Blood Count

by Robert Goddard

‘La vita pacifica. Of course. We all want that.’ Felltrini picked up the piece of paper. ‘Marco is much smarter with numbers than I am. But he lacks what my mother would call il buon senso. I suppose that is why I have a good business and a beautiful home and he has only … a suitcase.’ He smiled. ‘He owes me many favours.’

  ‘Time to call one in, then.’

  ‘Si.’ Felltrini gave a pragmatic little nod. ‘It will be done.’

  It had gone as well as it could and much better than it might have done. Hammond nevertheless felt more relieved than exhilarated when they left Felltrini’s offices. Securing Gazi’s money for his family was nothing to be proud of. And pressurizing Piravani through an old friend left a nasty taste in the mouth. But he was hopeful Piravani would throw in the towel after this. He had no way of knowing the threat Hammond had used to intimidate Felltrini was an empty one. The funds would surely soon be transferred.

  What they would learn from him about Monir was less clear-cut. It was possible Piravani would be genuinely unable to help them even if he was willing to. And since neither he nor Felltrini had anything to fear once the money had reached Ingrid and her clan, there was ultimately no way of extracting information about the boy.

  Hammond assumed Zineta’s awareness of this explained her subdued mood. He booked them into a hotel and suggested, absurd though it was to find himself saying it, that they do some sightseeing to pass the time until they received an answer to their message. Zineta agreed with little apparent enthusiasm. A tour of the cathedral followed, during which she seemed lost in thought and largely unaware of her surroundings.

  ‘This isn’t working, is it?’ Hammond asked as they emerged into the wide grey expanse of the Piazza del Duomo.

  ‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ she said, gazing back at the cathedral’s majestic west front. ‘I can’t seem to … concentrate on anything except …’

  ‘Are you nervous about how Marco will react?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Well, let’s go and have a coffee. Or maybe something stronger.’

  She nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  They set off through the thickening drizzle towards the cavernous entrance to the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. They were barely halfway there when Hammond’s phone rang. His first thought was that the wait for Piravani’s response was over. But he soon realized the call was a much less welcome one.

  ‘Hello, Bill.’

  ‘Edward. I was expecting you to call me back last night.’

  ‘Gosh, I’m sorry. I’ve been rushed off my feet.’

  ‘Yes, yes. You’re a busy man. I understand that. Though busy with what I have no idea and neither, of course, does your PA.’

  ‘I thought I explained. It’s something I can’t discuss.’

  ‘If that’s what you call an explanation, I must beg to differ. But never mind. I simply want to know when you’re coming home. I’d like us to meet.’

  ‘I should be back by the weekend.’

  ‘Fine. Some time then?’

  ‘By all means. But, er … I can’t be definite about a return date just yet. I’ll have to get back to you.’

  ‘Of course.’ Hammond thought he heard Bill follow that with a sigh.

  ‘I’ll speak to you soon, Bill, OK? ’Bye for now.’

  Home by the weekend? On the face of it, there was no reason he should not be. Hammond willed himself to believe it.

  *

  The Caffè Zucca was crowded with shoppers and tourists taking refuge from the bleak weather. They sat at a table out in the galleria. Hammond ordered two coffees and one large brandy. Zineta lit a cigarette and drew on it anxiously.

  ‘Who was that on the phone?’ she asked.

  ‘My late wife’s brother.’

  ‘Does he know about the threat to your daughter?’

  The threat to Alice. Of course. How the lies multiplied. Like a colony of rats. ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘You have taken a lot on yourself.’

  ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘Do you really think the threat is serious?’

  That, though Zineta did not know it, was a leading question. ‘I have to assume it is.’

  ‘Ingrid’s probably bluffing, you know.’ Their drinks arrived. She took a sip of brandy. He had the impression she was trying to talk down the seriousness of the situation, for both their sakes. ‘If she lost the money, my guess is she would see no sense paying someone to go after your daughter.’

  ‘So, you think I’m being conned into helping Gazi?’

