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. Pigeons 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.

Quickly, she took out her own phone, entered Marco’s number and pressed the green button. But by now the voicemail on Marco’s phone was saying that the number was temporarily unavailable. Milena quietly cursed.

‘Did he hang up?’ Diana ripped off a piece of kitchen towel.

‘Do you know where he might be?’

Diana blew her nose and shook her head.

‘Do you have his address?’

‘Danube Street. But he only goes there to sleep.’

Milena took out her notebook.

‘He’s getting his passport today.’

‘His passport?’ Milena looked up in surprise.

‘And then he wanted to celebrate.’ Again, Diana was overcome by tears.

‘Why celebrate? Is it his birthday?’

‘He wanted to celebrate getting his passport. After all, he’s a Kosovan Albanian. Didn’t you know that? Don’t look at me like that. He just wants his passport. It has nothing to do with the death of Goran’s parents.’ Sniffling, she reached for her phone. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’d like to call my mum now.’

On the way to her car, Milena lit a cigarette. She was thinking about the message Marco had written on the signed photograph: ‘Sorry. One day I promise I’ll explain everything.’ What did he mean? That he was a Kosovan Albanian?

She tried one more time to reach him – but in vain. Then she called Siniša – equally unsuccessfully. After the tone, she left a message on his voicemail. ‘Listen, Siniša, we’ve got to find a young man called Marco Begolli as quickly as possible. I think he knows where the files of old man Valetić are, and that he’s trying to do a deal with the guy who threatened me at Božović’s party.’

Milena thought for a second and then continued, ‘I can’t get hold of Marco on the phone, but Diana Adamac said that he’s getting his passport today. That would mean that he could be sitting in the offices of the immigration police in Sava Street, so we might be able to pick him up there. I’ll definitely try anyhow. Could we meet there? I’d feel better if you were with me, just in case there’s trouble with the officials there or I need your help in some other way.’ She extinguished her cigarette and said, ‘It’s only a hunch. But just in case: Marco’s in his early twenties, with dark hair and a well-groomed beard. And he has a scratch on his face, on his cheek. Call me. I’ll go now.’

The traffic on Liberation Boulevard was stop-start, and Sava Street was at the far end of town. Milena drummed nervously on the steering wheel and flashed her lights, and at a snail’s pace the car in front of her pulled over to the right. She accelerated, tried the flashing-lights trick again and thought: a Kosovan Albanian at the offices of the Serbian immigration police – it sounded like a joke. Especially if that Kosovan Albanian thought he’d be issued a Serbian passport there. That was a pipe dream. In reality, it was never going to happen.

Milena changed lanes. Her head was still ringing with the music that she had heard when she telephoned Marco, from the funfair in the background, and she thought of what Adam had said the other day: ‘Riding a carousel is for babies.’ Vera had been inconsolable.

Milena thought for a moment. Then she reached for her phone and redialled. ‘Siniša, before you set off, please call me back.’

Gripping the steering wheel tensely with both hands, she took the roundabout exit that led in the opposite direction, to King Milan Street, back towards the centre of town.