Blood Count

by Robert Goddard

  What Hammond saw in his dinner companion at the Sheraton that late February evening in 1996 was desperation well concealed, but not concealed quite well enough. He felt sure Miljanović had been living and working in unenviable conditions over recent years. It could hardly be otherwise, given Serbia’s pariah status in the world on account of its role in the bloody conflict in Bosnia, not to mention the hyper-inflation and gangsterism the country had become a byword for. Miljanović’s cheery proclamation that ‘Everything is better since Dayton’ was undoubtedly accurate. But better did not necessarily mean good.

  ‘I was sorry I couldn’t help you place your hep C paper, Svetozar,’ said Hammond, when it had become obvious Miljanović did not propose to raise the subject. The paper had been an illuminating examination of the rampant spread of hepatitis C in the former Yugoslavia arising from drug abuse and infected blood transfusions. It had clearly merited publication, but none of the journals had wanted to court controversy by carrying a piece by a Serbian author. ‘You could re-submit it now sanctions have been lifted.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’ Miljanović’s tone suggested he had more pressing matters to consider. ‘When I have the time.’

  ‘Busy?’

  ‘Oh yes. Alcoholism. Drug addiction. And the hep C problem. They’ve all increased because of the troubles we’ve had. My fellow countrymen haven’t been taking good care of their livers, Edward. They keep me very busy. And you? All is well?’

  ‘Professionally, never better.’

  ‘But personally?’

  Hammond sighed. ‘I’ve recently split up with my wife.’

  Miljanović grimaced. ‘Ah, I’m sorry. That’s bad. You have a daughter, I think.’

  ‘Yes. It’s awful for Alice. She doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Seven.’

  Another grimace. ‘A seven-year-old needs a mother and a father – together.’

  Hammond summoned a rueful grin. ‘You should tell my wife that.’

  ‘Is there … someone else?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Kate’s traded me in for a sportier model.’

  Miljanović looked for a moment as if the weight of Hammond’s distress was weighing on his shoulders as well. ‘I feel for you, Edward. No man should suffer that. Your news … makes me wonder if I should … trouble you with my proposal.’

  ‘I’d welcome anything that might take my mind off the mess my life is in, Svetozar. Propose ahead.’

  ‘Very well.’ Miljanović lowered his voice confidentially and leant across the table. ‘I have a very important patient who needs a liver transplant. We simply do not have the expertise in Belgrade. Many of our best people have left the country. I have a good team. But I doubt they can cope with all the complications of the procedure. I thought of you. Your reputation is … as high as they come. You and your team could do it, Edward. I know that.’

  ‘In Belgrade?’

  ‘My patient cannot travel. He fears … an indictment from The Hague.’

  ‘What has he done?’

  Miljanović shrugged. ‘Bad things, I guess. I’m not sure. He led some kind of volunteer force in Bosnia. And … he has criminal connections. He has lots of connections all round. I cannot tell you a lie. He is not a nice man. But he is powerful and he is sick and I have to treat him. I have, to be truthful, no choice.’ Was this, Hammond wondered, the root of the desperation he had sensed? The patient was not someone whose death Miljanović could afford to be in any degree responsible for. But die he well might, however good his surgeon. ‘I should also tell you he is very wealthy. He would be willing to pay … a quarter of a million pounds.’

  The figure was higher than Hammond would have guessed. Ten days or so in Belgrade for the lion’s share of a quarter of a million pounds. It was hard to say no to. He needed a break and, though this would scarcely be a holiday, at least it would take his mind off Kate, her grasping lawyer and the too-smooth-to-be-true man she claimed to be in love with. There might even be a way of ensuring that the money never came to the attention of the grasping lawyer, a possibility Miljanović seemed to have anticipated.

  ‘It could be paid in any way that … you specified.’

  ‘Could it now?’

  ‘What do you say, Edward? It would be an honour for me to work with you.’

  ‘I’d need to know a lot more before I could give you a decision.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’

  ‘The patient – what’s his name?’

