Screams in the Dark

by Anna Smith

  Rosie stretched out her hand.

  ‘My name is Rosie Gilmour. Thank you for helping me.’ She paused, not really knowing what to say next. ‘You speak very good English.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Yes. I travelled in Europe when I was young. My name is Katya. I played second violin in the national orchestra – when we were Yugoslavs. I meet many people from Western Europe – in Germany, France, Italy … and one time in England. London. In the good days …’ She looked beyond Rosie at a photograph on the polished sideboard of a young woman with a violin and sighed. ‘Before everything changed.’ She looked at Rosie. ‘But what happen to you? What brings a young woman with blood on her face to my house?’

  Rosie sipped her tea, trying not to wince at the sweetness. Katya lifted the cloth out of the water and wrung it out, then dabbed it onto Rosie’s face. She stiffened as the disinfectant stung.

  ‘It will help. In case of infection.’ Katya said. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I am a journalist,’ Rosie said. ‘I am in Belgrade investigating a story, and someone … some people … are trying to stop me. They came to my hotel tonight and they kidnapped me. I escaped because they crashed the car. I kept on running and I found myself here.’

  Rosie decided not to tell her about Gerhard Hoffman. His face contorted in terror flashed through her mind and she blinked it away. He had come to help her and paid with his life.

  The old woman pursed her lips and shook her head.

  ‘So many gangsters these days. All criminals everywhere. Streets are not safe any more. In the old days, before this war with the Bosnian people, everyone was together. We were Yugoslavs, respecting each other. But now …’ She sighed wearily. ‘So much has been lost.’

  ‘I know.’ Rosie caught the sadness in the old woman’s eyes. ‘I am trying to expose bad people, Katya. When my friend comes, we will go back to Scotland where I live. And I can tell my story in the newspaper where I work.’

  ‘Ah, but the British newspapers. The television. Always they tell stories about the Bosnian people. Always the Serbian people are bad it says.’ She looked at Rosie. ‘I am ashamed of so many of my people for what they do to innocent Bosnians. But I tell you … we have lost people too. Serbian people are destroyed by this war – Not only the innocent people who are killed. We are destroyed in our hearts.’ She glanced at a photo on a table by her hearth of a young man squinting in the sunshine on a beach somewhere. ‘I lost my son Jebril.’

  They sat in silence. Rosie didn’t want to speak in case she would say the wrong thing. Eventually she felt she had to say something.

  ‘Was your son killed in the war?’

  Katya took the framed photograph in her hand and gazed at it sadly. ‘No. Not killed.’ She brushed her hand over the picture. ‘But he might as well be. He is gone now. Like so many other young Serbian men. He went away to avoid the terrible things they were being forced to do. He ran away, so he cannot come back. He is somewhere in Europe. Greece, the last time I heard from him.’

  ‘Your only son?’

  The woman nodded. ‘My daughter, his little sister, she die when she was only seven. I was already a widow then.’ She put the picture back on the table. ‘I am alone now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rosie said.

  Katya looked resigned and shook her head. ‘Every day I wish my daughter could be with me,’ she said. ‘There is an old saying, maybe you also have it in Britain … A son is a son till he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter the rest of her life … But sometimes is not the case. Sadly for me, it wasn’t.’

  Rosie watched her, thinking of her own mother and how she would have loved to sit in the warmth of a room with her as she grew older, telling her the stories of her work and her life.

  They sipped their tea in silence. The purity of the music made Rosie want to cry again.

  The doorbell rang twice, making Rosie flinch.

  ‘Your friend is here.’ Katya smiled at her nervousness. ‘You are safe now.’

  They both stood up and walked along the hallway.

  ‘Adrian,’ Rosie said, her ear at the door. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes. It is me. Hurry. We must go.’

  Katya and Rosie stood looking at each other.

  ‘Thank you, Katya. You have saved my life.’ Rosie’s voice caught in her throat.

  Katya smiled, again the wrinkles showing the fineness of her features.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘But you must be careful. You should go home. Go away from here.’

  ‘I am.’ She squeezed her hand, then turned and opened the door.

