The Skeleton Road

by Road, The Skeleton

  ‘I wonder… Do you still have the footage from those cameras for the nights before the actual murder?’ Macanespie sounded casual. ‘You know how it is. My boss, he’s obsessive about detail.’

  Macropoulos looked startled. ‘You think the killer might be in the earlier footage too?’

  ‘I don’t. But my boss is the kind of bastard who would send me all the way back to look, just to make a point. It’d make my life easier if I could take copies of any other footage you’ve got. Futile, I know. But that’s how he is.’

  Macropoulos grinned. ‘I have bosses like this too. If you wait here, I’ll get what we have. I know there is nothing more from the first camera because they reuse the same video tape every day. That’s why the quality is so bad. But I think there is more from the other two.’

  Macanespie grinned at his retreating back. ‘He’s got fixed ideas about how an assassin should look. He doesn’t like the teenage boy with the skateboard and he definitely doesn’t like the woman in the baggy kaftan. Always supposing it is a woman and not some guy – remember that BBC foreign correspondent who got into Kabul by wearing a burka? So I want to take a look at who turns up earlier in the week. Somebody staked out that door code. This killer doesn’t leave things to chance, Theo. But maybe we’re the two heads that are better than one.’

  29

  Her conversation with Adam Turner had left Karen nowhere to turn except her victim’s distant past. Nothing in Dimitar Petrovic’s Oxford life pointed towards murder. But his history encompassed some of the bloodiest conflicts of the twentieth century. It wasn’t much of a reach to think the answer to his death must lie there. Persuading the Macaroon of that would be the hardest part.

  So she’d prepared a written pitch, complete with costings. A cheap flight to Venice, train to Zagreb then a hire car to a Croatian village in the middle of nowhere. It was almost as cheap as an overnight in London, she pointed out. She’d worry about the language barrier once she got there. In her experience, there was always a cop with good enough English to help out in an emergency. She’d made it sound as straightforward as a day-trip to Glasgow. It was her only chance.

  And miraculously it had worked. Phil had been incredulous when she’d told him the night before she flew out. ‘You got that past the Macaroon? Karen, you scare me sometimes.’

  She laughed. ‘It was easy. By making it a written request, it meant he didn’t actually have to talk to me. Me talking to him is like in a Tom and Jerry cartoon where Tom sticks his head in a beehive and there’s a whole cloud of bees buzzing round driving him totally mental. So if the Macaroon can avoid that… Easy peasy. I’m off to Croatia in the morning.’

  ‘Take care of yourself. I mean it, Karen.’

  ‘It’s not the wild west any more, Phil. They’re part of the EU.’

  ‘Aye, but there are still people there who did some seriously bad things not that long ago, and they’re not going to be very happy if you poke a stick in their ribs.’

  Karen gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I won’t be going around causing trouble. I’m just trying to get a few answers to some questions about a dead guy.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re looking for a murderer.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Phil. I’m not stupid. I can take care of myself.’ She had her stubborn face on now, and he knew enough to leave it.

  And so they’d left it. Her flight to Venice had departed Edinburgh on time next morning. Since she’d never been there before, she’d given herself a couple of hours’ grace in the city before she had to catch her train for Zagreb. It was just long enough to make her way from Piazzale Roma to St Mark’s Square and back again. Karen wasn’t as well travelled as she’d have liked, and she’d often found the reality of abroad less scintillating than the anticipation. Not so with Venice. In the end, she had to drag herself back to the station, catching her train with minutes to spare. It had been magical. She’d return with Phil, she promised herself as she emailed him a selection of the snaps she’d taken with her phone.

  Nine hours on a train wasn’t the worst way Karen could think of to spend a day but it was close. There was only so long you could look at scenery. But she’d had the good sense to download a string of BBC TV dramas on to her iPad and that was enough of a distraction to fill most of the time. She’d stocked up with plenty to eat before she’d left Edinburgh, so she didn’t even have to chance the train catering. But by the time the train pulled into Zagreb Glavni kolodvor, she was more than ready to breathe some fresh air and stretch her legs.

