As she pushed through the institute door, she added, ‘Goran Valetić is dead.’
✴
Slavujka Valetić was standing just a few metres away from the entrance to the forensic institute – in precisely the spot where she had been a quarter of an hour earlier, when she had ended her call to Milena. She was pale, almost translucent, with no bag and no jacket. She was much smaller than Milena remembered her. Milena pulled over to the kerb, stopped and turned on the car’s hazard lights.
It was ten days since she and Milena and Siniša had met in the Café Präsent. What a tragedy. First the parents, and now the brother. Slavujka had received the news only a few hours ago, and in the meantime had gone to identify the body. She would probably never get the image out of her head. Milena couldn’t find any words to say.
Slavujka displayed no emotion when Milena hugged her. She only said, ‘I don’t have a lot of time. Can we talk somewhere?’
Milena opened the passenger door, took the files from the seat and threw them into the back.
When they were sitting side by side in the car and staring at the dusty dashboard, Slavujka began, ‘He sent me an email.’
‘When?’
‘As if he knew something was about to happen to him.’
‘You mean…’ Milena leant back.
‘I didn’t take his message seriously. I thought: it’s all so much crap – now he’s playing the victim. The egocentric bastard’ll try anything to get attention.’
Milena reflected. Who was Goran afraid of ? The man who had also threatened her, whose name she didn’t know? Or had he been afraid of her, Milena Lukin? Their run-in at Talinovac, at the scene of the crime – maybe he thought she’d been lying in wait for him, dogging his footsteps.
‘What I don’t get,’ Slavujka continued, ‘is that he goes to the forest and uses a noose when he’s got his official revolver in a drawer, or in his glove box. Does that make any sense to you?’
‘What did he write to you?’ Milena was searching in her bag for her notebook, when her phone announced the receipt of a message: Siniša saying that he was on his way. ‘Can I see the email?’
‘I was up in the mountains with my friend. We just wanted to switch off for a while. I had no idea…’
Slavujka blew her nose and swiped the display with her finger. Milena asked, ‘Did you tell the police about your suspicions?’
‘They were just concerned with closing the file. But they gave me this.’ She opened her fist. A silver necklace with a little charm.
Milena closed her notebook and touched the tiny football boots. She knew the charm, had seen it in the photograph, and then again when she had run into Goran in Talinovac. If their meeting hadn’t taken such an unfortunate turn, maybe Goran would still be alive today. Now the only thing that mattered was to explore all the possibilities.
‘There are some things you should know,’ said Milena.
Slavujka clenched her fist.
‘Your brother was given money, one thousand euros, to persuade your parents to return home.’
‘One thousand euros?’ Slavuja blinked, confused. ‘Who from?’
‘It was probably a way of encouraging people to take part in the return programme. The sum’s laughable, I know, but it might have been enough to make Goran blame himself after your parents’ death. Maybe it all just got on top of him.’
‘So you think it was suicide.’
‘If there’s something fishy going on here and someone’s trying to sweep a murder under the carpet, we’ll find out, I promise you.’
The hazard lights kept blinking. Slavujka asked, ‘What else do you know?’
‘There’s a suitcase,’ Milena continued. ‘Your father’s. Neighbours from Talinovac kept it safe, and then handed it to your brother.’
‘Papa’s old leather suitcase.’ Slavujka gave a short laugh. ‘You want to know what was in it? I can tell you.’ She tipped her head back in thought. ‘Newspaper clippings, photographs and – I wouldn’t mind betting – a load of diagrams, with lines and branches, like a family tree. And the whole lot neatly organised in clear plastic folders. You see, my father had a thing about charts and plastic folders.’ Mockingly, she added, ‘It must be wonderful to know that you’re always in the right, mustn’t it? And so convenient, too; all the errors and mistakes are always made by other people.’
With her slender, slightly overlong nose, Slavujka was the spitting image of her father, at least judging by the pictures Milena had seen in the newspapers.
