The Eyewitness (12 page)

“I like the job I have, Danny.”

“Last time we spoke you said it bored you rigid.”

“Yeah, well, that was before they were trying to force me out.” Solomon finished his beer.

“Sorry, you're right. I'm wallowing. Let's have a curry tomorrow night and I'll be on better form. Do you still snore?”

“Like a bloody steam train.” McLaren headed off to his bedroom. Solomon sat up and watched an Italian football match on TV with the sound muted so as not to disturb McLaren, but he ended up falling asleep on the sofa. He woke up in the early hours, drank from the kitchen sink tap and fell into bed.

When Solomon woke, McLaren had already left for the office. He had left a note propped up against an empty Caffrey's can on the kitchen table.

“Make yourself useful buy some more beer!” Solomon grinned and made himself some coffee.

He sat down on the sofa and considered his options. Three months was a long time to spend doing nothing. One of the reasons why he had two months' vacation owing from the Commission was that he was happier working. Two weeks' lying on a beach would drive him crazy. He had worked for a relief agency in Kosovo before joining the Commission, and he knew that several similar agencies had offices in London. If nothing else, he could offer his services as a volunteer.

He finished his coffee, then went through to his bedroom and unpacked his suitcase. An envelope fell to the floor. Solomon picked it up. It was the report on the Pristina truck case. Solomon sat down on the bed and read through the photocopied sheets. Lyudmilla had said that Nicole had gone to London. If that was true, maybe he could track her down. His pulse beat faster at the prospect. If he could find Nicole and get her to tell him what had happened on the farm outside Pristina, then maybe his time in the UK wouldn't be wasted after all.

He went back into the sitting room and dialled McLaren's mobile.

“You running up my phone bill already?” McLaren asked.

“Yeah, my mobile costs an arm and a leg if I use it here,” said Solomon.

“I'll get a pay-as-you-go today. Can you do me a favour?”

“Sure,” said McLaren.

“Can you pull any info you have on prostitution in London?”

“No sweat. I've done a couple of stories myself recently. I'll get some cuts before I leave. Are you still up for a curry tonight?”

“Sure.”

“Hang on,” said McLaren.

“You're looking for that eyewitness, aren't you?”

“Maybe.”

“Be careful, Jack.”

“I'm a big boy, don't worry.”

“It's more complicated than that. I'll tell you tonight over a chicken korma.”

Dragan Jovanovic flashed his police credentials at the nurse in Reception and asked for Ivan Petrovic's room. The nurse frowned as she tapped away on her computer keyboard. Then she said no one of that name was in the hospital. Dragan told her who Petrovic was and why he was probably in the hospital under a different name. And that he would probably have guards with him. The nurse immediately gave him a room number, on the fifth floor, but told him that no visitors were allowed. Dragan flashed her a smile and headed for the lift.

Two big men were standing outside Petrovic's room in matching dark-brown-leather jackets, black jeans and designer sunglasses. They put their hands inside their jackets as Dragan stepped out of the lift. He raised his arms to show that he was no threat and told them he was a police officer.

“Mr. Petrovic is not seeing anyone,” said the man on the left.

“He'll see me,” said Dragan.

“He's not pressing charges,” said the man on the right.

“It's not a police matter.”

Dragan walked up to the man and stared into the dark lenses.

“I will decide what is and isn't a police matter,” he growled.

“Now, go in there and tell your boss that Dragan Jovanovie of the Sektor Kriminalisticke Policije wants to talk to him.”

The man stared at him for several seconds, then turned, opened the door and slipped inside. Dragan glared at the other guard, daring him to argue. The man stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.

The door opened.

“Okay,” said the guard.

Dragan bared his teeth in a rictus grin and walked past the man into the room. Two more guards sat on straight-backed chairs by the window. One had a shotgun by his side, the other a chrome revolver in his lap. The guard closed the door and stood with his back to it, his hands crossed over his groin.

Petrovic was lying in bed, propped up by three pillows, and connected to a drip. He had a livid bruise across his right cheek and his right hand was bandaged.

