‘Božović.’
‘Does he have any contacts at the passport office on Sava Street?’
‘Why not ask him yourself ?’
‘Very funny.’ Irritated, Marco put the bottle down. ‘You’re the one who’s sleeping with the guy. You’ve definitely got the better connection there.’
‘I’ll tell you something for free right now.’ Diana waited until he looked her in the eyes. ‘You’re a real shit, you know.’
‘Why? Because I ask you a favour?’
‘I know your Frenchman was fed up with Belgrade, and that you’re stuck without a passport in this shit country where nothing works. But it’s your own fault.’
‘Pray enlighten me.’ Marco leant back and took a photo of her as she continued.
‘What I’m saying is, you’ve got good looks and brains. Why don’t you do something with them? Like I do!’
He inspected the screen with a grin. ‘Hmm, I’m not so sure about that. Just look at your mouth in this picture…’
‘Show me!’
There was a scuffle, they laughed, and he took another picture, when suddenly the James Bond theme broke in. Diana’s retro ringtone. Marco held the phone at arm’s length. Caller not recognised.
‘Don’t take it!’ Diana tried to take the phone away from him, but he was stronger. The movement of his thumb was almost accidental, and the connection was made.
‘Hello?’ asked a male voice at the other end. ‘Diana?’
Marco pressed the phone against his ear, while Diana punched him, and replied, ‘Diana can’t talk at the moment.’
‘Marco?’ asked the man. ‘Is that you?’
‘Goran!’ Marco took his feet off the sofa in surprise.
‘Are you partying, or what?’
‘Where are you?’ Marco got up and turned down the music.
‘Could I speak to Diana, please?’
‘Diana?’ He looked at her. She shook her head and waved her hands defensively. ‘I’m sorry,’ Marco said.
‘Don’t mess with me. I know she’s sitting right next to you.’
‘If you like,’ Marco offered, ‘I can pass a message on to her.’
‘Doesn’t she ever listen to the messages on her voicemail? She should get a grip on herself. But what do I care? Just tell her that I’ll drop by tomorrow at six. I just want to talk to her and, if it’s all the same to her, leave something with her.’
‘And what’s that, might I ask?’
‘None of your fucking business! Have you understood what I’ve told you?’
‘Calm down, man. Tomorrow, eighteen hundred hours. I’ll tell her.’
‘Do you know if someone came to see her and asked her about me?’
‘No idea. Not that I know of.’
‘And tell her she shouldn’t upset herself about this business. She’ll get her money. And another thing…’ There was a pause at the other end.
‘Hello?’ Marco asked.
‘Tell her I love her.’
Marco looked at the display. The connection was cut. He put down the phone. ‘Idiot.’
‘What did he want?’ Diana asked.
‘To meet you.’ Marco blew a strand of his hair from his forehead. Tomorrow Goran would come to Diana’s flat. At last, some concrete information. Marco rubbed his eyes. Maybe this was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Don’t rush things, now. If he were going to pass that information on to Nat, he had to somehow keep Diana out of it.
With her hands in her trouser pockets, she stood in front of him and asked, ‘When does Goran want to meet me?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Marco answered mechanically.
‘What time?’
‘Six o’clock.’
She turned away in disdain. ‘How nice for him. Did he at least apologise?’
‘He said you shouldn’t upset yourself.’
‘God, that guy bores the arse off me.’ She flopped onto the bed. ‘I can’t tell you how boring he is!’
Marco poured the rest of the beer into the sink. ‘He wants to store something at your flat.’
‘What’s that? Boxes? His dowry? Every day he clogs up my voicemail with this rubbish. But I’ve got my own life to lead, you know? He needs to just leave me alone.’
‘Right.’ Marco threw another pillow onto the bed. ‘You don’t owe him anything.’
She lay there, motionless. Was she crying? ‘Hey,’ he whispered, squatting down beside her and gently stroking her hair from her face. ‘Is everything OK?’
