Scared to Live bcadf-7

by Stephen Booth

  ‘You’re not really going to do it, are you?’

  ‘One day. One day I might.’

  When Angie had left, Diane stalked the flat for a while, restless and dissatisfied with something. She seemed to have been dissatisfied ever since she came to Derbyshire.

  She gave the wallpaper another glare, then realized how hungry she was. Then she thought about Ben Cooper. She imagined he was a proper little domestic god when he was tucked up securely in his home in Welbeck Street.

  Later that evening, Georgi Kotsev leaned across a table at Caesar’s restaurant and raised his glass. ‘We say Nazdrave.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Yes. Cheers.’

  ‘Is the wine all right?’ asked Fry. ‘There isn’t much choice of places to eat in Edendale.’

  ‘Losho nyama. No problem.’

  The last time Fry had eaten in Caesar’s, she’d been with Angie. It had been one of those futile attempts at re-creating the bond between them. She remembered that she’d only ended up feeling embarrassed by her sister. No, a bit ashamed — and therefore guilty, too.

  It was the only place she’d been able to think of at short notice to bring Sergeant Kotsev. Inexplicably, she’d felt the need to give him a good impression of Edendale. As if it mattered — to him, or to her. They were both strangers passing through, except that Kotsev would be gone a bit sooner.

  Though it was supposed to be an Italian restaurant, Fry had a suspicion that the waiters were East European. Judging by the shouted exchanges she overheard occasionally, probably the kitchen staff were too. It hadn’t occurred to her when she chose the restaurant and booked the table. But now she wondered whether an idea had been in the back of her mind to make Kotsev feel more at home, give him a little bit of Eastern Europe right here in this strange, foreign town.

  But then, as they’d entered the restaurant, she had a momentary panic at the thought that he might be offended instead. The waiter who’d served her last time could have been Albanian or something. There were a lot of old territorial disputes and ethnic conflicts in the Balkans. Didn’t Bulgarians and Albanians have some kind of long- standing hatred between them? Might Kotsev refuse to be served by an Albanian waiter and make a terrible scene?

  Oh, God. And all she’d wanted to do was make life a bit easier for someone. That would teach her to keep out of other people’s lives.

  But Kotsev behaved impeccably. And she was relieved she’d chosen somewhere smart, because her guest was turned out nicely for the evening. She was glad she’d made a bit of an effort herself. Come to think of it, she might have been wearing the same cord blazer and hand-knitted alpaca cotton top that she’d put on tonight when she came here with Angie. She didn’t get many opportunities to wear them, and nothing else in her wardrobe had seemed suitable.

  Kotsev looked at the menu. ‘Could you recommend anything?’

  ‘The confit of duck is excellent,’ she said, since it was the only thing she’d ever eaten here.

  ‘I think I will try a steak,’ he said.

  Fry wondered if he’d read her ignorance so effortlessly.

  ‘What would you normally drink in Bulgaria?’

  ‘Our national drink is rakia — grape brandy. Or wine. People of this country are acquainted with Bulgarian red wine?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Our white wine is also delicious. But Bulgarian folklore presents a lot of songs about red wine and only one about white, which goes: “Oh, white wine, why are you not red?”’

  Fry laughed. ‘You said you were born in a village. So your parents were country people, Sergeant Kotsev?’

  ‘Please. Call me Georgi.’

  ‘I’m Diane.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  Kotsev’s brown eyes were rather sad when you came to look closely. The dark hairs on his wrist curled over the band of a gold watch, and his shirt cuffs were white and crisp. His clothes surely hadn’t come out of his suitcase like that. Fry could picture him ironing his shirts in his hotel room. Not many men could use an iron properly, but she bet that Kotsev did it very well.

  ‘You know, there were many different types of people in my family in the past,’ he said. ‘But mostly they were shepherds, goat chasers. Peasants, in other words. Sometimes men would come to our village from the city. If they wore long leather coats and had moustaches, we knew they were from the police, from the local administration or from the Party. The law was theirs. One word from them could have changed our lives. It’s difficult for you to understand the way we lived.’

