Bad Roads (E&M Investigations, Book 2)

by Lena Bourne

  It’s time I start conducting this investigation of mine in a more formal manner. No more hiding the real purpose of my visit behind half-truths, since that’s not getting me very far.

  19

  Eva

  The town’s police station is inside one of the old, low, two or three-story buildings lining the square with the wishing well like a wall. All those buildings are poorly maintained, but this one is possibly the worst. The wooden shutters on the small windows are either broken or missing, and the square-facing windows haven’t been washed in what could very well be decades. The facade is cracked and has broken off in many places to reveal the concrete and bricks beneath it.

  The front door opens into a dark ante room, which in turn leads to a poorly lit hallway, the floor chipped and cracked in places and lined with firmly shut office doors which could use a new coat of paint at the very least. I hear typing and conversation from the room at the end of the hallway, so I boldly walk towards it, fully expecting to be stopped at any moment. I knock loudly as I reach it, causing both the conversation and the typing to stop abruptly.

  “Come,” a woman’s edgy voice calls.

  I open the door and smile widely, but it’s not returned by either the black-haired woman sitting behind a computer at the largest desk in the room or by the two uniformed police officers leaning against that desk, each with their own cup of coffee.

  “I’m Eva Lah,” I say as I enter and close the door behind me. “I’m looking into the disappearance of Esma Rajić and was hoping I could speak to someone who knows the case.”

  I’m butchering the language much more than I usually do, but I’m not sure that’s the only reason all three of them are looking at me like I just fell from the moon and have no business being there besides.

  The older of the men, a grey-haired, barrel-chested man with a bushy upturned mustache clears his throat. “And in what capacity are you looking into the case?”

  I explain my expertise as a true-crime writer and how I am also a special consultant for the Europol task force looking into Anita’s death. That last gets their full attention. The woman behind the desk and the other officer exchange a glance, while the older man takes a gulp of his coffee. Then he clears his throat again and strides over to me, hand extended.

  “I’m Commandant Bjelić,” he says. “I can answer your questions.”

  I shake his hand and thank him.

  “Step into my office,” he says, indicating a wide-open door to our left. “And I’m sure Margareta will love to bring you a cup of coffee.”

  He’s talking to the secretary and she looks like she most certainly will not love to do that. Her lips are so tightly shut, they’re barely visible. But she nods curtly and stands up right away.

  The man indicates I should precede him and I do, stepping into his office, which is an absolute mess. Files, folders, boxes, and binders are stacked on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining two of the four walls in no order I can discern. The desk in the middle of the room is also buried under yet more papers and folders. The computer pushed to one side of it looks ancient, and I think I can see a thin layer of dust on top of the monitor.

  “Please,” he says, indicating that he wants me to sit in a green leather upholstered wooden chair that looks to be part of the national heritage of former Yugoslavia. Most of the furniture in the room seems to be part of that actually, as does the man himself. The chair creaks under my weight, further proving my conclusion that it belongs in a museum by now.

  “I worked on Esma’s case,” the commandant says. “And I can answer your questions.”

  He has warm brown eyes and a ready smile. I’m glad of that.

  “As I understand it, the case was investigated by detectives from Sarajevo and they found that she left of her own accord,” I say. “Was the case closed at the time?”

  He shakes his head. “The detectives were here, that’s right, but they found no actual, tangible evidence that Esma just packed up and left. Though they also found no evidence that she didn’t. So they made the most logical conclusion, yet the case is still open. But there were no new leads in it for years.”

  “What about the idea that her boyfriend Milo had killed her?” I ask. “Was that investigated?”

  He barks a short laugh. “You have been busy listening to gossip, haven’t you?”

  I’m annoyed and slightly embarrassed by his patronizing tone. But he sounds kind and good-natured so both are easy to ignore and move past.

  “I also heard that she had a romantic encounter with the other brother, Rado,” I say. “The one who keeps her childhood home from falling into ruin. Was his connection into her disappearance looked into as well?”

  Before he can answer, the door opens and the secretary enters, preceded by the scent of slightly burned coffee. She places the silver platter with the copper pot, two cups, sugar, and milk on the single empty spot on the commandant’s desk like she’s done it a hundred times before, grunts in response to us thanking her, and leaves the room again.

  When I look at him again, the commandant doesn’t look as kind as he did before.

  He pours the coffees for us, then leans back in his chair, making it creak and groan. “I can tell you what the people in this town all know very well. Yes, both Milo and Rado were investigated and they both had an alibi for the night Esma disappeared. They were visiting their uncle in a village about forty kilometers from here, helping him install a new roof.”

  “Maybe the uncle was just giving them an alibi,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “The whole village saw them there. I don’t know how you do things in Slovenia, but here, when a neighbor needs help, everyone helps. The uncle’s roof had caved in. It was an emergency.”

  “Some people told me that Esma would never just leave without saying goodbye to anyone,” I say. “Why do you think she did?”