  Karen shouldered her backpack and walked through the cavernous concourse of the station, looking all around her, trying to work out where the car-hire counters were. It was far too late to set off for Podruvec, but she could pick up the car and head out of the city now while the traffic was quiet. She’d find a cheap hotel on the outskirts and set off properly in the morning.

  What she saw next made her misstep and almost clatter to the pale travertine floor. There, standing in the middle of the concourse, oblivious to everyone around her, staring up at the departure boards that flanked the entrance to the platforms, was Maggie Blake. ‘What the fuck,’ Karen said out loud.

  She paused for a moment, watching the professor, then slowly approached. ‘Professor Blake?’

  Maggie whirled round, her mouth falling open, her expression shocked. Then, seeing who it was, shock gave way to outrage. ‘Oh, my God. Are you following me?’

  ‘No. Really. I’m not. Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Maggie was edging towards anger, Karen could see that.

  ‘I suspect I’m heading for the same place as you. That is, if you’re still interested in finding out about Dimitar Petrovic.’

  ‘So where do you think that would take me?’

  ‘Well, I’m heading for a wee place called Podruvec. I was told that’s where the general hailed from. I thought I’d start where he started. Is that where you’re going?’

  Some of the aggression leaked out of Maggie. ‘I should have come here years ago. I was never honest with myself about wanting to know Mitja’s history. Call him Mitja, by the way. Nobody who knew him ever called him Dimitar.’

  ‘OK. So, are you going to Podruvec too?’

  Maggie nodded. ‘I was trying to figure out whether I could get to Osijek tonight, but I don’t think I can.’

  ‘I’m done with trains, me. I was just going to pick up a hire car. I thought I’d look for somewhere on the outskirts to spend the night. You’re welcome to join me if you want. I wouldn’t mind the company.’ The offer was sincere, and not just because Maggie Blake was currently her best source of information. Having a navigator wouldn’t hurt on such unfamiliar terrain. It had also occurred to Karen that Maggie probably spoke decent Croatian, given her time in Dubrovnik and the years she’d been with Petrovic.

  Maggie looked at her suspiciously. ‘Is that allowed, when you’re on police business? Taking a civilian along for the ride?’

  Karen grinned. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t. Look, we both want the same thing. To find out who killed your general. I think we’ll make a better job of that together than either of us will alone.’

  ‘Not to mention that I speak the language. So you won’t have to find someone to interpret for you,’ Maggie said drily.

  ‘There’s that. All I know are the words for please, beer and ice cream, which isn’t going to get me far. But I do have a car, and I suspect you’re not going to get to Podruvec without one. We’re both bringing something to the table.’

  Maggie looked Karen up and down, as if measuring her for some unspecified garment. ‘All right,’ she said at last. ‘Just so long as you remember we’re not friends. We might not always be on the same side.’

  ‘Fair enough. Now, can you figure out these signs? I’m looking for the rental car agencies.’

  Maggie laughed. ‘You’ll be lucky. We’ll have to get a cab to the airport. It’s not far. Come on, let’s go.’ She set
off, not waiting to see whether Karen was following. The detective caught up with her as they emerged into the cool night air. ‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Maggie said as they reached the cab rank.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t tell them you’re a cop. Not if you want them to trust you.’

  30

  Jason Murray was bright enough to know he wasn’t bright enough. He also realised he was lucky to have a boss like Karen Pirie, who was mostly patient and who didn’t need to big herself up by putting him down. In another team, he knew he’d be the one at the bottom of the pile, getting whatever crap was going and forever being stuck with the grunt work. So whenever he had the chance to do something that would impress the boss, he grabbed it with both hands.

