art he had learnt in his younger years on Corfu. This discipline had not only given him physical strength, but also a clear mind that enabled him to hold his own in the most dangerous situations.

With a powerful kick, he pushed open the door, which burst open with a loud creak. A musty, putrid odour hit him as he took his first step into the building. The corridors were dark and full of dust, as if time had stood still here. The moonlight filtered through the broken windows and cast ghostly patterns on the floor. Rusty medical equipment was scattered everywhere and old beds stood in the corners like silent witnesses to past horrors.

Kokonje moved forwards cautiously, his hand on the weapon under his coat. He knew he had to be prepared for anything. His footsteps echoed in the silence, accompanied only by the occasional rustle of the wind blowing through the cracks in the walls.

Suddenly he stopped. In front of him, on the floor of the long corridor, lay something. At first he thought it was just a shadow - but as he approached, he saw it: a trail of blood turning off to the right from the corridor. Kokonje narrowed his eyes and followed it carefully until he arrived at a half-open door. The room behind it was dark, but his lamp revealed what was hiding inside.

A man was lying on the ground - or what was left of him. He had been badly mauled, his body mutilated, similar to the young women who had been found before. But this time it was different. The man seemed older, his clothes were of high quality, and a ring with a seal flashed on his hand.

Kokonje knelt down to take a closer look at the ring. The engraving on it was hard to make out, but it looked like a family crest. "This is no ordinary man," he muttered to himself. Whoever the murderer was, he made no distinction between the victims. Young women, rich men - they all seemed to be mere objects for him to carry out his heinous deeds.

Suddenly Kokonje heard footsteps behind him. He jumped up, ready for whatever was to come. Through years of training in aikido, he knew how to assess the room with just a glance - his mind registered every movement, every little thing immediately.

A shadowy figure stood in the doorway, barely more than a silhouette in the dim light.

"Who is it?" Kokonje called out in a firm voice. "Show yourself!"

The figure slowly emerged from the shadows. It was a man dressed in an old, worn coat, with deep circles under his eyes and a crazed expression on his face. His hands were covered in blood, and in one of them he held a scalpel that flashed in the moonlight.

"It's too late for you, inspector," the man whispered in a hoarse voice, "the city is mine. I'll cleanse it of its sins."

Kokonje's heartbeat quickened, but his mind remained calm, his posture unchanged - he was preparing to subdue the attacker without firing an unnecessary shot if it came to that. He raised the pistol and aimed at the man. "Put the scalpel down," he said calmly, "you're not going to hurt anyone else."

But the man only laughed, an eerie, hollow laugh that echoed off the walls of the deserted sanatorium. "You don't understand, Kokonje," he whispered. "I'm not the killer. I'm just the tool. The city itself demands cleansing. And I am its messenger."

With a sudden leap, the man lunged at the inspector. In a flash, Kokonje dodged out of the way, a smooth aikido move to the side that immediately enabled him to fend off the attack. His hand grabbed the man's wrist and twisted it backwards in one swift movement, sending the scalpel flying out of his hand and clattering to the floor. The murderer fell to the floor, but before he could get up, Kokonje kicked him in the chest, throwing him back into the corner of the room.

The man gasped for air as he lay on the floor, but Kokonje had already drawn his gun again. A shot echoed through the room and hit the man in the shoulder. He cried out, but did not fall unconscious.

Blood dripped from his wound, but the madness in his eyes remained unbroken. With a final gasp, he stammered, "The collection... is not... complete... I need... more... trophies. Belly caps... the purest art... I will collect them all..."

Kokonje's hand gripped the handle of the weapon tighter, but he paused. The man, the murderer, the monster, lay before him - his words disappeared in a desperate whisper as he drew his last breath.

The inspector saw the body in front of him and felt the cold dread creeping into his stomach. The beast was dead, but the horror of its deeds would haunt the city for a long time to come. Kokonje took a deep breath, put his pistol back in its holster and left the room. The night was cold and clear as he stepped outside, but the killer's last words - "collect trophies" - echoed in his head like a dark echo.

Kokonje stepped out of the deserted sanatorium into the cold, clear night. The moon hung like a silent observer over the hills of Thessaloniki, while the city below slept in its silent darkness. The dying murderer's last words - "collect trophies" - still echoed in his head, and although the beast lay dead before him, he had the feeling that the horror was not yet over.

