by Alen Mattich
“It’s that building in the middle, halfway up, I’m sure of it.”
“So why we driving up and down, then?”
“Maybe we’ll spot him faster than if we just walk around.”
They’d arrived the previous morning. The first hour or so, they drove up and down that hill road, and then they decided to walk it. There were houses on one side. They looked for names next to the buzzers, but the English didn’t seem to like people knowing where they lived.
They found a corner store and bought salami and bread and a couple of cans of beer, ate in the park, and then went back to their scouting. The beer helped, so they bought some more, getting merry by late afternoon. They drove up and down a few more times, though Besim said that he’d heard something about how the English stopped people for driving after they’d been drinking. He knew about these things. The banana-shaped one said he couldn’t have had too much to drink, because he could still drive. Besim agreed, but they left the car near the bottom of the Heath anyway and bought some more beers.
They wandered around the park for a while. Growing up in the Bosnian hills, they were good at orienting themselves in woodland. They just strolled and drank until it got dark, when they found a little clearing in the middle of dense undergrowth that was canopied by big trees. Including a hollow one.
“You could fit somebody in this thing,” the banana-shaped one had said, running his hand along a smooth vertical cleft in the wood, around waist-high and only wide enough to take his fingers and only a hand’s-breadth long.
“Get a dolly bird in there, you could have some fun without having to look at her,” Besim snuffled.
“Why wouldn’t you want to look at her?”
“I don’t know, if she was ugly or something.”
The banana-shaped one nodded. It was certainly a big hollow, right through the middle of the ancient tree. Apart from that narrow vertical cleft and a small hole towards the bottom, the only entrance was through the top, about two metres off the ground, though the tree’s protruding roots made something of a ladder.
They’d spent a good night there. They hadn’t even thought of looking for a hotel. Though there were odd squealing and grunting noises throughout the night. Besim thought it might have been wild pigs. The banana-shaped one wasn’t so sure.
“How long you think it’ll take us to find Strumbić?” asked the banana-shaped one as Besim drove up the hill for the . . . he’d lost count. It must have been a couple of dozen times at least. They’d spent the morning walking around the woods before taking to the car, but had been driving around in it since.
“Till we find him. Not so bad here,” said Besim.
The weather wasn’t too hot during the day and not too cold at night. Food was decent, if expensive. And the park was homey. They’d even found a shelter, like an open-sided cottage, that looked like it would be comfortable if it started to rain. There were signs a tramp was living there, but the Bosnians figured he’d be easy to move along if it came to that.
“Nice-looking women in London.”
“Not bad.”
“Nice-looking.”
They were heading up the hill when the banana-shaped one caught sight of a very familiar-looking pedestrian going in the same direction.
“Hey, slow down,” he said.
“Can’t. Bastard cop’s on my ass,” Besim said, looking in the rear-view mirror.
“Then pull into one of the side roads. I’m seeing somebody that looks like the prick who pushed me off that cliff. You know, that guy in Zagreb we were supposed to do.”
“Yeah? Think he knows where to find Strumbić?”
THE SMELL OF cigarette smoke should have alerted della Torre.
He unlocked the door and then back-heeled it shut, hoping to catch sight of Harry. He was in the sitting room before he noticed Strumbić sitting on the sofa, gun in hand and a bottle of whisky on the coffee table in front of him.
“Gringo? I should have known it’d be you.” Strumbić raised the gun a little, as if to make clear it wasn’t just for show. Otherwise he didn’t move. Della Torre stood stock still, wondering whether he might be able to run before Strumbić shot him. He decided that was unlikely. So he smiled instead.
“I wondered what idiot leaves a Beretta on the middle of a bed, where it’s not even good as a paperweight. Only you,” Strumbić said.
“Julius, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Zip it. It’s not pleasant for either of us, and I’m the only one who’s got a right to be surprised. Sit down.” He waved his gun towards the facing sofa.
“Mind if I use the facilities first? Doctors told me to piss as much as I can.”
“I’ll join you,” Strumbić said, standing up.
Strumbić kept the gun pointed at della Torre’s back as he used the toilet. Strumbić stood on a low footstool and relieved himself in the sink.
Back in the sitting room, della Torre sat opposite Strumbić and poured himself the remaining finger of whisky from the bottle.
“So you ran with my money, my car, and my keys and then decided to pitch up in my apartment. You and Irena, eh? Didn’t know she had so many clothes. Where is she now?”
Della Torre saw Strumbić’s confusion but didn’t disabuse him. Irena had been clear: she wouldn’t be coming to the flat. Whereas if Harry did, Strumbić might not connect her with him.
“At work. She works at the hospital.”
“Nice and homey. And you’re the ones who’ve been draining my account. How did you work that one? Kickbacks to the estate agent?”
“No, I said you were my cousin. I was staying here, and you wanted some money moved from your account to another one, but it had to be done discreetly, for tax reasons.”