  ‘No one should help him if they can avoid it, Edward. He is an evil man.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you? I didn’t understand how evil he is until I went to Bosnia. When you hear things … from the people they happened to … it’s different. Very different.’

  ‘You heard things about Gazi?’

  ‘His paramilitaries – the Wolves – had a brutal reputation. They killed thousands. Not just in battle. They killed them … wherever they found them. I met a woman in Mostar who was still looking for her three children ten years after they were taken from her by the Wolves. She was looking for their bones, of course. There was no doubt they were all dead. A two-year-old, a three-year-old and a five-year-old. The soldiers kept her alive because she was beautiful. She wasn’t beautiful when I met her, though. Someone had carved a word on her forehead with a knife. You could still read the scars. Vuki. The Wolves.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘The soldiers took her to their camp and raped her many times. She met Gazi there.’

  ‘Did he …’

  ‘No. He didn’t touch her. Except with his knife.’

  ‘You mean …’

  ‘He carved the word on her forehead.’

  Hammond looked away. He felt physically sick. Around them, the well-dressed and the well-fed laughed and chatted over coffee and cakes. That such inhumanity as Zineta had described could break out in a country just the other side of the Adriatic seemed unimaginable. Yet it had. Civilization was a thin fabric, easily torn.

  ‘Will she … testify against him?’ he asked hesitantly.

  ‘I don’t think so. She would be too ashamed.’

  ‘What has she to be ashamed of?’

  ‘Much, as she sees it. She was raped because she was a Muslim. And she was marked so that it would never be forgotten. Serbs did that to her. And I am a Serb. I lied to her. I told her I was Slovenian. If she had known I was Serbian … she would probably have spat in my face. And I would not have blamed her.’

  ‘You can’t be held responsible for what Gazi and his men did, Zineta.’

  ‘No. But Gazi’s money should be spent rebuilding the lives of his victims, like that woman in Mostar, not keeping his family in luxury. You and I both know this.’ She looked across the table at Hammond, her gaze direct and unforgiving, of him and herself.

  ELEVEN

  The marbled public spaces of the Hotel Manzoni echoed every footfall. There were not many of those, however, midweek finding it quiet to the point of somnolence. But this did nothing to soothe Zineta’s nerves, or Hammond’s, as they picked at their food and sipped their wine in the hotel’s restaurant, where diners were out-numbered by waiters and the loudest noise was the chink of cutlery on china.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Zineta.

  ‘About ten minutes later than when you last asked,’ Hammond replied, smiling wryly.

  ‘He should have called by now.’

  ‘Well, I wish he had. But he will call. I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Because we frightened him?’

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid so. It comes down to—’ He broke off at the sight of one of the reception clerks bearing down on them. ‘Hello, what’s this?’

  ‘Mi scusi, signore,’ the young man said. ‘There is a gentleman on the telephone who wishes to speak to you, Dr Hammond. He says it is urgent. His name is Piravani.’

  So, Piravani had bypassed his friend – perhaps the friendliest thing he could have d
one. But why had he not used the number Hammond had given Felltrini? And how did he know which hotel they were staying in? ‘Where can I take the call?’

  ‘This way, dottore.’

  The clerk ushered Hammond to a booth off reception. He picked up the phone and the call was transferred.

  ‘Dr Hammond?’ It was Piravani.

  ‘Yes, Marco, it’s me.’

  ‘Buona sera.’ The greeting was not delivered warmly.

  ‘You’ve spoken to Guido?’

  ‘Obviously, doctor. He is … alarmed. And I am angry that you have threatened my friend.’

  ‘You left me little choice. You didn’t turn up to our rendezvous in London. Ryan was no substitute.’

  ‘You had the choice of telling Ingrid to go fuck herself.’ He was angry. That was clear.

  ‘Exchanging insults won’t get us anywhere, Marco. You know what you have to do. Why didn’t you call me on my mobile, anyway?’

