‘Marco met him yesterday,’ Diana said.
‘Are you kidding?’ Milena pulled up her bag on her shoulder.
‘They had a bit of a run-in, I’m afraid.’
‘What happened?’
‘Marco tried to tell him to leave me alone, and that didn’t go down too well.’
Milena sighed. ‘All right.’ She tugged at her bag. ‘That’s your personal affair. Leaving that aside, though, can you please tell me now where I can find Goran?’
‘Come again? Let me get this right, your uncle had a fling with Goran’s mother? I know, personal affair, an eternity ago.’ Diana threw the rag into the dishwater. ‘Look, I don’t know anything, I’m afraid. I’m out of it. Speak to Marco. But I can tell you one thing: Goran had nothing to do with the death of his parents. I swear. He’s beating himself up about something for sure, but he’s innocent of that.’
‘What’s eating him, then?’ Milena took out her cigarettes and offered Diana the open packet.
‘He talked his parents into it, this programme, and got a heap of cash for doing so – that’s what he’s so upset about.’ She helped herself. ‘And then he didn’t look after his parents anymore.’
‘How much did he get?’ Milena lit Diana’s cigarette. In the light of the little flame, her pale face looked even more like that of a child.
Diana puffed smoke into the air. ‘A thousand euros.’
‘A thousand…’ Milena repeated. ‘Who from?’
‘From the people who arrange all this returnee stuff, I guess.’
Milena smoked and tried to compose her thoughts. Goran gets a thousand from some unknown people and persuades his parents to return to Kosovo. The parents are murdered, and Goran pays a visit to the minister, here, at his home. Then he drives to Talinovac, gets hold of his father’s suitcase, tries to meet Diana, clashes with Marco – how did all that fit together?
‘I don’t know whether this is important,’ Diana said. ‘I was there when Slobo happened to see a picture of Goran.’
‘What picture?’
‘Just a picture.’ Diana inhaled and then blew the smoke into the air. ‘He overreacted. Honestly, he totally flipped out, so much so that I thought: what’s going on here?’ She looked at Milena defiantly. ‘Do you think that means anything?’
‘May I ask you a delicate question: how close are you to Božović?’
Diana turned away. Milena followed her eyes as she gazed into the living room, at the minister who was standing in front of his guests like some solo entertainer. The laughter from the audience and occasional applause were audible through the glass.
‘So it’s no coincidence,’ Milena suggested, ‘that you and Marco are working here tonight, at the minister’s party.’
‘Of course not.’ Diana chucked her cigarette into the darkness in irritation. ‘It’s our job. But believe you me, I’d rather be standing around with a champagne glass in my hand and talking clever.’
‘Sorry,’ Milena tried to assuage her. ‘I don’t mean to be impertinent. It’s your business who you see and what you are hoping to get out of it. But you should be careful. Goran’s parents were murdered. The case is complicated. Just to assume that some nationalists were behind it seems too simplistic to me.’
‘Why? Who else would be behind it?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe Goran’s father had the answer to that.’
Without replying, Diana picked up her tray and left. At the door, she suddenly stopped. Without looking at Milena, she said, ‘Goran wanted to stash something at my place. I thought it might be furniture, boxes, I dunno what. Then Marco comes back from his meeting with a thick lip and says everything’s fine. And tonight, at this party, I see him secretly talking to Mr Natty.’
‘Who’s Mr Natty?’
‘The guy who was asking after Goran in the Zeppelin the other day.’
‘He’s here too? What does he look like?’
‘Checked suit, dress handkerchief, slicked-back hair. I wouldn’t trust the guy as far as I could throw him. When I spot him, I’ll point him out to you.’
She opened the terrace door. The guests were applauding, and the minister was waving and putting his arm around his wife. The music set in – some schmaltzy pop song, just like at American election rallies. The door to the side room was opened. Milena stubbed out her cigarette and called out, ‘Wait! I’ll come with you.’
