The bone road, p.1
The Bone Road, page 1
THE BONE ROAD
Praise for the author’s previous work:
‘A well-paced narrative filled with surprises’
Observer
‘Solomons’ prose is lyrical and her detail immense’
Press Association
‘Oh, my god, I love this book’
JOHN IRONMONGER, AUTHOR OF
Not Forgetting the Whale
‘Rich in atmosphere and character’
Woman & Home
‘Vivid and poignant’
Psychologies
THE BONE ROAD
N. E. SOLOMONS
First published in paperback in
Great Britain in 2022 by Polygon,
an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.
Birlinn Ltd
West Newington House
10 Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.polygonbooks.co.uk
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Natasha Solomons, 2022
The right of Natasha Solomons to be identified as
the author of this work has been asserted in
accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978 1 84697 614 8
eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 510 5
Typeset in Adobe Garamond by Polygon, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
In cycling it is often said that the rider who suffers longest, wins.
PROLOGUE
The second body was washed up out of the River Drina in the dawn light. Two fishermen found it sprawled on some rocks as they dawdled for early morning carp. It was one of Inspektor Simo Subotić’s own favourite fishing spots, and it seemed less sacrosanct, tarnished and bloodied by the discovery of the swollen and headless corpse. Simo stepped closer and peered down at the unidentified body, the Petar Petrović, what the Americans called a John Doe. The cadaver was naked except for a pair of torn and filthy Y-fronts, and bloated from the water. As Simo stepped closer he saw immediately that the body also lacked hands and feet.
They’d found the first body six weeks ago, two miles downstream, caught in mooring lines. Part of a torso only, and it had been in the water for so long and deteriorated so much that the pathologist was unable to determine cause of death, or whether the damage to the body was ante-mortem or post-mortem and, if it was post-mortem, whether it was a result of being in the river – limbs softening, rotting tissue being hit by boat propellers or rocks, nibbled by fish until they fell away – or whether they’d been removed deliberately. The picturesque Sokolović bridge at Višegrad, only twenty miles upstream, was both a World Heritage Site and a favourite suicide spot. Damaged bodies fished out of the river were both tragic and commonplace. Simo couldn’t entirely blame the coroner for leaving his verdict open.
Yet this time Simo had little doubt. Whoever had dumped this man’s body in the water didn’t want him easily identified when he turned up. He wondered, uneasy, whether these bodies were only the ones that they would find. Two headless, mutilated bodies within weeks was unusual, even along this stretch of river. There wasn’t much they could do, however, to test his hunch except wait and see if there was another body. Dredging the Drina or sending divers was an impossible task. The river was fast and wide, hundreds of kilometres long and forceful enough to power several hydroelectric plants.
Several officers were combing the riverbank but Simo held out little hope – the unfortunate soul had merely washed up here. He was certain he had been dumped upstream and that the real crime scene was elsewhere. The officers combing the site had clearly taken the same view, as to his dismay they were sharing a cigarette as they scrabbled among the rocks and mud.
‘Put it out!’ he ordered, outraged.
Grumbling, they obeyed.
Simo glanced up at the sky. It was light now. Cold and bright. The wide river glittered, startlingly green, twisting amongst the rocks in a mass of foam and spray. An icy breeze blew from the east, carrying with it the stench of death.
Later that afternoon, Simo stood in the autopsy room observing while the eager pathologist re-stitched the Y-incision in the anonymous Petar Petrović’s chest and abdomen. Simo was a man used to unspeakable things, but this was a particularly unpleasant autopsy, as the body had been in the river for so long. He watched in silence as the pathologist, a young Serb who couldn’t be much over thirty, struggled to fill in the required form. There was no head or brain to weigh, no contusions to assess. No fingers to print. No feet to measure for boot size.
‘He’s fifty or fifty-five from the bone density. About your age, Inspektor,’ said the pathologist, and Simo looked at him dubiously, wondering if he was trying to make a joke.
As Simo peered closely he noticed damage to the upper legs. It looked like . . .
‘Is that a dog bite?’
‘Yes. I think so,’ agreed the pathologist. ‘I thought, at first, it might be post-mortem damage, from flotsam in the river, but it isn’t. These are definitely teeth marks from a large dog. And on the wrists, see?’
With some reluctance Simo stepped closer.
‘Defensive wounds. Likely from the same attack,’ continued the pathologist. ‘And he’s been badly beaten. Several broken ribs.’
Simo nodded, listening as the pathologist listed further injuries. Historic fractures – and new ones from more recent beatings. What had happened to this man? Where had he been? He had fought for his life, over and over. Something uneasy stirred deep inside Simo. He’d seen wounds like this before, but not for nearly twenty-six years. The pathologist was far too young to recognise them. Simo studied the pattern of injuries with a ghastly stirring of recognition. He closed his eyes and took a breath. If he had been religious, he would have muttered a prayer.
‘How long ago do you think our Petar Petrović died?’ he asked.
‘Two weeks. A couple of days either side. It’s hard to be exact with this level of decomp.’
Simo stared at the body on the table, puzzled and unsettled. He’d hoped never to see such things again.