  He sighs and drinks some of his coffee. “So many young women just leave. Maybe someone promised her a better life. Maybe she had enough of her sick grandmother and drunk father. Maybe she had enough of Milo.”

  “Wouldn’t she have come back if she was still alive?” I ask. “I mean, it’s been over a decade since she left. And wouldn’t she have stayed in touch with at least someone from town?”

  “Maybe she never wants to see this place again,” he says. “Maybe she found a good life, started a family. Or is dead.”

  He’s not telling me anything concrete. Maybe my questions are to blame.

  “Do you think I could take a look at the investigation file?” I ask.

  He grunts and sits up straight again, suddenly at a loss for what to say.

  “Do you have any credentials?” he asks. “We don’t just show that to anyone that comes asking.”

  I fetch my wallet from my bag and fish my laminated Europol ID type thing out of it. This is the first time I’ve held it since putting it in there after Simon gave it to me. It just says I’m a member of a Europol Special Task Force looking into violent and organized crime cases.

  “Will this do?” I ask, handing it to him across the desk.

  He squints at it, even turns it over to check the back, which is empty, then hands it back, looking at me thoughtfully.

  “It’s not much,” he says. “Usually we’d need a special request, paperwork to be filed before we allow something like that.”

  I take the ID and stuff it back into my wallet.

  “I can have my boss call,” I say and pick up my cup of coffee to take a sip.

  He looks at me even more thoughtfully for a couple more moments and then shakes his head. “No need. So many of our young women go missing and no one cares enough to find them. I’m glad you are. I’ll give you the file. Maybe you’ll have more luck than we did.”

  I can’t believe it was this easy, and can’t hold down a smile once he gets up and walks to the over-stuffed bookshelf. He seems to have no trouble making sense of the disarray there, because he finds what he’s looking for in the firs
t box he opens.

  He shows it to me. “This is it. I’ll have Margareta make you a copy.”

  The folder is a lot thinner than I hoped, but hopefully it contains something that’ll help me.

  He goes to the door, calls the secretary over and asks her to make photocopies. When he returns to his chair he somehow looks smaller and at least a decade older.

  “I don’t blame the people in town for coming up with their own theories about Esma’s disappearance. Or the disappearance of so many other girls. Most of them never return and are never heard of again. I know everyone thinks we should all be doing more to help these women. And men too, it happens with men too.”

  He runs his hand through his hair and looks up at me with somehow liquid eyes. He’s not crying, it’s not that, he’s just very sad about the whole situation. And he clearly thinks Esma just left. Like Selima and Mirela, and so many others. Anita too. She’ll never come back. Yes, I do think they should all do more to keep them at home and safe. But it would be cruel to say that to him now.

  “At least it’s getting better,” I say. “And I’ll do what I can to find out what happened to Esma. And who killed her sister.”

  He rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Terrible business what happened to that poor lost girl. She got the brunt of the misfortune that fell on her family. It’s sad she also had to die the most tragic death of them all.”

  “About Esma’s boyfriend, Milo,” I say, taking another sip of my coffee to come up with a good phrasing for what I want to ask. He nods, signaling I should go on.

  “Was there any doubt that it was suicide?” I ask. “He hung himself from a tree, right?”

  And I’ve recently learned how easily that can be faked.

  He clears his throat and drinks some coffee. “That was a tragic death too. Completely senseless. Yes, it was a clear suicide.”

  “Could I look at that file too?” I ask.

  He looks at me sharply for a couple of moments, making me think I’ve just overstepped and he’s about to kick me out with empty hands, but then he nods and stands up.

  “Sure why not,” he says and returns to the bookshelf, this time finding a much thinner folder on one of the shelves closer to the floor.

  He opens it and scans the contents. “This is just a write-up of the report. No autopsy was done, nor was there a real investigation because there was no reason to believe it wasn’t a suicide.”

  The secretary returns with the files and walks over to him, handing him both the original and the copy. She barely glances at me and gives him a curt nod as he thanks her, asking for a copy of Milo’s file as well. She gasps, and I bet she’s about to say something but he just repeats the request and she leaves.

  As soon as the door closes behind her, he hands me the copy. “Hopefully, you’ll find something in there. I sure never did.”

  He sounds like he wanted to. I do too.

  “I hope I find out that she’s living a happy life somewhere else,” I say and smile at him. “Maybe her oldest brother, the one who moved abroad knows where she is. Did you contact him at all?”

  He shakes his head. “Tarik doesn’t know. He calls from time to time asking if there have been any new developments in the case. He also sent a private investigator once.”

  He sounds bitter about that for some reason.

  “And did he find something?” I ask.

  He scoffs. “Not as far as I know. How could he, when we hadn’t?”

  I guess that’s the source of his bitterness.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m surprised the brother cared enough to go to all that trouble. He wasn’t on good terms with his sisters over the free way they were living their lives, I think. He was a lot like his father. Strict and domineering.”

  The secretary returns with the second copy, this time handing it to me directly, giving the commandant a sharp look as she does. She chose exactly the wrong time.

