Blood Count

by Robert Goddard

  ‘Then I’ll back you up.’ Bill extended his hand across the table in a gesture that surprised Hammond. They had an understanding, it seemed. And it required a handshake to seal it.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘But I’d like to ask the Perović woman a few questions before you surrender the tapes.’

  ‘The Perović woman.’ Hammond bridled inwardly. A Serbian warlord’s former mistress was a low form of life in Bill Dowler’s vision of the world and no doubt that of many others as well. She was going to receive a lot of unwelcome and unflattering attention in the weeks ahead. They would have that in common.

  ‘When can I see her?’

  ‘This evening. I said I’d call for the tapes at nine.’

  ‘You’re sure you can trust her?’

  ‘She’s as much a victim in this as anyone else.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Bill sounded unconvinced. ‘I’ll see what I make of her.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Listen, Edward, I … think I’ll take a walk. On my own. You understand? I need to … take stock of everything you’ve told me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Bill stood up and began struggling into his duffel coat. Hammond jumped up to help him, wincing at a jab of pain from his ribs. ‘It’s all right,’ said Bill, looking at him oddly. ‘I can cope. Probably better than you can.’

  Hammond forced out a smile. ‘You could be right.’ He subsided back into his chair. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  After Bill had gone, Hammond sat on at the table alone, wondering exactly what was going on in his brother-in-law’s mind. Bill kept so much bottled up inside him it was hard to gauge his reaction. He evidently believed what Hammond had said, yet nevertheless blamed him in some measure for Kate’s death.

  Greed and poor judgement seemed to be the principal crimes laid at Hammond’s door and he was not well placed to deny either of them. All he could do was try to atone for them. Telling Bill the truth – and later, still more painfully, telling Alice – amounted only to a start. Where the process would end he could not tell.

  He did not see Bill again until they set off to meet Zineta that evening. They travelled by taxi to Hollands-Spoor station, Hammond surprising himself by how instinctively he took the precaution of not going directly to her apartment. An increasingly tense silence prevailed during their journey through the still, quiet city. Neither was willing to make the effort to engage in small talk and the only subject they really wanted to discuss was off limits in the presence of the driver. Bill’s permanently furrowed brow suggested he was still thinking hard about Hammond’s revelations of earlier in the day.

  It became apparent, however, when they got out at the station and headed for Zineta’s apartment on foot, that he had done rather more than just think about them.

  ‘I went to the court this afternoon, Edward,’ he suddenly declared. ‘I wanted to see Gazi in the flesh.’

  It should have occurred to Hammond that Bill might want to sit in on the trial. ‘You saw him?’

  ‘Yes. And a nasty piece of work he is too. Cold. Arrogant. Brutal.’

  ‘You could tell that?’

  ‘It’s in his eyes. I’ve seen the look before. Some of the Provos had it in Northern Ireland. Killing people for the sake of it sucks something out of your soul. It’s the lack of whatever that is – humanity, I suppose – that you can see in their gaze.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly responsible for a lot of killing for the sake of it. And he’s going to pay for it.’

  ‘I read the summary indictment. Not pretty.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Really? You know all about the murders he’s accused of in Kosovo, do you? They happened after you saved his life. Several hundred, all told. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘I thought the war was over when I treated him. I had no idea it was going to flare up again.’ To Hammond’s relief, they were within sight of the apartment now. ‘Zineta lives just along here.’

  ‘Not good enough.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your excuse, Edward.’ Bill stopped, forcing Hammond to look at him. ‘Just not good enough.’

  Hammond had neither the time nor the inclination to mount a defence of his questionable record. They reached the brightly lit premises of Prawiro en Zoon. Trade was slack, freeing the lugubrious proprietor to cast them an appraising glance as Hammond rang Zineta’s bell.

  It was around the time of his second prod at the bell that a queasy sense of foreboding crept into him. After the third, he stepped to the edge of the kerb and peered up at the attic windows. There was no light showing.