  Kotsev’s English wasn’t quite perfect, after all. She was starting to detect a tendency to pronounce the past tense of certain verbs as if there was an extra syllable on the end. Liv-ed. Chang-ed. She put it down to a lack of opportunity to practise conversation with native English speakers. It was understandable, too — since sometimes there was an extra syllable. Fry wondered whether she should correct him when he did it, or if he’d be offended. She decided not to mention it, unless he asked. It wasn’t a problem. In fact, she found it rather appealing.

  ‘Was this near Pleven?’ she said.

  ‘No, in the far south of our country, near the border with Greece. Quite a remote region of Bulgaria. No one spoke English there. Generally, it seems that all Bulgarians learn Russian, and a few learn German. But outside of Sofia, English is not commonly spoken. I was glad to go to the capital with my family. Otherwise, I might still be living with the goats.’ He put down the menu. ‘Have you chosen?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  Kotsev looked at the waiter across the restaurant. That was all he seemed to do, yet the man was instantly at their table to take their order.

  ‘But it’s good to know a little of your family history,’ he said a few minutes later. ‘My grandfather worked in a macaroni factory. When we were living in the countryside, my father used to talk of a girl, the daughter of a jeweller. I think he fell in love with her, you know. But they could never have married. Her family were bourgeois exiles from Sofia.’

  ‘Bourgeois?’

  ‘Yes. You understand what that means?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fry hadn’t heard the expression ‘bourgeois’ for a long time. Not since her student days, when there were still some old-fashioned Socialists around in Birmingham. It sounded rather quaint now.

  ‘Sadly, my mother died when I was very young,’ said Kotsev. ‘I don’t remember much of her. Only a green scarf with glittering threads woven through it. And I remember she had beautiful teeth. As white as Greek cheese, my father used to say.’

  ‘Good grief, what sort of compliment is that?’

  ‘A simple one, but honestly meant.’

  A bottle of wine arrived, and Kotsev waited while it was poured.

  ‘As for my father,’ he said. ‘The memory from my childhood is a smell — a Soviet aftershave, which I think was called Tachanka.’ He smiled. ‘And you, Diane?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You say you don’t belong in this rural area?’

  ‘No, I’m from the Black Country. That’s near the city of Birmingham. An urban area, with a lot of people. Over a million.’

  ‘I see.’ He took a drink of wine. ‘And what of your parents?’

  ‘My parents?’ said Fry. ‘Like you, I remember almost nothing of them.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Almost nothing.’

  Kotsev waited patiently, but realized she wasn’t going to say any more. When the waiter returned, they ate quietly for a few moments. Fry supposed she ought to ask him what he thought of the food. But food didn’t interest her much as a topic of conversation.

  ‘What exactly is your role in Pleven now, Georgi?’

  ‘Oh, you wish to talk business?’ he said.

  ‘I’d like to know how the Zhivko brothers might fit in to our present enquiry. Can you fill me in on some background?’

  ‘Ah, the Zhivkos — our dear friends Anton and Lazar. They were previously suspected of be
ing engaged in a great number of criminal activities in my own country.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Kotsev’s smile became quizzical as he hesitated under her expectant gaze.

  ‘There are many issues involved, Diane.’

  ‘Tell me some of them, at least.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, as I mentioned, I’ve been working in co-operation with our colleagues at Europol for some time. Bulgaria is not a member of the European Union yet, you understand, but we co-operate nevertheless. We value their expertise in organized crime. A lot of events have been happening in my country, because of the EU.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Our government has been given conditions to meet before we will be allowed to join the EU. “Clean up your act,” they say. One of the things the EU does not like is our organized crime, our Mafia.’

  ‘Is organized crime such a big problem in Bulgaria?’

  ‘A big problem?’ Kotsev laughed. ‘You might say that. There are certain people who have become very rich running crime in my country. They grow so rich that they buy football clubs, or casinos in Sunny Beach. They rule their kingdoms by violence — punishment beatings, shootings. These are very ruthless men, and very powerful. The mutras, we call them. Clever and cruel killers.’

