He looked surprisingly relaxed. The top button of his shirt was undone and his thumbs were tucked into his belt, one hand resting casually on the butt of his handgun. I still felt uneasy in the presence of men with guns, but I tried telling myself there was nothing to worry about. Besides, he was the best-looking man I’d seen since I’d arrived in Croatia.
A shade over six feet, he was lean and his rolled up shirtsleeves revealed muscular forearms. He had black hair, a lock of which hung over his forehead. He pushed it back at regular intervals but it would gradually spring back and curl across his brow. The cynic in me reckoned it was a carefully calculated look. Later, I was forced to reconsider that judgement. He was, I discovered, a man almost entirely without personal vanity.
I kept talking, but I was running on automatic pilot. I couldn’t escape the distraction of his presence. The more I glanced across at him, the more reasons I discovered to find him attractive. His face was composed of familiar Balkan features: slightly hooded dark eyes, Slavic cheekbones, slim nose, full lips. In him, the combination was particularly striking. If you’re familiar with the graceful and languid Tottenham and Manchester United centre forward Dimitar Berbatov, you will have a good idea of how the unfamiliar soldier looked. There was a stylish elegance to his movements, a cast to his features that could be translated as pride or arrogance, depending on your vantage point.
When I finally reached the end of my summary of the discussion I’d been leading, a couple of students wanted my attention. Fabijan and the soldier approached slowly, heads close in conversation. I probably gave the students less detailed responses than normal, for I was curious about my visitors.
Once the room had emptied out, Fabijan finally introduced me to the solder. ‘Maggie, this is Colonel Dimitar Petrovic of the Croatian Army.’
I tried not to simper. After all, I’d just delivered a scathing analysis of the destructive effects of the degree of influence that the NATO powers cravenly handed to their military commanders. Up to that point, I’d never had a conversation with a member of the military that hadn’t been rooted in hostility. The last soldier I had in fact addressed had been a US guard at the Menwith Hill base. I think the actual words had been, ‘Why don’t you and your war-mongering pals fuck off back to America?’ So it seemed improbable that I was going to find common ground with Colonel Petrovic, no matter how bloody handsome he was. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, simpering.
He graciously inclined his head. ‘The pleasure is all mine. I apologise for intruding on your seminar, but I’d heard you had some interesting things to say and I wanted to hear them for myself.’
God help me, I blushed. ‘Your English is very good,’ I said. What can I say? I’m Scottish. We have no idea how to accept a compliment graciously.
He gave a crooked smile. ‘I spent six months at Chicksands with your Military Intelligence people. It was sink or swim. I chose to swim.’
‘I have no idea why a colonel in Croatian military intelligence might be interested in the ramifications of feminism and protest and their relationship to geography.’ Sometimes I astound myself with my own pomposity. But he seemed not to notice.
‘We’re trying to build a different kind of society here in Croatia,’ he said. ‘That means thinking differently about everything. Communism is dead, so everything from those bad old days is also presumed dead. We have to find living organisms to replace the things that have died.’ He gave an elegant shrug. ‘We in the military too. Under the old regime, there were no protests. So we never learned how to deal with protest in a reasonable way. I read a paper you co-authored with Melissa Armstrong about the feminisation of the protest at Greenham Common, and I was intrigued. I tried to arrange a meeting with her when she was here in the spring but I was called away.’ He nodded towards Fabijan, who was looking bored. ‘Then he told me you were coming instead of Professor Armstrong and I hoped you would agree to talk to me.’
‘I’m not an expert,’ I said.
I was worldly enough to recognise the practised charm of his smile. That didn’t stop me from being captivated by it. ‘Compared to me, you are.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I have an appointment with the mayor now, but can we meet soon?’
I tried not to look too eager. ‘I’ve got a pretty full diary, but I can generally be flexible.’
‘Tomorrow evening?’
I nodded. ‘Any time after seven.’