  ‘Dragan Gazi.’

  ‘Well, I’ve certainly never heard of him.’

  Miljanović smiled. ‘Good.’

  Edward Hammond recalled that first occasion when he had heard Gazi’s name as he entered another, drabber, cheaper restaurant thirteen years later: Squisito, a lacklustre trattoria halfway between Bayswater Road and Paddington station, seemingly designed, with its hackneyed décor and drab clientele, to make Hammond think longingly of the food, wine and banter he should have been enjoying in Austria with Peter, Julie and Sophie.

  If only he had rejected Miljanović’s offer. He knew himself well enough to understand that he never would have, of course. His ego had been flattered by being invited to Belgrade to show the locals how it should be done. And he had never been paid so generously, before or since. But still it was impossible not to dwell on how much wiser he would have been to turn Miljanović down.

  Hammond was a man of substance and significance. People deferred to him and sought his opinion. The world he moved in was ordered to his judgement and convenience. Being forced to do the bidding of strangers was an affront to his vision of himself. Resentment boiled within him, of a kind he had not felt since Kate told him their marriage was over. Now, as then, his inability to control events frustrated him almost beyond endurance. This should not be happening to him. But it was.

  Ingrid’s ultimatum had brooked no refusal. Gazi’s allegations would wreak havoc in Hammond’s life. The newspapers would descend into a feeding frenzy and however many of his friends and colleagues he could convince that Gazi was lying, there would still be some who doubted him. If that included Alice, the consequences would be unthinkable. He simply could not bear to contemplate a life in which she suspected him of arranging her mother’s murder – or even being capable of arranging such a thing. And so, seething with barely controlled fury, he had been obliged to strike terms.

  ‘I want the money transferred by close of business next Friday,’ Ingrid had said, quietly and emphatically. ‘To this account.’ She had handed him a sheet of vellum notepaper, on which was written the name of a bank in the Cayman Islands and an account number, along with a mobile phone number. ‘Sooner than Friday would be best. Call me when it is done.’

  ‘How exactly do you expect me to accomplish this?’

  ‘The Accountant’s name is Marco Piravani. He is here, in London. I do not have his address. The only way to contact him is through an Italian restaurant called Squisito.’ She had handed him a small card with an address and phone number written on it. Turning the card over, Hammond had found himself looking at the passport-size photograph of a square-jawed middle-aged man with thick dark hair and a moustache, tinted wire-framed glasses and a serious, not to say forbidding, expression. ‘That was taken eight years ago. But you should be able to recognize him from it.’

  ‘You’ve left messages for him at this place?’

  ‘Of course. Many messages. But he has not responded.’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t get them.’

  ‘He got them.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Make him understand. If he does not transfer the money, if he has lost it or stolen it, my father will send someone after him.’ She had shrugged. ‘He must know that anyway.’

  ‘And meanwhile you’re sending me?’

  ‘I can trust you, Dr Hammond.’

  ‘It’s not trust we’re talking about. It’s blackmail.’

  Another shrug. ‘I am so
rry. I have no choice.’

  ‘Apparently, neither do I.’

  ‘As you say.’

  ‘If I succeed, what guarantee do I have that your father will say nothing about me at his trial?’

  ‘The guarantee that if he does you can tell the Serbian authorities where to look for his money.’

  ‘A numbered account in the Cayman Islands. Some clue.’

  ‘You can identify the Accountant. You can implicate me. You think I want that? I would do this myself if they were not following me. You are my best chance. Find the Accountant and make him transfer the money. He has it and we want it. It is ours. Persuade him to release it. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it. Then you can go back to your secure and comfortable life, Dr Hammond. Maybe you can still get some ski-ing done. I don’t want to stop you enjoying yourself. But this must be done first.’

