The Field of Blackbirds (A Jeff Bradley Thriller)

by Thomas Ryan

  ‘Hey, you guys. Grab the drinks. There’s a table come available in the corner.’

  Jeff took the drink out of Morgan’s hand and nodded that she should follow Barry. This gave him a view of her from quite a new vantage point. Thick red hair bounced with each step. Skirt just below the knee displayed shapely calves. With that kind of distraction in front of his eyes, moving through the crowd successfully proved a task Jeff was not quite up to. By the time he reached the table, the glasses were as wet on the outside as they were on the inside and beverage was dripping from his hands. He signalled for fresh drinks.

  For the next ten minutes the foursome laughed at Barry’s stories about a typical working day with the UN. One of the South African policemen from the night before, Hansie, joined the table. A heated argument began between Hansie, Barry and Bethany on the comparative sporting prowess of South Africa, Australia and New Zealand.

  Jeff took the opportunity to talk again to Morgan. ‘What brought you to Kosovo?’

  ‘A friend established the NGO here that employs me. He knew I was good with languages, and offered me the job managing it. I needed to get away so I accepted. I’m glad I did. No day in Kosovo is ever dull.’

  Jeff lifted his handle of beer. A stray elbow from the crowd nudged his arm. Beer sloshed onto the table.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said and looked up. The people around the table blocked any chance of attracting the attention of a waiter. Morgan opened her purse and pressed a tissue into his hand. The press lingered for just long enough that Jeff shot her a glance. He was treated to a smile.

  ‘Thank you.’ He returned the smile. Was his libido misreading things here? His eyes dropped to the task of wiping the bottom of his glass. Then the table. ‘Um . . . So anyway. I’m guessing your work has an element of danger. Am I right?’

  Morgan scanned the crowd for a second. Then she centred back on Jeff. ‘There’s always an element of danger in confrontation, I suppose. Maybe more so in Kosovo than most places. It’s something I’ve learned to ride with. But I try to keep a low profile. Sometimes I have to kick butt to get things done, but most of the time I’m bashing my head against a brick wall. As you saw in my office.’

  Jeff was thinking that maybe Morgan got more wins that she was letting on. She struck him as a woman who would never take no for an answer.

  ‘What about family?’

  ‘There isn’t one.’

  Morgan’s voice sounded a bit sharper than he would have expected.

  ‘Sorry, just making conversation. No offence?’

  Her expression softened. ‘None taken. This isn’t the sort of job that leaves a lot of time for bending over a crib looking down at a third child.’

  Jeff blinked. ‘You have three children?’

  A laugh. ‘No. No children. No husband. At least, not any more. I was married. Then I came home one day and found my husband in bed with someone else.’

  ‘Let me guess. Your best friend?’

  ‘I wish. No, my brother.’ Morgan’s mouth widened in the pretence of a smile. ‘It was a shock. Not about my husband. I’d started suspecting there was something amiss when he stopped sleeping with me two months after we were married. But to find him with my own brother? Geez. Now that was a mind-bender.’

  ‘Did he work in government as well? Your husband?’

  This earned Jeff a laugh. ‘No. He was some sort of marketing guru in New York when I met him. Now he’s a bartender.’ She sipped at her wine. ‘I grew up in Los Angeles. You’ve heard of LA?’ The smile told Jeff she was teasing him.

  ‘I might have. Somewhere in California. Mickey Mouse lives there.’

  ‘Full citizen. My family owns a pub-cum-restaurant in the town. Mother’s Italian American. Dad’s Irish American. Both of them good Catholics. The family business was always destined to be either a pizzeria or an Irish pub. My dad’s ancestors won out, although we did end up making great pizzas in the restaurant. I worked in the kitchen with my mother. My younger brother helped Dad in the bar. My two older brothers said there wasn’t enough work for all of us in the pub and went off and opened their own pizza parlours. One in Chicago, the other in Dallas. But I think that was just an excuse. They wanted to do their own thing and get as far away from my mother as they could. Italian women find it hard to let go of their sons and tend to make the wives’ lives miserable. It’s a stereotype, I know. But believe me, in our case it’s all true.’