She fumbled around for a handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘Tell me,’ she took a deep breath. ‘Do you remember that guy from the Zeppelin?’
Alarmed, Marco stared vacantly into space. ‘Guy from the Zeppelin?’ he repeated. ‘What guy?’
‘With the dress handkerchief and the big-shot gloves. Don’t you remember? We kept laughing about him all evening. What was his name again?’
‘Nat, wasn’t it?’
‘Mr Natty – exactly! He gave you his telephone number, didn’t he? Have you still got it?’
Marco sighed audibly. ‘I’d have to look for it. Why?’
‘Did he ever get back to you?’
‘What gave you that idea?’
‘I mean, he asked after Goran, so maybe he’s got something to do with Goran acting so strange now. You know, suddenly disappearing, then reappearing again out of the blue and asking to store something in my flat. I find the whole thing really weird.’
‘Then there was that woman asking after Goran too, that criminologist.’
‘That old bag didn’t have a clue,’ Diana sighed. ‘You know what?’
He put his arm around her.
‘I’ll go there tomorrow and meet Goran. I’m not going to hide any more. I’ll listen to what he has to say, be totally noncommittal and then we’ll see. What do you reckon?’
‘Good idea…’ Marco hesitated. ‘On the other hand, though, if you feel uncomfortable meeting him – maybe there’s another solution.’
21
The magazine Prominent! reported on the wedding of the Serbian tennis player and a Swedish model as the event of the week. A ceremony with the wedding party all in white, barefoot on a beach. Milena scanned the captions, skipped over an advertisement for a French car and reached the confession of an Italian high financier who recounted the story of how he had been cured of his addiction to sex. She sighed, and was about to close the magazine and put it aside when she happened upon the narrow diary column.
The top story in it concerned the secretary of state: ‘In a few days’ time, Dr Slobodan Božović will be celebrating his fiftieth birthday with a party’. Celebrities from Belgrade society would be mingling with political leaders and captains of industry. Most of the names mentioned didn’t mean anything to Milena. Božović, the host, was asking his guests for generous donations to the Serbian aid programme for Kosovo, claiming, ‘This would be the very best present I could ever have.’ Prominent! sent congratulations in advance, and swooned, ‘Great guy, amazing gesture,’ while wishing the minister a ‘fabulous party’.
Milena scrutinised the small photograph next to the story. The secretary of state was smiling so broadly that his little eyes almost disappeared between his cheeks and his bushy eyebrows. The man had something gluttonous about him, and at the same time looked pretty content – which certainly could not be said of the woman at his side. Milena took out her glasses and opened them.
The woman had clearly had a complete makeover: large eyes, high cheekbones, perfectly arched eyebrows – Milena would have bet any money that the politician’s wife was a product of Tanja’s artistry.
‘Is that so engrossing?’ A shadow fell across the magazine page. Milena looked up.
‘Please excuse my lateness,’ said Alexander Kronburg.
Milena pointed to the little photograph. ‘I need to make contact with this man.’
The German ambassador bent over the page, and a lock of his otherwise perfectly groomed hair fell across his brow. M
ilena saw him scan the text, with his pupils quickly leaping from line to line.
‘You know him,’ she said. ‘Slobodan Božović; you were in conference with him only the other week. Do you think you could swing it for me to meet him?’
Kronburg turned the magazine in his hands and frowned. ‘How urgent is it?’
‘It’s to do with the Serbian returnees’ property, the house in Talinovac to be precise. Whenever I call the State Chancellery I never get past the press office.’
‘Talinovac?’ Kronburg sat down and straightened out his tie. ‘Do you mean the house of that Serbian couple, that gruesome story?’
‘May I take your order?’ The waitress got out her pad.
Kronburg glanced absent-mindedly at the cake display. Milena advised him, ‘You’ve got to try the Diplomat Cake.’
‘The Diplomat Cake?’ he repeated in surprise. ‘Isn’t that as dry as dust?’