  Adrian stood in the hall, his face pale but relieved when he saw her.

  ‘Rosie. You are all right?’

  Rosie nodded, throwing her arms around him. He hugged her hard.

  ‘Come. We must be quick.’ He whispered. ‘Risto is hurt. He has lost a lot of blood. We must drive now to Bosnia, because we cannot stop here.’

  Rosie turned around.

  ‘Goodbye Katya. Thank you.’

  ‘Goodbye Rosie.’ The old woman watched until they disappeared out of the main door.

  CHAPTER 33

  Rosie and Matt sat in a cafe close to the clinic where Adrian had taken Risto. It had been a terrifying journey from Belgrade, with Adrian driving at breakneck speed in the ancient Volkswagen Polo, which at one point had flames coming out of the engine, forcing them to stop to let it cool for a few minutes. Risto had lain in the back seat, his trousers saturated with blood. The makeshift tourniquet wouldn’t have held up much longer, and he’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for the last twenty miles. Adrian had made a phone call to a contact, and the clinic was waiting for Risto by the time they arrived.

  Rosie rubbed her face with both hands, and her eyes stung from tiredness and tears.

  ‘You all right, Rosie?’ Matt stretched across the table and squeezed her wrist.

  Rosie nodded. She was conscious that she hadn’t said much for most of the journey. Once the initial adrenalin had burned out after her escape from Raznatovic’s clutches, the horror of Gerhard Hoffman’s face kicked in. The reality of what he’d done to help the investigation haunted her, bringing back memories of Emir that first day they’d met at the Red Road flats. She thought of Mags Gillick, of Taha, of Tanya, and the people who had died or risked their lives to help her investigations. Guilt washed over her.

  ‘To be honest, Matt,’ Rosie leaned her head back on her shoulders and gazed up at the cloudless sky, ‘I can’t get Gerhard Hoffman out of my mind. It was me who contacted him. He didn’t seek me out. Same with Emir.’ She shook her head. ‘If I had left these people alone, never gone near them, they would still be alive today.’

  ‘You can’t afford to look at it like that, Rosie,’ Matt touched the back of her hand. ‘Thoughts like that will drive you nuts. Don’t even go there.’ He poured some more tea into both their cups. ‘Hoffman was already a marked man from what he’d done years ago. And the fact that he was back and forth to Belgrade, still investigating, it was only a matter of time before somebody took a pop at him. As for Emir … That’s just very sad, Rosie, but that’s what happens. This is what we do. We’re journalists, not missionaries.’

  Rosie nodded, staring beyond Matt.

  ‘Yeah, I know. We do our job, then we zip it up and move on to the next big story.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s how it has to be.’

  ‘I just wonder what happened in those last couple of hours with Gerhard. The arrangement was that he would phone me and come to the hotel, and he obviously did come because he left the envelope with the picture. Somebody must have been watching him.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, from what that bastard Raznatovic said to you, they must have known you were here. So they’d know he was here too. Maybe Gerhard got suspicious and didn’t have time to meet you or think it was safe, so he came earlier and dropped the message off. But they got him at the hotel.’ He paused. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know, Rosie, but you can’t t
orment yourself with that.’

  Rosie nodded. But she knew the thought of Gerhard’s final moments would haunt her.

  Her mobile rang. It was McGuire. Rosie looked at Matt as she lifted it off the table to answer it, mouthing McGuire to Matt, who gave her the thumbs-up as she answered.

  ‘Gilmour! Where the fuck are you?’ McGuire barked. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Hi Mick. Yeah, I’m fine. Er … I’m back in Bosnia. Had to get out of Belgrade fast.’ Rosie grimaced at Matt.

  ‘I’ll say you did, Rosie. I’ve got fucking cops onto me from Interpol. They say there was a dead body in your hotel bedroom. What the fuck, Rosie? Is this true?’

  ‘Er … well … Yes, it is, Mick.’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Sadly, it was Gerhard Hoffman.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hoffman. Gerhard Hoffman. The German reporter who exposed the company in the first place, remember? I told you about him.’