He walked down the hill, his step calm and controlled, but inside he was in turmoil. The city he knew so well suddenly seemed alien to him. The thought that someone had carried out these heinous acts not only with brains but also with a sick sense of "art" made him shudder.

The gaiters on his shoes clicked softly in time with his stride as he approached the town. Kokonje knew he couldn't rest. He had found the killer, but something about this didn't add up. The man he had killed did not seem to be the driving force behind these crimes - more like a henchman, a tool, as he himself had put it.

Back in the old town, which was still filled with an air of melancholy, Kokonje entered the Rebetika pub "To Vareli" again. It was late, but the music was still playing and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of wine. Here he could clear his head for a moment and think. Giorgos, his old informant, was still sitting in the corner, a glass of raki in front of him, and raised his head when the inspector came in.

"Did you find him?" asked Giorgos, his eyes narrowing.

Kokonje nodded silently and sat down next to him. "He is dead. But he wasn't alone." He glanced around the tavern to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "He talked about collecting trophies. Belly rugs - as if they were works of art. But he was just a tool, I can tell."

Giorgos took a deep sip and put his glass down hard on the table. "That fits in with what I've heard," he said quietly. "There are rumours that someone else is pulling the strings. A man who has penetrated deeper into the city's underground than anyone else. Some call him 'the surgeon' because he is so precise and cold-blooded. He's a phantom, hard to catch."

Kokonje's mind raced. The murders were brutal, yes, but they were also surgical - too precise to be purely accidental. And the dying murderer had clearly served a master. "Do you know where I can find this 'surgeon'?" Kokonje asked, his voice calm, but restlessness bubbling inside him.

Giorgos hesitated, glanced over his shoulder and then leaned closer to the inspector. "There's a place they say belongs to him. An abandoned manor house on the outskirts of the city, towards Kalamaria. It's been abandoned for years, but sometimes you see lights there at night. They say that's where the disappeared are taken... before they're never seen again."

Kokonje nodded thoughtfully. The manor house in Kalamaria. Another place full of shadows that he had to explore. But this time he would be prepared. He knew that the next step was crucial. The city of Thessaloniki was a labyrinth of secrets, and he was ready to delve deeper into its dark corners .

He stood up, pulled his coat tighter around him and nodded to Giorgos. "I owe you one, Giorgos. Thank you."

Giorgos smiled faintly. "Take care of yourself, inspector. This surgeon is no ordinary man. If he really is the one behind all this, you'll need more than just your gun and your wits."

Kokonje turned round, took one last look at the musicians, who were lost in their melancholy sounds, and stepped out into the cool night. His steps were firm and determined. The "surgeon" - that name gnawed at him. Whoever he was, he was the real monster that was terrifying Thessaloniki. The dying murderer was just one piece of the puzzle. And the game was far from over.

He would set off for the manor house the next morning. But first he needed information, a strategy and perhaps a few allies. Because if the "surgeon" was as dangerous as it seemed, this case could not only be his most difficult - but also his last.

Kokonje stood up, pulled his coat tighter around him and nodded to Giorgos. "I owe you one, Giorgos. Thank you."

Giorgos smiled faintly. "Take care of yourself, inspector. This surgeon is no ordinary man. If he really is the one behind all this, you'll need more than just your gun and your wits."

Kokonje turned round, ready to leave the pub. But before he headed for the door, he paused. The melancholy sounds of rebetiko, which had always mesmerised him, filled the room. The bouzouki played a melancholy tune that nestled in the air like the smoke that hung heavy over the heads of the guests. A group of men stood up and began to turn in circles to the music with slow, deliberate steps. It was the "Zeibekiko", a dance that came from deep within and expressed the soul.

Kokonje felt the urge to indulge in the dance, to release for a moment all the pressure and burden that had been haunting him for weeks. He tucked his pistol safely under his coat and stepped into the centre of the room. The music swelled, the conversations fell silent and all eyes turned to him. No one expected the famous inspector, known for his calm and precision, to suddenly dance the dance of the rebels and outsiders.

Slowly, almost like a dancer, he opened his coat, the fabric flying wide open as he moved. Like a bird spreading its wings, he moved to the melody. His steps were precise and firm, each step exactly in time with the music. The floor crunched under the soles of his shoes and the gaiters flashed in the flickering candlelight as he turned. The room had become silent and all eyes followed him spellbound.