‘Do you know Proto? On the corner of Siroka Street and Vara?’
I didn’t, but Fabijan’s expression of startled incredulity coupled with the Old Town location told me all I needed to know. For whatever reason, Colonel Petrovic wanted to impress. ‘I’m sure I can find it.’
He pushed back the errant lock of hair and nodded. ‘I’ll book a table for eight.’ That charming smile reappeared. ‘I look forward to it.’
‘Me too,’ I said as he gave a formal little bow and turned away. Fabijan gave me another exaggerated look of surprise then followed him. I wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but I wasn’t about to question it. The most handsome man in Croatia had asked me out to dinner. There might be clouds on the horizon, but that was sunshine enough for one day.
13
Maggie hadn’t been expecting Tessa, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t happy to see her, particularly since she came bearing a carrier bag from the local Thai restaurant. ‘I hoped I’d catch you before you went down to dinner,’ Tessa said, spare hand on Maggie’s shoulder, lips to her cheek.
‘Perfect timing. I even have some Singha beer in the fridge.’ Maggie led the way through to her tiny dining-room-cum-kitchen and while Tessa unpacked the cartons of food, she fixed them up with beers and glasses. Tessa kept up a running commentary on the food and the eccentric couple who ran the takeaway so there was no room for conversation till they were sitting down and tucking into larb ghai and spicy fishcakes.
‘So what’s the occasion?’ Maggie said, dipping a fishcake into the sweet chilli sauce.
‘Does there need to be an occasion?’
‘No, but there’s generally something going on when you turn up out of the blue with food. Either that or something you need to apologise for.’ Maggie’s tone was warm, amused. The women had been friends for long enough to be direct with each other.
Tessa gave a short, sharp sigh. ‘You know me too well.’
Maggie felt a shiver of anxiety. Ever since Mitja had left, she’d become unreasonably apprehensive about losing her close friends. And Tessa had the sort of skills and profile that made her attractive to employers all over the world. ‘So, what’s going on? Don’t tell me. You’ve been offered another UN job and you’re thinking about taking it?’
Tessa put down her chopsticks and squeezed Maggie’s hand. ‘I’m not going to leave you,’ she said. ‘I promised you that and I meant it. We might not be lovers any more, but I still keep my promises.’
Maggie looked past Tessa, through the window to the college gardens beyond. If she focused on the familiar trees, she might avoid tearing up. Tessa had saved her from despair after Mitja had walked out; later they’d found a different kind of solace, but they both knew in their hearts it was need and not love that had brought them together. They’d drifted back to friendship without rancour, but sometimes the fierceness of Tessa’s loyalty moved Maggie more than she was entirely comfortable with.
‘OK. So if it’s not some sensational job offer, what is it?’ Maggie managed to produce a jocular tone.
‘I had a very odd Skype meeting today,’ Tessa said, turning her attention back to her food. ‘One of the British guys attached to the ICTFY asked for a chat. I had no idea what he was after. I assumed it was something to do with the way the tribunal is being wound up. Some sort of negotiation about the victims whose cases remain unresolved, that kind of thing.’
‘But…? I mean, obviously there’s a “but” lurking in the undergrowth.’
Tessa nodded, chewing and swallowing. ‘A bloody great big but. I was talking to this
guy, Theo Proctor? You ever come across him?’
Maggie dredged her memory. Her Balkans contacts extended well into three figures, but Proctor’s name rang no bells. ‘I’m pretty sure I haven’t.’
‘You’d remember him. A little Welsh creep with eyes that never stay still. One of that cohort of ambiguous faces whose role is never entirely clear and who slip and slide from under your finger when you try to find out exactly what it is they do and who they serve. I’d heard on the grapevine that there’s a new face further up the totem pole who likes things done differently – a high-flyer called Wilson Cagney. And now we’re seeing the evidence of the new broom.’
‘So far, so gossipy. But what’s all that got to do with you?’
‘Not me, darling. You.’
