DIARY OF A WAR CRIME
By Simon McCleave
A DC Ruth Hunter Murder File
Book 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Diary of a War Crime (DI Ruth Hunter Prequel, #1)
CHAPTER 1 | April 1997
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
AMAZON REVIEW
Acknowledgements
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.
First published by Stamford Publishing Ltd in 2021
Copyright © Simon McCleave, 2021
All rights reserved
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CHAPTER 1
April 1997
The warm wind swirled as Mersad Avdic and Katerina Selimovic made their way out of the tube train at Earl’s Court underground station in West London and onto the platform. They turned right and headed for the exit. It was getting busy so Mersad put his hand gently on Katerina’s arm and guided her through the crowds of commuters in a slow slalom towards the stone steps.
By the time they came out, what had been a typical spring day with sunshine was making way for sporadic, stormy showers.
Mersad made a move to say goodbye to his dear friend Katerina. He had known her since childhood and, had life been different, he imagined she might have been his wife. She was beautiful both inside and out.
‘It was so lovely to see you,’ Mersad said. He would have loved her to come back to his flat. To cook her dinner, talk, and drink wine.
‘Yes, Mersad. Despite the circumstances, it was nice to see you,’ Katerina said with a more solemn tone.
Mersad didn’t want to think about the reason for their meeting. It hung on his shoulders like some terrible dark cloak that wouldn’t go away. There was part of him that wished their friend Hamzar had never been to Waterloo station three weeks ago. Then none of this would have been set in motion.
‘I will speak to Hamzar tonight and let you know what we’re going to do next,’ Mersad reassured her.
‘Please ... but you must be careful,’ Katerina said with a grave expression.
‘We all have to be careful,’ Mersad said.
Katerina took his hand and looked at him. ‘Please let me know what you find out - however small. It’s important.’
Mersad nodded, kissed her cheek. ‘Yes, of course. Zdravo.’
Katerina kissed him back. He could smell her perfume and it made his heart do a little dance. ‘Zdravo, Mersad.’ It was Serbian for ‘goodbye.’
Katerina smiled and then headed away into a growing stream of commuters. He watched her go for a few seconds, still mulling over what might have been. Fifty years earlier, they had held hands and even kissed very briefly while watching a dubbed version of It’s a Wonderful Life in an open-air cinema in Prirode Park in their local town of Subotica. It felt like many lifetimes ago. So much had happened since then.
As he turned to head home, Mersad saw that the man selling The Evening Standard had put a brick on the papers to stop them blowing away. There was a British general election only a matter of days away and the headline read Blair stretches lead in polls. London’s rush hour was thankfully beginning to tail off a little, but the air was still thick with the diesel fumes of buses and black cabs. Pulling up the collar on his black overcoat, he got a whiff of the musty smell of the wool. He had brought it with him when he arrived in London two years earlier. If truth be told, it had been more of an escape than an arrival.
Mersad made his way north up the Earl’s Court Road. Traffic was bumper to bumper. He noticed how he was making a lot more progress on foot than those stuck in the cars. The face of a boy looked out at him from a small van as he drew shapes in the condensation. As the lights changed, the cars and lorries moved forward about ten yards, their tyres hissing on the wet surface of the road.
Glancing to his left, Mersad saw the impressive sight of the Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre, with its white Art Deco architecture, that he knew had been constructed in the mid-1930s. It looked Germanic to him. Fans were already huddled outside, waiting to see a band called The Verve play a concert there. He had never heard of them. From the huge photo outside, he thought they looked a bit like The Rolling Stones. He wondered if they were Britpop. He kept reading that word, but he didn’t really know what it meant. Mersad hadn’t bought a record since he’d purchased a David Bowie LP in the late 1970s. He couldn’t even remember what they called it. The only time he had ever bought a lot of records was in the late 1950s when he was a teenager and loved the new rock’n’roll that was coming out of the US. It sounded like nothing he had ever heard before. Compared to the traditional Serbian schlager singers such as Lola Novakovic and Dorde Marjanovic, Elvis Presley’s Jailhouse Rock sounded like it had come from another planet as it exploded out of the radio. It was angry, aggressive, and so exciting.
Trundling along the pavement, Mersad could feel a mist of fine drizzle wet his cheeks. Rubbing his face and chin, he made a mental note to have a shave later or the following morning. As the drizzle turned to rain, he consoled himself that when he got back to his flat he would make himself his favourite hearty begova čorba. It was a Bosnian stew, pronounced chorba, that he would rustle up with vegetables and the chunks of halal chicken he had just bought from a specialist butchers in Hammersmith. It was a place recommended by other Bosnian Muslims who had managed to escape the war. They had settled mainly in the Royal Oak and Earl’s Court areas of London.