With a skilful turn and a deep bow, he performed the last figure of the dance, dropping to one knee as his cloak fell around him like a dark veil. The room held its breath. For a moment, it was as if everything around him was running in slow motion - just him and the music that flooded through him. The dance was a liberation, a moment of catharsis in the midst of chaos.

Then the melody ended abruptly. The bouzouki fell silent and for a heartbeat there was absolute silence in the room.

Then applause suddenly broke out. People clapped, knocked on the tables and cheered the inspector. He smiled barely perceptibly, rose slowly and pulled his coat tightly around him again, as if he was leaving the moment of freedom behind him and slipping back into the role of commissioner.

"Nice dancing, Kokonje!" shouted someone from the crowd, but he only nodded curtly without stopping . With a last, silent glance at the dancing crowd and the pub, he left "To Vareli".

The cool night air welcomed him outside, and the glances that had followed him faded with the sound of the door closing behind him. The dance had freed him for a moment from the darkness that haunted him, but now he returned to reality. The "surgeon" was waiting somewhere in the shadows of Thessaloniki, and Kokonje knew that this dance had only been the prelude to a much more dangerous game.

With firm steps and the wind making his coat flutter, he set off. The dance had revitalised him briefly, but now he was facing another duel - this time not with music, but with an invisible enemy lurking in the dark.

The night in Thessaloniki was silent as Kokonje walked down the streets. The applause and shouts from the rebetika bar "To Vareli" faded behind him, and the darkness took him back into its silent arms. The dance had momentarily lifted him from the burden of his office, but now that the melody had stopped, his thoughts returned - heavy, like the clouds gathering on the horizon.

His path led him through the narrow streets, which were only sparsely lit by the lights of the gas lanterns. The city was asleep, but it had eyes, and Kokonje knew that he was being watched. In Thessaloniki, no secrets remained hidden for long, and the knowledge that he was hot on the heels of the "surgeon" had perhaps already spread.

The wind blew cool through the night and caused his coat to billow again as he walked in the direction of Kalamaria. There, on the edge of the town, stood the abandoned manor house that Giorgos had described to him. An ominous building that had already gathered many rumours around it. Some said there were ghosts there, others whispered of illegal experiments that the old owner had carried out on his patients. But for Kokonje it was all just fog. What mattered was the reality - and it was cruel enough.

The streets grew wider and the houses taller as he approached Kalamaria. In the distance, he could hear the creaking of ships in the harbour, a familiar sound that told him he would soon be leaving the city behind. The manor house was situated on a hill, half hidden by trees and dense undergrowth, as if it wanted to avoid the city's gaze.

A perfect place for someone who operated in the shadows.

When Kokonje reached the old iron gate, he stopped for a moment and looked at the house. It was imposing, a relic of days gone by, but the windows were as black as dead eyes and the building itself seemed to have been decaying for years. Vines had worked their way up along the walls and the roof seemed to have collapsed in places. But a light inside - a faint, flickering light - let Kokonje know that he was not alone.

He pushed open the gate, which swung open with a loud squeak, and walked up the gravelled path. His eyes remained alert, his senses sharpened. Every shadow could harbour danger, every sound could be a trap. He felt the familiar tingling in his hands - the tension that told him the moment of truth was near.

When he reached the wide, dilapidated entrance door, he stopped again and put his hand on the pistol under his coat. But he knew that he needed more than just weapons. His years of experience in the martial art of aikido had taught him that the mind was often the greatest weapon - and that whoever controlled the next move had the upper hand.

He carefully pushed open the door, which gave way with a deep, booming creak. The corridor beyond was dark, lit only by the faint light at the end of the corridor. The smell of mould and decay hung in the air, mixed with something else - a metallic odour that Kokonje knew only too well. It was the smell of blood.

His footsteps echoed on the dust-covered ground as he slowly approached the light. He knew the "surgeon" had to be here - somewhere in the shadows, lurking, waiting. And he was ready.

Suddenly a voice sounded from the darkness, calm and eerily clear. "I've been expecting you, Inspector." The words echoed in the corridor and Kokonje stopped, his hand tight around the grip of the pistol.

He turned round, his eyes searching the darkness, but he couldn't see anyone.

"You're brave, I'll give you that," the voice continued. "But you already know, don't you? You know that this is more than just an ordinary crime. The city... it needs cleansing. And I am the one to bring it."

