Diary of a War Crime

by Simon McCleave

  This is like Keystone bloody Cops!

  The man slowed and then bent double, trying to get his breath.

  ‘Oi, will you stop bloody running,’ Lucy panted.

  Ruth unclipped the handcuffs from her belt. She was not looking forward to writing up the report on this arrest. She actually wondered if it had been a wind-up by the male officers in CID. Now that she and Lucy were partners, it was hard to be taken seriously as a detective. Two women, or plonks, working together in CID was very rare, and she’d had enough Cagney & Lacey and lesbian jokes to last a lifetime.

  Suddenly, the man spun on his heels and started running again. The cheers from the onlookers began once more. He went to hurdle the raised flower bed, tripped, and fell flat onto his face.

  Serves you bloody right, you twat!

  A moment later, Lucy had cuffed him and muttered his rights.

  ‘You do know we’re never going to live this down, don’t you?’ Ruth said.

  As they led Ronald away with his hands cuffed behind his back, the onlookers started to ‘boo’ and whistle.

  Lucy had had enough as she looked up and gave them a two-fingered salute.

  ‘Doing your bit for community relations?’ Ruth asked sardonically.

  ‘Wankers. They’ll be the first people on the phone if someone nicks their bike or a smackhead gives them a funny look,’ Lucy said dryly.

  As they got to the car, Ruth’s hand sank into the red, wiry wig as she pushed his head down, making sure that he didn’t bang it as he was put into the back. She slammed the door shut behind him.

  ‘You okay?’ Lucy asked as they looked at each other.

  ‘I’ve had more productive mornings,’ Ruth said dryly.

  ‘No, I mean you haven’t said more than two words since briefing.’

  ‘Haven’t I?’

  ‘That normally means that moron of a husband of yours has pissed you off,’ Lucy said bluntly.

  She’s right. Dan is a complete moron. Actually, he’s worse than that.

  ‘Get off that fence,’ Ruth joked, but she knew that Lucy couldn’t stand him.

  ‘You need to ‘get rid’ and you know it. For yours and Ella’s sake.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Ruth said with an audible sigh. They’d had this conversation on an almost weekly basis.

  ‘What’s he done this time? Gone missing in action again?’

  Ruth looked at her for a second. ‘Actually, I think he’s having another affair. In fact, I know he is.’

  They both got into the car and headed out of the estate.

  PETROVIC HAD BEEN SITTING outside Caffè Bonego, a Serbian deli in West London, for twenty minutes. He pushed his plate away, feeling satisfied and full. Probably too full, but he didn’t care. He had quickly devoured the pljeskavica, which was a spiced meat patty, served on a flat bread with onions and soured cream. As usual, he had ordered a turijan salad – a type of lemon balm mixed with pickled yellow bell pepper, green and red tomatoes, cabbage, cucumber, celery root and peppercorns. It wasn’t as good as his deda, Serbian for grandfather, had made. Deda’s turijan was the taste of Petrovic’s childhood.

  Petrovic remembered how his deda used to sit him on his knee in the farmer’s cottage in the remote Serbian village where his family was from. He used to sing him nursery rhymes and Serbian folk songs. The village was about fifty miles from Valjevo, the largest city in Western Serbia. Deda used to tell him how the brave Yugoslav Partisans had liberated Valjevo and the surrounding area from Nazi control in 1941. They established the Republic of Uzice, his deda used to say proudly. On darker days, Petrovic would also be told how the Germans had retaken Valjevo months later and transported partisans to the concentration camps of Eastern Europe. Deda said several thousand of them were shot or gassed. His deda had lost many friends.

  Deda used to puff at big, cheap cigars which would make Petrovic’s eyes sting and water. One day, as he sat on his lap, deda held him tightly and told him to give him his left hand. Petrovic was confused. Deda asked him if he trusted his grandfather. Petrovic nodded. Of course. Deda held Petrovic’s left hand and pressed the hot end of the cigar onto the back of it. It had been agony. Deda said it was a warning to trust no one – not even your own family. Petrovic still carried the circular scar as a reminder of his deda’s cautionary advice.

