The bone road, p.20
The Bone Road, page 20
She didn’t wait for an answer. Heather heard her in another part of the house swearing as she searched for her ‘fucking car keys’.
As much as she appreciated the other woman’s concern, Heather’s impulse was to act for herself. Taking several long, deep breaths she raised herself onto her feet and slipped out of the house before Petra noticed. She pushed her bike onto the road. Ice gleamed on tarmac and bangles of hoar frost tinselled the pine trees on the banks. As she pushed off, her breath hung in the air like fog. There was a definite shift in the weather and she shivered despite her fleece. It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the scattering of shops at the centre of Zikoč. The small grocery store was open and she chained the bike outside and hurried in. Amongst shower caps, condoms and foot cream was a stack of pregnancy tests. Heather picked one up and took it to the counter, grabbing a few biscuit bars and packets of sweets and raisins as both snacks and camouflage, and handed her cash to a disinterested girl behind the counter who was preoccupied blowing flaccid blue bubbles with a mournful pop. Heather shoved the test into her pocket and retreated into the empty street.
She needed to pee on the stick but for that she required a toilet, and first, a coffee. The grimy café opposite was open. The last time she’d been there was with Simo, right before they’d searched the woods for Ryan. She shuddered as she recalled the bullet-strewn huts lurking amongst the trees. She bought herself an Americano and wondered vaguely if she was supposed to drink coffee if she was indeed pregnant. With a sudden pang of guilt, she remembered the number of brandies and large glasses of wines that she had consumed over the last few days. Shaking off her misgivings, she downed the coffee – she was getting ahead of herself.
She started to ride back towards Petra’s. The sky was bleached white, the sun a small tangerine bobbing above the black trees. Heather’s hands ached with cold. She rued not wearing her gloves. There was no noise but the whirr of her tyres and the ribald chatter of the birds in the pines. She braked, sending up a flurry of pebbles, suddenly gripped with the urgent need to pee. She set her bike down on a bed of moss, deciding that she would prefer to perform the test right here amongst the trees and the insects and birds. She’d last seen Ryan not so far from here, on a morning rather like this one. It made her feel a little less alone.
She scrambled off the road, down a muddy bank into a thicket of trees. Wood anemones like white stars spangled the ground, petals dusted with frost. She took the box from her pocket and scanned the instructions. Pretty straightforward. Holding out the plastic stick, she pulled down her trousers and knickers and squatted amongst the dead leaves and urinated on the stick, cursing as she managed to pee a little on her hand. Standing, she hitched up her trousers and replaced the cap on the stick. She needed to wait a few minutes. Setting a timer on her phone, she leant against a tree and listened to the noisy chirrup of the birds. What would she do if she was pregnant? She could barely take care of herself, let alone someone else. And now she was by herself. Dear God. Let it be negative. Heather knew absolutely that there was no possible way she could cope. Her mother would be no use and she had few friends back in England. The timer on her phone beeped. Heather opened the cap on the test.
Positive.
She crumpled, hugged her knees and wept. Wept because she was alone and suddenly not alone. Because Ryan was dead and she loved him, and now she had a piece of him. Here was unexpected joy – and to Heather’s immense surprise, she realised it was joy – in the midst of confounding sadness. She had something to focus upon, something tiny and good. She had a purpose. She thought back to the ride up to the Olympic rings with Ryan. He’d been so certain that she’d come up with a plan of what to do next. It never would have occurred to him that it was this – motherhood. Was she already pregnant back then? She realised that of course she must have been. At once, her grief was thrown into relief. Ryan would never know. Not only had he been taken from her, but so had their future, their family’s future. The size of her loss continued to grow, a wound whose stitches kept being ripped and reopened so it gaped. Heather mashed her fingers into damp and partially frozen ground, grinding her nails into the dirt. It wasn’t fair. She wanted justice. She screamed and screamed into the woods, trying to empty the rage from the pit of her. The scream tore through her, echoing amongst the trees until her throat hurt and the muscles of her stomach ached. The forest was silent, listening. It made no reply.
