Bad Roads (E&M Investigations, Book 2)

by Lena Bourne

  I think even Brina can no longer deny that Jana is telling the truth, at least the truth that she knows. Maybe her father had some kind of ulterior motive in helping these women, but as far as I can tell, Jana was unaware of it.

  She’s once again sitting on the edge of the sofa, her cheeks pale and her bottom lip shaking. I thank her for her time, hand her one of my new business cards and ask her to call me anytime if she can think of anything else.

  “I’m never going back to that hell hole,” she says, startling me. She looks up to meet my eyes. “That’s what Anita said when my father suggested he drive her to Bosnia to get the name change. She said she’d rather die than go back there and that only bad things and death waited for her there.”

  Strong words. But I suppose not out of the realm of normal for a girl who left home to escape the tragedy she endured there.

  Lina shows us to the door and bolts it behind us as soon as we clear it.

  “You believe her, don’t you?” Brina asks as we exit the apartment building.

  “And you don’t?”

  She shakes her head and keeps walking, not meeting my eyes. “Let’s just say that Leskovar as I’ve come to know him through my investigation is not the kind of soft-hearted philanthropist his daughter just described to us.”

  I think it’s time I find out everything she has come up with in her years-long, private investigation of this case. And I’ll do that before we wade any further with these interviews.

  9

  Eva

  Taking a bus, or a train or plane for that matter, deeper into the Balkans is a singular experience, both very relaxed and cozy, but also kind of weird. When I boarded the bus in Ljubljana it was almost empty, just me and five older ladies, with large, bulging, overnight bags on the seat next to them. They all snickered at me for the first five minutes or so, probably because of the goodbye kiss Mark and I shared, sandwiched between two buses at the station. That kiss certainly left me wanting more, so I figure it was also a sight to see. Not that I enjoy being watched, but that’s another thing about living here. People are always watching, and judging most of the time. Not necessarily in a mean way, but it can easily come across like that. I try to ignore it.

  About fifteen minutes into the ride, the ladies all changed into slippers, and half an hour later, it was time for the first snack of the day. As they pulled them out, the whole cab filled with the scent of savory, buttery burek, which is basically just cottage cheese wrapped in very thin dough, but the taste is anything but basic. It’s more like one of the top five best foods in the world, and smelling it and watching them eat, made me very upset that I didn’t think to pack some food for myself.

  The bus started filling up soon after we left Ljubljana, and the smell of fresh bread, sausage, and spring onion soon got mixed up with the burek ones. By then I was fine, because the grandma sitting next to me offered to share her snacks, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  The bus was packed by the time we crossed the border into Croatia, and by then I knew the entire life story of the grandma who sat next to me. She was in Slovenia visiting her son and his family. She made the trip at least once every two months and was already looking forward to the next visit. Her son wanted her to move in with them, but she didn’t, because, as she put it, the young and the old don’t mix well. She and her husband had lived with his parents for most of their lives and she wouldn’t inflict that kind of pain on her son and his wife. Living just a bus ride away wasn’t so bad. Besides, all her friends were in Bosnia.

  I managed not to ask any questions about the war and how they were getting on. Sometimes I can’t help asking those questions, since I was too young when it was going on to remember much, and I am a journalist, so it’s my professional deformation to ask hard questions like that. Plus, I often get asked about the Balkan War conflict by people from other countries, who simply don’t understand how or why it came about. Truth is, no one really understands, and I’m glad people are successfully rebuilding their lives now. Although the number of bomb-damaged abandoned homes marring the idyllic untouched Bosnian countryside we’re riding through now is alarmingly high.

  Fields of tall, green grass stretch out to the horizon on both sides of the two-lane road, dotted with trees and flowers, and it all looks so inviting you just want to take your shoes off and run through it to the pastel yellow-colored horizon. But all that beauty hides an even deadlier reminder of the war than the ruined houses. Land mines. Which might not get removed for a long time yet, since, as far as I know, no maps were kept of where they were placed. I manage not to mention this to my jolly companion either.

  She wishes me a great stay and hugs me as I stand to exit the bus in the town of Belina. A part of me wishes I could stay on the bus and keep chatting to her, even though my lower back is aching and I’m dying to stretch my legs. I’m the only one getting off here, and the bus station is deserted, save for my friend, Renata, who rushes towards me with a huge smile on her face.

  She’s wearing light grey, skinny jeans, an oversized black sweater, and a white, homemade cardigan. On her feet is a pair of trainers so dusty I can’t even begin to guess their original color.

  “I’d know you anywhere,” she says. “That hair of yours is fantastic.”

  Her hair is pretty awesome too—long and auburn, it glistens red in the setting sun.

  “It’s good to see you too,” I tell her and it really is.

  The first time I met her, her hair was lanky and short, both her eyes were blackened, because she was beaten by a violent customer, and she was shaking so hard, her teeth were chattering. She heard of me from other illegal prostitutes in Berlin and came to look for my help. I took her straight to the hospital and then arranged for her to return to her home here a week later.

