The bone road, p.11
The Bone Road, page 11
He accelerated onto the motorway and headed west towards Sarajevo. He turned up the setting on his windscreen wipers. The rain was turning to hail, and yet a shaft of sun peeked between the clouds and a double rainbow spanned the mountains like a championship banner. Simo sighed. He loved this region. There was nowhere in Europe more magnificent. Sometimes, after a little too much brandy, he wondered whether it was the Balkans’ beauty that was her problem; that, like Helen of Troy, she drove her countrymen to madness with the need to possess her, to drive out all rivals to her heart. The hatred was such that sometimes he felt he could see it writhing beneath people’s skin. Yet there was also tremendous kindness. The hospitality and kinship here were boundless and soul deep. Despite the bloodshed and the brutish past, there was nowhere like this place. He had travelled to other countries, but he was always desperately homesick, missing the smell of the mountains when snow was coming, and of real, strong coffee, but most of all the people. Their generosity and fierce humour.
He was too riled up to go home, and he had another lead to pursue in the Ryan Mackinnon case. Something wasn’t right about Heather Bishop. He’d read up all he could about her, and while he felt sorry about what had happened to her – that accident was a grim end to a career still in its prime – he couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t quite who she pretended to be.
In another hour, he turned off the motorway and onto a mountain road that snuck between a tightly wooded peak on one side and a steep gorge on the other. High above, a bird of prey circled as if not so much hunting as sightseeing. As he turned a corner, he saw two cyclists pedalling up the road ahead. It was only as he got close and overtook them in his car that Simo realised just how fast they were riding. He pulled over at the top of the rise and climbed out to watch. The first rider rushed the hill, the sound of her wheels a furious hornet buzz, and he realised he was witnessing some kind of race. It seemed impossible that the second rider could catch up to the first, who reached the apex and became a benign dot cruising downhill. The evening sunlight spilled warm yellow light that rolled off her helmet as the second rider came at the hill faster and faster. She reached the top and in a second was past Simo in a spray of pebbles. She hurtled downhill, bent low over the handlebars, and it seemed to Simo as if she must take flight. To his astonishment, she was gaining on the leader.
And then just as quickly, the race was over. Side-byside the riders cruised to a stop, drinking from their water bottles. Simo climbed back into his car and drove down to meet them. They were sharing an energy bar and laughing companionably.
‘Who won?’ he asked.
The women shrugged. ‘It wasn’t a race,’ said one. ‘Just training.’
He introduced himself. ‘Inspektor Simo Subotić. Which of you is Jessie Taylor? We spoke on the phone.’
The second woman, whom Simo had watched chase down the first, stepped forward. She wiped her hands down her bib shorts and held one out.
‘You want to talk about Heather Bishop?’ she said, in a lilting northern accent.
‘I do.’
Jessie frowned, impatient. ‘Catch you up in ten, Frankie.’ The other rider climbed back on her bike and started to pedal back up the hill. Simo watched her briefly and then turned back to Jessie.
‘Do you usually train straight after a tour? Don’t you need to rest?’
Jessie shrugged. ‘This tour was cancelled after the drugs raid. But we’ve a bigger race in Switzerland in less than two weeks. This race was only ever about honing our form – mountains here are good. I don’t want the trip to be a total waste of time.’
Simo heard the anger in her voice. ‘Did anyone approach your team about carrying drugs?’
Jessie’s face hardened. ‘No one asked me. If they had, I’d have told them to fuck off. This sport is difficult enough for women without this total bullshit. I’m phoning the team lawyer if you want to talk about drugs. I agreed to talk about Heather Bishop, nothing else.’
Simo held up his hands in apology. ‘I was interested in your opinion, that’s all. It’s not even my case. Truly.’
Jessie’s scowl softened slightly.
‘You and Heather were friends?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Colleagues?’
