Maybe Nat had taken her for a walk in the fresh air.
Again, Milena strained to hear. ‘Is anybody there?’
That creaking sound – it could just as easily be the pipework in this old house. Milena took a few steps back. The larder. She drew closer to the door, listening intently all the while, and placed her hand on the knob.
The door was really hard to open – probably that same sack of potatoes she’d found propped up behind it the last time. She had to use all her strength to force the door open a crack. As if there were a bag containing enough potatoes for the whole winter jammed behind it. With an uneasy feeling, Milena fumbled for the light switch.
The shelving unit had been knocked over. Cans and packets lay strewn all over the floor, bags had burst open and oats and rice had spilt out. And flour.
Or was it salt, or sugar? Whatever it was had been discoloured where it had come into contact with the dark puddle. In the puddle, she could make out first an arm, then a lifeless body.
Milena stumbled backwards into the corridor, gasping for breath as she rummaged frantically in her bag for her phone.
‘Emergency services, please. A doctor. Hurry!’ She gave the address and spun around.
Siniša was standing right behind her, completely out of breath. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘In there…’ Milena gasped. ‘On the right…’
‘Is it old Mrs Spajić?’
‘No,’ muttered Milena. But Siniša had already squeezed past her into the larder.
She heard him shout in horror, and sank back onto the stairs in exhaustion. Why hadn’t she put two and two together earlier? Maybe she could have prevented this tragedy.
Siniša was by her side once more, ‘So where’s the old lady? She can’t have disappeared into thin air!’ In the distance, they heard the wail of a siren. Siniša spoke to someone on the phone, handed Milena a glass of water and opened the door for the paramedics to use when they arrived. But Milena was under no illusions. Help had come too late.
A blue light could be seen flashing in the courtyard. The ambulance had arrived. As if in a trance, Milena stepped aside.
The walnut tree by the wall was huge, and its leaves were glowing in the afternoon sun. She walked down the path, breathed in the scents of the garden and tried to get the image out of her head. The poker, the blood. And the expression on his face. One of astonishment. Astonishment at what had happened. The sound of her phone ringing jolted her from her reverie.
It was the German embassy. Before Milena could fob off the briskly efficient secretary, she’d been put through.
Alexander Kronburg’s voice sounded cheerful and upbeat, as if it were coming from another planet. ‘I just wanted to let you know,’ he announced, ‘that everything’s fine and dandy.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Milena asked.
‘I’ve had confirmation. “The passport for Mr Marco Begolli is ready for collection on Monday, April twentyeighth, at 196 Sava Street. Please bring along a valid photo ID,” etc… “There will be no fee for this service.” What do you say to that, then? That’s how fast our Serbian colleagues can move if only they’re asked politely.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Milena stuttered. ‘What did you say to them?’
‘Just enough so as not to be accused of abusing my position. Where are you at the moment? I can hear birds tweeting in the background.’
‘Alexander…’ She was fighting the tears.
‘You’ll have to tell me the whole story of this Mr Begolli. And, of course, I’d be interested to know what you’ve decided. I mean your decision regarding working with us here at the embassy.’
‘Alexander…’ Milena began again.
‘Tell you what,’ Alexander interrupted her. ‘My driver will pick you up at eight p.m., all right?’
‘Tonight?’
‘Wonderful!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m delighted. See you later. I’m really thrilled.’
Milena stared blankly at the screen.
The lane had narrowed to a path between thistles and ivy. From here, the house was almost totally obscured by the trees.
She slipped the phone into her bag, and was about to turn around and head back when she spotted a little bench behind a magnolia tree – a quiet spot where a person could rest, forget their cares, watch dusk fall over the garden.
Miss Juliana sat slightly bent over. The tight bun of her hair was somewhat dishevelled, and her cardigan did not look warm enough.
‘How kind of you to come and see me,’ said the old lady, shifting aside slightly to make room. ‘Do sit down. I’ve tried calling you.’ She pulled at her cardigan sleeve.
‘What happened, Miss Juliana?’ Milena asked quietly. She noticed the blue veins and liver spots, and also spotted blood on the back of the old lady’s hand.
‘I don’t remember,’ Miss Juliana said, ‘but I think my phone must be out of order.’ She looked at Milena with concern and compassion, and smiled. ‘You’re pale. Are you all right?’