  ‘Mutras?’

  ‘In Bulgarian, mutra means “ugly face”. If you saw these people, you would understand. Many of them were out-of-work body builders or wrestlers who had to look for alternative employment. So they learned to shoot guns and joined forces with shady businessmen to exploit Bulgaria after the Change. You know what I mean by the Change? The events of 1989?’

  ‘Oh, the end of Communism.’

  Kotsev nodded. ‘Well, these people made a big name for themselves by offering security to businesses — for a monthly fee, you understand. Owners who refused to pay fell victim to repeated robberies. You would call it the protection racket. Now mutra daddies drive around in armed convoys, and the only way we can get rid of them is if one of their own does it for us. These people behave as if they’re living in a Hollywood movie. We have Anton “The Beak” and Vassil “The Scalp”. Until now, they have been untouchable.’

  ‘Why untouchable, Georgi?’

  Kotsev tapped his nose. ‘Connections. It is said that some of our highest government officials owe their positions to an association with these gangsters. And now they’re in a difficult position. Our government wants to join the European Union. The European Union says we must get rid of our Mafia. “If the police are issuing traffic tickets but turning their backs on major organized crime,” they say, “it raises a question over how democratic your country is.” Would you agree?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Dobre. There you have our problem. Sadly, if we don’t make progress in this area, it will delay our entry. A very big problem.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But, ah!’ said Kotsev, throwing out a hand. ‘Not such a problem, after all. Suddenly we have a miracle! And now, things are going our way.’

  ‘A miracle?’

  ‘In the past two years some of the most powerful Mafia bosses have been eliminated. One of them is shot leaving a casino after celebrating a victory by his football team. Another is gunned down with his bodyguards outside a bar. Sometimes, an entire family is murdered, as was often the case in blood feuds. All these killings appear to have been carried out by an expert shot. Perhaps more than one, we do not know. The suspects have never been caught, or even identified. The official theory concerns a war between rival gangs, who have employed hit men to do their dirty work.’

  ‘That sounds feasible.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ He waited expectantly.

  ‘Are you suggesting the Zhivkos died in this way?’ asked Fry.

  Kotsev spread his hands apologetically. ‘You understand there is much I can’t say.’

  ‘I’m too junior, is that it?’

  ‘My apologies, Sergeant. But, you see, the Zhivko brothers found themselves in the middle of all this. First on one side, as the agents of a leading mutra chief. Then, suddenly, they are on the losing side of the game. The Zhivkos are in danger of their lives, and they must leave the country. Yet even here, in Britain, they were not safe.’

  Fry knew there was something else that he wasn’t telling her. His silence invited another question, if only she could work out what it was.

  ‘Wait a minute — you said that was the official theory. What’s the unofficial one?’

  Kotsev smiled. ‘You may know, Sergeant Fry, that we have a highly efficient secret service in Bulgaria, the Darzavna Sigurnost. They were trained by the KGB in the old days, and many of them have remained in their employment. Their usefulness did not disappear with Communism.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying, Georgi.’

  ‘Some of these people have a talent for convenient assassinations. What more efficient way could there be to remove annoying criminals and save the difficulty of a trial, where embarrassing facts about government officials might emerge? A few extra stotinki in the pockets of a Darzavna Sigurnost operative. Boom, boom. Problem solved. Now it’s, “See, Mr EU Commissioner, we don’t have the nasty Mafia any more. How lucky. Now you can let us into your club.”’

  Fry put down her fork. ‘No, that’s too incredible,’ she said.

  Kotsev’s eyes crinkled as he held up a forkful of steak.

  ‘To you, perhaps. But you’re not in Kansas now.’

  25

  Cooper took his brother’s call at home in the middle of the evening, just as he was settling down to watch a good film with a bottle of beer in his hand and the cat on his knee.

  ‘Ben, it says here that older fathers are more liable to have kids with schizophrenia. If you’re between forty-five and forty-nine, you’re twice as likely to have a child with the illness as a man of twenty-five.’