‘I was her domestique. She was the team leader and it was my job to make her ride as well as possible, help her win races. She was entitled and ungrateful. Took it as her right to win. The rest of the team didn’t matter to her one bit. We were nothing. Garbage. What happened to her was truly awful. I felt really sorry for her, but . . .’
She fell silent and looked at the floor, kicked at the dirt.
‘But what?’ prompted Simo.
Jessie looked up. ‘It wasn’t the tragedy that everyone makes out.’
‘Not for you,’ said Simo. ‘You got her place as leader on the team afterwards. It was you who everyone set up to try and win in Rio. Is that the right terminology?’
‘More or less.’
‘It was a tragedy for Heather. Her career was ruined. You didn’t win a medal. You weren’t as good her. She might have won gold.’
Jessie studied Simo with dislike. He didn’t mind.
‘She was better than me once. Heather at her best was better than me at mine, that’s true. But she was far from her best when the truck took her out. It saved her from humiliation at the Olympics. She would have done far worse than me. Everyone’s kidding themselves.’
‘You really don’t like her.’
‘I didn’t like her before the accident, and afterwards, well – it was like it gave her the excuse to be the person she really was. Angry, vindictive, violent. Afterwards she didn’t hide it. Or couldn’t.’
‘Violent?’ asked Simo.
Jessie met his eye. ‘Yes. Violent. Heather fucking Bishop is not who people think she is.’
10
Heather woke early, full of remorse and with a brandy hangover pricking behind her eyes. Deciding to cycle it off, hoping that fresh air would exorcise both guilt and nausea, she headed back along the road where Ryan had vanished and searched again, just in case she’d missed anything before.
It was later than she’d hoped as she reached the series of bends where she and Ryan had raced one another for the last time. She freewheeled slowly down from the mountain peak, the sun warm on her back. Was there something, anything she might have missed? Though the pinnacle of the mountain high above the road was still capped with snow like a white paper crown, as she descended it was into lush spring, the grass already metamorphosed from frostbitten brown to dew-damp emerald, the hawthorn and wild cherry and apple trees thick with blossom and the early whirr of the bees. Thousands of polka-dot dandelions had sprung up on a green bank of wild meadow, like a child flicking beads of yellow paint. A cuckoo called, and a cool breeze made the tops of the pines nod like drowsy old men.
The air was filled with a rich herbal scent that she couldn’t place. She remembered Ryan telling her that up here in the mountains there could be a sudden shift in the weather and snowfall as late as May. She blinked and the road vanished, hidden in layers of frost, the black pines tinselled in snow, the waterfalls frozen in elaborate chandeliers of ice, the world muffled and deadened. She blinked again and the mirage was gone.
She leant into the corner, and as she flew round the next bend saw three police cars with flashing lights parked at the side of the road. They were half blocking the carriageway, pulled in beside an old rockfall. She slowed down and climbed off her bike.
The policemen looked round at her, at first with bemused irritation, but then one in uniform recognised her and muttered something to a younger and more senior officer in plain clothes. He gave a sharp nod and then came over.
‘Miss Bishop? Why are you here?’ He didn’t give her time to answer before continuing. ‘This is a crime scene.’
She swallowed, her throat dry. ‘What have you found? Is it Ryan?’
He frowned. ‘I am sorry, but I am unable to comment.’
‘If you’ve found Ryan, you have to tell me.’
Heather realised that she was shaking. The police officer either didn’t notice or pretended not to.
‘I’m Chief Inspektor Josif Borisov. It is good to be meeting you, Miss Bishop.’
The world was beginning to swim and she wondered if she might faint, but she needed to know what they had found down in the gorge. She edged closer to the precipice, but the police cars were blocking it and she couldn’t see over. Urgent voices drifted up – they had clearly discovered something.
‘Come back, Miss Bishop. It is not safe.’
She felt a hand on her arm and shook it off.
‘I’m Ryan’s partner. I have a right to know if you’ve found him.’