“You don't look so bad,” said Dragan.

“I might lose my spleen,” said Petrovic.

“You can live without it.”

“How about I get my men to come round to your house and take out your spleen, Dragan? See how you like it,” said Petrovic.

“Yeah, you know where I live, I know where you live. You know where my mother lives, I know where your mother lives. You've got men with guns, I've got a whole police force standing behind me. We're not going to get anywhere threatening each other.”

“I don't see anyone standing behind you, Dragan.”

“Not everyone's on your payroll,” said the policeman.

Petrovic forced a smile.

“You think not?”

Dragan walked over to the foot of the bed.

“You know why he went to your bar?”

“He was looking for a girl. Like most men who go to my clubs.”

“He wanted a particular girl. Did he tell you about her before he beat the crap out of you?”

“He attacked me,” said Petrovic.

Dragan grinned and looked across at the two men sitting by the window.

“How many men do you have around you?” he said.

“It's obviously not enough.”

“We were in the toilet,” said Petrovic.

“This just gets better and better, doesn't it?” sneered Dragan.

“He'd gone in after a girl.”

“Why?”

“Because he thought she knew the girl he's looking for.”

“And does she?”

Petrovic narrowed his eyes.

“This isn't official, is it?”

“If it was official, we'd be taking you into the station,” said Dragan.

“This girl he's looking for, where is she?”

Petrovic stared at the policeman. Dragan stared back, poker-faced.

“London,” said Petrovic eventually.

“I know that, Petrovic. I'm not stupid. Where in London?”

Petrovic shook his head.

“She left my bar, maybe she worked somewhere else. I don't know. She told some of my girls that she was going to London.”

Dragan nodded thoughtfully.

“You know that Solomon will be searching for her?”

Petrovic looked at him suspiciously.

“Why is this girl so important to him?”

“She was an eyewitness to an atrocity in Kosovo. The only witness. He didn't tell you?”

“We didn't talk much. He said he worked for the International War-dead Commission, that's all. You're saying he's gone to London to find her?”

“To find the girl, and to keep away from you.”

Petrovic snorted.

“That's the first sensible thing he's done. What do you want, Dragan? Why are you here?”

“I want you to leave the Englishman alone.”

Petrovic laughed harshly.

“Look what he's done to me. I'm the one in the hospital bed.”

“You pulled a gun on him, he protected himself. I want that to be the end of it.”

“He burst my fucking spleen!” yelled Petrovic.

Dragan didn't react to the man's outburst, but the three bodyguards tensed. The one with the shotgun picked it up and swung it casually in his direction.

Petrovic continued to glare at the policeman, his chest heaving. A doctor in a stained white coat opened the door, but it was slammed in his face.

“Get out, Jovanovic,” said the Serbian gang boss, 'and tell the Englishman that if he shows his face in Sarajevo again he's a dead man."

“If anything happens to him in London, you'll have me to answer to,” said Dragan.

Petrovic raised his bandaged hand and pointed at the policeman.

“You wouldn't be the first cop I've killed,” he hissed.

“I'm not looking for a fight,” said Dragan quietly.

“I just want you to know that I stand with the Englishman. If anything happens to him, I'll know where to look.”

The man with the shotgun stood up and took a step towards him. The policeman raised his hands slowly and walked towards the door, keeping his eyes on Petrovic until he left the room.

McLaren was in the office until just after ten o'clock. He phoned Solomon as he was leaving and arranged to meet him in an Indian restaurant off Queensway, a short walk from the flat.

Solomon was on his second bottle of Kingfisher when McLaren arrived, apologising profusely. He'd been grabbed by an assistant editor on the way out and drafted in to do a rewrite of a young reporter's news story. He mimed drinking beer to an elderly Indian waiter, who scurried to the bar.

“You work too hard,” said Solomon.

“The amount of money they pay me, they own me body and soul, mate,” said McLaren.

Solomon couldn't argue with McLaren's logic. His friend was one of the highest-paid journalists in the country, with an expense account to match. During a drinking bout back when he was a detective, Solomon had made the mistake of comparing wage slips. That had been six years ago, and even then McLaren had been earning three times Solomon's salary.