‘Your father was onto something,’ Milena tried to reassure her, ‘and maybe he didn’t see the danger he’d brought on himself, or possibly he underestimated it.’
‘My dear Ms Lukin, my father was always onto something, and the danger could not be too great for him. That was his thing, see? He turned everybody against him with his know-it-all attitude and revelled in it. The fact that his pig-headedness destroyed our family didn’t bother him. My mother was a wreck. My family’s been wiped out. I’m the only one left. And shall I tell you something? I hate my father for that. How could he do that to me?’ She pushed open the passenger door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve had enough.’
‘Wait!’ Milena also got out. ‘What did Goran say in his email to you?’ she called after Slavujka. ‘That the files from the suitcase are with Diana?’
Slavujka stopped in her tracks. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Then it’s imperative we find her.’
‘Her mobile’s dead.’
‘Do you have her address?’
‘Just stop, will you?’ Slavujka crossed her arms. ‘I don’t want to be the next one to be strung up or shot. Get it? Why the hell did I call you?’
‘If the papers are with Diana, we have to get them from her. The material mustn’t fall into the wrong hands.’
‘She ought to just chuck the stuff away. Case closed.’
‘I don’t think she knows anything about the papers.’
‘Even better.’
‘Come on, get in.’
A dark car with its headlights on full beam roared towards them, braked hard and came to a stop just a few centimetres behind the Lada. A tinted window was lowered, and Siniša leant across the passenger seat. ‘I know, I’m late. I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve arrived in the nick of time,’ Milena said. ‘There’re two things we need to do.’
Siniša pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head.
‘We’ve got to find out whether Goran committed suicide.’
‘Is that what they’re saying?’ Siniša switched off the engine. ‘Interesting. I’ll tell you straight off: it wasn’t suicide, that’s a dead cert. And we can prove it. What else?’
‘We need Diana’s address. I’m going to the office.’ Milena bent down and asked Siniša, ‘Could you take Slavujka home?’
‘It would be an honour.’
Milena opened the passenger door.
‘OK,’ Slavujka said. ‘You win. Veteran Street.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Number nineteen. Diana Adamac.’
Siniša had got out of the car and buttoned up his jacket. ‘I’m devastated,’ he said. ‘Ms Valetić, I’m so sorry for your loss.’
Milena got into her Lada and started the engine. In the rear-view mirror, she watched Siniša solicitously help Slavujka into his car.
She had already reached the intersection when she finally remembered to switch off her hazard lights.
30
Juliana sat herself in a stable position, leant forward and stretched out her arm until she was able to get a firm grip on the handle of the bag. Don’t go losing your balance now, whatever you do, she thought to herself as she slowly pulled the piece of luggage towards her.
The suitcase that Nicola had put down in the middle of the room yesterday was roomier than she’d first thought – and, with its little wheels, rather practical too. No comparison with the old monstrosity up on top of the wardrobe wit
h its rusty metal fittings and huge locks like on a steamer trunk. Juliana looked up.
Filled to bursting with pamphlets it had been, once upon a time, with just a thin cover of laundry on top as a disguise. How many years ago had that been?
That was right, it had been during the war. Juliana could hear the crunch of jackboots again, the Germans marching in step, and Sophia engaging in heated discussions with her fellow students at night in the kitchen – communists with moustaches and wild ideas, quarrels by candlelight, often until the early hours of the morning. Juliana didn’t know anything about politics, but even she knew that calling for resistance against the German occupiers and the fascists meant risking your life. And of course it had to be Sophia, the daughter of a good family, who was chosen to go down to the station with the suitcase full of flyers and hand over this highly dangerous cargo to a contact boarding the train to Zagreb. What insanity. Juliana had insisted on accompanying her cousin.
Platform three, ten p.m. – she remembered it as if it were yesterday. People everywhere, tears, screaming children, whistles and loudspeaker announcements. Men in German uniforms on patrol, and then, suddenly: ‘Your papers, please! Open that suitcase!’