  Jeff chuckled. ‘My mother’s parents came from Yugoslavia. From the stories they told me of the old days, I think it was the same for them. Luckily for me, when they came to New Zealand they left the old ways behind.’ An image of his grandmother pleading for him to resurrect the family vineyard suddenly popped into his head. ‘Most anyway.’

  ‘I met my husband in New York on vacation. Whirlwind romance and all that. I guess I married him hoping I could get away from the pub like my brothers. But my mother wanted me close to home, and my husband didn’t put up much of a fight. So we left New York and came to live in LA. He couldn’t find a marketing job so Dad put him to work helping out in the bar. Even paid for him to go through bartending school. Right from the start, he and my brother got on well. I was so proud of my new husband. He was putting in such long hours and stayed on late to clean up when we closed. My mother kept badgering me about babies. But he was always too tired by the time he got home at night. What could I say? He was working his arse off for the family. Stupid me. I felt guilty about it.’

  ‘You tell a good story.’

  ‘If only it weren’t true.’

  Jeff was enjoying Morgan’s company. She had a ready laugh and he liked the way she touched his arm when making a point.

  ‘If it sounds like I’m bitter and twisted, I am. Sure, I would love to have had kids and a house in the suburbs. And maybe a dog.’ Morgan shrugged. ‘But here I am in a bar in Kosovo, pouring my heart out to a guy I barely know.’

  Barry and Bethany were now standing. The argument about sports supremacy had widened. Many voices were yelling to be heard. Jeff leaned closer to Morgan. ‘What about your family. How did they react when they found out?’

  ‘They never did. My parents idolise my baby brother. How could I tell them he was screwing my husband? It would break their hearts. So I left. Now I’m the bitch who ran off on her husband. But at least the family’s happy.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He’s still there, complaining how much it hurts that I abandoned him. My brother moved into our house. Tells my parents they’re just sharing. My mother is convinced my brother’s charity towards my ex-husband is almost saintly. My father would have him ordained if he wasn’t such a good barman. And I get Christmas cards every year warning me I’m going to burn in hell. So that’s my story. How about you?’

  Jeff shrugged. ‘Divorced.’

  A pause. Morgan’s eyebrows arched. ‘That’s it? Just . . . divorced?’

  Barry’s face materialised beside them with a broad wink.

  ‘Bethany and I are going home. For . . . ah, dinner. Okay?’

  Barry disappeared. Jeff turned back to Morgan. ‘Lucky man. I’ve had bugger-all nourishment of any kind today. I hate eating alone.’

  ‘Is that an invitation to dinner?’

  ‘Could be. I take it there’s better stuff out there than I’m getting at the Grand Hotel.’

  ‘What do you like eating?’

  ‘I’ll eat anything.’

  A slow smile came to Morgan’s lips.

  ‘I might know just the place.’

  17.

  Jeff had enjoyed the best meal of his trip so far with Morgan, though if he was honest that hadn’t been down to the food. When he was back in his hotel room he found it hard not to think of her.

  In the morning they met again at Toni Mema’s office.

  ‘Mr Bradley. Jeff. Welcome to my office.�
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  Tomi Mema was all smiles. This time the Armani suit was a grey pinstripe. However, Mema’s expensive taste in clothes did not seem to extend to rental property. A twenty-foot shipping container dumped onto a vacant lot had been converted into his office.

  Mema may have read his thoughts. ‘There is a scarcity of commercial space in Prishtina. The international organisations have taken most of what was available and anything left is too expensive. The property owners want Kosovons to pay the same rates as internationals. Ridiculous. This place has worked quite well for me. It is convenient. I am across the road from the detention centre where most of my clients are and within walking distance of all the courts.’

  The office furnishings bordered on austere: a desk for Mema, a smaller table for his secretary, an assortment of plastic chairs and a three-drawer filing cabinet. In the corner an ancient electric heater did little to warm the place. A plastic container on top of the filing cabinet might have once contained a plant but now only dozens of cigarette stubs half-buried in the dirt.

  ‘Mr Mema. I’d like to introduce Morgan Delaney. Ms Delaney is with the Land Registry Office.’

  ‘Ms Delaney, welcome. Are you a friend of Mr Bradley’s or are you here in an official capacity?’