But Diana had already disappeared, and the terrace door had closed behind her. Milena tried her best, but couldn’t get the heavy thing to budge. Either the door was jammed, or there was some kind of knack to opening it. Milena banged on the glass. Tanja was nowhere to be seen, and the people heading for the buffet took no notice of someone locked out.
Milena cursed under her breath. Now would be the ideal opportunity to latch onto Tanja when she went up to the minister to congratulate him. In the course of the conversation, Milena could then ambush him with a few questions. She took out her mobile and texted, ‘Tanja, I’m on the terrace, locked out!’ She sent the message and looked around.
The path past the water feature led first to the garage and then on to an annex that lay in darkness. But she felt sure that if she circled around the conifers by the side of the house she’d reach the front garden.
Unfortunately, there was neither a light nor a movement sensor to activate one at this corner of the house. The floor slabs were mossy and slippery, and sloped slightly downhill. Milena stepped over a garden hose, taking small steps and cursing her high heels and smooth leather soles. In the darkness, she felt her way along the wall of the house, colliding with a bucket and then a step; it was only then that she noticed a side door. She took a chance and turned the handle. The door was open. Out of consideration for the white carpet, she wiped her feet before going in.
Somewhere on the far side of the house, behind a door at the end of a corridor, the party was in full swing. On the right, halfway down, a door was ajar, with light shining through the narrow gap.
Milena stopped and listened. The distant bass beat of the music made the silence here even deeper. She gently pressed the flat of her hand against the door.
At the window stood a huge desk and a chair with a high backrest. A brass lamp with a golden shade cast a diffuse, homely light, while an old-fashioned globe on a shelf created an almost presidential atmosphere. Slobodan Božović’s study was furnished like a stage set. There were no books, files or anything to indicate that this room was much used, or that anyone worked in here. The only thing suggesting work was a large plan that lay unrolled on the desk. Milena’s first thought was that it was a development or land usage plan like the one she’d seen before in that Kosovo brochure. She had just taken half a step forward when suddenly she heard somebody behind her click his tongue in disapproval.
In a dark corner of the room, behind the door, sat a figure with crossed legs. Milena could not make out a face, just the tip of one shoe, which was tapping on the carpet. The gesture hinted at mockery and schadenfreude – at least, that was how it seemed to Milena. Angry with herself for having got into this awkward situation, she approached the man, extended her hand and said, ‘Good evening. My name is Milena Lukin.’
‘What you’re looking for is over there.’ The man ignored Milena’s outstretched hand. ‘If I could ask you politely…’ His gesture was that of shooing away an annoying insect.
‘I have an appointment with Mr Božović,’ lied Milena, and was surprised by her lie – as was, evidently, the arrogant man, who suddenly leant forward to emerge from the semi-darkness.
His face was narrow and clean shaven, and his chin was more pointed than prominent. The rest of his appearance was adequately summed up by Diana’s words: checked suit, dress handkerchief, slicked-back hair. The man in front of her was the person who had been making enquiries about Goran in the Zeppelin.
Casually, Milena added, ‘But perhaps you could help me? The matter concerns Goran Valetić.’
‘I don’t understand.’
The pupils in his grey eyes darted about in confusion as he tried to make sense of something he’d failed to take into account. After her initial shock, Milena had regained the sensation of firm ground beneath her feet.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ she said, ‘I’m from the Institute for Forensic Science and Criminology. We cooperate with the German Embassy and the EU, among others, and I’ve been trying to contact somebody at the ministry.’ She kept talking in the hope of impressing or possibly intimidating the guy, or at least unsettling him. At the same time, she was desperately trying to figure out who was sitting in front of her: Božović’s right-hand man? The son-in-law, the assistant? Responsible for security or just doing his dirty work?
Only when the man rose from his chair did Milena see that he was a head taller than her, and more wiry than strong. A vein in his temple was throbbing, though his voice sounded strangely calm. ‘What do you want?’