  ‘I thought this was a definite appointment,’ said Bill, joining him at the kerbside.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Which floor is she on?’

  ‘Top.’

  ‘She’s not there, is she?’

  ‘She must be.’

  ‘But she isn’t.’

  ‘Damn it.’ Hammond strode back to the door and tried the bell again. There was still no response.

  ‘You said you could trust her.’

  ‘I could. I do.’

  ‘So, where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He whipped out his phone and dialled her number. No reply. Then he checked for messages. Nothing. The queasiness was turning by now to a cold dread.

  ‘Edward.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’

  ‘Edward.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The shopkeeper’s waving at us.’

  Hammond looked round and saw that Prawiro, as he took the man to be, was indeed beckoning to them. He walked into the shop, with Bill at his shoulder.

  At closer quarters, Prawiro’s lugubriousness seemed more like studied world-weariness. He was a short, bald-headed man of indeterminate age, slightly built but pot-bellied, installed behind a counter crammed with confectionery, magazines and electrical accessories. He gazed at them with a mixture of obsequiousness and contempt.

  ‘You are looking for Mejuffrouw Perović?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Hammond.’

  ‘Doctor Hammond?’

  ‘Yes. That’s me.’

  ‘Here.’ Prawiro produced an envelope from beneath the counter. ‘For you. From Mejuffrouw Perović.’

  Hammond took the envelope – his name was written on it in large, slightly uncertain capitals – and tore it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper. He had no way of verifying that the writing on it belonged to Zineta, but he did not seriously doubt it.

  Edward - I am sorry. I cannot let you have the tapes back. They are my only chance. I am very sorry. Z.

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘What’s going on?’ Bill demanded, peering over Hammond’s shoulder.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Let me have a look at that.’ He snatched the note and read it aloud.

  ‘I know what it says,’ Hammond murmured bleakly.

  ‘She’s gone – taking the tapes with her?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You.’ Bill glared at Prawiro. ‘Where’s Miss Perović gone?’

  Prawiro smiled feebly. ‘I do not know, sir.’

  ‘But she gave you this letter for us?’

  ‘For Dr Hammond, yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About … three hours ago.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said … she would be away for a while. And she asked me … to keep the letter for Dr Hammond. That is all.’

  Hammond took out his phone and tried Zineta’s number again, with the same result. But this time he left a message. ‘This is Edward, Zineta. I’ve got your note. Please contact me. I need to know what’s happened. Whatever it is, we can sort it out. Please call as soon as you get this.’

  ‘You think she’ll respond?’ Bill asked sceptically when he had finished.

  ‘I hope so.’

  �
��You hope?’

  ‘What else can I do?’

  ‘Come outside.’

  Bill marched decisively back out on to the pavement and walked on a few yards beyond the door leading to the flats. Then he stopped and turned to face Hammond. He looked angry as well as confused.

  ‘Why has she taken the tapes, Edward?’

  ‘I don’t know. It may have something to do with her son.’ As Hammond said it, he realized there could in fact be no other explanation. ‘There must have been something on the tapes that held a clue to Monir’s whereabouts, although why she didn’t feel able to share that information with me I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Monir? Her son by Gazi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doesn’t putting your faith in the man’s former mistress – the mother of his son – seem foolhardy to you?’

  ‘Obviously not, Bill. Since that’s what I’ve done.’

  ‘Yes. You have.’

  ‘She must have panicked. As soon as she’s had a chance to think it over, she’ll—’

  ‘Save it, Edward. I’ll tell you what I think, shall I? Either she really has played you for a sucker … or you’re trying to play me for one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The tapes might have supported your version of events rather than the version Gazi’s threatening to give to the court. But now they’ve gone missing. So, very conveniently, we’ll never know what they’d reveal. If anything.’

  ‘There’s nothing convenient about it. I’m as frustrated as you are.’

  ‘I doubt that. Because you know, whereas I don’t, whether the tapes really exist at all.’

  ‘Of course they exist.’