  “I’m so glad you called,” she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulder as she leads me away from the bus station. “It can get very boring here.”

  I look at her sharply, afraid this means she’s ready to leave home again, but she chuckles at my alarm. “Oh, no, I’m staying right here. I take a trip to Zagreb once in a while, when I feel like partying, but nothing more than that. I actually like the quiet, boring life. Who knew?”

  “You know, I came to the same conclusion recently,” I say. “Mark and I are living in his cottage in the countryside now, and I don’t miss the big city life at all. I always thought I would, but I honestly don’t.”

  “You’re still with Mark? That’s so great to hear,” she says.

  She knows him well since he did most of the heavy lifting in getting her the papers so she could leave Berlin and come back home. I almost tell her that we’ve only just recently found each other again, but that frustratingly sad tale can wait for later.

  “We’re making it work,” I say. “We even work together now.”

  “I thought you were a journalist, not an investigator,” she says.

  We’re walking along the town’s main thoroughfare. The low houses lining it are awash in the golden light of the setting sun, birds are singing and I can just feel the peace of this place deep inside. It doesn’t look much different than the towns and villages in Slovenia, the houses are similar, boxy with white facades and roofs covered in classic, orange shingles. Atop a hill in the distance, a castle of sorts dominates the skyline, though it looks more like a military fortress. Apart from that, everything looks very new, probably because a lot of it was rebuilt after the war. Or maybe money is finally starting to roll in for the families living here. I expected this to be more of a village, but it’s actually a bustling small town. The streets are teeming with people, as are the cafés we pass. The smell of Turkish coffee—basically just any coffee that’s not instant, prepared in a traditional copper Turkish coffee pot—is thick in the air and makes me long for a cup.

  “I’m more a writer now, than a journalist,” I explain. “And I’m here to investigate an unsolved murder of a young woman from here.”

  She stiffens be
side me and nods. “Anita Rajić, right?”

  I didn’t tell her exactly why I was coming here, and in what capacity, but I’m afraid the mention of Europol and official investigations will make people wary of talking to me. I feel a little guilty over keeping that from Renata too, but I think it’s best for now.

  “Did you know her?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yes. Well, kind of. She and her sister were about eight years older than me. They were the cool older kids. They drank and smoked and had all sorts of fun. I was still here when her older sister, Esma went missing.”

  “Did the police investigate Esma’s disappearance?” I ask.

  “Not very well from what I remember,” she says, confirming my suspicions that the investigation was lacking.

  She’s leading us up a narrow street and away from the town’s center. The incline has us both breathing heavily. The houses here are less well-kept and the road is cracked and chipped in places. The road winds slightly upwards and the smell of cattle, pigs, and dung starts prevailing over the clean, fresh scents of the countryside.

  “Detectives did investigate her disappearance eventually though, right?”

  “Right,” she says and pauses to catch her breath. “They concluded that she left on the bus to Ljubljana. It’s probably true. But not everyone thinks so.”

  “What do people think?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know, lots of things. It’s just gossip, really.”

  And she leaves it at that. My getting the juicy gossip is not off to the best start. But what did I expect? That I’d just find out everything about Esma’s disappearance the moment I stepped off the bus?

  “Hey, do you want to see their house?” She stops and turns to me, an expectant, excited look on her face. “It’s near here.”

  What I want is to hear all the gossip.

  “Yes, I do,” I say although I’m not nearly as excited by that prospect as she seems to be. Crime scenes, even old ones, always make me feel uneasy. But when did I decide Anita’s childhood home was a crime scene? She died far away from here.

  Renata turns and leads us down a gravel path between the back wall of what smells like a barn and a very thick and tall hedge with meaty green leaves. It’s too narrow for us to walk abreast and the large rocks poking out of the ground are doing nothing good for the little plastic wheels on my suitcase. Every so often a crack tells me something must have broken off for sure, but since I’m still able to roll it, I don’t worry too much about it.

  The alley takes us to an adjacent street to the one we were walking up. There are fewer houses here, and they’re spaced farther apart. They’re also not as well kept, with facades showing water damage and roofs that need replacing. The smell of cattle and dung is even more pronounced here, but the field of grass that stretches and curves slightly upwards towards the horizon more than makes up for the shabbiness of the area.

  The house we’re looking for is at the very end of a row of houses, standing about fifty meters from the last. Even before we reach it, I can feel the cold emanating from the thick walls. No one’s lived here for years, or it at least hasn’t been heated properly in that long. As we draw nearer, I see that several windows are broken and the front door isn’t quite shut. The ends of thick, bare branches of some ancient-looking tree are visible behind the house, pointy and nearly black.

  “I think the neighbors broke those windows,” Renata says, speaking barely above a whisper. “The thinking was that it’s better to do that and let some air pass through the house than for mold to set in.”