‘Could I have your name?’ Milena smiled. ‘Are you a colleague of Goran Valetić?’ She looked around the room with interest. ‘Do you also work for the security firm Safe ‘n’ Secure?’
The man moved to block her view of the desk and tried to push her out through the door. ‘I’m a friend of the family. And you have to leave this room right now.’
‘Now I know who you are.’ Milena noticed that the man had clenched his fist in his trouser pocket. ‘You’re The Rat.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The nickname’s not my invention – oh, and it’s not Goran’s either.’
‘You’ve met Goran?’ the man asked in surprise.
‘He didn’t have a bad word to say about you, believe me. Unfortunately, he wasn’t dreadfully talkative in general. But that’s hardly surprising in the circumstances.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘In Talinovac.’
‘In Talinovac,’ the guy repeated, blinking. ‘Does that mean you’re investigating the case?’
‘What makes you think that?’ Milena shook her head. ‘We just had a look at the house and tried to get an idea of what happened there. Not a pleasant excursion, especially not for Goran. Hmm – do you know the place, have you ever clapped eyes on the shack? Hopefully they’ll install some windows now, connect it to the grid and other services, put some plaster on the walls so that the next set of refugees can make themselves at home there – if any more are still due to come, that is.’
The man stepped closer. ‘What do you want?’
Milena sighed. ‘All right. Maybe you can tell me. It’s not a secret, is it? First thing, we want to know what happened to the money that was earmarked for the house in Talinovac. We’d like to know how much was spent on what, so we can ascertain in detail how the programme was implemented and what went wrong in Talinovac. Secondly, how were the extra expenses accounted for – for example, the thousand euros that Goran was given to persuade his parents to return to Kosovo? And why is there a budget for this? Maybe because otherwise nobody would have returned and the whole programme would have become superfluous? Believe me, I know how these things work. It’s always a question of a political agenda that has to be implemented, come what may, isn’t that right?’
‘Have you quite finished?’
‘No. What happened when Goran came knocking here? His parents were already dead. Did he throw the money, the thousand euros, in the minister’s face? Or did he ask for more in return for keeping quiet and not revealing any details, the shortcomings of the programme for example, or blowing the whistle on the black sheep?’
‘If you’re so interested, why don’t you ask him yourself ?’
‘Because he’s done a runner. And, what’s more, I believe I’m not the only one looking for him. We’re both after him, aren’t we – the only question is: who’ll get to him first?’
She saw the man’s jaw muscles clench and a fine line of tiny beads of sweat form on his upper lip. She took a step back. ‘Stay right where you are,’ the man said quietly.
A metallic sound, the click of a mechanism. Milena found herself looking into the muzzle of a pistol.
26
Marco was scraping leftovers from plates into a big waste bucket when a woman with curly ginger hair came up to him. ‘Excuse me,’ she asked, ‘have you seen my friend? Dark hair, wearing a velvet jacket like mine, only a bit longer, plum-coloured.’
Marco shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘Strange.’ The redhead stared into the darkness, puzzled. ‘Half an hour ago she sent me a text message. She was out here on the terrace. But she’s not inside, either.’
‘You’d better ask one of my colleagues. Look, the girls are flitting around all over the place.’
The woman walked off, and Marco put the heap of dirty dishes into the tub. A plum-coloured velvet jacket… where on earth had he landed up? Looking at these people, how they shovelled meat, salad and mayonnaise into their mouths while holding champagne flutes in their ham-fists, he finally realised how delicate and refined Jonathan was. Plus, he’d been so understanding when Marco told him about the documents that he’d fished out of Diana’s letterbox.
Marco grasped a box of glasses under his arm, and with his free hand reached for the cool box. He was going to go through with it now. He wanted his passport. And Jonathan had immediately cottoned on. ‘No problem,’ he had said. ‘We’ll organise that for you.’
Marco put the box under the small counter, which had been specially set up for the evening, and checked how many bottles were left.