Mersad knew that there were parts of London that would be no-go areas for a Bosnian Muslim like him. The war in his homeland had caused thousands of refugees to head abroad, and London had small enclaves of the various ethnic groups from the former Yugoslavia. But the bitterness and prejudices of the war still ran deep. The Croats had settled mainly in Paddington, where they drank their traditional grape brandy called Popa at the local Croatian Club. The Serbs had made Shepherd’s Bush their home. The 011 Club, a small, dingy basement bar close to Shepherd’s Bush Green, was where they congregated – 011 was the dialling code for Belgrade, capital of Serbia. Some Croatians moved south of the ri
ver to congregate around the Croatian Centre in Clapham. Bosnians chose Ladbroke Grove with its Bosnian Advisory Centre. Mersad had heard of a vicious fight that had broken out in a Balkan restaurant in Hammersmith where a Croat had ordered using the Croatian word for soup.
He turned right into the street where he lived and soon arrived at his basement flat. His thinning hair was now a little matted from the rain. Fishing into his pocket for the keys, he made his way carefully down the wet stone steps to the dark red front door. They were slippery, so he took his time. He wiggled the brass key into the Chubb lock and turned it. However, it didn’t click open as it usually did.
For some reason, it wasn’t locked.
That’s very strange. I’m sure I locked it on my way out, he thought to himself. Old age, no doubt. My memory seems to be getting worse by the day.
Opening the front door, he peered into the darkness, and entered. He put his shopping down, un-looped his scarf and hung up his coat. The flat smelled musty, but that was Victorian basement flats for you. It felt damp all year round, but the rent was cheap and the landlord friendly, so he put up with it.
He shuffled into the tiny kitchen and clicked on the solitary bulb that hung from the ceiling.
Something didn’t feel right.
As he went to the kettle, he could see someone had moved it from its usual spot. As he went to move it back, he touched its side. It was boiling hot!
Oh my God! What is going on?
His stomach tightened with nerves.
Mersad looked back out of the kitchen into the gloomy darkness of the hallway.
Is someone in the flat? Is that why the door was unlocked? The landlord, Mr Peterson, is the only other person with a key. He would never let himself in. Would he?
Mersad’s heart started to pound in his chest. He took a breath to try to steady himself.
What’s going on?
Then he heard a sound. The clink of china.
What’s that? Someone is sitting in my living room.
‘Hello?’ Mersad called uncertainly as he moved into the hallway and strained to see and hear.
He was now terrified.
The door to the living room was open by an inch. There was light from inside.
How did I miss that when I came in? he wondered as anxiety flooded his body.
Pushing the door open as slowly as he could, Mersad braced himself for what, or who, was inside.
In the shadowy light, a figure was sitting cross-legged in his armchair drinking tea from one of his teacups.
‘Mersad Advic?’ the man asked. He was broad shouldered, with a greying beard and piercing blue eyes.
Who the hell is that? He has a Bosnian accent.
Mersad felt sick.
Maybe I should run out of the flat and call the police?
‘Yes?’ Mersad replied, aware that his voice was shaky.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ the man said as he gestured to the sofa. ‘Please. Come and sit down. I just want to talk. Nothing more than that.’
The friendly, warm tone of the man’s voice and his familiar accent reassured him a little as he nodded.
‘Please, I mean you no harm,’ the man said as he sat forward, still gesturing to the sofa.
Mersad took a few steps across the room and sat down slowly.
As his eyes focussed better on the man sitting in his living room, he suddenly recognised him. The last time he had seen him, the man’s hair and beard had been jet black, and he had been wearing an army camouflage jacket.
Simo Petrovic. The Butcher of Mount Strigova.
Mersad’s stomach flipped.
Oh my God!
Petrovic had been responsible for terrible, inhuman atrocities against the Muslims and Croats in his hometown. He had set up a concentration camp in the old ceramic’s factory called Keraterm.
‘I see you recognise me,’ said Petrovic.
Mersad couldn’t move. His whole body was shaking, and he couldn’t get his breath.
Petrovic put the teacup and saucer down on the small side table and leant forward. His blue eyes seemed to drill straight into Mersad.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Petrovic asked, raising an eyebrow. His voice was deep and calm.
Mersad nodded, his eyes widening with fear.
‘I understand that you have been looking for me?’ Petrovic asked.
Mersad shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he stammered.
Is that why he is here? He’s come to kill me.
‘Mersad, I think we know that is not true. But I do not come here to harm you. You have made a new life here. And that is a wonderful thing.’
Petrovic’s words confused Mersad. He was a monster who was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of Muslim men and teenage boys.
‘I’m not looking for you. I assure you,’ Mersad lied in a virtual whisper.