  ‘What the fuck was he doing in Belgrade? I didn’t know you were meeting him. Christ, Rosie!’

  ‘I didn’t know either, Mick. Listen, just calm down till I tell you. It’s awful. Poor guy got murdered. They suffocated him with a poly bag, for Christ’s sake. He’d come over to Belgrade to work on the story himself, and this is what happened to him. He was trying to help me, Mick. And now the poor guy’s dead. I feel terrible.’

  There was a silence. Rosie knew that in another time, another mood, Mick would be making jokes about dead bodies popping up every time Rosie left the office. But he refrained.

  ‘Fuck me!’

  ‘Yeah. It all went a bit mental, Mick. I got to the hotel this night, and there was a message from Hoffman. Actually, I’d met him earlier in the day and he said he was getting a picture for me from a contact, and I was to meet him at my hotel later. Next thing, I go to the hotel because we’re preparing to leave Belgrade fast, and when I got there Hoffman had left a message – an envelope with a picture. And, wait for it, Mick. This will blow your socks off.’

  ‘A picture? A picture of what?’

  ‘It’s a photo of Tim Hayman, and the Serb guy Boskovac I told you about. They’re only at some bloody shooting party in the Highlands, brandishing rifles with their arms around each other like two best mates. And the thing is Mick, this was taken five years ago – while he was still Environment Secretary and while the Serb was with the company Hoffman exposed as exporting body parts and tissue.’

  ‘You serious, Rosie?’

  ‘You’re damn right I am. And that’s what happened to poor Hoffman after he came to help me. I went to my bedroom to get my bag, and there he was right in front of me, Mick. Tied up and suffocated. I just about had a heart attack. Then some bastards kidnapped me at gunpoint. Took me to Raznatovic.’

  ‘Kidnapped you? Fuck! You met Raznatovic?’

  ‘Yeah, but I got away. Sure, I’m here now, talking to you, Mick. It’s a long story. Save it till I get back.’

  ‘I want you home, Rosie. Tonight.’

  ‘Mick, I’m safe now. I’m in Bosnia.’

  ‘No. I want you back here, Rosie. Don’t make me say fuck again.’

  Rosie puffed, frustrated. She knew they had done just about everything they came to do. As soon as she’d got into Adrian’s car last night, she phoned Mickey Kavanagh, knowing he would tip off Interpol where they could find the Serbian. The war crimes people and the police would already be hammering down Raznatovic’s door, and even if he’d gone, there was a better than ever chance they’d track him down. Her work was finished here, and she’d managed to escape Serbia without the cops dragging her in about Hoffman’s body in her hotel room. All she had to do now was go to Macedonia to keep her promise to Emir.

  She told McGuire all of this, and waited while his brain ticked over.

  ‘Christ almighty, Rosie. Raznatovic is after you. The cops are after you. If you get arrested anywhere over there by any Serbian authorities you could be there for years. It’s safer to come straight home. And I want to see this story as soon as possible.’

  ‘I know, Mick. Just give me two more days, that’s all. Let me go to Macedonia. I owe it to Emir. Then I’m home. I’ll get the story done tonight around the picture we have, and as much background as I’ve got on the Serb. You can get Vincent in Westminster to front Hayman up over the picture. It’s a belter of a line and we’re miles ahead of everyone. We’re nearly there, Mick. Nearly there.’

  There was a pause while Mick digested all this, then, ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Okay, Rosie. Two more days. Now make sure Matt and that big Adrian bloke are looking after you. Two more days, then you’re out.’

  ‘Okay, Mick.’

  ‘And get to a hotel tonight and get that story over to me.’ He paused. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Sure, Mick.’ The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 34

  The next morning they were geared up and ready to go by eight. Rosie was a little groggy as she loaded her bag into the boot of Adrian’s car. A mixture of exhaustion and relief had contributed to all of them drinking more than they should have over dinner in the restaurant in Olovo last night. Now she had that jet-lag feeling that always crept up on her when she was working out of town. Risto had been kept in hospital, and she and Matt had said their farewells at his bedside, hugging like old comrades, promising to meet again, even though they knew they probably wouldn’t.