  The house was once lovingly taken care of, that much is evident even now. Even the boxy addition on one end was done so it matches the rest of the architecture well. I walk over to it, wading through knee-high grass to do so. The glass window of the first room is intact, and inside a perfectly made bed sits just below the window. The furniture in the room—a dresser, a desk, a closet, and the bed—are all made of wood and painted white. Everything is also carved with flowers, leaves, and trees interspersed with hearts and stars. A true master carver made this furniture and it would probably cost thousands of Euros in some fancy furniture store, but I’m willing to bet it’s the work of a talented local tradesman, or hobbyist even.

  The bed is covered with a pink wool blanket with lace trimmings that matches the trimming on the single pillow placed atop it. The bed looks like it was made just this morning.

  “I think this was Anita’s room,” Renata says. “Her sister’s is the one next door.”

  To reach it, I have to stomp down thick, high grass that is growing right up to the house. One of the two glass panes in the large window here is broken and the wood of the window frame is almost uniformly black with rot inside and out. The furnishings in this room are identical to those in the other one, right down to the blanket and pillowcase. A faint flowery smell is riding the stench of mold and disuse coming from inside the house. Magnolias, I think, maybe jasmine. Definitely fresh and girly.

  The tree with the black pointy branches I saw before is an oak and I bet it must look majestic once the leaves come in. Which I think they should’ve by now, since we’re well into spring, but maybe I’m wrong.

  I turn to Renata, who is standing so close to me our shoulders are almost touching. “Does someone come in here to clean and keep house?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s possible, but I don’t know. It sure looks like someone is doing that. I know Rado fixes things if they break.”

  “Rado?” I ask. “Who’s that?”

  She’s already trudging forward through high grass though and doesn’t seem to hear my question.

  “I think the grandmother also had a room in this part of the house, but I don’t see another window,” she says as she peers around the corner of the extension.

  “Was their grandmother still alive when Anita left home?” I ask as I join her again.

  She shakes her head. “No, she died before I left. Not long after Esma disappeared actually. Or maybe even a little before. I’m really not sure.”

  “Someone made sure the bedrooms look nice. It’s almost as though they’re trying to keep it nice for the girl’s return,” I say, moving back to look at Esma’s bedroom again. Renata joins me. “Or maybe Anita made them up before she left. Let’s go inside.”

  Renata gasps and grabs my arm as I move, the look on her face a mixture of shock and surprise. “I don’t know if we should.”

  “What? Why not?” I ask, but the look on her face just grows more and more frightened.

  “We can do that tomorrow,” she says. “It’ll be dark soon and this place kind of gives me the creeps. Don’t you feel it too?”

  Honestly, not as much as I figured I might. It’s just an old, abandoned house. No one was killed here.

  She smiles at me, but it’s very strained and her eyes still look very frightened.

  “OK, tomorrow then,” I say not wanting to push her if this is something she absolutely doesn’t want to do.

  She walks away from the house, cutting a path straight through the grass, and turns to me with a shiver once we reach the road.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “But I don’t think you’ll find anything of interest in the sad old house.”

  I shrug. “You’re probably right. I just wanted to get a feel for them from seeing how they lived more than anything else.”

  “Tomorrow, we’ll ask Rado if it’s even safe to go in there,” she says, sounding like she hopes he’ll say no. “Let’s go have some dinner now. My grandma and I spent most of the day cooking and baking. She’s probably wondering what’s taking us so long.”

  I smile, my mouth already watering at the mere suggestion of all the homemade delicacies I’m sure are waiting for us. There is nothing like Balkan hospitality, which is usually mostly expressed in offering food.

  The shadows of evening have grown longer in the time it took us to check out the house. And darker. A cold is rising from the earth, almost wintery in its thick iciness. If I’m b
eing perfectly honest, I’d also prefer to visit that house while the sun was shining outside. But tomorrow I’m taking a look inside that house whether she comes with me or not. Or whether Rado says it’s OK or not.

  I can’t explain why I’m drawn to the place so much, but I feel it holds a secret I need to unravel.

  10

  Mark

  Brina protested, but in the end, I managed to persuade her that we should stop for some lunch on the way back from Vrhnika. We found a cozy restaurant by the side of the old road to Ljubljana that serves traditional Slovenian food. It’s inside an old farmhouse, with cavernous, low-ceilinged roofs, a tiled floor, and lace curtains on the narrow windows. We’re the only guests in one of the smaller dining areas in the huge building, sitting at a square wooden table that’s covered by a thick white linen tablecloth. The walls are covered by aged photos of this house before it was converted into a restaurant, as well as after.

  I’m almost done with my plate of the clear soup made by boiling a piece of beef, but Brina is just stirring around the noodles in hers and not eating.

  “It’s good,” I say and even that sounds like I’m fussing too much. She’s a grown woman and a seasoned detective, so she doesn’t need me to tell her when to eat, or sleep, or take a break from the case. Or does she? The reason I insisted we stop for lunch was so she would eat something warm.

  “You think I’ve let this case get under my skin and that I’m not thinking rationally anymore,” she says in a quiet, toneless voice.

  I set down my spoon and wipe my lips on the cloth napkin that’s so starched it almost cuts.

  “Just the first part,” I say. “But you’re also one of the most rational people I’ve ever met. And I trust your judgment in this case.”