Josif stared at her, offering nothing.
‘Where is Inspektor Simo Subotić?’ she demanded.
‘Not here. Will you come to the station with me for the little chat?’ he asked, with a smile that was not pleasant.
‘And if I say no?’
His smile was unwavering. ‘I don’t think you should say no.’
It was clear from Josif’s questioning that they had found something, but he would not tell Heather what.
‘You just show up on this piece of road, at exact spot we search. Is very coincidence. I don’t like coincidence.’
Heather gritted her teeth. ‘I told you. I was just riding the route where I last saw Ryan and I noticed the police cars. I’ve been out for hours. I was going to pass them at some point.’
‘And can you tell me about yesterday? I have complaint here from man who says that you caused accident. You forced him off the road.’
She paused. ‘I was stupid. I made a mistake.’
‘You done this before, Heather?’
‘No! Of course not.’ She looked away, feeling a twinge of guilt, and something in her expression must have made him question her denial.
‘So, you have done it before?’
‘No. Not like that. I was a professional cyclist. Sometimes there are crashes. Sometimes they might arguably have been my fault.’
‘You don’t like to take responsibility? Huh?’
‘I told you, I made a stupid mistake. I’d had a drink, I saw the bike go past and I thought it was Ryan’s, and so I followed him. I just wanted to talk and he wouldn’t stop.’
Josif laid it out. ‘You got drunk and forced him off the road. He fractured his cheek when he hit that tree. He is grateful he only lost tooth.’
‘I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean for it to happen.’
‘He could press charges.’
Heather felt sick again. It was no more than she deserved.
‘He won’t. He is a Serb man. He is embarrassed to press charges against a woman. But you committed a crime – you left the scene of an accident.’
‘Only to call the ambulance. I had no signal.’
‘Then you must wait for it to arrive, or for the police to come. You didn’t wait. Suppose they couldn’t find him and he’d lost consciousness again? What if he’d died? I’d be arresting you for manslaughter.’
Heather put her head in her hands. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I stopped in the village. Explained exactly where he was. Showed the woman in the shop on the map. I felt so awful and he wanted me to just go, and the shopkeeper said she’d drive straight there and I didn’t think.’
She was babbling and distracted by horrific imaginings of what the police had discovered in the gulley on the roadside.
‘I might not charge you with leaving the scene of a crime,’ said Josif. ‘It is a good deal of paperwork. I’m not a fan of paperwork. But only if you are honest with me now.’
‘About what?’ asked Heather, alarmed.
‘Ryan. Why is he here in Srpska?’
‘He was following the race. Then we were taking a few days’ holiday.’
‘And what else?’
She stared at him, confused. ‘Please, what’s happened to him? Have you found him? Is he okay?’ Her voice shook. ‘Is he dead?’
Josif studied her coolly. ‘We’ve found what we believe is his bicycle.’
He slid a picture across the table. The frame was twisted, the paintwork scuffed. It had a distinctive yellow stripe.
Heather nodded slowly. ‘Yes. It’s Ryan’s.’
‘One minute.’ Josif quit the room.
She sat with her head in her hands in the empty interview room. It stank of damp and cigarettes. She wanted to cry but suspected they were watching. Her mouth was dry and she longed for a drink. The nausea grew and the dizziness whirled around her. She felt like she was on a hurtling carousel, unable to get off. None of this felt real. The only thing familiar was the pain in her neck like sharp probing fingers, worse than usual because of this morning’s ride on top of yesterday’s. She reached into her bag for her bottle of pills and took one. It was hard to swallow without water.
The door opened and Josif returned. She could smell the sharp tang of his aftershave, but that wasn’t what made her stomach roll. He was holding a thin sheaf of papers. His head was buried in their contents. Scanning the information, he continued to ignore her as he sat back down and laid the papers before him. She glimpsed an official-looking letterhead.