Startled, Maggie let a piece of chicken slip from her chopsticks. ‘Me? Why me? I made all my notes available to the ICTFY investigators years ago. Anything I’ve written since, I’ve sent a copy to the team at Sheveningen.’
‘It’s not your notes they’re interested in. It’s Mitja.’
That jolt at the sound of his name hadn’t diminished over the years. It still shook Maggie when other people said it. It was as if speaking it aloud could somehow summon him. Stupid, she knew, but even now it affected her. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Proctor spun me a line about looking for witnesses to tie up some of the final details in the outstanding trials and appeals. He said Mitja had been on the potential witness list for ages but he’d somehow slipped through the net. And did I know where he was.’
Maggie struggled to make sense of what Tessa was saying. ‘Mitja gave statements right at the beginning of ICTFY. That’s part of the reason he was so angry when cases started falling apart. He thought all the evidence was there to be drawn on but that the lawyers hadn’t done their jobs properly. And my God, it sounds like he was right on the money if they’re only just coming back to him now. How many other lost witnesses are there out there, Tessa? How many of them are still out there because of incompetence? Or is it corruption?’ She pushed her plate away, all appetite gone.
Tessa sighed and fiddled with her beer glass. ‘Whatever it is, it’s too late to change anything now. Which is why that call today was bullshit. Pure and utter bullshit, Maggie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was a pretext. They’re not looking for Mitja because they want a witness statement. They’re looking for him because Wilson Cagney is a new broom who wants to sweep the Augean stables clean.’
Maggie’s face tightened. ‘Stop talking like a bloody lawyer, Tess. That’s not like you. Speak plainly. What are you saying?’
Tessa ran a finger through the condensation on her glass. ‘They suspect – no, actually, it’s more than that. I think they think they know what he’s been up to. And they’ve decided it’s time to flex a bit of muscle and say, “Enough. The murders have to stop and the killer has to pay.”’
Maggie slammed her hand down on the table, making the plates and glasses jump. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not this again. I told you at the party what I think. Mitja went home.’
‘And I’ll tell you again. Look at the timeline. The tribunal screws up some cases that should have been open and shut. Mitja bends our ears till they’re just about bleeding with what an outrage this is. He rants about corrupt lawyers and witnesses being bought or terrorised. He storms and rages about the failure of justice and the message that sends to the victims and the next lot of butchers —’
‘All of which is perfectly bloody reasonable,’ Maggie interrupted, her blood up now. ‘You agreed with him. I agreed with him. We were all outraged. And then we moved on. Because all that bile, all that anger, all that shame was taking us nowhere. Just another emotional dead end. I talked about it with him. I saw his despair but I also saw his acceptance. It hurt him, Tessa. It pierced him to the heart. But he understood the futility of obsessing about it. He let go of it.’
Tessa shook her head stubbornly. ‘I think you want to believe that, Maggie. Because you don’t want to think he left you behind so he could be free to be a vigilante. The kind of hero you’d disapprove of.’
‘Hero? You think the person who did all these murders is a hero? Jesus Christ, Tess. Sometimes you scare the shit out of me.’
‘QED. He knew what your reaction would be. He knew he couldn’t have both. He couldn’t have his vengeance and still have you. And hard though it is for you to accept, he chose what he saw as the righteous thing to do.’
Maggie ran both hands through her hair in despair. ‘Don’t you dare impose your bloody Irish gesture politics on Mitja. How can you entertain such an idea about him? He was your friend. How can you think that the man we both knew could turn into a cold-blooded killing machine? How can you, Tess?’ Maggie’s raised voice bounced off the walls of the little room, resonant with disillusionment and dismay.
Tessa rubbed her eyes with the knuckles of one hand. ‘Because it’s the only thing that makes sense, Maggie. How else can you explain him just walking out like that?’