  ‘I only have your word for that, which at present looks highly questionable. Gazi’s planning to spill the beans about Kate’s murder. Maybe all this is just a ruse to persuade me you played no part in his decision to have her killed.’

  ‘A ruse?’

  ‘I’m simply not sure, you see, one way or the other. And I’m afraid this isn’t a situation in which I can afford to give you the benefit of the doubt. We’re talking about my sister; my own flesh and blood. I owe it to her to bring those responsible for her death to justice.’

  ‘It was Gazi’s doing, Bill. I’ve told you that.’

  ‘I know. You’ve told me lots of things.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t believe me?’

  ‘I’m saying I don’t know what to believe. Zineta Perović and the famous tapes might have convinced me. As it is, they’ve both vanished.’

  ‘I didn’t set this up, Bill. Everything I’ve told you is true.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘You can’t seriously think I asked Gazi to have Kate killed. Come on. You know me too well for that.’

  ‘Do I?’ Bill was breathing heavily now, struggling with suspicions too grave to be stifled. ‘I think the time’s come to call in the professionals on this, Edward. I’m going home first thing in the morning. I’ll give you forty-eight hours after that to go home yourself and tell Alice the truth – whatever the truth is. Then I’ll contact the police and demand they reopen their inquiry into Kate’s murder.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Bill, we can—’

  ‘No. I’m done with talking. And I’m done with you for the present, Edward. I’m sorry, but there it is. I’ll take a taxi from the station back to the hotel. There’s nothing more for us to discuss. Goodnight.’

  With that, Bill thrust his hands into the pockets of his duffel coat and strode off in the direction of Hollands-Spoor station.

  Hammond thought of going after him, but something in Bill’s stride and the set of his shoulders warned him off. He watched his brother-in-law reach the next corner and disappear round it without a backward glance. Then he was alone. And helpless. With Zineta’s note crumpled in his hand.

  He did not know where to go or what to do. He crossed the road and stared up at the windows of the attic flat, to no purpose whatsoever, since they were still unlit and her message had been clear enough: she had gone, taking the tapes with her.

  There was a shabby bar a few doors along. He drifted into it, ordered a jenever and sipped it slowly, gazing out through the uncurtained top half of the window at the door to the flats. The bar had only a few customers and the street was quiet. Few vehicles passed and even fewer pedestrians.

  A sense of folly as well as dismay began to seep into Hammond. Why had Zineta done this to him? Why, for that matter, had he not anticipated she might? The tapes must hold the answer. But for some reason associated with Monir, she had determined he could not be told what it was.

  As he began to think his way unavailingly through the baffling turn of events for the third or fourth time, a figure drifted into view on the pavement opposite and stopped by the door to the flats. He was a short, shaven-headed, compactly built man of forty or so, dressed in a leather jacket, jeans and roll-neck sweater. As Hammond watched, he pressed one of the bells – Zineta’s?

  Flicking a five-euro note on to the bar to cover the jenever, Hammond hurried out and crossed the road, to find him stepping back to see if there were any lights on in the attic flat.

  ‘Looking for Zineta?’

  ‘What?’ The man whirled round and frowned at Hammond. He was wearing glasses and their gold frames glinted in the lamplight, along with a silver earring.

  ‘So am I, as it happens.’

  ‘Who are you?’ The accent was neither Dutch nor English. It sounded, based on Hammond’s recent visit to Belgrade, distinctly Serbian, with a thin slice of American.

  ‘A friend of Zineta’s.’

  ‘Me too. You’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you Edward?’

  ‘Er … yes.’

  ‘She mentioned you. Do you know if she’s all right? I hoped she’d be at home but … you’re looking for her as well, you said?’

  It was Hammond’s recollection that Zineta had claimed to know no one, or at any rate to have made no friends, in The Hague. He struggled to balance caution and curiosity. ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘I’m a bit … worried about her, that’s all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m Stevan Vidor. I met her at ICTY. I work there as a translator.’ He extended a hand – and a smile. ‘Zineta never mentioned your last name, but she said you were a friend. And I guess you’re maybe a little worried about her, like I am.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Well …’ Vidor shrugged. ‘You look it.’