Kokonje's hand trembled slightly, but his gaze remained calm. "You are a murderer. Not a saviour. And you will pay for what you have done." His voice was firm, but inside he sensed the threat emanating from this man - a coldness that went deeper than the murders.

A soft laugh rang out, and then the "surgeon" stepped out of the shadows. He was of medium height, gaunt, with hollow cheeks and deep eyes filled with an insane gleam. In his hands he held a scalpel that flashed in the dim light. "People don't understand," he said quietly. "They are blind to the truth. But I... I'll show them what they really are. And you'll understand too, before I'm finished."

Kokonje took a step forward, his hand firmly around the handle of the weapon, ready to defend himself. But he knew that this was more than just a physical duel. The man in front of him was a master of manipulation - and he was playing by his own rules.

"Maybe," Kokonje said slowly, "but the game ends here."

With a skilful movement, Kokonje drew his pistol and rushed forward. The "surgeon" reacted with lightning speed, but Kokonje's aikido training had prepared him for such situations. With a fluid movement, he evaded the "surgeon's" attack and grabbed his wrist, skilfully twisted it backwards and disarmed him in one fluid movement. The scalpel fell clattering to the floor and before the "surgeon" could defend himself, he was lying on the floor with Kokonje's knee on his chest.

The "surgeon" gasped, but his crazy look did not fade. "You don't understand... the city will live on. Even without me."

Kokonje leant closer, his gaze unrelenting. "Maybe," he said quietly. "But tonight the beast dies."

The "surgeon" gasped under Kokonje's grip, but his crazed look remained unchanged. "The city... it will devour you, Commissioner," he gasped. "I'm just the tool. The beast lives on, even without me."

Kokonje pressed his knee harder against the man's chest and fixed him with a hard stare. "You are not a tool. You're a madman who thinks he can decide over life and death. But this is where it ends."

Suddenly Kokonje felt a movement - a tremor under his hand. The "surgeon" still had strength left, more than Kokonje had expected. With a sudden scream, the man squirmed beneath him and pulled himself free with an almost superhuman effort. He rolled to the side, jumped to his feet and reached for a hidden knife, which he pulled out from under his jacket.

But Kokonje was quicker. Years of aikido training had taught him to be one step ahead, not only physically but also mentally. The inspector elegantly ducked under the knife thrust and grabbed the "surgeon" by the wrist again. With a quick twist, he broke the murderer's posture, the knife flew through the air and landed clattering on the ground.

Before the "surgeon" could strike again, Kokonje utilised the momentum of the movement and threw the man hard to the ground with a smooth aikido throw. The impact caused the "surgeon's" breath to escape in bursts and he remained lying on his back, panting.

Kokonje bent over him, his pistol now firmly in his hand and aimed at the man. "It's over," he said with cool determination. "You will pay for what you have done."

The "surgeon" stared up at the ceiling with glazed eyes, as if he had drifted into another world. "It's never over..." he whispered. "The city will continue to bleed... you can't save it."

Kokonje narrowed his eyes as the man's madness ran cold through him. "You've shed enough blood. Thessaloniki will breathe a sigh of relief without you."

With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out his handcuffs and cuffed the "surgeon" before pulling him up and helping him to his feet. The man swayed, but still stared into nothingness. His lips moved silently, as if he continued to speak with invisible voices, but his strength was broken.

Kokonje led the murderer out of the dilapidated mansion and into the cold, clear night of Thessaloniki. The stars shone high in the sky, but there was no redemption for the "surgeon". The wind blew gently through the trees as they walked down the hill. Below, in the distance, Kokonje could already make out the lights of the city, shimmering like a sea of sparkling pearls in the darkness.

He knew that this was only the first step. The "surgeon" was caught, but the scars he had left behind would not disappear so easily. The city would recover, but the memory of the brutal murders would remain.

When they arrived at the edge of the forest, a police car was already waiting. Two uniformed officers got out and looked at their inspector in amazement as he led the handcuffed man to them.

"It's him," Kokonje said calmly as he handed the "surgeon" over to the officers. "Take him to the centre. He'll spend the rest of his life behind bars."

The "surgeon" remained silent, his eyes stared into space and his lips continued to move silently, as if he was talking to spirits that only he could see. The officers nodded respectfully, handcuffed the murderer again and took him into the car.

Kokonje was left alone. The wind played with the loose ends of his cloak, and for a moment he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The night was silent, but the killer's last words still swirled in his head. "The city will continue to bleed..."