Maggie shook her head, despairing. ‘It’s easy, Tess. The rage reawakened his love for Croatia. He’d been damping down the fires ever since we came back here after the war was over. He tried to convince himself that us loving each other was enough to compensate for leaving his home. But he couldn’t manage it. And the rage brought the pain of his loss to the surface.’ She gave a shuddering sigh. ‘He didn’t run away because he wanted to become a killer, Tess. He ran away because I wasn’t enough for him. Do you have any idea how shit that makes me feel? But I’ll tell you one thing. It does not make me feel so shit that I have to reinvent Mitja as a serial killer to make myself feel better.’ She began to pick up the barely touched containers of food and threw them in the bin. ‘I think you should go.’ She turned her back on her friend and leaned on the edge of the sink.
‘What I believe doesn’t matter, Maggie.’ Tessa stood up and slowly moved to the door. ‘I didn’t come here tonight to fight with you. In your heart, you know that. What you need to be aware of is that there are other people out there who are convinced Mitja’s a mad dog who should be taken out of circulation. If you have any idea at all where he is, you need to let him know that.’
14
Not for the first time, River found herself wondering about the possibilities of long-distance relationships and commuting. Working with Karen Pirie previously had meant she’d had to ‘borrow’ the facilities at Dundee University, where the old entity, Fife Police, had handed off much of its forensic work. Presuming on that relationship again had left her in a state of envy for the facilities a campaigning head of department had acquired to service the teaching and practice of anatomy and forensic anthropology. Nobody here had to feel, as River did, that her discipline was the poor relation, the budgetary afterthought in the University of North England’s reckoning. In career terms, a move to Dundee would offer so many more possibilities.
But there was Ewan. DCI Ewan Rigston of Cumbria Police, as attached to his territory as a Herdwick sheep hefted to its fell. Her feelings for him had tethered her finally to one place. Cut her travelling to the bone, turned her from a nomad to someone with roots. Transformed her from a hunter-gatherer to a cultivator of a particular pasture. She’d never stayed in one place for so long, and it still surprised her that she didn’t resent that.
However, River had been wondering lately whether her academic career had stalled. There was little prospect of promotion at UNE; her path was blocked by complacent men who had alighted on the university as a convenient place to see out the rest of their working lives. They could live in some of the most glorious countryside in the country and spend their days in an institution that had no intention of ever punching above its weight. That might have been bearable if they’d been ancient dinosaurs with a few years to go before retirement. But they were only half a dozen years older than her and they were clinging to their professorial chairs with the grim determination of a politician to a safe
seat.
As she waited for the stable isotope analysis to finish, she wondered how feasible it would be to work somewhere else. Somewhere like Dundee. She could probably do a four-day week teaching and processing her lab work, one day working from home writing up her results and preparing publications. So she’d only be away three nights a week. And realistically, there were at least a couple of nights in any given week where work or its social obligations kept Ewan from home. It probably wouldn’t be so different. Plus she’d be so much happier at work, it would rub off at home. And the travelling wouldn’t be too horrendous. Train from Carlisle. Change at Edinburgh. She could make good use of the time; experience had taught her she could work anywhere.
The mass spectrometer beeped softly to signal that it had completed its cycle. River downloaded the results to her laptop then uploaded them into a program that would identify the geographical location indicated by the bone sample from the femur of the skeleton. She had one further test to run before she could put together a profile for Karen and it was the newest of her magic box of tricks.
The night before, she had taken a sample from the bone that anchors the key components of the human hearing system. The petrous section of the temporal bone is one of the hardest bones in the body; part of it houses the membranes that provide us with a sense of equilibrium, and allow us to receive sound waves. Where the two connect is one of the earliest parts of the skeleton to take shape. And so an analysis of that bone will reveal where in the world an individual’s mother was living when he was still in the womb. ‘I love this,’ River said under her breath as she loaded the prepared piece of bone. Within half an hour, she would know the soil where their skeleton’s roots had flourished.
The Skeleton Road Page 10