  This must be done first. Yes. Of course. It was the priority that would control Hammond’s life for as long as it took him to prise Gazi’s money from his evasive bookkeeper. It had required him to cancel his flight at a few minutes’ notice, wrangle with officialdom over removing his luggage from the plane and concoct a lie to explain to Peter and Julie why he would not be joining them after all. The irony of the excuse he had devised – a donor had suddenly become available for a now-or-never transplant – was not lost on him. But irony counted for little set against the rage he felt that he should have to tell such a lie in the first place. He was not sure he should have agreed to do what Ingrid had demanded of him. But he could not take the risk of defying Gazi to do his worst. That was certain. Even if nothing else was.

  THREE

  He had not decided what he was going to do when he walked into Squisito that evening. Ingrid’s experience suggested leaving a message for Piravani was pointless. If there was a quick and easy solution to the problem, he could not see what it was. The waiters did not look the loose-tongued sort. There was altogether a notable lack of Latin jollity. He ordered a beer and perused the uninspiring menu, but the invidiousness of his situation had shredded his concentration. He was aware that he was expending too much of his mental energy on revisiting the past to no useful effect, but he could not seem to stop himself. Regrets teemed in his mind.

  And then something entirely unexpected happened, something too fortuitous for him at first to believe. Marco Piravani slouched into the restaurant, rumple-suited and round-shouldered and clearly well known to the staff. There was more grey in his hair than in the photograph Ingrid had supplied, but no other obvious difference. Hammond recognized him instantly and spent the next hour trying to decide how to approach the man.

  It hardly helped that Piravani projected such a conspicuously unapproachable air. The waiters addressed him respectfully as ‘dottore’ and the proprietor, an otherwise lugubrious fellow, greeted him with smiles and a shoulder squeeze, but Piravani barely raised his eyes from the pink pages of the Gazzetta dello Sport he had brought with him. He looked what in a sense Hammond knew him to be: an unsociable number-cruncher. His alcohol intake was something of a surprise, though. Rapid demolition of a bottle of house red during his meal, followed by a grappa, suggested either a drink problem or an attempt to drown a lot of anxiety.

  Hammond’s decision was rendered more delicate still by the possibility that he might have only one crack at Piravani. The fellow was among friends at Squisito, however coolly he treated them. Hammond was not. It was hardly the ideal environment for the kind of full and frank discussion they needed to have. And it would be better by far if Piravani was sober when they had it. Much as Hammond would have liked to sort it out there and then, he eventually abandoned the idea. He would have to be patient.

  With Piravani awaiting an espresso that would surely round off his meal, Hammond laid enough cash on the table to cover his bill, exchanged a farewell nod with one of the waiters and headed out.

  He went no further than the unlit doorway of a greengrocer’s shop on the other side of the road, from where he had a good view of the interior of the restaurant. Ten chilly minutes passed before Piravani stumbled out into the night. There were no taxis about, so no immediate danger of his hailing one. He pulled up the collar of his coat, lit a cigarette and started off in the direction of Paddington station. Hammond darted across the road and fell in behind. Even if there had not been plenty of other pedestrians, he doubted Piravani would have noticed him. Head down and unsteady of tread, the Italian seemed to be progressing on autopilot.

  They reached Praed Street and when Piravani stopped at the pelican crossing it more or less clinched the station as his destination. It was one he shared with numerous late travellers, many of whom looked to have spent the greater part of their Friday evening in a pub. Ordinarily, Hammond would have reflected on the damage all these people were doing to their precious livers, but he had no space in his mind for such thoughts now.

  He followed Piravani across the road when the lights changed and down the ramp into the station. The Italian paused for a last drag on his cigarette before flicking it away, then entered the crowded concourse. He steered right, heading for the platforms for commuter trains to the west. Hammond whipped out his Oyster card and went through the barrier after him. As far as he could gather from the screens, a stopper to Reading was the next service.

  The train was standing at the platform when they arrived. Piravani boarded, oblivious to the fellow diner from Squisito dogging his footsteps, and was already asleep in his seat when it pulled out a few minutes later. This freed Hammond to study the man in some detail as they trundled off into the London night, but the study told him nothing he would not have guessed. Piravani had a poor diet, drank too much and exercised too little. He probably did not sleep enough either, his current stupor hardly qualifying as restful slumber.

