‘Batter Sur La Mer. That’s what the yuppies call it isn’t it?’
‘My dad called them Hooray Henrys.’
Lucy glanced over at Ruth and frowned. ‘You been crying?’ she asked.
Bollocks! Does it show?
‘No,’ Ruth said avoiding eye contact.
‘Liar. Are things deteriorating on the ranch?’
Ruth wasn’t sure how much to tell Lucy. She had been telling her to ditch Dan for over a year now.
‘Dan moved out last night,’ Ruth admitted.
Lucy looked over at her. ‘Oh my god. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Lucy shrugged and pulled a face. ‘Okay, I’m not sorry that he’s gone. But I am sorry that you’re upset ... Did you kick him out?’
‘Not really.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He left me. He said he needed some time to think, and that we weren’t getting on. He couldn’t get out of the front door fast enough. The worst part of it was that he wouldn’t arrange to meet up with Ella or even say that he’d miss her.’ Ruth felt a tear well up.
Lucy reached over and touched Ruth’s arm to comfort her. ‘He’s such a prick. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it will be for the best. I promise.’
‘I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. And I’m not worried about being on my own or being lonely. But I feel so sorry and angry for Ella.’
‘Of course, you do. But you two will be so strong and amazing on your own. Like a dynamic duo!’
Ruth looked over, wiped the tear from her eye and smiled. ‘Thank you, Lucy.’
‘Don’t be daft. That’s what we do. Imagine if you were stuck with some fat, hairy-arsed male DS in the car all day,’ Lucy chortled.
Ruth laughed. ‘Been there, got the t-shirt.’
‘Me too ... You’re going to be fine. I promise.’
The traffic cleared a little as they reached the north side of the bridge, cut through Chelsea, and headed east towards Notting Hill.
As they travelled north on the Portobello Road, they turned left. Lucy pulled the car up outside a large church and community centre on a side road just behind Portobello Market. Ruth glanced up to see a sign - All Saints, Serbian Orthodox Church. The front of the imposing, grey stone building had arched windows that were symmetrical with the two arched doors below.
Getting out of the car, Ruth watched two teenagers sitting outside the Cultural Centre building. They wore traditional Serbian dress. The boy had a square hat, black waistcoat, and baggy crimson trousers. The girl had red and yellow flowers in her hair, and a black patterned pinafore over a long, dark checked skirt.
Ruth couldn’t help thinking how different they looked to the archetypal teenagers of Ladbroke Grove in their tracksuits and sports gear.
‘I rang earlier. There’s a bar and function room at the back,’ Lucy said as they walked over to the entrance of the Cultural Centre.
Once inside, Ruth could see that most of the posters and signs were written in Serbo-Croat.
They marched over to the reception desk where a woman with jet black hair, pulled into a tight bun, was on the phone. She hung up just as they arrived, and smiled at them.
‘DC Henry and DC Hunter, CID. I wonder if you can help us. We’re trying to track down this man,’ Lucy said as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the photo of Petrovic that they had found in Mujic’s flat. ‘Have you ever seen him before? He’s Serbian.’
The receptionist’s face didn’t register when she saw the photo. She shook her head.
She doesn’t know him, Ruth thought.
‘No. Sorry. I’ve never seen this man before.’
‘I understand that you have lunchtime entertainment in the bar. Mind if we ask around?’ Lucy asked, although it wasn’t really a question.
‘Of course not. It is down the end of this corridor and then you must turn right,’ the receptionist said, gesturing.
‘Thanks,’ Ruth said as they turned and went.
‘She’s never seen Petrovic before has she?’ Lucy asked under her breath.
‘Definitely not,’ Ruth replied as they headed down the corridor, turned right, and found large open double doors that led into a function room and bar.
Folk music was playing and a group of Serbian teenagers, dressed in the traditional clothing that Ruth had seen outside, were performing a dance in couples.
Ruth watched for a few seconds. ‘Who would have thought you would find a place like this slap bang in the middle of fashionable Notting Hill?’