  ‘I’d arranged to call on her this evening. I was … disappointed not to find her in.’

  ‘Do you know about a tape she had?’

  ‘A tape?’

  ‘Yeah. She played it to me. I speak French as well as English, you see.’

  ‘French?’

  ‘There was a conversation in French on the tape. She needed it translating.’

  ‘What was the conversation about?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if I can …’ Vidor drew back a pace. ‘I guess it’s her private business.’

  It was a fair point. Hammond had to give something if he was to receive anything in return. ‘Sorry. I should have introduced myself. Edward Hammond. I am worried about Zineta. We have that in common. I was in the bar over there, trying to decide how to contact her, since she isn’t answering her phone. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? We might be able to help each other out.’

  Vidor thought the invitation over for a moment, then nodded. ‘OK.’

  Re-entering the bar, Hammond tried to look and sound more relaxed than he felt. Vidor seemed a pleasant fellow, but it was probably unwise to let him see how crucial the information he possessed might be.

  ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘A Pils would be great.’

  Hammond ordered two and they sat down at a table by the window, where a fat red candle was burning low. The shadows it cast made Vidor’s expression hard to read, though that, Hammond supposed, cu
t both ways. ‘Are you Serbian, Stevan?’

  ‘Yes. But I got out in ninety-one, before the war started. I could see what was coming and I didn’t want to get caught up in it. Although I guess you could say I am caught up in it, working at ICTY.’

  ‘How did you meet Zineta?’

  ‘She came to the court so often it was hard not to notice her. But always it was for the Gazi trial. It made me wonder what he’d done to her. We got talking one day by the coffee machine during an adjournment and I asked her for a date. I had to ask twice more before she said yes. We went out the Saturday before last. I had a nice time. I’m not so sure about her.’

  ‘Did she tell you how she knew Gazi?’

  ‘Yes. I think she thought it would put me off.’

  ‘But it didn’t?’

  ‘It’s not for me to judge how people survived under Milošević. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘That’s very broadminded of you.’

  ‘Translating testimonies at ICTY every day makes you broadminded. But I reckoned I hadn’t convinced Zineta of that, because she never replied to any of my texts and she stopped coming to the court. Then her phone stopped working altogether. I thought I must have blown it big time.’

  ‘Actually, none of that was anything to do with you.’

  ‘So she said when she called me today. She asked if we could meet during my lunch break. That’s when she played me the tape. She told me she’d got it from …’ Vidor pointed his Pils bottle at Hammond. ‘Well, from you.’

  ‘It’s true. I lent it to her. The plan was for me to retrieve it this evening.’

  ‘Are you saying …’

  ‘What was on the tape, Stevan?’

  ‘A telephone conversation, in French, between two men. One of them was Dragan Gazi.’

  ‘You recognized his voice?’

  ‘I did once the other guy had called him “Monsieur Gazi”. It was a surprise. I didn’t even know Gazi spoke French. But there are a lot of missing years in his past. I guess he must have spent some of them in France.’

  ‘Who was the other guy?’

  ‘A lawyer. Name of Delmotte.’

  ‘What were they discussing?’

  ‘The adoption of a child.’

  A child. Of course. Monir. It was all about Monir. ‘Did they name the child?’

  ‘No. But it was a boy. They called him le gamin. And Gazi was obviously his father. He was making arrangements for his son to be supplied with papers identifying him as an orphan so he could be adopted by one of Delmotte’s clients. Gazi was concerned about what would happen to the boy while he was … souterrain, as he put it – underground. This was shortly before he disappeared in March 2000. A date for the boy to meet his adoptive parents had been fixed, but Gazi wanted to bring it forward and was pressuring Delmotte to come up with the paperwork. He said an associate of his called Todorović—’