‘With iced raspberries,’ the waitress noted down. ‘And for you?’
‘Coffee, black,’ replied Milena, passing her the menu. ‘Times two.’
The waitress disappeared and Kronburg asked, ‘What about that property in Talinovac?’
‘The house is a ruin.’
‘Does that mean you’ve been there?’ Alexander Kronburg shook his head in disbelief. ‘Two Serbian refugees were just murdered there. Was that your friend’s bright idea, the lawyer? Has he been instructed to act in this case, then?’
‘We can fairly assume that of the millions earmarked for this returnee programme not one cent has ever reached Talinovac.’
‘The funds are rather limited, but that’s all set to change in the not-too-distant future. The programme’s about to be expanded.’
‘Perhaps,’ Milena interrupted, ‘the programme shouldn’t be expanded but reassessed.’
‘Everything will be done to ensure there’s no repeat of that horrible business.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
Kronburg leant back. ‘What are you accusing me of ?’
‘I get the impression that the politicians don’t really want to know what’s going on down there. For instance, I’m dying to know what the other houses that have been assigned to the other returnees look like, and what the secretary of state responsible for that matter, Dr Slobodan Božović, has to say about the whole affair. Don’t you want to know as well?’
‘Diplomat Cake?’ the waitress asked.
Kronburg nodded, folded his arms and stared at the smooth, dark chocolate icing. ‘Božović isn’t a bad guy,’ he said. ‘He’s down to earth, always looking for solutions, and above all he has a firm grasp of the facts and knows what he’s talking about.’ He made two attempts to cut through the thick chocolate coating with his fork. ‘But if you’re right, and the house in Talinovac was assigned without any regard for ✴ 193 ✴ the regulations of the EU programme, then that would constitute reasonable grounds for an inquiry.’ He reached inside his jacket and looked at the screen of his mobile. ‘Please excuse me – my office.’
While he was taking the call, speaking in hushed tones, Milena leant across and speared a piece of chocolate from his cake. Why was this man always so… awkward? So pedantic?
He hung up. ‘My assistant,’ he said. ‘I’m flying to Berlin at six this evening.’
Milena looked at her watch. ‘That’s in an hour. Where’s your luggage?’
‘On its way.’
‘Didn’t you want to discuss something with me?’
He put money on the table. ‘Would you come to the airport with me? My driver can take you back into town afterwards. It’s very important.’
Milena stood up. ‘Regarding Božović – it might be good if we could meet him together. What do you think? Maybe for lunch. As soon as possible.’
Alexander Kronburg helped her into her jacket and gently brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘do you think there’s a connection between that ruin and the death of the pensioners?’
Milena took her bag and stuffed the magazine into it. ‘I really don’t know. But I’m going to find out.’
22
At five forty-five p.m., a quarter of an hour before the time he’d arranged to meet Diana at her home, Goran was sitting at a window seat in the bistro across the road and watching a delivery van park on the opposite side of the street. The parking space was too small, and the vehicle pulled backwards and forwards countless times before finally coming to a halt. The rear wheel was half-resting on the kerb and the rear doors were so close to the car behind that they’d be hard to open.
Goran finished his drink in one swig and noticed that the van driver and his passenger hadn’t got out; instead they were keeping their eyes firmly trained on Diana’s front door. Goran wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers.
‘You OK there?’ The espresso machine was hissing, and the guy behind the counter was clearing away the dishes. ‘Or would you like another one?’
Goran nodded. ‘And a glass of water.’ He reached for the box containing the napkins.
He’d stopped counting the people who were after him, and certainly couldn’t tell them apart. They only had one thing in common: sooner or later they disappeared into thin air – like the guy in the hoodie. He’d been the latest one, following him from Victory Square to Belgrade Street. He’d also got onto the number 6 tram that Goran had taken in the direction of Palilula, but had then vanished somewhere between Vasa Street and St Stephan Street. Paranoia, that’s what it was called. Goran had been suffering from it ever since they’d lain in wait for him in Talinovac, at the scene of the crime, in his parents’ house – and ever since he had realised the nature of the task that his father had left him with.