It reminded her of some traditional Greek dancing she had seen when on holiday in Crete. It was the first holiday she and Dan ever went on. For a moment, she remembered the events of the previous evening and her heart sank a little.
On the other side of the room were around twenty or so older people nursing drinks, smoking, chatting, or watching the dancers.
‘Come on - unless you want to join in?’ Lucy quipped.
Ruth laughed as they walked over to the bar. ‘I would need to be hammered to do that.’
A tall barman came over and said something that Ruth didn’t understand. She showed her warrant card to him. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Of course. Is there some kind of problem?’ he asked with a frown.
‘No. We’re just looking for someone. He’s Serbian,’ Ruth explained as she took the photograph from Lucy and showed him.
Again, the man’s face showed no recognition as he shook his head. ‘No sorry. And you’re sure he’s Serbian?’
‘Yes,’ Ruth nodded and looked at Lucy.
Bugger. We’re not getting very far.
‘Maybe talk to Novak over there? He’s the president of the centre. He knows everyone,’ the barman suggested. He pointed to a man in his sixties, with a bulbous nose and large wrinkled forehead. ‘Novak Pupin.’
Ruth and Lucy approached the table where Pupin was drinking a beer and smoking.
‘Mr Pupin?’ Ruth asked.
He nodded with a curious look on his face. ‘Can I help you ladies?’
‘We’re police officers and we’re looking for someone. We know that he’s Serbian and wondered if you could help us,’ Lucy explained.
‘Of course, of course,’ Pupin said with a smile as he gestured to chairs at the table. ‘Please, sit down. Would you like a drink, ladies?’
‘We’re fine. Thank you, Mr Pupin,’ Ruth said as she sat down. She couldn’t help but look at his craggy face that seemed to have been chiselled out of stone.
‘Novak, please. And how can I help two such beautiful ladies?’ Pupin said in a slightly brazen way.
All right, mate. Tone it down a bit.
‘We’re looking for someone. We know that he is Serbian so we thought he might have been here,’ Ruth explained.
‘It’s as good a place to try as any,’ he said with a chortle.
Lucy took the photograph and slid it over the table for Pupin to look at. He took out his glasses from his jacket pocket. Ruth saw an enormous sweat stain under his armpit and got a waft of body odour a moment later.
One word. Deodorant.
‘Let me take a look,’ he said, taking the photograph and studying it. After a moment of reflection, his forehead wrinkled even more with an accusatory frown. He put the photograph down and looked at them.
‘Yes. I know who this man is,’ he said in a sombre tone.
‘Can I ask who you think he is?’ Lucy asked, sharing a look with Ruth.
‘It causes me great displeasure to say his name out loud to you. This man is Simo Petrovic. And he would not be welcome in this place. But you will not find him.’
‘Why not?’ Ruth asked.
‘He’s dead. He was buried in Serbia a few years ago.’
Ruth noticed that his hand had clenched into a fist at the thought of Petrovic.
‘We’re not sure that he was,’ Lucy said.
‘No, no. Of this fact I am sure. And that man, and men like him, br
ought such shame on the Serbian name in your country. You have seen the church next door?’ Pupin asked, pointing in its direction.
‘Yes. It’s an incredible building,’ Ruth said.
‘It was given to us by Lady Paget who was the wife of the British Ambassador to Belgrade after the Second World War. Serbians, like my father, were heroes in London after the war. The Serbian partisans fought the Nazis with guerrilla warfare for years. My family fled here when General Tito took power, and we were welcomed with open arms. But since this war in my homeland, the atrocities ... this has all changed. Serbians are seen as monsters,’ he said. ‘And it makes me very sad.’
‘And you’re sure that you haven’t seen Simo Petrovic?’ Lucy asked.
Pupin snorted. ‘Of course not! I would have killed him with my bare hands if I had.’
‘Okay. Thank you for your help,’ Lucy said as she and Ruth got up from the table.
‘I’m afraid you ladies are wasting your time.’
‘Thanks again,’ Ruth said with a polite smile.
They walked back across the function room, watching the folk dancing as they went, then headed past reception and out towards the car.
