Siniša stopped the car by the side of the road, turned off the engine and took the letter from Milena’s hand. ‘What was old Valetić thinking? Just because Slobodan Božović turned up at a public meeting in Avala with a few schoolbooks? The man’s a professional politician adept at playing the media and all kinds of other things besides, but he ain’t a saint.’
Dumbstruck, Milena stared at the dashboard and tried to marshal her thoughts.
‘Do you remember a project called Corridor 17?’ Siniša asked.
She shook her head and pushed the button to open the window. She needed air.
‘The east–west arterial route that was supposed to link the south of Serbia with Kosovo.’ Siniša opened the ashtray for her. ‘Back then, in the nineties, Božović was working in the ministry responsible for infrastructure projects. He was still relatively young and decided to take a hands-on approach. So, he personally criss-crossed the country, going from one village to the next and visiting every farmer at home. Those yokels had no idea that their land was worth a fortune. Božović put cash on the table right next to the purchase contract, transferred ownership of the properties to a company he owned and then sold it on to the state for a heap of money. He grew rich in the process, and was clever enough to share the profits – with the heads of the clans in Kosovo and the public prosecutors, who helped him cover up the whole business. I never did manage to make anything stick to Božović, and when the regime collapsed and the dictator was driven from office all the files were destroyed.’
‘Siniša –’ Milena interrupted.
‘I know,’ Siniša waved his hand. ‘Same old stories. But it still bugs me whenever I think about it. And one key thing to bear in mind – Božović still looks after the contacts he built up back then. His people are still in positions of power in all the Kosovan ministries and town halls. They all know one another, esteem one another and, above all, want to do business with one another – undisturbed and as hush-hush as possible. And this whole nationalist nonsense – whether one person’s a Serb or the other’s a Kosovan Albanian – nobody gives a damn about it in those circles.’
‘And still,’ Milena objected, ‘two Serbs had to die in Kosovo, and not long afterwards their son as well.’
‘Don’t get me wrong.’ Siniša stuffed the papers back into the envelope. ‘Božović is unscrupulous and ruthless – especially when it comes to defending his interests. And his interests are the same as back in the days of Corridor 17: siphoning off as much money as he can and stuffing the bulk of it into his own pockets. He probably never knew the Valetićs or took the slightest notice of them. Why would he have been bothered by calls or emails from some old man anyway? Maybe he just made some remark that led to the deed, or a gesture with his hand. But how could we prove that?’
Milena let Siniša light her cigarette, and blew the smoke out of the open window. ‘There’s an old house in Mutap Street,’ she said. ‘And a woman living there, an old lady, by the name of Juliana Spajić.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The lighter snapped shut. Siniša looked inquiringly at Milena.
‘At our first meeting, she was terribly excited because she thought she’d seen her cousin, Nicola Spajić. The guy emigrated to Canada many years ago, probably after the war, and she’s been waiting for him to return ever since.’
‘Are you saying that the man referred to in the letter, Jonathan Spajić –’
‘– could be a descendant of this family, yes. Maybe. That can’t be ruled out. But there’s more to this story: during my second visit, Miss Juliana complained that Nicola had been rooting about in the garden with strangers. She was scared.’
Siniša shook his head. ‘It all sounds a bit far-fetched. Maybe we oughtn’t take it too seriously.’
‘For sure,’ Milena nodded. ‘For decades she’s lived with the hope that her beloved cousin might return one day. She seems to ignore the fact that he too might be old now, and might have even died.’ Milena took a drag of her cigarette and continued. ‘But even so, I found some evidence to suggest that there has recently been some change in her life, in that house. That somebody really has visited there.’
Siniša leant forward expectantly.
‘A pair of gloves.’
‘Gloves?’
‘On the sideboard. I noticed them and thought: that’s strange. They were far too big for an old lady’s hands.’
Siniša sighed. ‘Now, don’t get mad at me, Milena, darling, but if we’re trying to establish whether there really is someone there connected to our case, we need something a bit more concrete than that. A photograph, for example, or a description at least, that we could take to people and ask, “Is this Jonathan Spajić, a relative of Juliana Spajić? Was this man in Avala with the refugees, and where is he now?”’
‘Please don’t go thinking I’m crazy.’ Milena flicked her ash into the little receptacle between the seats. ‘But when I was in Slobodan Božović’s study, I saw a plan on his desk, and my first thought was that it was a development and land usage plan, like in the Kosovo brochure. But when I took a closer look, I realised that there were two architectural drawings on it, probably the ground and the upper floors of a building, along with some strange cross-hatching. Now I’m thinking it could have been a blueprint of the house in Mutap Street, the old palace, which is partially derelict.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Siniša pressed the palms of his hands together, as if he were praying. ‘If I understand you correctly, then you’re saying it’s possible that this guy from the letter, Jonathan Spajić, is related to the old lady in Mutap Street, and that he might be about to sell the house, this old palace, to the secretary of state?’
‘Just think: Mutap Street. The plot alone is worth millions.’
‘The same Jonathan Spajić who – according to old Valetić’s research – was responsible for property deals in Kosovo?’
‘And for the returnee programme in Avala.’
‘Jonathan Spajić…’ Siniša closed his eyes. ‘But then the man at the party, in Slobodan Božović’s study, the guy who threatened you with a gun –’
‘Nat. Or, as Diana called him, Mr Natty. Her description fits exactly: checked suit, dress handkerchief, slicked-back hair. ‘Nat’ comes from ‘Jonathan’. Jonathan Spajić and Nat are one and the same person!’
Siniša nodded. ‘Sounds logical. Yes, that makes sense.’
Milena stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Let’s go there, right now.’