‘We have carried out a preliminary inspection of Ryan Mackinnon’s bicycle.’ He flicked at the document. ‘The damage suggests he had been forced off the road into the gulley. And there are traces of blood, both in the gulley and on the bicycle.’ He looked up. ‘Anything you’d like to tell us now?’
She barely heard the question; the world had stopped at the word ‘blood’. She could see Josif’s lips moving, but his words were distant.
‘Anything you tell us yourself is better than if we find out.’ The final words resounded through her shock. ‘You understand?’
‘No.’ She roused herself. ‘I don’t understand.’ She was frightened, angry. ‘I’ve been saying for days that something has happened to Ryan and none of you would listen.’
‘Why did you come to Srpska, Miss Bishop?’
‘To surprise my boyfriend!’
‘He certainly got a big surprise.’
Abruptly, he left her alone again. Heather sat in the stillness of the interview room. She closed her eyes. They’d discovered blood, but that was all. If they’d found his body they would’ve told her, wouldn’t they? They had his bike, but not Ryan. At least now they believed that something had happened to him. Now perhaps they would try harder to find him. A few minutes later, the door opened again and this time it was Simo who entered.
Heather discovered she was actually grateful to see him.
‘Would you like a coffee? Some tea?’
‘What I want is to know what you’re going to do to find Ryan?’
Josif appeared in the doorway and Simo spoke quietly to him in Serbian. Josif grunted and turned away again.
‘He’ll get someone to bring you a hot cup of tea. That’s what the English drink, isn’t it? Especially after a shock.’
Heather said nothing. She glanced at the opaque glass window. Josif wasn’t making her a cup of bloody tea, he was watching her through the glass. Simo sat on the chair opposite. The two men and whoever else was back there were watching her, scrutinising her for the correct response.
‘We have confirmation that the blood belongs to a human male. If it is Ryan’s, then we must assume he is hurt and there has been some kind of incident. I am very sorry to tell you this.’
She felt light-headed at the thought of Ryan in pain. Alone on the hillside, perhaps just a few feet from her as she’d cycled passed, yelling for him. She’d called him a dick and all manner of names, wondering at first if he was playing some kind of game, when all the while he was in pain, desperate for her to help him. But she couldn’t cry, felt nothing, just numb. She focused on the whirr and tick of the tape recorder on the desk, its blinking red light like a robotic eye. Clung to the possibility that it could all yet be okay. Without a body, Simo could still call her tomorrow or the day after and say that they’d found him, gravely injured at a hospital in Sarajevo or Pale.
‘Drink this. It will help,’ said Simo not unkindly, pushing a mug towards her.
She hadn’t noticed them come back in with the tea. The white mug was chipped, with a caricature of a policeman and a couple of lines in a language she presumed was Serbian. It probably read ‘World’s Greatest Cop’. She took the mug with shaking hands, and sipped the hot, sweet tea. It tasted revolting but it did make her feel a little better.
‘You’re supposed to tell me it’s not my fault,’ she said.
‘I’m not your mother. I’m a police officer,’ replied Simo.
‘First you tell me that it’s nothing. That he’s left me and that’s all in my head, and now you tell me that I’m guilty of something.’
‘No. I’ve said from the beginning that I think you and Mr Mackinnon are hiding things. You are people with secrets. I’m not interested in secrets. But when crimes are committed in my jurisdiction, then, even though it annoys me, I need to find out what you are hiding.’
‘I’m not hiding anything.’
‘That’s not true, Heather.’ He paused. ‘Talk to me about Ryan. Tell me about your relationship. People in the café said you were fighting.’
Heather started to object, but Simo held up his hand. ‘I know. You say that wasn’t true, but I’ve been talking to people and they say that you’ve got a temper.’
People? Who had he been talking to? She felt her colour rise at the offence, but bit her tongue in an effort not to prove his point.
‘I’m sorry, but I need to ask. Heather, did you ever get angry with Ryan?’