1
On the flight to Sarajevo, Heather had sipped a gin and tonic and imagined Ryan’s reaction when she knocked on his hotel room door, his surprise and delight when he opened it to find her standing there with her suitcase. Before each work trip over the last year, he’d pleaded with her to come out and join him as he covered the Tour de France or the Giro, until she’d finally decided to surprise him, bringing out their bikes so they could explore the Balkans for a few days. Things hadn’t been great for the last few months. She had made a remarkable physical recovery, one that any regular person would be thrilled by. But Heather wasn’t a regular person, or at least she didn’t used to be. It felt to her like she’d been robbed of her superpowers. As well as more ordinary things like her ability to remember which bus to catch. Everything annoyed her. Except Ryan. Even in the bleakest moments he could make her laugh with a filthy joke. And this gesture would show him how much she cared. However, when it came to it, as she stood in the corridor of the Best Western, heart pounding with glee, smile tickling her lips, and he opened the door, he was anything but pleased.
He stood there in his socks, absolutely still, his eyes widening with horror. She searched for another word for it, but no, that was it. Horror. For the briefest moment she wondered if there was another woman inside, and she’d caught him. Everyone told her how he used to be a player before they’d met. But, that had all changed after they’d got together. He hadn’t left her side, not for months after it happened. Of course there wasn’t anyone there. She peered round into the room. He was alone. He hadn’t been drinking either.
Before she could accuse him of ingratitude or worse, a smooth mask of delight slid down across his tanned features and he hugged her and kissed and took her out to dinner and they came back and had sex – good sex. Yet later, as she lay in bed, listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing as he slept, or pretended to, Heather was haunted by the expression of dismay on his face when he had seen her standing there. A look of fear and dread.
When she woke the next morning, Ryan was up before her. He thrust a cup of coffee at her and kissed her on the nose.
‘I’m taking the day off. I’ve a bit of leave for the end of the tour and it can just start early. Freddie can cover the rest of the tour. Let’s go exploring. Let’s just get on a train and go to Mostar.’
‘Okay, but I want to ride around Bjelašnica for a few days first. This place is beautiful and I’ve heard the biking is amazing.’
Ryan was bouncing on his toes, his eyes oddly bright. ‘Come on, let’s go to Mostar.’
‘Why? I’ve brought the bikes all the way out here, and suddenly you want to leave? Well, I’m riding here for a few days with or without you,’ said Heather, annoyed. She sighed, a lump building in her throat. She really didn’t want to fight. She’d come out here to be with him and to remember the good times.
To her intense relief he threw up his hands.
‘I’m sorry. You’re right. Of course I’ll come with you. I’m being ridiculous. Mostar after?’
‘Sounds perfect.’ She gazed at him in happiness. Of course he was pleased she was here. She’d caught him off guard, that was all. ‘I love you. Let’s watch the finish of today’s stage together. I like watching you work,’ she declared with sudden ebullience.
He stared at her, taken aback. ‘Are you sure you’re ready?’
In t ruth, she wasn’t, but she nodded anyway, it was too late to take it back. ‘Yeah. It’ll be good to see the old gang. It’s about time.’
She glanced away, so that he couldn’t see her face. She clenched her fists behind her back, digging her nails into her flesh.
In the small village at the foothills of Bjelašnica, Heather looked around. It was better than she expected to be in the mêlée before a race again, even if she was on the wrong side of the barrier, amongst the journalists rather than the riders. Several of them were pleased to see her; Freddie hugged her so tightly, she had to ask him to release her. Yet, she sensed a wariness amongst some of Ryan’s colleagues. Two or three watched her unsmilingly. She supposed that they were probably supporters of Jessie, or else they’d witnessed one of her outbursts. Heather used to have perfect self-control, but since the accident, when riled by an absurd or intrusive question, she’d been known to really lose her temper. Ryan remained staunchly by her side. Probably worried she was going to freak out. Although, to be fair, so was she. Just a bit.
‘I don’t want to stay with the press pack. I want to be in the middle of the crowd. It’s more fun,’ said Heather.
It was partly true. She also wanted to be far from people she knew, just in case she did have one of her episodes. There was a good number of people there for a mountain stage. Heather liked that no barriers had been set up. She understood that lots of the riders didn’t like it – uneasy that the fans were literally in touching distance, but she always felt it was good for the sport for the stars and the followers to be as close as possible. It added to the thrill of the race.
They wandered away from the bar where the press pack was gathered to the heart of the crowd and elbowed their way to the front until they found a good vantage point. The narrow mountain road snuck through the village, snow-covered peaks rearing up on either side. It was unseasonably warm and the first spring flowers unfurled in the sunshine, and vendors hawked bottles of water and soft drinks and beer to the crowd. Scarlet banners in English and Cyrillic declared ‘WOMEN’S TOUR DE BALKANS’, and small children sitting on the broad shoulders of their fathers and uncles and grandfathers waved matching flags, eager for their first glimpse of the race, or simply delighting in the carnival atmosphere.
Heather peered down the road, listening for the sound of the official car, revealing that the riders were on their way. Silence. Only the happy chatter of the crowd and the wind rustling the pine trees lining the road on either side.