  She was always on at him about using his initiative. Not in a shitty, having-a-dig kind of way, but more like encouraging him. So when she was out of town and he was left behind, it was a perfect opportunity to show her what he could do. The trouble was, once he’d rung Tamsin Martineau and established there was no news on the key-card’s digital forensics, he couldn’t think of anything useful to pursue except the traditional cop motto. When in doubt, huddle together over food and drink.

  Because he’d started the day at his parents’ house again, the closest source of these necessities was the canteen at Kirkcaldy police station. Once he was settled at a table with the Daily Record, a bacon roll dripping with brown sauce and a mug of industrial-strength tea, Jason felt much less stressed at his inability to think of constructive action.

  He was halfway through the sports pages, gloating secretly over the travails of Hibs, when he realised someone was standing over him. He raised his head and took in Detective Inspector Phil Parhatka, dressed down in jeans and a rugby shirt, carrying a fry-up and a mug. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he said.

  Jason nodded, confused by his mixed feelings. He’d liked it when Phil had been his sergeant in the old Cold Case Unit. He was a grafter, Phil, but he always made it look effortless. Easy-going, too. He took everything in his stride and he was good at defusing things when the boss got frustrated and wanted to kick somebody. There was always a good atmosphere in the office when Phil was around. But then he’d got it together with the boss. And that made everything different. It wasn’t like he acted differently towards Jason or anything. But it had been a tight wee team, and Jason felt like it had gone from being the three of them united against the bad guys to being two plus one. It had been the first time in his life that Jason had felt like one of the top cats, and that had changed.

  That sense of being on the outside had shifted once Phil got promoted and moved to the Murder Protection Team and it was just him and the boss. Then when she got made up to head of the Historic Cases Unit, he’d thought that would be the end of the good life for him. But the boss had taken him with her and although they were a small core team, they had respect because they got results. Still, he wasn’t quite as sure of himself around Phil as he’d once been. He had to watch himself; he wasn’t daft, he knew Phil would report straight back to Karen anything he thought she should know.

  ‘What’re you doing in Kirkcaldy?’ Jason asked.

  Phil gestured at his plate. ‘Cat’s away, mouse has a heart attack on a plate. The guy at the top of our target list isn’t due back for a couple of days so we’re in the fallback place of catching up on checks on the bastards we’ll be going after next. I love this berth, Jason. You put these guys away and it’s like watching Raith Rovers winning the cup. Every time. They’re so bloody sure of themselves, so bloody arrogant. Watching that certainty turn to dust, it’s the best feeling I’ve ever had in this job.’

  ‘Wow, that’s saying something.’

  ‘How are you doing? I’ve had Karen and River bending my ear about this skeleton up the John Drummond. How’s it going?’

  Jason wrinkled his nose. ‘Tell you the truth, I’m a bit dead-ended. The boss was in such a hurry to get away she didn’t task me. Maybe because there isn’t much to do. The only lead we’ve got is that hotel key-card, and digital forensics say it could be weeks before they’ve got anything off it.’

  Phil shovelled in a forkful of bacon, beans and fried egg. When he’d finished chewing, he said, ‘It’s not always the technology that gets results, Jason. Sometimes we get so obsessed by what the scientists can do that we forget the value of what we can do.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, take this key for example. It’s got to open a door somewhere, right. If your man came to Edinburgh specifically to climb the John Drummond, chances are he’ll have stayed some place nearby. A guest house or a small hotel, I’d guess, given he doesn’t seem to have been a rich bastard. So why don’t you get Tamsin to send you a pic of the key and go round the guest houses, see if you can get a match.’

  ‘But there might be more than one,’ Jason said. ‘It’s a pretty ordinary-looking key.’

  ‘Yeah, but when you get a match, you ask whether they’ve still got the details of the guests for that date. These days, with everything on computers, it’s not totally unlikely. You might get lucky.’ He loaded up another full fork and put it in his mouth. As he chewed, he added, ‘You know how she likes it when we bring her a wee present.’