  ‘Because you’ve thrown your number around like the new tart in town. Traceability, doctor. You should think about it. If we’re to do business, as it seems we must, you will have to start being more careful.’

  ‘How did you know which hotel to call?’

  ‘I didn’t. I called seven others before I found you. That’s what being careful involves.’

  ‘All right, all right. You’ve made your point.’

  ‘I hope so. Lose your phone, doctor. Throw it away. Buy another. I change mine like socks. You must do the same.’

  ‘If you really think it’s necessary.’

  ‘I do. Now, tell me, how did you find Zineta?’

  ‘We bumped into each other. In The Hague.’

  ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘What do you think? She’s looking for her son, Marco. As any mother would.’

  ‘Some mother. She let Gazi make her his whore.’

  ‘Whereas being his accountant was a laudable and reputable occupation, I suppose.’

  ‘You’re the guy who saved his life, doctor. Remember that.’

  ‘I’m not in any danger of forgetting it.’

  ‘But you’d like to.’

  ‘Yes, Marco. I’d like to. I’d like to be able to forget this whole bloody business. But I can’t. Until you transfer that money. So, what’s it to be?’

  There was a heavy pause before Piravani replied. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘You will?’

  ‘Yes, doctor. You win. OK? Like you told Guido, if you can find him, so can others. I can’t risk Ingrid hiring someone to beat information out of him that he doesn’t actually possess. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.’ He sounded frustrated as well as angry. But those were good signs. They were to be expected of a man who had been backed into a corner.

  ‘The money will be in the account by close of business tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes. I will make sure it is.’

  ‘And Monir? Where is he?’

  ‘That is … more complicated.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In the way that such things are.’

  ‘Come on, Marco. Isn’t it time to bury the hatchet? Zineta just wants her son back. She’s not a bad person.’

  ‘It’s usually the bad people who get what they want, doctor, not the other way round. And the complication is that I don’t know where the boy is.’

  ‘That’s difficult to believe.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘But you must know where he was taken. You arranged his disappearance.’

  ‘Not personally. Anyway, that was nine years ago. I …’ Piravani sighed audibly. ‘There is someone who will know where he is now for certain. I will speak to him.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow. It cannot be done sooner.’

  ‘All right. When will we hear from you?’

  ‘When the transfer is done. By then, I may have information on the boy.’

  ‘May?’

  ‘Is the best I can do, doctor. Tell Zineta from me: it’s more than I owe her.’

  Hammond did not pass on Piravani’s message to Zineta. If it was true, as quite probably it was, she did not need to be reminded of it. There was the prospect for her to cling to that she would soon learn where Monir was. That was enough. It had to be.

  Meanwhile, there was more waiting to be done: that night and in all likelihood most of the following day. In this respect at least Zineta seemed better equipped to cope than Hammond. ‘I know about waiting, Edward. I am an expert.’

  He could claim little experience of it himself, and less tolerance. In the career he had followed, his demands and expectations took priority over those of his staff. The last five days had been a disagreeable taste of how life felt when other people set the rules. It was not a life he wanted to lead any longer than he had to.

  Midnight found him lying on the bed in his room, watching a film on the television he knew well enough to follow the plot, even though it was dubbed in Italian. The soporific effect he hoped for had not so far been forthcoming. When the telephone rang, he thought it was probably Zineta, complaining of sleeplessness herself. It did not occur to him that Piravani would be calling back so soon. If it had, he would have guessed that events had taken an unforeseen turn. And he would have been right.

  ‘I am sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said the receptionist. ‘You have an urgent call from a Signor Piravani. Will you take it?’

  ‘Put him through.’

  A second later, Piravani was on the line. ‘I need you to do something for me, doctor.’ There was no anger in his voice now. But there was anxiety.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. Maybe … everything.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means I can’t make contact with Guido. I’ve called him several times since I last spoke to you, at home and the office. No answer. But when I spoke to him earlier, he was desperate for me to resolve the situation. He insisted I call him to confirm you and I had reached an agreement. He actually said he’d be by the phone. It makes no sense.’