  ‘Matt, you’re only thirty-five now. You were still in your twenties when you had the girls.’

  ‘Yes, well. I’ve written down all the facts to talk to the doctor about. Did you know schizophrenia can start at any age, but most people are affected in their late teens or early twenties? In their teens, Ben.’

  ‘Considering the average teenager, I wonder how they can tell.’

  Matt had taken a breath to continue, but came to an abrupt halt as if his brother had made a rude noise down the phone.

  ‘It’s not funny, Ben.’

  Ben found himself standing in front of the fireplace in the sitting room. The framed photograph on the wall was one of the few things he’d brought with him when he moved out of Bridge End Farm. It was both reassuring and somehow disturbing to have his father’s eyes watching him as he listened to his brother.

  ‘You know something?’ he said. ‘Mum would have found it funny.’

  Matt sighed. ‘For heaven’s sake, Ben.’

  And the strange thing was that Matt was so similar to their father in many ways. Even this conversation sounded like one of those occasions when Joe Cooper would sit his sons down and give them advice. A few words of caution … It had been one of his favourite phrases.

  ‘Matt, have you thought of joining one of the support groups? There’s one called Rethink. It used to be the National Schizophrenia Fellowship.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘So you could talk to people with similar experiences and get some reassurance. That’s what those organizations are for.’

  ‘You’re not being very helpful, are you?’

  ‘Actually, I think that’s exactly what I’m being.’

  Ben was glaring at his phone now. But he couldn’t keep it up. He had to smile when he pictured his brother doing the same at the other end. This was the way their arguments always started.

  ‘I can tell you’re not in the right frame of mind at the moment,’ said Matt. ‘You must have had a bad day, or something.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it wasn’t such a bad day — until now.’

  Of course,
he didn’t really mean that, but there was almost a set script between them when they got to this stage. Matt knew it as well as he did.

  ‘Oh, right. Sorry to have bothered you, I’m sure. I suppose that means you won’t want me to share any information I manage to find out from Dr Joyce tomorrow?’

  ‘You’ll suit yourself, Matt. It doesn’t matter what I say.’

  There was a muttered swear word, a crash of something falling over, and silence. His brother had gone.

  Ben found his eyes focusing straight ahead. And there was Sergeant Joe Cooper, gazing out from his place in the second row, among all those other solemn-faced police officers lined up in their best uniforms to have their photograph taken.

  It was odd, really. He’d spent so much time thinking that his life had been dictated and overshadowed by the legacy of Joe Cooper. Everyone who’d known his father said how alike they were. Here he was doing a similar job, in the same place, and often dealing with the same individuals that Joe Cooper had encountered.

  Sometimes it had made Ben feel as if he was a clone, a walking carrier of his father’s gene pattern. He hadn’t seriously considered what he might have inherited from his mother’s side, or which of her chromosomes he’d been allocated during conception. Her hair colouring, yes. The eyes, maybe. But what else was lurking in his DNA that he’d never been aware of? What genetic predispositions might he be carrying, that he risked passing on to future generations? Both of his parents were part of his nature. And he didn’t regret it. But the feelings stirred up by that thought had become equivocal.

  He switched his attention away from the photograph to the Richard Martin print of Win Hill on the adjacent wall. The landscape normally brought him back to earth when he got too preoccupied. Literally back to earth.

  Then Ben laughed to himself. All of this anxiety presumed he would ever get married or find a permanent partner. He didn’t have any such intentions at the moment, and maybe that was for the best. He’d really hate to be in Matt’s position, discovering the awful possibilities when it was already too late.

  ‘This is pretty, but I still prefer cities,’ said Kotsev as they walked by the river after dinner. ‘At ten o’clock at night in Sofia, the streets would be full, even though it’s a Thursday. People would be selling sunflower seeds or salted sweetcorn. They would be buying books from fold-up tables. There would be loud music from stalls dealing in pirated CDs. A few counterfeit Rolex watches or Levi jeans, perhaps. Beggars and street artists, and pickpockets and prostitutes. It would be like a party. Here, there is nothing.’