  ‘As an advisor, Mr Mema.’

  ‘Very well. Please, take a seat. I will order us some coffees.’

  Mema sent his secretary to the cafe next door then sat behind his desk. Hands shuffled papers for no obvious purpose.

  ‘I am sure Ms Delaney is an expert in America, Jeff. But when it comes to Kosovon law, you will need to use a Kosovon lawyer. I offer you my services. No offence to you, Ms Delaney.’

  Mema flashed Morgan what he may have considered to be a winning smile.

  Morgan’s smile in response looked to Jeff to be just as winning. And just as unconvincing. Was there a game going on here?

  ‘Oh, none taken. All Kosovo knows your reputation, Mr Mema.’

  Mema’s sharp glance into Morgan’s face would have revealed to him nothing more than what Jeff saw as practised neutrality. It appeared that tacit ground rules were being established between the two. Jeff suppressed a chuckle and looked back at Mema.

  ‘Mr Mema. Arben Shala made contact with Ms Delaney and asked for her to help get back his property. She went to the vineyard with Arben. I’ve asked her here to discuss the legitimacy of both sets of ownership documents. You’ll understand that if I go ahead and purchase the vineyard, I’ll want to be certain I’m buying from the rightful owners.’

  Mema managed to drag his none-too-subtle scrutiny away from Morgan and back to Jeff.

  ‘I see. And Ms Delaney, do you have an opinion as to who the rightful owners might be?’

  The charm was back, but it looked to Jeff as if it might well be disguising a range of sentiments that did not include goodwill towards Morgan.

  She nodded. ‘I’ve verified Mr Shala’s documents, Mr Mema. They’re legitimate. The Xhiha brothers’ documents are also in order. However, I can find no paper trail showing a legal change of ownership from Mr Shala’s father to the Xhihas’ uncle.’

  Mema leaned back in his seat. ‘That is easily explained. The Serbs destroyed all documents held by the Gjakova Regional Council during the war. Unfortunately this happened in a number of districts.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Mr Mema. I’m also aware that the Shala family lived on the property until the start of the war. I find it hard to believe that the land legally changed hands without Arben’s father ever having informed his family.’

  ‘Maybe his father needed the money to join his son in New Zealand, and would have told him after he arrived.’

  ‘That’s a possibility, sure. But there are very good grounds for doubting its probability.’ Morgan leaned forward. Green eyes held Mema’s. ‘Mr Shala informed me that when he and his family fled Kosovo, he begged his parents to come with him. His father insisted on staying to protect the property. Now. Does that sound like the action of a man who had any intention of selling?’

  Mema again shifted in his chair. ‘Maybe so. Maybe not. However, I also had this conversation with Mr Shala. He admitted that the vineyard had never been signed over from his father to him. Under normal circumstances, if Arben had been in Kosovo at the time of his father’s death – as would be expected of any dutiful son – the property would automatically have passed to him. However,’ Mema shrugged, ‘Arben was in New Zealand. Maybe that changed things.’

  ‘Mr Shala’s father didn’t simply die, Mr Mema.’ Morgan’s voice had taken on a chilly tone. ‘The Serbs murdered him. Arben Shala’s decision to leave the country almost certainly saved his life. He’s lost his parents, most of his family, and many friends. Does it not seem unfair to you that he might now also lose the family property?’

  ‘Most definitely unfair, I must agree.’ Mema’s palms spread on the desk as he leaned across it. ‘But the courts are not interested in what is fair, only in what is legal. Unfortunately Mr Shala was not in Kosovo and has not been home for some time. The Xhiha brothers have now lived on the property a number of years.’

  Jeff glanced at Morgan. Her eyes held Mema’s. Jeff admired the way her silence appeared to put pressure on the lawyer. Mema’s tongue licked at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Er . . . These Xhiha brothers. They have a legitimate legal document that says they own the land. And under these circumstances, as I told Mr Shala, I believe the court would rule that his father did indeed sell to the Xhiha brothers’ uncle, just as they have claimed. The court will have good reason to believe that Mr Shala, who ran away and abandoned Kosovo for a better life in New Zealand, heard of the destruction of documents in Gjakova and returned to try and cheat the Xhihas out of a property that was rightfully theirs.’