Sophia was paralysed. The officer, a very young man, bent over the underwear – a gossamer layer of silk and lace covering the flyers. As he reached down to investigate further, Juliana shouted, ‘Get your grubby paws off ! How dare you? A lady’s underwear!’
The German officer blushed. He straightened up smartly, saluted and let them pass.
When Juliana thought about it today, she still didn’t know quite what had come over her. She had surpassed herself, and yet now she didn’t even have the gumption to contradict her beloved cousin. He could do whatever he pleased, and she simply fell in line.
Juliana looked at her watch. She had to get her skates on and pack her things. Nicola had given her two clear instructions: ‘only pack the bare essentials’ and ‘be ready to leave early afternoon’. He’d spoken these words like they were orders, but had told her nothing about where they were headed.
She secretly hoped that Nicola would change his mind again. He was a bit scatterbrained, after all… Maybe he’d bring along these people who’d come and shifted the furniture and measured all the walls and taken pictures of the old tiles. The place had been like a madhouse, and she’d been at the centre of it. Angelina, her neighbour, hadn’t shown her face for ages now, and Sophia had kept quiet about everything.
There was no getting away from it: Nicola had changed, and not for the better. The Nicola of old, the charming rogue, who wouldn’t hurt a fly and would go to any lengths to make her laugh – that Nicola was no more. The Nicola of today was angry, behaved unpredictably and packed a gun beneath his smart jacket. She’d seen it with her own eyes. Of course, it had been a mistake to sign the piece of paper giving him power of attorney and to hand over the keys. But how could she deny him these things? He was the master of the house now, and she – the old Juliana who had kept the entire place going all these years – would even have been happier if he’d just ignored her rather than treating her, as he usually did, like she’d lost her marbles.
She groped in her pocket for the little card with the phone number. She shouldn’t pretend any longer that everything was all right. She ought to ask the lady for help – it was high time, maybe even her last chance. She reached for the telephone, lifted the heavy receiver off its base, held it against her ear and listened. ‘Hello?’
The line was dead. But somewhere, very close, she could hear music playing softly. Someone was playing the piano, a bright and breezy piece. Juliana put down the receiver. The smells of the garden wafting in through the open window were intoxicating – especially the lilies, and the leaves of the walnut tree were glowing in the sunshine. It was like opening a curtain and seeing open fields outside, full of ripe hops. Her brothers bringing in the harvest, with their strong, tanned backs, and her mother, almost translucent, sitting on the seat near the well. Everything was fine. The pool was full to the brim with rainwater. Wasn’t it time to go now?
She got up, stroked the back of Sophia’s easy chair and set the cup straight on the saucer. On the way to the door, her eyes fell on the mirror. Juliana Spajić, the poor cousin from Kopaonik. She’d once stood in this doorway carrying a small bundle containing all her worldly possessions. Sophia had been sitting on the window ledge over there, with her legs ✴ 262 ✴ dangling down, and had looked at her with curiosity. But all the excitement of that day had been about the son who’d been born upstairs, and who would be christened Nicola.
The piano had fallen quiet. In the silence, a key turned in the lock. There was a sudden draught, and a window blew shut. Juliana heard him wheeling his bike into the courtyard.
‘Are you there?’ he called out. ‘Have you packed?’
Seven steps and he’d be standing in the kitchen. Like a thief, Juliana stole away into the larder. There was no lock. She held her breath as she listened behind the door, and heard his footsteps pass by, followed by something crashing to the floor in the kitchen. The dead telephone. Or had he discovered that the bag was empty?
‘Where are you?’ he shouted. ‘Bloody bitch!’
She trembled with fear and outrage. This man was nothing but a yob, a con artist, who was intent on getting his hands on everything he could, including things that didn’t belong to him. Suddenly, everything was crystal clear. This man was a thief, a criminal. This man wasn’t Nicola, her beloved cousin. He was a stranger. He wanted her out of the way, and he wouldn’t rest until he was rid of her.