  Looking at his watch, Petrovic saw that his old friend Colonel Tankovic was due to join him. Since coming to Britain, Tankovic had changed his identity and even his appearance. They were both on a list of over one hundred and sixty people indicted by the ICTY, the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. The central court for the tribunal had been established in The Hague in 1993. Petrovic and Tankovic were both wanted in connection with breaking the Geneva Convention, genocide, and crimes against humanity. Petrovic knew that if he was caught, he would spend the rest of his life in prison.

  Tankovic had reinvented himself in the oil business and had become a multi-millionaire. He had acted as ‘a fixer’ between a global oil company, Natell, and the Yugoslav state oil company, Yugopetrol. Tankovic had brokered a deal while there were still Western oil sanctions in place. When sanctions were lifted, Natell made a fortune as the chief supplier of oil to the region - and Tankovic was now a very rich and well-connected man.

  A large black Jaguar drew up to the pavement nearby. An enormous figure got out of the back of the car – his old friend and comrade-in-arms, Colonel Tankovic. It was good to see him. He had slicked-back greying hair, and his broad frame filled the leather coat he was wearing. He had shaved off the trademark bushy moustache that he had worn for decades in an attempt to avoid detection.

  They shook hands and Tankovic sat down opposite Petrovic.

  ‘How was the turijan?’ Tankovic asked gesturing to the plate.

  ‘The best I’ve had since I’ve been here,’ Petrovic replied.

  ‘But not as good as home?’

  ‘No. It is never as good as home.’

  Tankovic produced a pack of filterless cigarettes, took one, and offered them to Petrovic.

  ‘I’m not meant to smoke these anymore,’ Petrovic said as he pulled one out. A doctor in Shepherd’s Bush had warned him that smoking forty filterless cigarettes a day was killing him. He did not care. He had stared death in the face enough times not to worry about bloody cigarettes.

  ‘Jebi ga,’ Tankovic chortled, which meant fuck it in Serbian.

  ‘Jebi ga! ... You heard about General Bosnic?’ Petrovic asked him.

  Tankovic nodded. ‘Yes. It was in the papers. They treated him like a dog. The man was a General for God’s sake! They have no respect.’

  General Bosnic had led units of the Yugoslav People’s Army against the Army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1993. He had been brought to The Hague to face charges of war crimes and murder during the siege of Sarajevo. However, someone had smuggled Bosnic a capsule of potassium cyanide and he committed suicide in his cell.

  Petrovic took a long deep drag on his cigarette, then said ‘I met with our little balija friend.’

  ‘How was he?’

  Petrovic felt confident that no one would look into Mersad Avdic’s death. He was just an old man who had died in his sleep. ‘When I left him, he was sitting peacefully in his armchair. No signs of violence, robbery, or a forced entry. I am confident that his exit from this world will be put down to natural causes.’

  ‘Unfortunately, my sources tell me he was working with others,’ Tankovic said darkly.

  ‘I’ve heard the same,’ Petrovic replied. ‘You have names?’ he asked as he started to feel concerned.

  Tankovic nodded and pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket. ‘I have one name at the moment. And an address. Do you want me to take care of it, brate?’

  Brate was Serbian slang for my good friend.

  Petrovic shook his head. ‘No.’ If there were any balija scum out there trying to hunt them down, he wanted to deal with them himself.

  Tankovic
looked over at him. ‘You are still my commanding officer. It is my duty to protect you.’

  ‘You’ve done enough for me. It is not a problem. And it is nice to catch up with people from the old country.’ He looked at the address and raised an eyebrow. ‘Peckham? He lives with the Africans then.’

  ‘Not for long,’ Tankovic said darkly.

  CHAPTER 3

  Having picked up Ella from the Tiny Tots nursery off Streatham High Street, Ruth sat on the 249 bus that was heading from Streatham to Clapham Common via their stop, Balham. Ella swung her legs rhythmically as Ruth clipped back her hair. Her tiny burgundy shoes, with a buckle, had blue paint on them. Ruth didn’t mind. It would wipe off. Ella loved going to Tiny Tots and she’d made lots of friends. Her best friend was Koyuki. Ruth assumed she must be Japanese, or maybe Korean. She leant forward and kissed Ella’s forehead. The blonde curls that had once hung from her daughter’s head were darkening and straightening. She was growing up. The thought of it made Ruth a little sad.