They took David’s truck instead of Simo’s police car – no point in advertising his credentials. The valley was steep, and David drove his truck like he flew his damn helicopter, at high speed, seemingly barely in control. They hurtled around bends, the truck slithering along the mountain road, at one point hitting a patch of black ice. Simo cursed as he sloshed coffee all over his trousers. Beside him, David chuckled.
‘If we weren’t off the books, I’d give you a ticket,’ muttered Simo. He lowered his window and inhaled the chilled air. Cool light spilled across the European Black and Scots pines along the side of the gorge. At the base of the road the river was a slick dark ribbon, but later in the afternoon it would change to unearthly blue. They swerved around a pothole and Simo ended up wearing the rest of his coffee.
‘Son of a bitch.’ He dabbed at the spreading stain on his sweater.
‘I hate that sweater. You never wear anything else, Simo. Buy another.’
‘My wife gave it to me. It’s sentimental.’
‘She divorced you and is giving sweaters and blowjobs to another man.’
Simo winced. It was possible that David had a point. He stared out of the car window again. Here and there the leaf litter was tinged with white, the startled spring flowers sugar-coated with frost. The cold snap had been sudden and harsh. Almost every year winter played this trick, sneaking back up on you just as you relaxed and thought that it must finally be over, the first cuckoo had sung, the apple blossom was humming with bees. The Balkan winter was cruel and liked to catch you when you weren’t looking.
‘This time of year always makes me think of Abdul,’ said Simo. ‘It’s been nearly seven years. Every time I look at Petra, I think how I failed her father.’
‘Bullshit,’ said David. ‘You did everything you could to get him out of that camp. Used up every favour any lowlife ever owed you. Or me.’
‘And we still couldn’t save him.’
‘Not true,’ said David. ‘You bought him many years. He saw his daughter grow from a child into a woman. Petra got to know her father. If you’d left him there to die, she wouldn’t even have had a grave to visit. He would have been one of the numberless dead in a mass grave.’
Simo shook his head. ‘I took too long. By the time we got him out, he was broken. His soul was in pieces. He wasn’t Abdul anymore.’
‘I miss him too. Every day I think of him. But we tried. And Simo, my friend, you can’t save everyone.’
‘Most of the time, it seems I can’t save anyone. And I do the same job for them all – Serb, Muslim, even American journalists. Blood is the same red for everyone.’
Simo felt David’s concerned gaze on him. ‘Does Josif know you’re off to speak to his father?’
He shrugged, affecting a nonchalance he didn’t feel. ‘He looked busy.’
David chuckled. ‘Soon you’ll be sweeping floors in that station.’
‘Not allowed. Janitors have a different union.’
David braked sharply, parking up as they reached a curve in the river where it shallowed into an oxbow lake, dark pine forests lining the steep valleys behind them on every side. Simo climbed stiffly out of the car, grateful to be released from the bone-jarring ride. The woods were so dense they appeared black, the mountains shadowing them from the sun. He scanned about him, aware that eyes may already be watching.
‘We should walk the rest of the way. We’ll seem less threatening on foot,’ said David. ‘If we’re very lucky, they won’t see us coming.’ He picked up his rifle and several magazines of ammo. They walked the two miles without speaking, watching for tell-tale signs of lookouts on the route, aware that they, too, were in all likelihood being stalked. After half an hour they spotted a wisp of smoke rising above the treetops, and soon after they paused at the edge of a clearing where a lone cabin stood, smoke puffing from its chimney. Several burned-out cars blocked the rough road leading to it and three men with guns lazed on the porch.
‘I want them to know you’re in the woods,’ said Simo. ‘It’s best they know I’m not alone.’
David agreed and, rifle in hand, retreated noiselessly into the treeline. Simo unholstered his Glock and tucked it in an inside pocket in order to seem as unthreatening as possible, but then changed his mind and re-holstered it. They were bound to search him anyway, and a concealed weapon would only cause trouble. He wondered if David was right and it was a mistake to come here. It was too late now.