She had to do something. Barricade the door with the potato sack. She gathered all her strength, but as she went to drag it out she knocked against the poker, which made enough noise to wake the dead.
‘Are you in there?’ he yelled. ‘Answer me!’
31
Diana’s sobs behind the bathroom door hit Milena even harder than the news of Goran’s death a few hours earlier. Milena had no experience of how to convey the news of a death in a compassionate way. Whether out of consideration or because she was a coward, she’d only revealed the bare bones of the case to Diana: Goran had been found dead in the woods. She’d kept quiet about the exact circumstances.
She knocked softly on the door. ‘Here’s what I’ll do,’ she said. ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea and we’ll take things from there. Agreed?’
But Diana only howled even louder, and Milena stared at the wall, at a loss what to do next. ‘Phonetics’ and ‘Scenic Presentation II’ were written into the space for Monday on the calendar that hung there. Next to it were postcards from Venice and Lanzarote; a little further to the left, a dried rose was suspended from the hallway mirror. Milena knew hardly anything about this young woman.
The door to the bedroom was open. There was a comfortable bed with a pile of colourful cushions and opposite, below the window, an improvised table made of a box with a tray on top. Behind the door stood a wardrobe – large enough to hide in. Milena hesitated. She had no right to go snooping around here.
When she opened the wardrobe door, the smell of lavender hit her. The top shelves were full of laundry, while a coat, various dresses and blouses and a feather boa were hanging on the rail. The ends dangled down onto a box.
Milena pushed aside some shoes to uncover the hard case made from brown plastic with old-fashioned clasps. She pushed the buttons on the locks; the cover sprang open to reveal an old sewing machine.
The sound of running water came from the bathroom, but the door remained closed. On the makeshift table was a roll of kitchen towel, and next to it a smartphone. What was it Diana had said that night on Slobodan Božović’s terrace? ‘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.’
Mr Natty. Milena didn’t even know the man’s real name. She picked up the electric kettle from the windowsill, filled it with water and took a mug from the shelf. P
igeons were cooing outside the window. Why was Marco trying to contact the guy during the party? What did they have to discuss? Whatever Marco was planning, she had to warn him and tell him that Goran was dead. There was no time to lose. Mr Natty had a gun and was dangerous.
‘You can’t be serious?’ Diana leant against the door, defiantly crossing her arms in front of her chest and watching as Milena dipped a teabag into the mug.
‘Sit down.’ Milena poured hot water over it. ‘I know it’s a bad time, but I need to ask you a few questions.’
Diana gave in, sinking onto a chair, and pushed her hands under her thighs. Her eyes and nose were red from crying.
‘Did Goran store a suitcase with you?’ Milena asked. ‘Or a file, maybe even just a large envelope? Please think, it’s important.’
Diana shook her head. ‘I had no further contact with Goran.’
‘Maybe he was in the flat one more time without you knowing it. Would that be possible?’
‘I had the locks changed.’ Diana’s eyes filled with tears once more. ‘And when he wanted to meet me again, I chickened out and Marco went on my behalf. But I’ve told you all this before.’
Milena put the mug down, and next to it the smartphone. ‘We’ve got to call Marco and tell him what’s happened.’
‘Now?’ Diana blew her nose.
‘He was probably the last person to see Goran alive.’
Mechanically, Diana swiped her finger over the display. ‘You know – he was only doing me a favour, when he went to that meeting with Goran. Goran had been piling on the pressure, constantly calling me, so I played dead in the end.’ She started sobbing again and buried her face in her hands.
Milena laid her hand on Diana’s arm to try and comfort her. In front of her, on the table, lay the smartphone, with its display showing a photo and name: Marco Begolli. Milena pressed ‘call’.
The phone rang. Milena stood up. ‘Shall I talk to Marco?’
‘Who’s there?’ a voice asked on the other end.
‘Milena Lukin.’ She heard music in the background, as if he were at some street party or fairground. ‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘Can you hear me? Marco, I’m sorry to have to tell you… hello?’ She looked at the screen. Call ended.
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