The waiter hurried over with a beer.

“Thanks, Rudy.” McLaren was a regular in the restaurant and knew all of the staff by name.

He clinked his glass against Solomon's.

“Cheers, mate. And welcome back.”

A young waiter was brandishing a small notebook beside them. McLaren ordered for the two of them without consulting the menu. Then when the waiter had left he took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Solomon.

“The stuff you asked for,” he said.

“My piece is in there, I was on a Vice Squad sweep through Soho. Your old mob.”

“Not my old mob,” said Solomon.

“Everyone from chief inspector down was transferred after I left.”

McLaren grinned.

“Still touchy, huh? Thought you'd have been over that by now. Anyway, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. So why the sweep? In my day they left the Soho walk-ups alone unless punters were getting ripped off.”

“Immigration, mate. Three-quarters of the girls they pulled in were from eastern Europe, and virtually all had come through the Balkans.”

“That's new.”

“Damn right it's new. Used to be the girls were a cross-section, right? English, French, Italian, Maltese.”

“That's how it was in my day, but it was the Maltese who controlled the flats.”

“Still is, just about. But the girls are all out of the Balkans. Belarussians, Latvians, Slovakians, all the former Soviet bloc, they go through the Balkans, then here or to the rest of Europe. Albanian Mafia are the traffickers. Vicious bastards. They came here a couple of years ago and did a deal with the Maltese. Offered to supply girls who'd work cheaper. The Maltese jumped at the chance, but the Vice boys reckon there's going to be a gang war soon. The Albanians are going to want the flats and the girls.”

“The Maltese are no pushover.”

“Agreed, but they've gone soft over the years. The Albanians are hungry. That's what I meant when I said be careful if you're going to go looking for that girl. If the Albanians are running her, they'll not be best pleased to see you. This guy you beat up in Sarajevo, was he Albanian?”

Solomon shook his head.

“A Serb. The girls who were picked up were sent back, yeah?”

“That's the way the game's played. Immigration and Vice go through the flats and check their immigration status. The illegals are rounded up and questioned. Immigration want to find out how they got into the country, but of course the girls clam up. Most of them don't even have their passports their pimps keep them as security. After a couple of days they're put on a flight home if they haven't claimed political asylum. By the time they get there a new batch of girls is working in the flats.”

“So there's a chance that Nicole is already back in Sarajevo?”

“It's possible,” said McLaren, 'but the odds are against it. In the last sweep they went into thirty flats. That's maybe a tenth of the flats in Soho. And the girls work in two or three shifts. That's between six hundred and nine hundred girls, but they deported twenty-four. It was touted as a major victory in the battle against traffickers, but we all know they're pissing in the wind. And most of the girls who were sent home were probably back here or in Rome or Paris a week later."

Their food arrived and they spent the next twenty minutes wolfing down chicken korma, chicken tikka masala and lamb dans ak washing it down with Kingfisher.

They walked back to the flat and McLaren pulled a six-pack of lager from the fridge before flopping down on the sofa. Solomon switched on the television. McLaren tossed him a can and they watched an Italian soccer match.

“So, what's your plan, mate?” asked McLaren.

“What do you mean?”

“This girl. The missing witness. Are you going to look for her?”

Solomon shrugged.

“I've little else to do.”

“What's so special about her? You must come across dozens of cases like hers. It's the Commission's job, right, clearing up atrocities?”

“That's not how my boss tells it,” said Solomon bitterly.

“He says we're shuffling cases in and out.”

“But this one's different.”

Solomon lit a cigarette. He didn't offer the packet to McLaren, who had given up years ago but didn't mind others smoking in his presence.

“Most of the cases are shootings, Danny. They're horrible enough, women and children, old people, the sick, the ones who can't run away. But at least you know that it was over relatively quickly, usually. They were rounded up, they were shot, end of story. And there is almost a logic to it. One army shooting the supporters of another army. It's a war crime, of course it is, but it's almost understandable. If not forgivable.” He cleared his throat.