‘Miss Juliana,’ Milena repeated insistently, ‘the man in the larder… he’s dead.’
‘What man?’
‘Jonathan Spajić. The man in the suit. With the bicycle. Did he threaten you?’
Miss Juliana’s eyes followed a bumblebee. ‘You mustn’t think ill of Nicola.’ She straightened out her skirt. ‘He isn’t a wastrel. He’s a good man. And he keeps his promises. I know, because I know him best.’
‘This man’s not Nicola, Miss Juliana. He might look like Nicola, but it isn’t him. His name’s Jonathan. Could he be Nicola’s son or grandson? Did you hide from him in the larder? Did he try to harm you? And then did you reach for the poker? Is that what happened?’
Miss Juliana looked at Milena thoughtfully. ‘I often used to wonder,’ she said, ‘whether Nicola found a nice wife in Canada and started a family.’
A cool wind wafted through the trees and ruffled the petals of the lilies. Milena gently laid her hand on Miss Juliana’s arm. ‘Come along with me.’ She stood up, and helped her to her feet.
On the way back to the house, the old lady took Milena’s arm. ‘Did you know,’ she said, ‘that this is the same season, the same month, maybe even the very same day, that I first came to this house all those years ago?’
‘No.’ Milena shook her head, squeezed Miss Juliana’s hand and, her voice thick with emotion, replied, ‘No, I didn’t know that.’
36
Four weeks later
How fine his name looked on the letterhead, surmounted by the Serbian state’s coat of arms, the double-headed eagle. The thought that today was the last time he would ever use this luxurious stationery, and for a damned three-line letter at that, almost caused him physical pain.
Slobodan Božović massaged his wrist, rested his arm on the table and looked for precisely the right point to place the fountain pen for his signature. But he couldn’t find it. He slumped in his chair, tipped his head back with a groan and closed his eyes.
Quite honestly, the whole thing was complete madness from a financial point of view. Just when those EU bureaucrats were about to turn on the money taps again. But what was it that people said? ‘Always leave when the party is in full swing.’ He‘d never really understood this bit of folk wisdom until now.
He placed the fountain pen back in its black velvet case, and propped his head on his hands. Start from the beginning. Don’t panic. What did the police really have on him?
A photo, a party snap, in which Jonathan appeared only at the very margin. Slobodan remembered the precise moment: he and Božena had been greeting the guests, and Jonathan, with a lousy sense of timing, had burst in, and in the midst of all the flash photography had requested a private conversation. Slobodan had answered brusquely: ‘In my study. Later.’ And he had also, for no good reason, put his hand on Jonathan’s shoulder while saying it.
That gesture was now being cited as evidence of a close business relationship between Spajić and himself. It was ridiculous ho
w the CID was trying to construct a chain of evidence leading from his State Chancellery to Kosovo, to properties for returnees, to misappropriated funds and an elderly couple who had been murdered. Three men from the CID had turned up, pathetic pen-pushers in crumpled suits, set on him by a public prosecutor whom Slobodan hadn’t even heard of before.
At first, he had assumed the whole thing was some conspiracy, but a series of phone calls had soon convinced him otherwise. He now thought he knew who was behind this attempt to discredit him. In fact, he was certain – a name he should have lighted upon straight away. A photograph from the gutter press ending up in the files of the police – that had the fingerprints of Dr Siniša Stojković all over it. It seemed that old shit, who’d spent a lifetime snapping at his heels, was indefatigable, and he was still fighting dirty. But Stojković alone wasn’t the problem. His main concern was this public prosecutor. Obviously straight out of law school, still wet behind his ears, the man was dancing to Stojković’s tune without even realising it, and obviously believed he could make a name for himself with this case. All it would take would be one call to the police commissioner, and another one to the minister of justice, and this guy would be dealing with traffic offences for the rest of his legal career. Slobodan Božović angrily loosened the knot of his tie.
‘Excuse me, minister.’ The little secretary with the snub nose and pageboy haircut put her head round the door. ‘Do you still need me tonight?’
‘No, it’s fine, you can leave.’ He rolled his chair back a few inches and tugged open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine.’
‘Have a nice evening, minister.’
He took out a glass and a bottle. Keep calm. Stojković was only after some cheap retribution. But Slobodan wasn’t stupid enough to supply his enemy with more ammunition. He’d much prefer to ensure that this public prosecutor got his comeuppance after an appropriate interval, and at someone else’s hands.