He knew that this was not the end. In a city like Thessaloniki, there were always shadows, always secrets waiting to be brought to light. But for this night, the beast was defeated.

With slow steps, Kokonje made his way back to the city. He knew that he would return to "To Vareli", perhaps to dance there once more, to forget the burden for a moment. But he also knew that he would be back tomorrow, ready to face the next shadows that fell over his beloved city.

Because Thessaloniki was a city of contradictions - beautiful and dangerous at the same time. And Kokonje, the man with the oversized moustache and the infallible mind, was her constant protector, shining a light into the dark corners, no matter how deep the shadows might be.

The stars began to fade as dawn broke over Thessaloniki . The "surgeon" was composed, but Kokonje could not shake off the gnawing doubt. The murderer's last words, his warnings that the city would continue to bleed, would not let him go. It wasn't just the madness of one man. There had to be more to it than that.

He had barely entered his flat when the phone rang. A short, sharp ring that sounded like an alarm in the stillness of the night. Kokonje picked up the receiver before the second ring had faded.

"Inspector," the voice of the officer on duty came through the line. "There's... there's been another murder. At the fish market. Again in the same way."

Kokonje held his breath for a moment. "I'm on my way," he replied curtly, hung up and reached for his coat. The "surgeon" was already in custody - that could only mean that he had not acted alone.

The thought of an assistant, perhaps even a whole bunch, made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

The alleyways were still dark when Kokonje made his way to the fish market. The city was quiet, but he could feel the tension building up again. The first dawn was turning the sky a pale shade of grey when he arrived at the fish market, a place full of life and activity during the day - but now it lay deserted and depressingly quiet.

The crime scene was already cordoned off, and police officers kept out the few early risers who curiously tried to catch a glimpse. There was a pungent odour of fish and salt in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of blood. Kokonje stepped over the barrier tape and walked towards the small group of officers standing bent over a body.

"What have we got here?" he asked curtly.

One of the officers looked up, his eyes didn't seem to have quite processed the horror yet. "It's... just like the others. A woman. Her stomach was slit open, the intestines neatly placed next to her. It's almost... too clean."

Kokonje narrowed his eyes as he approached and looked at the woman's lifeless body. She was a nurse, he recognised from her white uniform, which was soaked in blood. Her hands were still clutched tightly around a bag, as if she had tried to defend herself. But what puzzled him was the precise, surgical cut. This was no ordinary murderer's deed. It was the work of a professional - and it was identical to the crimes of the "surgeon".

"Has anyone seen anything?" Kokonje asked, his mind racing.

An officer stepped forward. "A man from the market reported seeing a strange stranger just before the attack. Someone who didn't look like an ordinary labourer, but was hanging around between the stalls. He said he'd seen him before."

Kokonje's instinct sounded the alarm. "Where is this witness?"

"He's waiting over there," the officer replied, pointing to a man standing at the edge of the market, nervously fiddling with his cap.

Kokonje approached him. "What did you see?" he asked without hesitation.

The man looked up and swallowed nervously. "It was this morning, still dark. I've seen him here a few times, but I thought he was a trader. But today... today he was acting strange. He was always near the stalls, but he didn't buy anything. And then... then I saw him disappear into an alley just before... before they..."

"Did you recognise his face?" Kokonje asked sharply.

The man hesitated, then shook his head. "Not really. But he had a scar, a big one, across his face. I don't know how to explain it, but he looked like... a doctor. Or maybe a butcher."

Kokonje's thoughts rest. A scar. A strange man who behaved like a doctor. None of this could be a coincidence. The "surgeon" was perhaps just the face of a larger, darker conspiracy. The thought of an accomplice - or perhaps even a secret society - became more and more likely.

Kokonje stepped back and looked at the crime scene again. The way the woman had been murdered had nothing of a rash murder about it. It was cool, calculating and as precise as the previous crimes. And yet the "surgeon" was already in custody. That meant that someone else was capable of killing just as cold-bloodedly and precisely - perhaps even with the same conviction.

Suddenly Kokonje realised that this was much bigger than he had initially thought. The "surgeon" had not acted alone. Somewhere in the city there were other perpetrators, perhaps members of a secret society that was pursuing its own dark goals. They worked in secret, pulling their strings and leaving traces that only a few could see.