“And she swallowed that?”
“She got it in writing.”
“From you?”
“No, from Mr. Smirnoff.”
“Me?”
“Remember all those times you asked me to sign off for you on reports because you were otherwise engaged? Did you really forget I learned your signature?” Della Torre was thinking fast. “You didn’t change it when you changed your name. Works with the bank, works with the estate agents. The girl had nothing to do with it except organize some friendly builders to send cost invoices. For a small fee.”
“Hmm.” Strumbić nodded. He appreciated well-constructed scams, though maybe not so much when he was the mark.
“You should take more care next time.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Strumbić didn’t sound thankful.
“Hey, what are friends for?”
“So now you owe me fifteen thousand Deutschmarks and thirty thousand pounds, unless you’ve taken more out of the account. I haven’t been able to check yet. Not to mention three months’ rent on this place. What do you think? Another three thousand pounds?”
“You owed me some money out of that fifteen thousand Deutschmarks.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. How much was it? Four thousand?”
“Eight.”
“Liar.”
“Worth trying.”
“So, you going to pay up?”
“Will you take a cheque?”
“No. Cash. And blood.”
“You’ll make a mess of the apartment.”
“I wasn’t thinking of doing it in the apartment. There’s a great big wood out there. People letting off fireworks all the time.”
“In the daylight?”
“We’ll wait. Maybe Irena can join you.”
“She works through the night.”
“Lucky her. She’ll live a whole day longer than you. But first she’ll get me my money. I don’t trust you.”
“Don’t you think they’ll trace a couple of bodies back to this place when
they pop up? You can’t bury anyone deep enough in that park to keep the dogs off. And some fisherman would hook any corpse dropped in the ponds.”
“Yeah. You know, you’re right. It’ll just have to be a suicide.”
“Suicide?”
“Overtaken by remorse, they’ll say.”
“What, for stealing from you?”
“No. You’ll shoot yourself with a gun that’s already been used on a couple of kids,” said Strumbić.
That’s why the artist’s impression in the newspaper had looked so familiar. Della Torre could have kicked himself.
“Oh. I see. You mean, the guy who shot some teenage muggers on the train decides on the only honourable way out?”
“Hey, smart guy. How’d you know?”
“I read the papers. There’s a nice Etch A Sketch of you in them.”
“Etch A what?”
“A drawing. How about the people who’ll recognize me from this building? They’ll come back to this flat, and then where will you be? You look a lot more like you than I do.”
“All the cops will recognize is the gun. Your face won’t look so pretty as it does now. But they’ll be able to match the gun and that’ll make them very happy. Handy, you leaving me a replacement here.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Done.”
“And Irena?” Della Torre asked, grateful that she had her own place. On the other hand, he worried about Harry.
“If she gets back tonight, I’ll give you short odds on murder-suicide. Otherwise, poor distraught woman will throw herself in front of a train or something. Killer husband takes his own life. What would you do if you were in her shoes? Distraught, humiliated, horrified, nothing left to live for.”
“Did you read that one in a book?”
“No, death report. About five years back.”
“I must have missed that one.”
“Not a lot of publicity. The husband was a cop.”
“And when they trace us back to this apartment? You might want to think it through again. Maybe it’d just be easier to ask for the money back and let us disappear into the night. After all, we kept the place lived in for you.”
The telephone rang. Both men stared at it. Strumbić finally picked it up.
“Hello,” he said with his heavy English vowels.
“Yes, is Stru . . . Smirnoff. Yes . . . No. Is fine . . . Yes . . . No one . . . No . . . We talk soon about building works . . . Is fine . . . I understand . . . No, is fine . . . Cousin told me all about . . . Was confusion, now is fine . . . I call in week.”
He put the phone down, reverting back to Croat.
“The estate agent. She seemed to be surprised it was me. I guess she was looking for you, to tell you somebody had stolen their spare keys to the apartment. Very bad of that someone. The world is full of dishonest people,” Strumbić said.
“I guess it is.”
“She and I will have our conversation later in the week. She may not be my agent much longer. For one thing, her agency’s security is too lax for my liking. And I’ve decided I don’t like the furnishings that much either. I’ll get my own.”
Della Torre reached forward for one of Strumbić’s Lucky Strikes on the coffee table.
“So the old man in Zagreb who hired the Bosnians left you alone.”
“Your UDBA friends were so far up my ass nobody else could get a look in.”
“What happened to the Bosnians?”
“Fucking Bosnians. I’m going to rip their throats out if I ever see them again. Good thing for them they’re too stupid to make their way to London. Don’t think they let clowns like that in the country.”
“You know, you start shooting people, killing people, ripping their throats out, and pretty soon you’re not going to be welcome in England. This is a pretty peaceable place,” della Torre said.
“This country’s a dump. But at least they know how to party.”