‘To Mutap Street?’ Siniša shook his head. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘You said it yourself: we need proof. And we’ll get it there.’
‘You’re crazy, you know.’ Siniša started the engine. ‘I should drive in the opposite direction, to the police station.’ He flicked the indicator. ‘And why do you suppose that the guy’s in Mutap Street? Do you imagine he’ll be sitting with the old lady drinking tea?’
‘Why not? Turn left here, please, via Crown Street; it’s faster.’
‘And what do we do if we run into him?’ Siniša changed lanes. ‘Confront him? We’ve been there already, remember?’
‘The situation’s totally different now. At the party I was alone, totally unprepared and standing there empty handed. We’ve got the documents now. We can tell him: If you want these papers, you’ll have to spill the beans, about the people pulling the strings, for example, and Slobodan Božović’s role in the whole affair.’
‘Don’t underestimate this Spajić bloke. You got away at the party, but only just. The Valetićs weren’t so lucky. And try to see it from his point of view – imagine the pressure he’s under. Ever since he got the Valetićs into the returnee programme, everything’s gone pear-shaped. Three people are dead, and he still hasn’t managed to get hold of the evidence. And what I don’t understand in the slightest – if he’s so close to achieving his aim, why doesn’t he show up to the meeting with Marco and get hold of the incriminating material?’
‘Who says he didn’t turn up? Maybe we just beat him to the punch.’
Siniša looked into his rear-view mirror. ‘I’ve got another explanation – things are getting a bit too hot for this Spajić guy’s liking. He’s looking for a way out.’
‘Back to Canada?’
‘Wherever, just out.’
‘What about the inheritance?’ Milena asked.
‘The plot on Mutap Street? He’ll try to flog it before he disappears. As quickly as he can.’
‘And the old lady?’
‘No idea. Packed off to a home.’
Milena stashed the papers in the glove box, checked her phone nervously and said, ‘Can’t you drive a bit faster?’
Siniša stepped on the accelerator, raced down to the traffic lights in the far lane, turned the corner – and swore. A flatbed lorry was blocking Njegoš Street. Siniša slammed the car into reverse, but the road behind was now also blocked.
‘I’ll go on ahead.’ Milena tugged the door handle. ‘If I cut across the market, I’ll be there in no time.’
‘Don’t do anything until I get there.’
‘Maybe I can get the key from the neighbour.’
‘Do you have your phone on you? And not silenced?’
‘You know the house, right? It’s the old palace with the big green gate. You can’t miss it.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘See you in a bit.’
Milena ran through a market lane full of pyjamas and nightgowns, and raced past the beer stall and the men from the municipal cleaning department. Market traders were lifting crates full of fruit and vegetables, handing bags to customers and tenderising escalopes of veal. Siniša had been quite right to give her a hard time. For instance, what would she do if the guy over there by the spices – wearing a jacket and sneakers, and more wiry than strong – turned out to be Jonathan Spajić? Call for help? Summon the police? Or just say: ‘you and I need to talk, but this time without your gun’? Milena straightened the shoulder strap of her bag. She’d have to deal with the situation as it presented itself, and when the real Jonathan Spajić stood in front of her it was vital she didn’t lose her cool.
The green gate was shut, and pigeons were flapping around nervously on the windowsills. Milena knocked, and tried to remember which house Angelina lived in. The neighbour had just pointed vaguely to the opposite side of the street when they’d met the other day.
While Milena wondered how to proceed, she put her hand on the doorknob and noticed that it was fairly loose, probably from overuse. She turned and rattled it a bit, and felt resistance from something that was just about to give – or was she imagining it? If she could just lift the door a little and push on it at the same time…
With a soft click, the gate suddenly yielded to her efforts. Milena peered through the narrow gap into the gloomy entrance. A cat looked up, and then crept off. Milena pulled the free newspaper from the letter box and jammed it between the threshold and the gate to wedge it open for Siniša.
When she had last been here, five days ago, in the dark, everything had looked different. She barely recognised the garden at the end of the driveway.
Miss Juliana had to be at home, because her shopping trolley was parked next to the water butt. A thin bicycle wheel and a silver frame were poking out from behind a low wall covered in ivy and brambles, which separated the courtyard from the garden. Milena knew without looking that the saddle was made of red leather. This same bike had been leaning against the house on the night of Slobodan Božović’s party.
There were butterflies in her stomach. She clung to the thought that everything was all right, and that she and Siniša had got themselves worked up about nothing. He’d be here any minute now. She wasn’t going to act alone; she’d promised as much. She climbed the stairs to the mezzanine floor.
The door was open a crack, and the hallway was dark. Milena listened, then called, ‘Miss Juliana?’
The doors on the right, into the larder and straight on to the kitchen, were both shut. Milena didn’t know whether it was better to crash about or just to stay silent and wait.
‘Miss Juliana?’ She knocked gently on the kitchen door. ‘It’s me, Milena Lukin.’
By now she was familiar with this room, the one with tiles on the wall. Dutch motifs from floor to ceiling. The giant cabinet full of china. The sink. The pots and pans hanging over the range. Nothing had changed – only there was now something lying on the floor behind the gas stove that had not been there before. Milena bent down to look at it.
The Bakelite was smashed, and the line was dead. As if someone had hurled the phone across the room in a blind fury.
She replaced the receiver, and put the telephone back on the chest of drawers.
Around the corner was the bed, and on the blanket lay a suitcase. Cabin-sized, black, with wheels and seemingly never used before – maybe recently purchased. Was Miss Juliana about to embark on a trip? The suitcase was half open, and empty.
The easy chair stood with its back to the room, the divan was pushed aside, while in a cup some dregs of tea had dried out. Miss Juliana had disappeared.
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.’