  And so Jason had finished his breakfast and set off for Edinburgh. Because Karen had drilled into him the need for preparation, he’d spent an hour on the computer mapping out all the hotels and guest houses within two miles of the John Drummond. Edinburgh being a tourist city, there were a formidable number. Then he had his own bright idea. He could work his way down the list on the phone and eliminate everyone who didn’t have red key-cards. That would make the task much more manageable.

  The advantage of checking out hotels was that somebody always answered the phone. They might not speak much English beyond what was strictly necessary to take a booking, but Jason was patient and he managed to explain himself to all but one receptionist, who stubbornly refused to believe he was a police officer. He considered turning up at her desk, just to annoy her.

  In the end, he had reduced his list to twenty-seven. The first dozen produced six definite noes, two that didn’t have computerised records going back eight years and four that had the wrong shade of red. At the ninth address, a small private hotel, he recited his familiar spiel and showed the photograph.

  ‘Yeah, looks like it could be one of ours,’ said the friendly receptionist in an unmistakably Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Do you still have your records for September 2007?’ He tried his most appealing look, aiming for the supplicant Puss in Boots in the Shrek movies. It didn’t work on the boss, but it might work on this lassie.

  She looked dubious. ‘I don’t know. Let me go and check with the manager.’

  Jason’s optimism shrivelled. In his experience, managers generally wanted to cover their arses more than they wanted to help the police. He leaned against the counter, morosely playing Candy Crush while he waited. At least there was something he was good at.

  When the receptionist returned, her cheery smile was still in place. ‘It’s your lucky day,’ she said. ‘Do you want to come through the office and take a look?’

  Jason didn’t need to be asked twice. He followed her through to a tiny office that managed to be dingy in spite of eye-poppingly bright lights. A man who looked no older than the receptionist slid out of an office chair and said, ‘It’s all yours, pal.’ It was amazing how the word ‘murder’ opened doors in some circumstances.

  He started with the first of the month, even though he knew at that point Petrovic had still been in Oxford. But it would give him a feel for how the records were laid out. ‘What do these codes mean?’ he asked, pointing at the screen.

  ‘That tells you how the account was settled. Cash. Cheque. Credit card. Debit card or account,’ the manager explained.

  There was nothing of interest on the second or the third. But when Jason pulled up the records for the fourth of September, it leapt out at him: D. Petrov
ic, room 18. Home address in Oxford. ‘This one,’ he said. ‘Tell me about this one.’

  The manager leaned over and studied the screen. ‘Booked in for two nights. Paid cash in advance. No car.’

  ‘Was he by himself?’

  The manager shrugged. ‘No way of knowing that. He booked a single room but they’ve all got double beds.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got key-card entry and exit records?’

  The manager snorted incredulously. ‘What do you think we are? MI5? This is it, pal.’

  He’d known it was a daft question but he’d known he had to ask it because the boss would ask him. But it didn’t matter. Five minutes later, he was walking down Corstorphine Road with a spring in his step and a printout in his pocket that would put him smack dab in the middle of the boss’s good books. If Dimitar Petrovic had travelled with his killer to climb the John Drummond, chances were that his name was nestling next to Jason’s wallet.

  Job done.

  The Serb demand that Dubrovnik should surrender was a constant accompaniment to the bombardment of the city. But even our Serb population – who were as consistently stalwart as any other citizen in their commitment to their home town – were adamant that we should not give in. We saw ourselves as a symbol for Croatia. If we caved in, how would the rest of the country find the nerve to stand and fight in the face of such superior numbers?

  Around the time of the fall of Vukovar, there was a lull in the attacks because the European Union Monitoring Mission was mediating between the Yugoslav National Army (JNA) and the Croatian authorities in Dubrovnik. But after the JNA attacked members of the mission, that ended. Supposed ceasefires were brokered. Each time, our spirits rose then collapsed again when the gunfire echoed through the broken streets.