  I take the file, stuff it in my bag next to Esma’s and wait for her to leave the room. And then wait some more for him to resume the conversation she interrupted. But he doesn’t.

  “So Esma and her brother didn’t get along?” I ask.

  He chuckles. “I wouldn’t really know. What I said before is just gossip and I shouldn’t be sharing that. Will there be anything else?”

  The tone in which he asks suggests that there won’t be. But I’m not done asking my questions yet.

  “Actually, I heard that Rado might have been involved with organized crime even before Esma went missing,” I say. “Can you tell me anything about that?”

  He looks positively shocked and lets out a small strangled gasp as he leans back in his chair.

  “Nothing like that was ever investigated by my department, Ma’am,” he says, sounding more exasperated than formal, though I can tell the latter was his aim.

  “It won’t reflect poorly on you if you tell me what you know,” I say, but I think we both know I can’t make that kind of promise.

  “I do not know anything about that,” he says curtly and leans forward, and stands up. “Now I really must cut this meeting short.”

  I stand up, offering my hand for a handshake.

  “Can I come to you if I have any more questions?” I ask.

  He assures me I’d be welcome, though his tone says something different. He ushers me out of his office through the door that leads directly into the hallway and sees me out of the police station, all the way to the street.

  I got more than I expected from him, so I’m not entirely displeased with the visit. Even his refusal to talk about Rado’s ties to the mafia tells me there’s something there.

  I really want to delve into the file, but the town hall is right here and hopefully Marina, Rado’s cousin will take some time to answer a few more pointed questions. She’s quite possibly the only one who knows all the things I need to know, so I hope she will, though I somehow doubt it.

  They all talk a lot, but they don’t say much. I don’t even think they’re trying to hide something. I think it’s just that they don’t want the community as a whole to appear in a bad light. But I know the remedy for those kinds of situations. I just need to ask more questions and keep on asking them until I get my answers.

  The town hall building is at the very edge of the square and it’s much better kept than the police station. The facade was recently renovated and painted a pale yellow, the shutters on the windows are bright white, with no cracks showing, the windows themselves are clean and each one of them holds a pot of flowering red carnations, the most popular flower in former Yugoslavia. The gleaming light-colored wooden doors inlaid with shiny brass are wide open and a sliding door leads into the large ante room, floored in light brown marble. There’s a wooden desk roughly in the center of it, with a security guard behind it.

  I walk over, introduce myself and ask if I could speak to Marina from the tourism department.

  “You don’t know her last name?” he asks, kind of edgily and kind of mockingly.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t,” I say and leave it at that.

  He looks at me for a couple of more moments then picks up the phone on his desk and punches in three numbers.

  “Someone here to see you,” he says. “An Eva Lah from Slovenia.”

  He grunts a few times as he listens and then hangs up.

  “She’ll be right down,” he says. “You can wait there.”

  He indicates a seating arrangement off to one side of the lobby, composed of a love seat and two armchairs around a small, round, white marble-topped table. The armchairs look like something one would sooner expect in a palace than a town hall, made of ornately carved, gleaming light wood, with thick, white, and gold velvet cushions. I’m afraid I’ll dirty it if I sit down, that’s how clean and fancy it looks.

  I’m just about to sit anyway when the clicking of heels on the wide marble steps leading to the upper floors of the building announces the arrival of Marina. I walk toward her a
nd meet her at the guard’s desk.

  “She’s here because she’s writing an article about our town,” Marina explains to the security guard. “I’m going to show her the sights, starting with the castle.”

  She turns to me. “Should we go?”

  I smile and nod and precede her out of the town hall, wondering how to tackle the weird show she just put on for the security guard.

  “People know why you’re really here,” she says as she walks fast along the edge of the square. “Or they think they do. I needed to give my own explanation before tongues started wagging too much.”

  She delivers all that in a curt, breathless voice without looking at me, and while striding out of the town center via a street so narrow, you could walk right past it and not see it if you didn’t know it was there. She’s wearing a dark blue pencil skirt and matching blazer, and a white blouse with a big bow at the throat. She also has mid-high heel shoes on her feet, yet she strikes out boldly towards the castle atop a hill overlooking the town center. The closer we get to it, the more the castle looks like nothing more than a military fort, with drab brown walls, and unremarkable turrets, but I might be wrong. I hope she won’t insist on explaining the actual history of it.

  We’re about halfway up the hill, the midday sun hot and relentlessly beating down on my head and neck, making me wish I had neither my rather heavy bag with me nor my coat. She stops, trying to smile at me while catching her breath. The hillside on both sides of the paved road we’re walking along is covered with meticulously mowed fresh grass which is so green it’s almost neon-colored. Her brilliant green eyes are almost the same color as the grass in this light.

  “Sorry,” she says in between deep, wheezing breaths.

  I’m not winded, just hot. I suppose those hikes Mark persuaded me to take with him, few and far between though they were, did do something for my stamina after all.