  Piravani’s Gazzetta dello Sport was lying on the seat beside him. Hammond noticed that it was folded open not at one of the football pages but at the classified ads. One of the ads had been ringed and asterisked. He moved to the seat behind the Italian and craned over his shoulder to see what the ad was.

  But at that moment the train began slowing for its first stop. The change in the engine note instantly roused Piravani, who sat up and looked around. He also noticed his newspaper, which he rolled up and slid inside his coat.

  The train pulled into Acton Main Line. A glimpse of the station name seemed to reassure Piravani, who relapsed into unconsciousness. Hammond sighed and pondered what he should do when the Italian got off. ‘Keep following him,’ he silently concluded. It was the sensible thing to do. If he could establish where Piravani lived, he would not have to bank everything on getting what he wanted from their first encounter.

  A few minutes later, as they approached Ealing Broadway, Piravani rose and moved to the doors, along with a dozen or so others. The house red was doing nothing for his speed or nimbleness. Hammond did not so much have to hurry to keep up as hang back to avoid overtaking as they left the train and plodded along the platform.

  A lumbering ascent of the stairs and a fumbled passage through the ticket barrier took Piravani to the exit, where he paused to light another cigarette. Most of the other passengers were long gone by now, leaving Hammond to pay rapt attention to a poster detailing weekend engineering works until Piravani got under way again.

  He turned right out of the station and, before long, right again. Hammond followed him along a street of red-brick Victorian houses running parallel to the railway line. The first few houses looked to have seen better days. Detached family residences gone to seed and multiple occupancy. It was into the fenceless and pavedover front garden of one of these that Piravani turned, jingling keys in his hand as he went. There were ruptured rubbish sacks beside the spindly boundary hedge and the bass notes of some amplified rock music pounding from an upper room. The curtains at the windows were thin and tawdry. In one case, they had been replaced by a sheet. If Marco Piravani had embezzled Gazi’s cash, he had obviously not blown it on luxury accommodation.


  Hammond had achieved his initial objective. He knew where the man lived. Now came the demanding part. He still had no clear idea what he was going to say, but the time had come to say it. As Piravani slid his key into the door lock, Hammond closed in.

  But it was Piravani who spoke first. He turned as Hammond approached and looked straight at him, smiling faintly and suddenly sober. ‘Dobro veče.’

  ‘G-Good evening,’ said Hammond, wondering just how long the fellow had been aware of his presence.

  ‘You prefer English?’

  ‘I am English.’

  ‘So you are. And no killer, obviously.’ The smile broadened. He looked more surprised than relieved. ‘Negotiations are still open, then.’

  ‘You know why I’m here?’

  ‘Who sent you?’

  ‘Ingrid.’

  ‘Then I know.’

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Yes. We can talk. What is your name?’

  ‘Hammond.’

  ‘Hammond?’ Piravani’s gaze narrowed. ‘Wait. Are you … Dr Hammond? You are, aren’t you?’

  It was tempting to deny it, but clearly futile. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I hope you will be charging as large a fee as you did last time you came to Gazi’s rescue.’

  ‘You said we could talk.’

  ‘I did, yes. So, come in.’ He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. ‘Come in and we will talk.’

  FOUR

  The hall smelt of stale food and cigarette smoke, with a dash of marijuana. Through an open doorway at the far end was a kitchen, where a thin, spiky-haired young man dressed in grungy jeans and T-shirt was sitting at a food-littered table, eating cornflakes. He looked up and made a V-for-victory sign at Piravani, but did not speak.

  The Italian responded with a vague gesture of his own. ‘One of the other residents,’ he murmured to Hammond. ‘An anthropologist would love it here.’

  ‘Can’t you do better for yourself?’

  Piravani smiled lopsidedly. ‘Maybe I don’t want to. But come. We’ll go to my room.’