He gave his friend a few minutes to disappear amongst the trees and then strolled towards the front door, arms raised high above his head. In three-and-a-half seconds, he was on his front in the dirt with a boot on his back and a gun in his face. The door to the cabin opened and a man with perfectly brushed silver hair appeared on the threshold in leather slippers.
‘Coffee, Subotić?’ Drakulić glanced into the trees. ‘Is your friend coming in? Or is he going to lurk in the bushes?’
‘David?’ Simo called from his position in the dirt.
There was no sound.
‘The bushes, I think,’ said Simo. ‘But I take milk and sugar.’
Drakulić retreated into the cabin, mouthing a command to the guards. The guards gave Simo a good kick in the ribs, which he knew he was going to feel later, before allowing him to stand. One of the guards patted him down, removing his Glock. Unarmed, he brushed himself off and went inside.
‘Wipe your feet,’ called Drakulić. ‘There’s no need to tramp in half the forest.’
Simo tried to gauge the other man’s expression to see if he was kidding. Hard to tell. He supposed one could be a fastidious psychopath. The cabin was clean, if sparse. Simo observed bars on the windows – whether to keep people in or out, wasn’t clear. The guard who’d claimed his pistol followed him in and presented the weapon to Drakulić.
‘You understand,’ said Drakulić, civilly. ‘You may have it back when you leave.’
He moved to the sink and filled the kettle. ‘Wait outside,’ he said to the guard. ‘The Inspektor won’t be any trouble.’ It was both an instruction and a warning.
Drakulić motioned to a small kitchen table, improbably covered in a cheerful red gingham oilcloth. He sat at one of the carved wooden chairs and gestured to the other. There were faded checked curtains and a calendar with icons of the saints, and a collection of china dogs, some of which had been unceremoniously shoved to the side to make way for a CCTV screen, which displayed the track leading up to the cabin and the layby where David and Simo’s truck was parked. So much for discretion. Another screen showed different angles of the cabin and various spots in the woods. The kettle began to sing. Immediately Drakulić stood.
‘Coffee.’
This was not how Simo had expected the meeting to go, and he found himself knocked off course, watching as Drakulić stirred in milk and sugar. The smell of wood smoke drifted through from the small living room beyond.
‘My grandmother’s place,’ said Drakulić conversationally, as if they were two old pals making small talk. ‘Cold in the winter, but very pleasant in the spring.’
‘Remote, and with one road in and out that’s easily watched,’ said Simo, indicating the CCTV.
‘Too many potholes for the postman. He won’t drive up the track,’ said Drakulić, benignly.
He watched Simo from behind horned spectacles, with eyes as clear and blue as the Drina. Simo knew he was in his early sixties, but when it suited him Drakulić liked to play up his age, to feign frailty and pretend he was much older. Simo took in the leather slippers and the knotted cashmere scarf, as though he felt the cold. His hand even trembled as he stirred and carefully set a flowered coffee mug on the table. It was all a careful lie, designed to imply impotence and infirmity. Beneath the slouch and too large woollen sweater, Simo could see the muscular bulk of the man, honed from prison. The silver hair had barely thinned and, when he spoke, his teeth were white and strong. This was the Wolf, pretending to be grandpapa. Simo didn’t believe a bit of it.
‘I want to talk to you about Ryan Mackinnon.’
‘Who?’
‘American journalist murdered here. Used to go by Ryan Markovitz.’
Drakulić shook his head. ‘My memory . . . not what it used to be . . .’
‘I think you remember just fine.’
As Simo watched, Drakulić seemed to straighten and grow, shrugging off the old man act like it was a cape falling to the floor.
‘Haven’t seen him since the war.’
‘Really? Because I have witnesses who say Ryan was about to testify against you in a new trial.’
Drakulić shrugged.
‘You don’t seem concerned?’
Drakulić took off the thick glasses and banged his fist on the table. Simo’s untouched coffee jumped.
‘Why would I kill some reporter, Subotić? That’s what you’re asking, right? I don’t care about a witness in a trial; I’d be safer in prison.’
‘Why’s that?’
For the first time Drakulić looked unsettled. He shook his head and rubbed heavily pouched eyes. ‘Someone’s coming for me. You know that.’