"Make sure that the fish market remains closed until further notice," he instructed the officers. "And no one is to enter this crime scene until I have completed the investigation."

As Kokonje turned and walked towards the police station, he realised that this case could change everything. Thessaloniki was not only a city full of secrets - it was also home to a network of darkness that went deeper than he could ever have imagined.

The wind carried away the smell of fish and blood as the sun slowly rose above the horizon. The city was awakening, but Kokonje knew that this was only the beginning. One of the 'surgeon's' assistants was still free, and perhaps he was not alone. Somewhere in the shadows, the next blow was waiting - and Kokonje had to be ready.

The first rays of sunlight cast long shadows over the city as Kokonje left the crime scene at the fish market. As the city awoke, Kokonje prepared for a day full of questions and even darker answers. The murder of the nurse, the same precise cut as the previous victims, and the mysterious man with the scar - it all added up to a sinister picture.

When he arrived at the police station, he locked himself in his office to go through the information he had gathered. The "surgeon" had an assistant, Kokonje was sure of it. But this assistant was not acting on his own initiative - it was more than just a cruel imitation. Everything indicated that there was a bigger plan behind the murders. And the key probably lay with the rich and powerful of Thessaloniki.

Thessaloniki has always been a city full of contradictions. Alongside the narrow alleyways and the hustle and bustle of the common people, there were the magnificent mansions that bore witness to wealth and power. The nobles, merchants and influential families of the city lived in a world of their own - away from the concerns of the common people, but also away from the laws that applied to everyone else.

Kokonje remembered the stories he had heard about secret circles and elite clubs where the rich and powerful met to pursue their own interests. Such circles were often hidden behind the façade of charity and culture - but in the shadows there were whispers of dark rituals and a warped sense of power. It was a well-kept secret of the city that the influential went their own way, far from justice.

Kokonje decided that the next step would have to take him into these very circles. But it was not easy. The nobles and the rich protected their secrets with an impenetrable wall of silence, and it was risky to confront them directly. He needed a clue, someone who could lead him into this hidden world.

His first thought was of Ioannis Valsamis, a wealthy industrialist whose name was repeatedly mentioned in connection with the city's most influential circles. Valsamis was known to have good contacts in the highest circles of Thessaloniki - aristocrats, politicians and merchants often sat at his table. And Kokonje knew that Valsamis saw and heard more than he ever let on.

Valsamis lived in a villa on the outskirts of the city, in a neighbourhood surrounded by ancient olive groves and known for its quiet streets, secluded from the city. The villa itself was an imposing building, a sign of the wealth Valsamis had acquired through his dealings with foreign trading partners. The tall, wrought-iron gates and stone lions flanking the driveway were intimidating, but Kokonje had no time for hesitation.

When he reached the estate, he was led to the reception room by one of the servants. There he waited until the heavy, mahogany-brown doors swung open and Ioannis Valsamis entered. The man was middle-aged, slim and well-groomed, with a face marked by years of success and privilege. His eyes sparkled curiously as he looked at Kokonje.

"Commissioner Koulouris," Valsamis began, "what brings you to me so early in the morning?"

Kokonje stood up and nodded politely. "Mr Valsamis, this is a serious matter. A murder - the latest in a series of murders that are terrifying Thessaloniki. And there are indications that the trail leads to certain circles. Circles you know your way around."

Valsamis' eyes narrowed slightly, but he was still smiling. "I understand. But do you really believe that I am connected with such... cruel deeds?"

"No," Kokonje replied calmly. "But I think you know more than you're admitting so far. The 'surgeon' - the man we arrested yesterday - is not the only one involved in these crimes. There is an accomplice. Perhaps even more. And there are rumours of a secret society operating in the highest circles of the city. I'm sure you're no stranger to these rumours."

Valsamis' smile disappeared and his features hardened. Silence reigned in the room for a moment, only the soft ticking of an antique clock could be heard. Then the industrialist leaned forward and spoke in a low, serious voice: "Commissioner, there are things that are not talked about in this city. Not even in hints. But if you believe that there are dark secrets in the highest circles of Thessaloniki, then you're not entirely wrong."

Kokonje felt the tension in the room tighten. He was on the right track.

"There is a club," Valsamis continued, "which is officially a meeting place for intellectual and cultural discussions. But behind the scenes... some of the most influential men in the city meet there. What exactly goes on there is not known to anyone who is not in the loop. But I have heard that some of these men... have extreme ideas. Ideas that go far beyond the morals we know."