‘Back to the drawing board,’ Ruth muttered.
Ruth squinted. The sun was now out, and it was turning into a warm spring day.
As Lucy unlocked the car, Ruth could see the disappointment on her face.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll find him,’ she said reassuringly.
‘I was banking on getting something from here,’ Lucy grumbled.
‘Excuse me. Excuse me, please,’ came a voice from behind them.
An old man, with a bushy grey moustache, was heading towards them. He walked with a limp. Ruth recognised him from the Serbian Centre bar. He had been sitting with a group of elderly women.
‘Please. I need to speak to you for a moment,’ he said, looking around furtively.
He clearly doesn’t want anyone to see that he’s talking to us.
‘How can we help?’ Ruth asked quietly.
He looked scared. ‘I heard you were looking for someone. I think I might know something.’
Sounds promising.
‘Anything you help us with would be held in the strictest confidence,’ Lucy said as she came around the car and approached him.
‘Simo Petrovic, yes?’ He hunched his shoulders and his breathing accelerated. It was as if just saying the name out loud terrified him.
‘Yes,’ Lucy said.
‘I heard some men talking in there this morning. And I thought if you were police officers, you should know,’ he said with a slight tremble in his voice.
‘Sorry? Know what?’ Ruth asked.
‘They said that Simo Petrovic left the country last night. He got a plane to Germany.’
Lucy looked over at Ruth – not good news.
‘Which men?’ Lucy asked.
‘They come here in the mornings for coffee. They’re younger than me, but I do not know their names. They’re not here now.’
‘Do you know which airport, or where he was going?’ Lucy asked.
‘Dusseldorf. I think that’s what they said. Dusseldorf.’
CHAPTER 15
It was early evening and still light outside. The weather was warm enough for Ruth to have the door to the tiny garden open. Ella was tottering around, playing with her toys.
Ruth looked over at Lucy who was sitting on the sofa in the flat, drinking wine and sifting through evidence. Ruth was grateful that Lucy was more than happy to sometimes use the flat as a makeshift office when she needed to pick up Ella and get her home. None of the male detectives in CID seemed to have that problem. They had wives at home or that worked part-time.
Ruth poured more wine into her glass and gestured to Lucy.
‘Not if I’m driving,’ Lucy said as she squinted at the fax in her hand. They had managed to get the passenger lists of all three flights from Heathrow to Dusseldorf from the previous evening.
Ruth grabbed the list that was marked BA137 LHR to DUS 19:25. ‘We’re assuming that he’s using a false passport?’
Lucy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Petrovic is officially dead. His name wouldn’t be flagged up at airport security.’
‘It’s pretty brazen to walk through Heathrow with your own passport when you’re supposed to be dead,’ Ruth said.
‘Simo Petrovic doesn’t strike me as a man to worry about that.’
‘No. If MI5 suspect that he’s alive, he would be on their no-fly list. False passport?’ Ruth suggested.
Lucy sighed. ‘We know how easy they are to get. If he’s got one, we’ll never find him.’
‘Although I suspect that he would be travelling under a Serbian name,’ Ruth said.
‘Which would end with a -vic then,’ Lucy said. Ruth spotted Lucy’s expression change. ‘Hang on a bloody second.’
‘What is it?’ Ruth asked, watching as Lucy got up and went over to her coat.
‘Those letters that I borrowed from that house in Summer Gardens,’ Lucy said, fishing the envelopes from her pocket.
‘I thought you said they were all bills?’
‘They are. But they are all addressed to an Oliver Stankovic. I didn’t put the two together.’
‘You think Oliver Stankovic is Simo Petrovic?’ Ruth asked.
Lucy shrugged. ‘Could be. Has to be worth having a look.’
Ruth went back to the list she was looking at and began to scan for both names.
She got to the bottom but neither name appeared.
‘Anything?’ Lucy asked as she continued to look at the fax.
‘Nope. Nothing,’ Ruth replied as she grabbed the passenger list for another flight. She scanned it and immediately saw what they were looking for. ‘But now I have.’