So he was a dealer now, albeit the stupidest one in the world, since he had no idea what he was peddling. He had not been able to make rhyme or reason of the documents in the clear folders, the names, photographs and articles.
He searched out a small cutting board and put a lime on top of it, at the ready.
He had to be careful that Jonathan didn’t take advantage of him. The guy was a pro. He also had to make sure that Jonathan didn’t make off with the documents without delivering the passport – or took the documents, but later claimed they were worthless. As the lime started to roll off the table, Marco caught it and threw it into the silver basket.
He needed to tell Jonathan that he’d only hand over the documents once he got the passport. And that he wasn’t going to take responsibility for the quality of the stuff he delivered. He had to lay his cards on the table.
‘Have you got red ears because of her?’ Diana asked, nodding in the direction of Rozana Smija. The pop star was standing to one side as a sound engineer rigged up her mic, while the host’s wife of the host powdered her little nose.
‘You can thank me later,’ Diana said.
Marco put away the chopping board. ‘What for?’
‘For the opportunity to be here tonight and see Rozana Smija live! My mother would give her eye teeth to be here. People right across the Balkans would too!’
‘What were you talking about with that criminologist woman from the Zeppelin?’ he asked.
Diana watched him as he proceeded to cut lemons into thin slices. ‘I put her on to you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Look, I’m worried. First you conspire with Mr Natty, and now you’re running around with red ears.’
‘You said you wanted out.’ Marco wiped his hands. ‘Remember? Plus, you said I should exploit my assets.’
‘How come? Is Mr Natty gay?’
‘Get off my case, will you? Just let me handle it my way.’
The lights were suddenly dimmed until the chandeliers were almost completely dark. A spotlight came on. Rozana Smija, in a short glittering dress, stood at the bottom of the staircase, stared into the spotlight and responded to the murmur in the room with a smile. When silence had descended and you could have heard a pin drop, she lifted the microphone to her lips and began to sing.
She breathed into the mic, more sensuously than Marilyn Monroe had for the American president. Th
e audience lifted up their smartphones. The superstar Rozana Smija, who had sold millions of albums and filled concert venues across the Balkans and the Bosphorus, was giving a private performance here in Prague Street at the residence of the minister of state for Kosovo and Metohija: happy birthday, Slobo Božović.
The minister took his wife by the hand and walked down the aisle that his guests had cleared for them. In the semidarkness, a shadow flitted along the wall – Jonathan’s checked suit.
Marco folded his dishcloth and whispered in Diana’s ear, ‘I’ll be back in a second.’
27
The room was spinning in front of her eyes. In her ears the blood was roaring, and her whole body felt sore, especially her neck.
‘What on earth happened, sweetie?’ Tanja knelt beside her and took her hand.
‘Did you see him?’ Milena croaked.
‘The nutter? He almost ran me over.’
‘We have to go after him.’ Milena tried to get up.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Tanja helped her up. ‘Who is that guy?’
‘He was standing here. Right here! I went for him, we struggled, I wanted to make him drop the gun.’
‘Gun?’
‘He had a pistol. I thought he was going to shoot.’ Milena was close to tears.
‘Slow down.’ Tanja put her arm around her shoulder. ‘You’re in shock.’
Milena opened her bag and started to rummage through it, as Tanja helped her over to an easy chair and said, ‘Now tell me the whole story.’
‘We’ve got to call the police.’
‘One thing at a time. What happened?’
Milena stared at her phone. It had turned itself off. She quickly recounted what happened. How she’d got into this room, and how the guy had been sitting in the corner. The man from the club where she’d gone searching for Goran Valetić. She had confronted him with everything that she’d planned to face down the minister with, all her conjectures – and then he’d pulled the gun on her.
‘Thank goodness you called my name out in the hallway.’ Milena got up. ‘You saved me.’ She slung her bag over her shoulder. ‘We have to go to Božović.’
Peony Red Page 22