“I’m just saying, Julius, you might not want to go spreading too much mayhem if you’re really intent on becoming the English gentleman I know you are deep down inside,” della Torre said. “I mean, look at that suit of yours. What is it? Marks & Spencer?”
“Only the best will do.”
“Did you get the three-for-the-price-of-two deal?”
Strumbić wasn’t one to spend too much time talking about clothes. He contemplated della Torre with an appraising eye.
“You know, Gringo, I’ve always been fond of you. That’s why I kept buying those crap files off you. Charity. So you could eat, have a few luxuries. But frankly, you took advantage. You really took advantage, and I had to get a bit of return on my investment. I’m sorry I stole those files, but what’s done is done. Anyway, if you hadn’t tried to screw me you could be clear by now. With the war kicking off, the UDBA aren’t going to bother with you much longer. You probably don’t even know the favour I did you in Venice.”
“Favour?”
“Yeah, favour. You’d jumped a boat in Piran and UDBA had a reception lined up for you in Venice. Except I made sure Branko got to you first. Packed you off on a train, he said.”
“Don’t tell me. An ex-cop.”
“He got into a slightly sticky situation in a deal we were doing with the Macedonian mob about ten years ago. Had to leave sharpish. He does a little freelance work for me still.”
“How come he’s in Mestre then, and you’re not?”
“Well, you see, not everyone’s clever.”
“Send him my regards.”
“He’s down a leg. Not going to be much use to anyone soon. Still, he’s as faithful as an old dog.”
“Another legless old cop.”
“That’s not funny.”
“And being told you’re going to be shot in the face as soon as it gets dark is?”
“I’ll make sure it hurts as much as my shin did,” said Strumbić, rubbing his leg.
“So how’d you get out of the cellar so quickly? Did your girlfriend find you? Or was it your wife?”
“I used matches and an iron bar. You shouldn’t have left me the cuff keys. Or you should have shot me in both legs. By the way, you also owe me three cartons of Luckys.”
“You’ll have to get one off Anzulović.”
“He’s not so bad,” Strumbić said, rubbing his chin. “But that bastard Messar that works for him . . . How much does Anzulović know about what happened that night, by the way?”
“As much as I do.”
“About the files, the Dispatcher?”
“Everything. Didn’t he tell you?”
“Might have done. But I wondered how much he was guessing.”
The buzzer sounded. There was an intercom down to the main entrance. The porter would call visitors up.
“Expecting anyone?” asked Strumbić.
Della Torre shook his head.
The buzzer went again.
“Want me to answer?” asked della Torre.
“Leave it.”
“Won’t the porter know we’re here?”
“And? If I don’t want to answer, he’ll know to tell whoever it is to piss off,” said Strumbić. He made as if he didn’t care. But he’d sat forward on the sofa, suddenly alert.
“There’s something else I meant to ask you. You didn’t drive here in a green Zastava, did you?” della Torre asked.
“Never touch the stuff. Why?”
“I thought I saw one drive past.”
“A green Zastava, you say? Funny, thought I saw one too,” Strumbić said, frowning.
“Maybe it’s fashionable.”
“A Zastava, fashionable? Not even in Albania.”
“You’re right. Some things are never fashionable anywhere. Like being mi
ddle-aged and fat,” said della Torre, on careful consideration. “I’m hungry. There anything to eat?”
“You’d know better than me, seeing as you filled the fridge.”
“Mind if I fix a sandwich?”
“Go ahead. But if you come at me with a knife or a frying pan, you’re a dead man.”
“You remember the frying pan story?”
“How could I not? I’m the one who had to warn off the old bag who tried to kill you with it.”
“I forgot.”
“Still got it?”
“Only thing I ever cook with. At home, that is. A sort of memento mori.”
“Latin, never my strong subject.”
“What was?”
“Making money.”
“A useful talent. Wish I had it,” della Torre said. “So how’d you get away?” He was in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of beer, Strumbić standing in the doorway behind him.
“Told them I was going to Italy on an art tour. What do you think? I just buggered off. They’ve organized the police into battalions. Minute I came off sick leave, they were putting me in one. Fuck that. So I fixed up a hire car in Trieste and then snuck my way over. I left a note saying I needed to find myself; my karma was bad and the feng shui would be better somewhere else.”
“Feng what?”
“Something my bimbo was reading in one of her magazines. All about being calm and not sleeping in a boneyard or over a shithouse. Or something.”
Della Torre laughed. “I could almost see you writing it. If you were literate.”
The buzzer sounded again. And again they ignored it.
“Somebody really wants to say hello,” said della Torre.
“Tough. Say, there’s a back exit, isn’t there?”
“I thought you owned this place.”
“I do, I just haven’t spent any time here.”
“There is a door, but you use it and the fire alarms go off.”
“You mean they take the rubbish out the front?”
“No, they’ve got a way out through the plant room.”
“Well, that’s what I mean.”