Now they were getting to the meat of it. ‘Who’s coming?’
Drakulić boomed a great laugh. ‘If I knew that I sure as hell wouldn’t be up here in old baka’s cabin.’
Simo snorted with disbelief. ‘You want me to believe that you’re quite happy to go back to prison.’
Drakulić shot him a sly smile. ‘Happy to be in protective custody awaiting trial, at the taxpayer’s expense. Who says anything about being sent down? They’ll spend four years arguing and waiting for a trial date. I’ll split another million dollars in trial fees, all paid for by the ICC, with my lawyer. No problem.’
Simo watched him. It was bravado for sure but smacked at least partly of the truth. He didn’t seem concerned about a possible trial. He seemed worried about a vigilante killer. Simo wondered if part of the old-man get-up was actually some sort of bizarre disguise.
‘If you’re so concerned, why not go to the police?’
‘I did. I told my son. He told me to stay out of it and gave the case to you. Told me you were Djubre jedno but a great fucking cop. I’m not so sure. Took you long enough to identify the bodies.’
So, he admitted he knew who they were. That was worth something. ‘How did you know Arkan Ćešić and Ivan Fuštar were dead?’
‘They missed fucking bingo night,’ he snarled, with a look of derision.
‘Are there others?’
‘You’re the detective. Shouldn’t you know?’
Simo was convinced that for all his bluster, Drakulić was scared. Restless fingers tapped on his bouncing leg and his eyes continually strayed to the CCTV screens. When he moved, Simo noticed that the sweater tightened over the impression of a gun holster. Simo placed his hands carefully on the table, suddenly hyper aware that he was sitting in the kitchen with an edgy, armed psychopath who was seeing killers stalking him in every shadow.
‘Usually, in a situation like this, I would ask if you know of anyone with a grudge. Anyone who might want to harm you. But in your case, I know that will get me a very long list.’
Drakulić laughed. ‘I couldn’t begin to tell you the names on it.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Anyone whose family passed through Vilina or believes there were concentration camps near Zikoč. The men who went through the prison camps tend to exaggerate their experience to make themselves sound macho. You know how it was, Inspektor.’
‘I do know. I lived through the war.’ It wasn’t part of the scope of his current investigation, but Simo couldn’t resist taking this opportunity to bring up something that had tormented him for years. ‘Of course you won’t remember Abdul Sokolović.’
Drakulić shrugged, his face blank.
‘He was a friend of mine, husband of my cousin. You had him tortured.’
‘It was a war.’ Drakulić formed his lips into a moue of disinterest. ‘You didn’t say he was killed. Was this Abdul released? Perhaps he is the one who is now killing off his former enemies. I hope your fondness for him doesn’t mean you haven’t checked him out.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Okay, so not Abdul,’ agreed Drakulić, evenly.
Simo struggled to stay as calm as the man sitting opposite, knowing he mustn’t lose control. ‘You sent men to my parents’ house when I wouldn’t join your army.’ His voice rose in anger, despite himself.
Drakulić grinned, delighted that he’d got to him. ‘Yes, didn’t you pussy your way out of it by becoming a translator for the Americans?’
‘If that’s what you heard, it must be true.’ Simo mustn’t let him in his head.
Drakulić went back to staring at the CCTV screen, searching for shadows stealing through the woods to kill him. ‘This is how they fight the war now, Subotić. These coward vigilantes. They come after war heroes one at a time in the dark. They are too scared to fight like proper men. Jeb’o ti pas mater!’
Simo longed to tell him that’s what he deserved for ordering the torture and death and brutalisation of hundreds of people – to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. Hate and fear had stalked him to this miserable cabin in the dark woods. But despite Drakulić’s serene smile, Simo didn’t rise to the provocation. That wasn’t how this encounter was going to play out. Simo realised he’d been right about Drakulić needing him to solve the case. Beneath the calm veneer and polite offers of coffee was a worried and frightened man. Dragan Drakulić was losing it. Cold dread gripped Simo at the realisation. There was one thing worse than a psychopath in control, and that was one out of control.
19