  Morgan’s gaze on Mema never flinched. But Jeff noticed a slight increase in the colour of her cheeks.

  ‘Look, Ms Delaney. As a lawyer I must deal with the facts, as must the courts. And as you’ve said yourself, the Xhiha documents are in order.’

  At that second the secretary came in with a tray holding three espressos. ‘Ah, good. Look. Our coffees have arrived.’

  The lawyer took the tray from his secretary and put the cups on the table. Jeff watched him. Mema may have felt he was winning the exchange with Morgan, but for Jeff the discussion had only served to convince him that someone was indeed intent on stealing Arben’s land. And it wasn’t the Xhihas.

  Morgan relaxed her concentration on Mema and reached for a coffee. ‘You’ll have to admit that there remains a lot of conjecture in what you say. Now, if we could speak with Mr Shala, he might be able to provide us with additional information. Something that could shed light on how all this has come about.’ She turned eyes on Jeff. ‘You agree with that, don’t you, Mr Bradley?’

  ‘Mr Mema, I don’t suppose you would have any idea where Arben Shala might be, do you?’ Jeff asked.

  Tomi Mema’s palms spread to the heavens. ‘None whatsoever, I’m afraid. Perhaps he is already returning to New Zealand.’ Mema’s gaze suddenly focused somewhere over Jeff’s shoulder. ‘Ah. Come in, gentlemen.’

  When Jeff turned he saw that the Xhiha brothers were already standing inside the office door. Ahmed whispered something to his brother. Skender gave Jeff a quick glance and nodded. The way the brothers’ eyes flicked about made Jeff think how devious and guilty they looked. Guilty exactly of what, Jeff intended to determine. He needed to have another talk with the Xhiha brothers. However, the talk he planned to have could not take place in Mema’s office.

  18.

  When the door opened, Avni Leka resisted the urge to look up. The Municipal Court’s chief prosecutor knew it was Osman Gashi. But the pile of documents before him had been demanding his urgent attention for two days. Gashi could wait. Leka heard the leather chair in front of his desk creak as the fat man eased himself into it. Leka continued
scanning his paperwork and initialling where needed. When he signed off the last page, his fingers riffled through the pile once again. Satisfied that all was in order, he lifted them in both hands and dumped them into his out tray.

  ‘Okay, Gashi. I have an urgent meeting in ten minutes. What is it?’

  Gashi smiled, teeth too white in his dark face. In Leka’s view, Gashi wore good-quality clothes badly. He never quite managed to achieve the look of a successful businessman. No matter how hard he tried, he still looked every bit the slovenly pimp Leka knew him to be. His gut, the result of too much food and too many cognacs, threatened to burst the buttons off his waistcoat. The top of his shirt remained unbuttoned around his oversized neck.

  Leka had long been aware that Gashi brought in girls from Moldova and Bulgaria to work as high-priced hookers for the thousands of UN and NATO personnel. Gashi fed the craving for illicit sex like a stoker shovelling coal into a furnace. He had brothels and strip clubs hidden in the suburbs of most Kosovon cities. To protect his illegal activities and escape the scrutiny of the law, Gashi paid out thousands of euros in bribes every month.

  To those who did not know him the way Leka did, Gashi came across as a jovial bon vivant – if maybe a little slow witted. However, behind the affability and flab lurked the most dangerous man in Kosovo. Leka knew that Gashi was an unpredictable psychopath who was devoid of conscience. A money lord who protected his hard-won domain with ruthless efficiency, as many a policeman and politician had found to their cost.

  ‘There’s a problem?’ Leka asked.

  It was a rhetorical question. Leka knew very well that Gashi would not have come otherwise.

  ‘Tomi Mema has had visitors. That man from New Zealand looking for Arben Shala and the American woman from the land office.’

  ‘Do we have cause to be concerned?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Tomi said that once he explained how the court would certainly find the Xhiha documents legitimate, they did not argue and left. They have no idea where Shala is or what has happened to him. Tomi thinks that as long as they don’t make contact with Shala, there will be no problems.’