‘What is it?’
‘Oliver Stankovic. On flight TK564 to Dusseldorf, last night at 9.30pm.’
‘Shit! Then we’ve lost him,’ Lucy said despondently.
‘Interpol?’ Ruth suggested.
‘We don’t have any hard evidence that Oliver Stankovic is Simo Petrovic. We’d be wasting our time.’
Ruth nodded. It looked like the end of the line.
‘Petrovic must have got spooked and fled the country,’ Lucy said.
Ruth glanced back at the passenger list. ‘Any idea what FF means?’
Lucy’s face lit up. ‘FF? Are you sure?’
‘Yes ...’
‘There is an FF beside Oliver Stankovic’s name?’ Lucy asked with renewed energy.
‘Bloody hell, Lucy! Yes. What does it mean?’
‘Failure to fly. Oliver Stankovic didn’t check in or board the plane even though he had a seat bought and paid for.’
‘Petrovic might still be in the country,’ Ruth said.
‘Yeah, but where? We need to get to him before he does fly somewhere else.’
KENSINGTON GARDENS was still busy as Londoners made the most of a warm spring evening. Colonel Tankovic looked over at the magnificent architecture of Kensington Palace which had been designed and constructed by Sir Christopher Wren in the late 1680s. He caught sight of a black Range Rover, with blacked-out windows, cutting up the gravel driveway to the Palace. He wondered if Princess Diana was inside. He had seen photos of her in the papers recently when she’d visited a nearby hospital in Paddington.
Tankovic moved out of the way of a speeding mountain bike and saw the pond where he had arranged to meet Novak Pupin. Pupin said he had important information to pass on to him but was too scared to do it over the phone.
Glancing at the rows of green-striped deck chairs that faced what was known as the Round Pond, Tankovic spotted Pupin coming the other way. They nodded an acknowledgement to each other before shaking hands.
‘Kako ste. Thank you for seeing me,’ Pupin said.
Tankovic gestured to the deck chairs. ‘Shall we sit down?’
‘Yes, of course, Colonel,’ Pupin said with deference.
Tankovic was pleased to see tha
t a foot soldier such as Pupin still respected his rank within the Serbian army.
‘Cigarette, Colonel?’ Pupin said, offering Tankovic the kind of strong cigarette that was favoured by those who had served in the Serbian army.
‘Thank you.’ Tankovic took it, cupped his hand to light it and took a deep drag. ‘Where do you get these?’
‘A man comes into the centre once a week with them. I can get you some if you like?’
‘Yes. I would like that ... You’ve heard about some of the young people from our community going to this club in the West End?’
Pupin nodded with a sombre expression. ‘This place in Soho? It is no good.’
‘A friend told me that there are Croats and even balija dogs in there. They drink, dance, and listen to music all together,’ Tankovic said. When he had heard what the twenty-something Serbs from their community were doing, it made him so angry.
‘I’m afraid that I heard the same. They just don’t understand what we fought for,’ Pupin said sadly.
Tankovic nodded and took another drag of his cigarette. It was time to talk business. He looked around cautiously.
‘You have something to tell me?’ he asked, lowering his voice.
‘Two police officers came to the centre this morning. They were looking for information about the Major.’
‘Two women, yes?’ He knew who they were.
‘You know about them?’
Tankovic nodded. ‘I know that they are looking for the Major. What did you tell them?’
‘We did what you told us to do, Colonel. I told them that the Major was dead and buried in Serbia. And as they left, Milos told them he had heard a rumour that the Major had flown to Germany.’
‘You think they believed him?’ Tankovic asked.
Pupin nodded. ‘Milos said that they seemed to be very interested in what he had told them.’
‘Good. We’ll keep leading them down dead ends until they give up looking.’
‘Can I ask about the health of the Major? Is he well?’ Pupin asked.
‘Yes, quite well. He is hidden away somewhere safe until all this dies down. No one knows where he is, which is as it should be.’ Tankovic felt proud to be a member of the Major’s trusted circle.
Diary of a War Crime Page 10