  She handed Ella a mini pack of raisins as the bus jolted and lurched in the chaos of the South London rush hour. Her mind turned to her husband, Dan. They lived in a small ground-floor flat in a side road, halfway up Balham Hill. Everyone told her that Dan was a waste of space. He earned a pittance working as an occasional roadie and DJ. She had pleaded for him to get a proper job, so they didn’t have to worry about how they were going to pay the rent, bills and childcare. But Dan lived in his own little world where he still believed that when he got his big break, he would be flown out to Ibiza to DJ and earn a fortune. Sometimes her anger even turned to pity. Two of Dan’s friends did earn a decent living from DJing and making House records, which made it harder to convince him to give up and grow up.

  Having got off the bus, Ruth popped Ella into her pushchair and covered her with a thick zebra-striped blanket. As she walked up Balham Hill, she could see that South London was changing before her eyes. Gentrification had arrived, and it looked like Balham was going the same way as Clapham had gone in the last eighteen months. And the working-class families from SW4 and SW12 were migrating to places like Crystal Palace and Peckham, where housing was much cheaper. Her grandparents wouldn’t recognise some parts of south-west London now.

  Getting out her keys, Ruth opened her front door and immediately got a pungent waft of weed in her nostrils.

  Bloody hell! He is such a twat!

  Ruth could feel the anger rising already. She didn’t want drugs to be the first thing their daughter smelled coming home. She had continually told Dan that he had to smoke his weed outside. Unclipping Ella from her pushchair, she scooped her up in her arms and rubbed noses as Ella giggled. She plonked her down in front of the television, put on CBBC, handed her a bottle of sugar-free juice, and took a breath before confronting her increasingly irritating husband.

  Entering the kitchen, Ruth could see that the doors to their small patio were open. Dan was sitting outside with his friend Felix – they were sharing a spliff.

  Why don’t you close the patio doors, dickhead?

  ‘I could smell that as soon as I opened the door,’ Ruth snapped.

  Dan let the smoke pour out of his nostrils. ‘Sorry, babe. I forgot the doors were open. You okay?’

  He doesn’t give a shit!

  Even though Ruth falling pregnant with Ella hadn’t been planned, they weren’t exactly teenagers. Dan was heading for thirty.

  ‘Hi Felix,’ Ruth said, ignoring Dan on purpose. Felix was another wannabe DJ and record producer. He was harmless, funny, and a bit eccentric.

  ‘Hiya,’ Felix said in a rasped voice, taking the spliff from Dan.

  They laughed at nothing in particular. Ruth could see that their eyes were red and glassy – they were totally stoned!

  Great! I’ll sort Ella’s tea, bath and bedtime out. Then cook us some food!

  ‘I’m making curry later,’ Ruth said, trying not to sound annoyed. She was too tired to have yet another row.

  ‘Sorry, babe. I’ve got a DJing gig in Hammersmith. Remember?’ Dan said.

  Ruth nodded and smiled as she put away the shopping. He had started calling her babe about a month ago, and despite her piss-taking, he hadn’t got the message that she hated it. She also knew that most of Dan’s DJing gigs were in grotty little bars where he played his records to about forty or fifty people. Once he’d paid for petrol, booze and drugs, he had spent over half the £100 he claimed to be getting. Then he would slope through the front door at dawn and spend the day in bed, while they paid for Ella to be in childcare for the day. To say that Ruth’s patience was wearing thin was an understatement.

  By the time Ruth had showered and changed, Dan and Felix had left. There was a scrawled note on the kitchen table – I’ll be DJing at The Greyhound pub if there’s an emergency. Love you xx.

  Ruth made Ella tea and then gave her a bath, delighting in watching her splash and laugh as she filled her tiny bucket. Sitting in the water and playing with her toys gave her such joy. Ruth settled Ella in bed, read her A Squash and A Squeeze, and then fell asleep next to her.

  It was nine o’clock by the time Ruth woke and went through to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. Her head felt a little thick from sleeping. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she looked again at the note. And then a horrible feeling of suspicion came over her.