‘I’ve always had a penchant for these smaller races,’ said Ryan. ‘Better than being crammed in a press room with another five hundred sweaty journalists in front of a French television set, before running to climb onto an official bus with another fifty journos, in the vague hope of yelling a question at one of the riders at the finish.’
It was true, thought Heather, that standing here in the mountains on a bright spring morning listening to the burble of a few hundred joyful cycling fans, as well as many bemused but cheerful locals, had a lot of charm. Despite herself, Heather experienced the familiar pre-race tingle in her belly. Ryan reached for her hand and squeezed it.
‘How you doing?’ he asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.
‘Fine. Please stop fussing.’
Yet, as Heather glanced about, she noticed several police vans and a pack of police officers standing at the edge near the finish line. She nudged Ryan.
‘That’s not normal.’
He looked uneasy. ‘The Balkans have quite a past. Sometimes things get nasty. Tempers get testy, even at things like this. I guess they have to be careful.’
‘Okay,’ said Heather, unconvinced.
But, before she could say anything else, the race car appeared. The voice of the commentator boomed out of the loudspeaker. They were coming. It was a steep incline to this point . . . A good thirty-three percent gradient, and then a three-kilometre sprint on the flat to the end of the stage on the outskirts of the village. They should see the rider win the stage. She strained to hear who was in the lead. The commentator rattled away quickly on the loudspeaker. Jessie Taylor of Great Britain’s Team Pure JoozTM was out in front but only just. Jessie Taylor. The name made Heather shudder, like swallowing a shot of lemon juice. She tried to root for her old rival and former domestique. A Serbian rider was attacking Jessie and clinging to her wheel. The two were in a breakaway well ahead of the peloton of other cyclists, and, on hearing this, the crowd exploded. A local Balkan rider had a chance of winning over the British Olympic medal-winning favourite. At once, the contented Sunday afternoon good cheer shifted into something darker and more volatile.
‘Did you feel that?’ asked Heather.
‘Yeah,’ said Ryan. ‘It’s like being in the wrong stands at a local derby.’
Ryan grabbed Heather’s hand and he tried to take a step back, away from the edge of the road, and collided with a large man’s juddering belly. He apologised. The man said nothing, only grunted, eyeing him unsmiling. They looked around for the rest of the press pack. They were more than two hundred metres away, in a huddle at the other end of the street, chatting and laughing together at a safe distance from the crowd. Heather and Ryan couldn’t reach them quickly. There were far too many people now; more seemed to have emerged from the concrete houses and wooden chalets, all cheering, red-faced and staring intently at the road.
‘It’s fine,’ said Ryan, in a voice that didn’t sound fine. ‘This is the Balkans, not France. Cycling is pretty new here – no one really gives a damn about a road race, honey.’ He smiled at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. She’d never seen him so edgy.
‘Ryan,’ she said, ‘I’m fine. It really is okay. There’s police everywhere. Just relax and watch the race.’
She looked up the road, white and smooth against the taut blue sky. The leaders. Two tiny riders at the edge of the horizon. The spring sunshine spilled cool yellow light and flashed off the molten silver of the leader’s helmet as she came at the spectators, faster and faster. Behind her followed the second rider, bent low over the handlebars, attacking, determined to close the gap, chasing the leader down, relentless in her hunt. They hurtled along the road towards the onlookers, the rest of the peloton now appearing over the ridge, following in angry pursuit, the sound of their wheels a furious hornet’s buzz.
The first rider was past them in a second, in a spray of pebbles, and Heather felt the spurt of air from her slipstream. Then, the next rider, hardly any air between them as they sprinted on towards the finish line in the distance. The crowd was yelling, the noise frantic, somewhere between desperation and pleasure.
As Heather leaned forward, peering into the sun, trying to make out which rider was ahead and listening to the frenzied tones of the commentator, she was aware of yet more police vans pulling up several hundred yards ahead. It was odd. She’d never experienced anything like it in all her years of racing.
Jessie Taylor of Great Britaina, declared the announcer.
There was a buzz of dissatisfaction amongst the locals. Grumbles of discontent. Heather watched, with a pang of envy and regret sharp as a stitch, as Jessie’s teammates surged forward to congratulate her the moment they rode across the finish line. She remembered that rocket of adrenalin and bliss. Oh to have that again! Even one last time . . . But then, as the riders huddled around Jessie, police in blue uniforms and baseball caps swarmed amongst the assembled teams gathered beyond the finish line.
There was a racket from the sky, like a small explosion, and glancing up she saw a helicopter circling above. It wasn’t a police or news helicopter, but looked military perhaps, and it was in bad shape. It seemed remarkable that the machine could remain airborne. Ryan stared at it. The noise was tremendous. The boom filled the sky like thunder directly overhead. The helicopter landed on the road at a distance from the crowd, spitting up dust, and a few more policeman sauntered out – presumably more senior than those already on the ground. The rotor blades stopped, and the machine thankfully fell silent. The pilot hopped out – not in police uniform but jeans and a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, and lit a cigarette, idly surveying the scene.
