‘Wheeling out the … Oh, I see. You think they’ll get theirs without any help from us.’
‘They shouldn’t have thrown that young Kosovar boy out. He was worth his weight in gold.’
‘Where’s he gone, do you know?’
‘I don’t. I only know he was upset that they didn’t let him stay for the funeral.’
They drove through a village and took a small road dropping into a valley, then an unmade one rising high into the hills.
‘At this time, the younger children, at least, will have eaten.’
They had. The well-setded ones ran to the car, shrieking, took their hands, and pulled them in six directions at once—to see the new dog, the baby rabbits, a broody hen, a school report, a new television. The recent arrivals watched, wary but interested.
The prosecutor greeted his old friend, ‘father’ to this big family, and asked, ‘Where’s Nicolino?’ He’d talked about this seven-year-old as the car climbed the hills. A child sexually abused by his stepfather, who then murdered his mother. The little crowd opened up. Nicolino appeared and said, ‘Who are you?’
The prosecutor told him and said, T heard you’d arrived here yesterday and thought I’d come and see how you were getting on. This is Marshal Guarnaccia.’
‘I’m stopping here.’ At the sight of a uniform, the little boy backed up against the ‘father’, who put a hand on his shoulder. ‘And this is my dad now.’
‘Good. We came to see Enkeleda, too.’
‘I know where she is. I’ll take you, if you want.’
‘Thank you.’
He led them along a path and then down a grassy bank, telling them this was a shortcut and offering a helping hand to them both. Very proprietorial. Wild daffodils bobbed in the wind and you could see for miles across the valley. On the lower path, Nicolino paused to warn them in a whisper, ‘She’s cleaning out the rabbits. She doesn’t like it if you make a noise because of the babies.’
The prosecutor whispered back, ‘We won’t, don’t worry.’
The rabbit hutches were ahead to their left in a long line. They had to go forwards in single file. They didn’t see her at first, crouching there in darkish clothes, very still. Then the prosecutor stopped and turned, waiting for the marshal to catch up with him.
‘Look at her …’
The claw-footed stick which had replaced a walking frame was parked by the first hutch in the line. Enkeleda was farther on. Her dark hair had grown back nicely and hung in soft childish curls on the back of her collar as she bent over something held in her two hands. It was a moment before she noticed the interruption. Then she turned and saw them. Her eyes were alight with wonder at the tiny brown-and-white rabbit quivering in the palm of one hand held close to her chest. She wobbled a bit as she turned, and the marshal, seeing her on uneven ground, put out a protective hand. She misunderstood and held her tiny burden out for him to see. With care—but it was only care for the baby rabbit—she began to walk towards the marshal, smiling.
What with one thing and another, it was a little after five when he got back to his station. He unlocked the door and then stood there in the waiting room, keys in hand, staring.
‘Yes, it’s me. It’s been a long time. Don’t you recognise me?’
How could anybody fail to recognise Dori with her dazzling blond hair and her shapely red lips—even with her amazingly long legs hidden by jeans.
‘Of course I do, but what are you doing here? Come on, come in my office.’
When she was sitting in front of him, offering no explanation, he asked, ‘What about the baby? Boy or girl?’
‘Dunno. Lost it at five months. I was ill for ages. Never again.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that—but don’t say ‘never again’. It’ll pass, you’ll see.’
‘No, it won’t. I can’t have any more and just as well. Listen—can I smoke?’
He gave her an ashtray. Once she’d lit up, she looked at him with a mixture of wariness and affection.
“You’re the only person who’s ever been nice to me … so I wanted to tell you because if I don’t somebody else will. You’re bound to find out. I’m going back on the game.’
‘What? You’re what? And Mario?’
‘Oh, Mario.. Jesus … I mean, he trotted off every morning at a quarter to eight and I was supposed to clean up his crumbs and wipe the floor over and then he’d come trotting back again and I was supposed to have the water boiling for his pasta and then it was one long whinge—there are no clean shirts, have you seen the fluff under this bed? Where’s the other sock to this? You’ve forgotten to get milk again … No, no, I couldn’t stand the boredom. So I upped and offed.’
‘Back to Ilir?’
‘Why not? He’s out now and he wants me back. Nobody ever earned him as much as me and he kept me in style. We ate in a restaurant every night. I like a good time and I get clients who give me a good time, you know what I mean? I like champagne and a few presents. I’m not spending the rest of my young life washing the floor of some poky little kitchen for a boring spotty clerk who thinks he’s earned the right to have his socks washed for a lifetime because he’s been good enough to save me from the streets.’
‘But what about when you’re not young anymore?’
‘Well, it’s all over then, isn’t it? Get it while you can, I say. I just … I wanted to tell you myself. It’s not that I’m not grateful to you. I know you meant well. Are you pissed off with me? You are, aren’t you?’
‘No, no …’
‘You’ve every right to be. I’d better go. I’m sorry. Because of you, I mean, not that little prick Mario, only because of you. I know you did your best.’
Carve it on my tombstone, thought the marshal, watching her leave through a skein of cigarette smoke.
He wished that Giorgio had come to see him instead of disappearing. Gjergj, that was his real name. Nothing was ever heard of him again but the marshal never forgot him. For some reason, that one remark stayed in his mind. They ‘d put his blue pyjamas on. He didn’t like them.’
Had he gone home to Kosovo? They were still fighting there. Wherever he was, the marshal wished him well.
OTHER TITLES IN THE SOHO CRIME SERIES
JANWILLEM VAN DE WETERING
Outsider in Amsterdam Just a Corpse at Twilight
Tumbleweed The Streetbird
The Corpse on the Dike The Hollow-Eyed Angel
Death of a Hawker The Mind-Murders
The Japanese Corpse The Rattle-Rat
The Blond Baboon Hard Rain
The Maine Massacre The Perfidious Parrot
The Amsterdam Cops: Collected Stories
SEICH MATSUMOTO
Inspector Imanishi Investigates
PATRICIA CARLON
The Souvenir
The Whispering Wall
The Running Woman
Crime of Silence
The Price of an Orphan
The Unquiet Night
Death by Demonstration
Hush, It’s a Game
Who Are You, Linda Condrick?
PETER LOVESEY
The Vault
The Last Detective
On the Edge
Rough Cider
The False Inspector Dew
Diamond Solitaire
The Reaper
Diamond Dust
The House Sitter
JOHN WESTERMANN
Exit Wounds
High Crimes
Sweet Deal
MAGDALEN NABB
Death of an Englishman
Property of Blood
Death in Autumn
The Marshal and the Murderer
The Marshal and the Madwoman
CHERYL BENARD
Moghul Buffet
Qiu XIAOLONG
Death of a Red Heroine
A Loyal Character Dancer
J. ROBERT JANES
Stonekiller
Sandman
Mayhem
; Salamander
Mannequin
Carousel
Kaleidoscope
Dollmaker
AKIMITSU TAKAGI
Honeymoon to Nowhere
The Informer
The Tattoo Murder Case
STAN JONES
White Sky, Black Ice
Shaman Pass
TIMOTHY WATTS
Cons
Money Lovers
PENELOPE EVANS
Freezing
First Fruits
CHARLOTTE JAY
Beat Not the Bones
MARTIN LIMÓN
Jade Lady Burning
CARA BLACK
Murder in the Marais
Murder in Belleville
Murder in the Sentier
Murder in the Bastille
TOD GOLDBERG
Living Dead Girl
REBECCA PAWEL
Death of a Nationalist
Some Bitter Taste Page 22