  In previous years, Ruth had found a couple of girls’ phone numbers in Dan’s clothes. He always had a ready-made excuse – usually that they worked for a record label and wanted him to send in a demo. He had admitted to snogging a girl at a club called Fabric, but claimed she had literally jumped on him. Ruth knew that wasn’t the half of it, but she couldn’t prove anything. However, that kind of continual mistrust was exhausting.

  Ruth poured boiling water into her mug and then went over to a small bookshelf. She pulled out the large Yellow Pages phone directory and thumbed through until she found the number for The Greyhound pub in Hammersmith. As she went to write down the number, she wondered if she was being paranoid.

  Bloody hell, Ruth. You’re a detective in London’s Metropolitan Police. It’s okay for you to make a phone call to see where your husband is! she told herself.

  With a slightly sinking feeling of what she was going to find, Ruth picked up the phone and dialled the number.

  ‘Hello, Greyhound pub,’ answered a gruff male voice.

  ‘Hi there. I’m just trying to get in contact with my husband who is DJing at your pub tonight,’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Sorry, love. Nothing like that here tonight. We have live music at the weekends, but nothing during the week,’ the man explained.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s another Greyhound pub in Hammersmith, is there?’ Ruth asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘No, love. I’ve owned this pub for twenty years and the only other ones I’ve ever heard of are in Kensington and Hendon.’

  ‘Okay. Must have got it wrong. Thanks anyway,’ Ruth said as she hung up the phone.

  CHAPTER 4

  Petrovic looked down at the scribbled piece of paper that Tankovic had given him earlier in the day – Hamzar Mujic, 23a Comeragh Gardens, Peckham, London SE15. He knew from his sources that both Mersad Avdic and Hamzar Mujic were working together. However, he didn’t know if anyone else was involved. Somehow, they had discovered that Petrovic was secretly living with a new identity in London and planned to expose him. These men, these balija scum, had the audacity to call Petrovic a war criminal. Who were they to sit in judgement on him? He had acted to protect the Serbian people during a bitter civil war. The Serbs, his people, had been abused, tortured, and killed by the Turks for centuries. They had infiltrated and corrupted the Serbian land and culture with their dark skin and barbaric ways.

  Petrovic remembered his trip to Gazimestan, a memorial site that had been built to commemorate the Battle of Kosovo in 1389. In Serbian, Gazimestan meant The Place of Heroes. In June 1989, Petrovic had been asked to attend a special day of events to mark the
600th anniversary of the battle. He heard an incredible speech given by Slobodan Milosevic, their brave leader. Petrovic knew when he heard the great man speak that day of future ‘armed battles’, that the Serbs would fight to take back their country as they had done 600 years earlier. Over a million Serbs came to the battleground that day and heard Milosevic’s battle cry. Petrovic would never forget the sense of unity and pride he had felt to be a Serbian. And what he was doing tonight was protecting himself from Turkish devils such as Advic and Mujic – it was part of the ongoing war.

  Glancing up at the tall, three-storey late Victorian houses, Petrovic found number 23. Scanning down the list of doorbells, he saw H Mujic scribbled in blue biro beside the buzzer for Flat A. He was in the right place.

  He pressed the buzzer and waited for an answer.

  ‘Hello?’ came a man’s voice. Petrovic recognised the accent. It was Slavic, so it was definitely Mujic.

  ‘I’ve got a delivery here for a Mr Hamzar Mujic,’ Petrovic said, trying his best to disguise his own accent and sound confused as how to pronounce the name.

  ‘What delivery? I don’t have deliveries,’ Mujic responded grumpily.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I think they are books?’ Petrovic replied.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Very well. Come up,’ Mujic said, pressing the buzzer to let Petrovic in.

  Opening the door with his gloved hands, he felt in his pocket for the reassuring outline of the syringe. It was the perfect weapon for such an assassination as it left virtually no mark on its victim. The coroner would not waste time by ordering a post-mortem on another old man who had seemingly died alone in his flat of natural causes.

  Petrovic pushed the light button that was on a depressed timer. The bulb on the ground floor was weak and threw a dim, apologetic light onto the staircase.

  Climbing the threadbare carpeted stairs, he could smell cooking. It was spicy. Maybe he would make himself a spicy Bosnian beef goulash later. And open some wine. That would round off the evening nicely.