  ‘Have you tried his mobile?’

  ‘Of course. There’s no reply.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘I want you to go to his office. That’s where he was when we spoke. He said he’d stay there until I called back.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘This affects you as well as me, doctor. We need to know what’s happened to him. I’d go myself if I was in Milan. But I’m not. I’m not even in Italy. You’re less than a kilometre away. You have to go.’

  It occurred to Hammond that Felltrini could simply have grown so exasperated waiting for Piravani to call that he had headed off in search of whatever late-night entertainment his tastes ran to. In that case, going to his office would achieve nothing. ‘I’m not sure about this, Marco.’

  ‘But I am, doctor. No funds will be transferred until I know how Guido is. So, phone me when you’ve checked the office. And use a land line, OK? I’ll give you my number.’ Piravani reeled off the number and Hammond scribbled it down on the bedside notepad. ‘You have that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll expect to hear from you soon.’

  Hammond headed straight out into the night. He did not tell Zineta he was leaving, fearing she would insist on accompanying him. As it was, he kept reasoning to himself that Felltrini was on his way home, or drowning his sorrows somewhere. There really was no cause for concern.

  The drizzle of earlier in the day had turned to sleet, slicking the pavements with a layer of half-frozen mush. The streets were quiet, eerily so in the vicinity of Felltrini’s office. Hammond’s confidence that Piravani was making a fuss about nothing ebbed as he neared his destination.

  The jewellery store was closed and securely shuttered. There was no light in the foyer leading to the lift and stairs accessing the floors above. But a light was shining, brightly, in the top-floor room where he and Zineta had been received by Felltrini. Could he still be up there? I
f so, why had he not answered the phone?

  Hammond pressed the intercom buzzer marked Felltrini e Soci. There was no response, first, second or third time. He walked off along the street, considering his options, such as they were. Then he noticed a cobbled alley leading to a courtyard behind the building. He headed down it, wondering if he would see a car parked there that might belong to Felltrini. And he did. Standing forlornly in one corner of the courtyard was an Audi saloon that pretty much fitted the bill.

  He whirled round suddenly, momentarily convinced that someone was watching him. But there was no one there. No one in their right mind would be there, so late on a sleety night. He knew that. He silently cursed Piravani and wondered if setting off the Audi’s alarm might bring Felltrini running. What the hell could the man be playing at?

  Some eddying of the slack, shifting wind was answered by a creak and a movement in the shadows at the edge of the courtyard. Hammond’s heart was in his mouth. Then he realized it was a door, swinging open on its hinges. It clunked back against the jamb as he watched, but something prevented it from closing.

  He walked across for a closer look. It was a fireproof door with a locking bar on the inside, the kind that stays open once used. Within, dimly lit by a green lamp above the lintel, was a flight of stairs – the plain concrete treads of a fire escape.

  Something was wrong. It was no longer possible to pretend otherwise. Hammond was frightened, both for Felltrini and himself. He looked back at the car and the mouth of the alley. As far as he could tell, he was alone in the courtyard. But how far was that? The walls and doorways around him cast deep enough shadows to conceal more than one invisible observer. Suddenly, the inside of the building felt safer to him than the outside. He stepped in through the door and pulled it firmly shut.

  There was nothing for it now but to climb to the top of the fire escape and establish what, if anything, had happened at Felltrini e Soci that evening. He took the stairs two at a time, reckoning hesitation would only erode his resolution.

  He reached Felltrini’s floor a few minutes later, breathless and sweating from more than just the ascent. A final flight of stairs led on up to the roof, but he opened the door labelled ULTIMO PIANO and entered the accountancy’s brightly lit reception area. He was to the rear of the now unstaffed front desk, with the glass doors by which he and Zineta had arrived the previous afternoon to his right. Most of the adjoining offices were in darkness, but the route to Felltrini’s was not.