"And this secret society?" Kokonje asked, his voice calm, but tension bubbling inside him. "What do you know about it?"

Valsamis was silent for a moment before answering quietly: "They are called the 'Brotherhood of Purity'. An ancient covenant based on the idea that only the strongest, the brightest and the purest have the right to rule. They see themselves as guardians of order - and some believe that they have the right to decide over life and death."

"And you think they're involved in the murders?" Kokonje could feel the net tightening.

Valsamis nodded slowly. "There are rumours that some of their members have disappeared in recent months - without a trace. Others say that these deaths were sacrifices to... complete some kind of ritual. But these are just rumours, Commissioner. No one has ever seen any evidence."

Kokonje stood up, ready to leave. "Rumours or not, Mr Valsamis - I will pay a visit to this club and this brotherhood. And if they are responsible for these murders, I will bring them to justice."

Valsamis looked at him for a long time before answering quietly: "Be careful, Commissioner. The men you're dealing with are powerful. Very powerful."

Kokonje nodded and left the villa. He knew that this was the next step. The Brotherhood of Purity was more than just a legend - and now he had to find out how deep their involvement in the murders went.

The words of Ioannis Valsamis echoed in Kokonje's head as he left the villa. "The Brotherhood of Purity" - a secret society that had its fingers in the highest circles of the city, perhaps even beyond. It was clear that these men saw themselves as above the law, as guardians of a dark, twisted order. But the fact that they did not shy away from murder in order to realise their sick ideals took the horror to a whole new level.

As Kokonje walked through the streets, he realised that he had to dig deeper - deeper than ever before. If this brotherhood was really behind the murders, it meant that they had influence over the most influential families in the city. But he couldn't shake the thought that the true mastermind of this conspiracy was still hidden. He had to find out who was at the head of this sinister network.

Back at the police station, Kokonje opened a file that had been troubling him for some time: the list of Thessaloniki's rich and powerful. Names such as Valsamis, the great merchant families and high-ranking military officers appeared in it, but one of the names that had repeatedly been mentioned in connection with unusual events in recent months stood out in particular: Prince Nikolaos.

Prince Nikolaos was a member of the Greek royal family, a charismatic and educated man who was often admired for his charity work in Thessaloniki. But behind the public façade, something much darker seemed to be hiding. There were always rumours about his connections to mysterious meetings and eccentric personalities. And it was known that he liked to surround himself with the richest and most influential men in the city - men who were also connected to the "Brotherhood of Purity".

Kokonje's instinct told him that this prince was more than just a patron of high society. If the 'Brotherhood of Purity' really existed and the murders of young women and innocent people were part of a dark ritual, then everything pointed to the fact that someone had to be at the top of this pyramid. And that someone was possibly none other than Prince Nikolaos.

To confirm this hypothesis, Kokonje had to delve deeper into the secrets of the royal house. It was a dangerous path, but he knew he had no choice. He decided to seek out one of his most reliable sources: Dimitrios, a long-time informant who travelled in high society but had always maintained his true loyalty to Kokonje.

Dimitrios was a butler in the service of the royal family. He had eyes and ears everywhere and was often able to provide Kokonje with information that would otherwise have been impossible to obtain. The two met in a quiet café, far away from prying eyes, in the late afternoon.

"Inspector," Dimitrios said quietly as he sat down next to him. "I knew you would come at some point."

"Dimitrios," Kokonje began without beating around the bush, "what do you know about Prince Nikolaos and the Brotherhood of Purity?"

Dimitrios hesitated, his eyes darting nervously around the café before he continued. "I've been silent for a long time, inspector. Longer than I would have liked. But there are things I can no longer hide. The Brotherhood... it exists. And it reaches further than you can imagine. Prince Nikolaos... he's not just a member. He leads it."

Kokonje had a queasy feeling in his stomach, but he said nothing and let Dimitrios carry on talking.

"Officially, he is a benefactor, a man of high repute, but behind closed doors he is quite different," Dimitrios continued. "There are meetings... meetings that take place in the deepest halls of his estate. Only the most influential men are invited, and it is rumoured that they practice... devil worship. Blood sacrifices that supposedly guarantee power and eternal life. The murder of these women, Commissioner... it's part of an ancient ritual practised by the Brotherhood."