He loosened his belt, undid his top trouser button and poured himself a drink – a thumb’s depth in the glass. All these skirmishes couldn’t hide the fact that he’d got himself into this mess. He’d let Jonathan carry on without really taking on board the fact that he was out of his depth and at the end of his tether, and was sure to make mistakes. Slobodan had simply been too laid-back, too lackadaisical and at the crucial moment too imprecise in his communication, despite knowing full well that you should never delegate work you didn’t want to do yourself to the wrong person. But how could he have foreseen that Jonathan was going to use a sledgehammer to crack a nut? The old guy in Talinovac had been a pain in the neck, no question, but the affair could have been handled differently, more cleverly, more discreetly. Like it had been with the son. When he became a liability, the whole business had gone without a hitch.
No, quite a few things had been less than ideal. But you had to hand it to Jonathan: he could spin a good yarn. A man from Canada, mindful of his Serbian roots, returned to the land of his forefathers to help rebuild the wrecked country. That bullshit had impressed everybody. Slobodan had honestly believed for a while that the guy would be a useful and interesting addition to his team – especially as the rest of the personnel at his disposal were so uniformly grey and parochial. But in the end, Jonathan had turned out to be no more than the guy from the tennis club who couldn’t clinch a match point at the decisive moment. And why did that come as no surprise? Where Jonathan came from, he hadn’t achieved anything of note, and it spoke volumes that he had managed to impress so many people here in Serbia by striking a few postures as the exotic jet-setting foreigner.
Slobodan put his feet up, swirled the whisky in his glass and smelt the scent of helichrysums again. It was funny, somehow, and then again it fitted the picture perfectly: real men died in car accidents or by falling off cliffs. And Jonathan? Got clobbered by an old lady with a poker. Slobodan would have felt like laughing his head off, had it not been for the fact that the guy had been stupid enough to be in possession of the same weapon – concealed beneath his finely tailored tweed jacket – that had been used to kill the old people in Talinovac. Just think what might have happened if he’d actually gone ahead and forged closer business ties to this Jonathan bloke, plain for all to see – for example, by purchasing the house in Mutap Street from him. ‘Minister concludes property deal with murderer’ – the tabloids would have had a field day, and it would have been lapped up by Stojković and the rest, who were just waiting for him to finally put his foot in it. No, he should count himself lucky; in fact, he really ought to send flowers to that old lady in the care home – this grandmother or great aunt or whatever she was – as a thankyou for ridding him of this imbecile once and for all. A court dealing with matters relating to lasting powers of attorney was due to decide what would happen to the prime piece of real estate, and would of course find in favour of the person who had the best connections to the judge. Slobodan sighed and turned his chair to face the window.
He’d miss Belgrade and all the opportunities it offered. And this wonderful panorama – the Sava, and the Kalemegdan Fortress on the far side of the river. Five years in Bolivia – that was the price he had to pay. There had been no other ambassadorial positions available at short notice; that was the best the Secretary General had to offer. Božena wasn’t exactly going to be ecstatic about it, but maybe he could sell it to her as a necessary step on his path to a post with the UN.
He put the glass aside, buttoned up his trousers and straightened his tie. The headline above the pictures of the birthday party had been too good to be true: ‘At Home with the Serbian Kennedys’. It had almost sounded like an invitation to run for president. Once this whole affair had blown over, he’d pick things up again where he had left off. And then he’d be unstoppable.
He held the fountain pen over the paper for a second, and then briskly appended his signature to the three lines of text, finishing off with a confident flourish that he had been practising for some time, and which made his signature look distinguished.
Then he got up, swung his jacket over his shoulder, jammed his briefcase under his arm and left the room without a backward glance. Tomorrow morning, when the news of his resignation became public, his tenure as minister for Kosovo and Metohija would be over.
In the reception area, he suddenly stopped and studied the picture on the wall one final time. It was really only a field of different shades of red. Only when you looked more closely did you realise that this explosion of colour was made up of peonies.
Imbued with new-found energy, Slobodan jangled his bunch of keys. He would take this picture with him. He’d have it picked up that very evening. Modern art. Who could say? Maybe this kitsch would be worth something one day.
Peony Red Page 27