The bartender put down the glasses in front of him. Goran drank the water and nipped at the whisky. The situation was tricky and the material potentially explosive. He had to do something. He had made his parents believe in castles in the air, had awakened hopes they had long buried and had sold their dream for a few lousy bills. He didn’t know how yet, but he had to make sure somehow that the truth came out. He had to discuss matters with Diana, get the whole thing sorted and then maybe start his life again. Reset the clock. And he was adamant he shouldn’t trust anyone, especially not guys like Nat. Everything had started to go awry when that guy showed up – with his fancy gloves, a dress handkerchief and an offer that had knocked him over back then and which he would never forget: ‘We’re looking for someone like you.’ No one had ever said anything like that to him before. He was a bouncer and a failed footballer, with an aura of provincial Belgrade clinging to him that was just as enduring as Nat’s permanent cloud of Italian aftershave.
Goran drank his scotch and pressed his thumb and index finger against the bridge of his nose. His eyes were burning. It was OK. It had been a fantastic time back then: fast-track training as a bodyguard, a permanent job at a major security firm, a suit, Ray-Bans and a headset – the whole shebang. He imagined he’d gone up in the world, and could get any girl he wanted. And it had almost been the case. Maybe he’d overdone it for a while; maybe that had been the cause of the misunderstanding between Diana and him. Then again, what did he know? He wasn’t a psychologist. Diana was the woman of his life, and nothing would ever change that. He wanted to move in with her, open his own club, bring in the best DJs, only the very best, and people like Nat would be permanently barred.
He was just on the point of signalling to the barman when he saw the door of the house opposite swing shut. He looked at his watch. Ten past six. He cursed, pushed back his chair and grabbed his parka.
Two minutes later, he was on the other side of the street, hammering on the door.
‘Diana!’ he yelled.
He waited, and then rang the bell. The van was still parked in the same spot. He looked down the street in both directions, but the men were nowhere to be seen. With his hands in his pockets, appearing totally calm, he ambled down towards the next corner, turned into a s
ide street and then immediately went left into the first passageway. From a distance he saw them approaching across the courtyard, the two guys. The men were talking to one another in short, clipped sentences, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. One of them, who was about the same age as him, with acne scars and fashionable glasses, was carrying a sports bag, while the other had a ridiculous jute tote bag.
Goran stood aside to let the men pass, and saw how the one with the glasses cast a glance in his direction before placing his hand on the shoulder of his companion.
Goran entered the courtyard and looked up at the flat. He couldn’t quite make out whether the little light in Diana’s room was on. Maybe it was just a reflection in the window.
He passed the bicycle stand and the wheelie bins, and pushed open the back door. The only sounds to be heard were his own footsteps and the creaking floorboards. He didn’t turn on the light. He knew every nook and cranny, every ripped lino tile, the broken window, the pigeon shit and the shards of glass on the ground. On the second floor, he knocked and listened.
Nobody was there, not even the tenant. But she had installed a new lock, one of those cylinder types, made in Germany. An ingenious mechanism, a sensible precaution – but the discovery hit him like a bolt from the blue. It was official, then: he had been locked out, was surplus to requirements and had been told in no uncertain terms to get lost. In a fit of fury, he slammed the flat of his hand against the door; as he did so, he noticed that someone had entered the stairwell down below. It wasn’t Diana – he could tell from the sound of the footsteps.
Goran pressed himself against the wall and slipped up the next flight of stairs as quietly as possible. Suddenly he sensed a movement behind him, felt a draught of air, thought he glimpsed a shadow. Goran reacted without thinking.
Ramming his elbow into the stranger’s stomach, he pushed him up against the wall, twisted his arm up his back and shouted, ‘What do you want?’
The man winced; from downstairs somebody called up, ‘Is everything all right up there?’
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