  ‘It will take almost a day and a half to get to Kosovo and then to Macedonia,’ Adrian said, as Rosie got into the front seat beside him. He turned his body so he was facing her. ‘But there is something I want to show you before we go.’

  Rosie looked at him curiously. He hadn’t mentioned anything last night.

  ‘Fine.’ She assumed he’d be taking them to another landmark illustrating the area’s tragic history.

  She fiddled with her mobile as they drove out towards the edge of the town. She looked at last night’s text message from TJ. He was leaving for New York in two days. He’d joked about her getting a move on if she was going to see him. She knew it wasn’t going to happen, and pushed it to the back of her mind. She didn’t have time to think about that now.

  Rosie looked out of the windscreen as Adrian took the car off the main road and up a twisting road away from the town. As they neared the brow of the hillside, she could see what looked like a graveyard. She glanced at Adrian from the corner of her eye, but he stared straight ahead in silence.

  They drove up the narrow path towards the gated cemetery and Adrian stopped the car. He turned to Rosie.

  ‘I show you something.’ He switched off the ignition and opened the door.

  Rosie looked at Matt and shrugged. They both got out of the car. An old woman wearing a headscarf and a coat that was too heavy for the sunny day came out of the graveyard, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She stopped for a second, shook her head as her pitiful expression acknowledged them, and walked on.

  ‘Come,’ Adrian took a deep breath and walked through the wooden gates, Rosie and Matt following behind him. They walked past some ancient gravestones, weathered and overgrown with weeds, some toppled on their side. Others were so old they didn’t even have markings. When they climbed to the top of the rise, they suddenly stopped in their tracks. Ahead of them were endless rows of small white marble pillars, close together like a column of sentries frozen to the spot.

  ‘Jesus, Matt. Look at this.’ Rosie gazed at the gravestones as Adrian walked ahead. ‘There’s so many. War graves.’

  ‘Kind of brings it home to you, doesn’t it, when you see it like this.’

  They stepped closer to the first row and looked at the inscriptions. Some had flowers, trinkets, children’s toys. All they could understand were names and what must have been ages. Eight, ten months, twenty-five. The lifeblood of future generations buried side by side.

  ‘Come on.’ Rosie said, and they went to catch up with Adrian.

  Adrian kept going until he was close to the last row, then
he stopped at a gravestone near the end. It was ringed by a little wooden fence. Fresh flowers bloomed in a metal vase. He stood looking at it, his big square shoulders suddenly sloping.

  Rosie and Matt came slowly closer but stood behind him, saying nothing. He turned around.

  ‘Come closer.’

  They shuffled beside him. Rosie read what she could understand from the inscription. Marija, February, 1994. Then the name Adrijan. There were more names and words she didn’t understand, until she saw the name Adrijan again. She turned to Adrian.

  ‘My fiancée, Marija. Our unborn son, Adrijan.’ He swallowed. ‘She wanted to name him after me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Adrian.’ She didn’t need to ask what happened.

  ‘The Serbs. They came to the village and took everyone out of it. Marija was in the field helping her mother. They killed them both. Butchered them. The baby, who was torn from her stomach, lay by her side when they found her.’ He shook his head. ‘I was in the next village doing some work, and when I came back I was met at the edge of town by my friend Risto who was waiting for me. He told me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Rosie said, again, not knowing what else to say.

  Adrian nodded. ‘I wanted you to see. I never told you anything about my life before, because it is just for me.’ He touched his heart with his hand. ‘I keep it here. I want to keep it inside me and never let it go. But I know one day I must.’ He looked at her, then back at the grave. ‘I just wanted you to know. You are my friend, Rosie.’

  They were silent for a moment, then Rosie asked, ‘Did you leave here after everything that happened?’

  ‘For a while I stay and fight. Then my mother said one day they would come and round us up on the buses and take us away, maybe to Paklenik gorge like the others. She told me I must go.’ He gazed around at the landscape. ‘But I have never really left.’

  They stood in the stillness, Rosie trying to imagine the slaughter and the wailing as each family buried their hearts.