Petrovic turned to the table next to him and patted a small pile of papers and a notebook. ‘You have been busy? But I am going to have to take these with me. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Mersad whispered.
Petrovic nodded and stood up. ‘Very well. You have your new life here in London. Me too. I would like it to stay that way, for both of us. Do we have an understanding?’
‘Of course, ...’ Mersad mumbled. He didn’t know why Petrovic hadn’t just killed him there on the spot.
Petrovic held out his hand. ‘If our heritage and traditions are to survive, we must put the past behind us, no?’
Does he really want me to shake his hand? I can’t do it ...
With an overwhelming sense of shame, Mersad stood up, reached out and took Petrovic’s hand. It was cold but strong.
Petrovic moved forward with a smile and embraced Mersad.
‘You see? You see? My little balija friend,’ Petrovic said with a sneer.
Mersad froze. He hadn’t heard the Bosnian derogatory slang for Muslim in years. And Petrovic’s sudden change of tone was unnerving. He no longer sounded friendly and upbeat.
What’s he doing?
He felt a piercing, red hot stinging pain in his neck.
Petrovic moved back. He was holding a syringe.
‘Time for me to go, little balija,’ he said, this time with hatred in his face.
Mersad felt dizzy and then his legs collapsed from under him.
He fell backwards into the armchair.
Everything went black.
CHAPTER 2
Detective Constable Ruth Hunter peered around the corner of the tower block and into the central concrete atrium. The last time she was here was a few months ago, on her twenty-seventh birthday. Her birthday treat that day was to go on a drugs raid, wearing a Kevlar bulletproof vest and backed up by armed response officers. Happy bloody birthday, Ruth!
This time, the callout had been a little different to say the least.
Ruth spotted the suspect straight away. And he definitely fitted the description. A man in a large red wig, red clown nose, yellow dungarees, and a red and white stripy top.
Bloody hell! It really is Ronald McDonald.
Detective Constable Lucy Henry crouched beside her. She rolled her eyes at Ruth.
‘Are you bloody kidding me!’ Lucy growled, gesturing to him.
‘Do you want fries with that, sir?’ quipped Ruth.
‘Ronald McDonald’ was waving around a crowbar and shouting something indecipherable.
‘I don’t know why Trumpton couldn’t have sorted this out,’ Ruth complained.
‘Trumpton’ was CID’s disparaging name for uniformed police officers and referred to an old children’s television programme.
‘I’ve got a horrible feeling that we’ve been stitched up,’ Lucy said.
At that moment, the man whacked the crowbar into the windscreen of a car with an almighty crash.
‘Right, that’s it,’ Lucy said angrily as she moved from behind the wall.
‘Let’s take it nice and easy,’ Ruth said to Lucy.
Ruth had been w
orking as Lucy’s partner for five months. It had been apparent from the first day that Lucy was a little gung-ho in her approach to policing. At least that was the polite way of putting it.
‘Oi, Ronald. Put that bloody thing down!’ Lucy yelled.
The man looked at her, waved inanely, and then hit the side window of the car with another swing of his crowbar. Glass went flying everywhere.
Great! We’ve got a right nutter here, Ruth thought.
‘Stop that! And put the crowbar down!’ Lucy shouted as she approached.
Glancing up, Ruth could see that the incident had now attracted some residents who were watching in amusement from balconies and walkways of the ten-storey housing blocks.
That’s all we need. A bloody audience.
‘Come on. Let’s see if we can sort all this out,’ Ruth said in a gentle tone that contrasted with her partner’s. But that was how they worked. Even though they were the same age, they were definitely good cop, bad cop. So far, it had been a pretty effective partnership.
‘Go on, Ronald! Do a runner!’ shouted a voice from high up. The yell reverberated around the entire estate.
Cheers, mate. We don’t need your bloody input, thanks.
Ruth and Lucy continued moving slowly towards him, but the man seemed to have been encouraged by the shout. He looked over at them and grinned with his white and red made-up face.
‘I think he’s off his head,’ Ruth said as a note of caution.
Lucy pulled out her extendable police baton. ‘He’ll be off his head when I’ve bloody finished with him.’
Ronald shrugged, turned, and then ran.
In any other situation, Ruth would have found it highly comedic.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Lucy muttered as they ran after him.
‘Go on, Ronald! Go on, mate!’ came the cries from the watching crowd.
As they chased Ronald across the weed-strewn concourse, a great cheer came up from the watching residents.
Oh, fuck off, will you!
Ruth couldn’t believe the man was trying to run away in oversized clown shoes.
In a matter of seconds, they had gained ground on the fleeing man as the cheers reverberated around the estate.
Diary of a War Crime Page 1
