“Sorry,” he said. “We have a friend takes care of little Jelena during the day, while we work. When she comes home she … how do you say this … she misses her mother and father?”
Banks smiled. “Yes, that’s right. She has missed you.”
“
Has
missed. Yes. Sometimes I get the tenses wrong. What is it you wanted to see me about? Sit down, please.”
Banks sat. This didn’t look or smell like the kind of house where one could smoke, especially with the baby around, so he resigned himself to refrain. It would no doubt do him good. “Remember,” he asked, “a few months ago when the local police asked you about an evening you said you played cards with Ive Jela
č
i
ć
?”
Batorac nodded. “Yes. It was true. Every Monday we play cards. Dragica, my wife, she is very indulgent. But on Mondays only.” He smiled. “Tuesday I do not have to go to work, so sometimes we talk and play until late.”
“And drink?”
“Yes. I do not drink much because I drive home. The streets are not safe at night. But I drink some, yes. A little.”
“And are you
absolutely
certain on that Monday, the sixth of November, you were playing cards with Stipe Pavi
č
and Ive Jela
č
i
ć
at Mile Paveli
č
’s house?”
“Yes. I swear on the Bible. I do not lie, Inspector.”
“No offence. Please understand we have to be very thorough about these things. Was Jela
č
i
ć
there the whole time?”
“Yes.”
“He said that he walked to Mr Paveli
č
house and back. Did he usually do that?”
“Yes. He only lives about five hundred metres away, over the waste ground.”
“I’m curious, Mr Batorac—”
“Call me Vjeko, please.”
“Very well, Vjeko. I’m curious as to how the four of you got together. If you don’t mind my saying so, you and Ive Jela
č
i
ć
seem very different kinds of people.”
Vjeko smiled. “There are not many of my countrymen here in Leeds,” he said. “We have clubs and societies where we meet to get news from home and talk about politics. What you English call a
very good grapevine. Ive knew Mile from the old country. They are both from Split. I met Stipe here, in Leeds. He is from Zagreb and I am from Dubrovnik, long way apart. Have you ever visited Dubrovnik, Chief Inspector?”
Banks shook his head,
“It is a very beautiful city. Very much history, ancient architec ture. Many English tourists came before the war. You have missed much. Perhaps forever.”
“When did you come here?”
“In 1991, after the siege. I could not bear to see my home destroyed.” He tapped his chest. “I am a poet, not a soldier, Chief Inspector. And my health is not strong. I have only one lung.” Vjeko shrugged. “When Ive came from Eastvale, he came into contact with us. He told us his parents were both killed in the fighting. Many of us have lost friends and relatives in the war. I lost my sister two years ago. Raped and butchered by Serb soldiers. It gives us a common bond. The kind of bond that transcends—is that right? Yes?—that transcends personality. After that, we just started meeting to talk and play cards.” He smiled. “Not for money, you understand. My Dragica would not be so indulgent about that.”
Almost on cue, the front door opened, and a pretty, petite young woman with dark hair and sparkling eyes walked in. “What would your Dragica not be so indulgent about?” she asked with a smile, going over and kissing Vjeko affectionately before turning to glance curiously at Banks.
Vjeko told her who Banks was and why he was there. “I said you would not be indulgent if I played cards for money.”
Dragica thumped him playfully on the shoulder and perched on the arm of the sofa. “Sometimes,” she said, “I ask myself why you must stay up most of the night playing cards with those people instead of keeping your wife warm in bed and getting up when little Jelena cries. Ive Jela
č
i
ć
, particularly, is nothing but a useless
pijanac
.”
“Pijanac?”
Banks repeated. “What is that?”
“Drunk,” said Vjeko. “Yes, Ive is … he does drink too much. He is not a pleasant man in many ways, Inspector. You must not judge my fellow countrymen by Ive’s example. And I do not put forward
the tragedy in his life as an excuse for his behaviour. He lies. He boasts. Most of all, he is greedy. He often suggests that we play cards for money, and I know he cheats. With women he is bad, too. Dragica cannot bear him near her.”
“That is true,” Dragica told Banks, shuddering at the thought and hugging her slight frame. “He undresses you with his eyes.”
Banks remembered Susan Gay’s reaction to Jela
č
i
ć
’
s ogling and nodded.
“Please excuse me,” Dragica said. “I must attend to Jelena.” And she went upstairs.
“He is rude, too,” Vjeko went on. “Ill-mannered. And I have seen him behave violently in pubs, picking fights when he is drunk.” He laughed. “When I put it like that, I wonder why I do spend time with him. It is a mystery to me. But one thing I can tell you is that Ive wouldn’t kill a young girl that way. Never. Perhaps in a fight, in a pub, he could kill, but not like that, not someone weaker than himself. It is a joke with us that Ive always picks on people bigger than himself, and he usually comes off worst.”
“Do you know why Mr Jela
č
i
ć
left Eastvale?” Banks asked.
“He told us that a sve
č
enik, a man of God, made homosexual advances towards him.”
“You said he was a liar. Do you believe his story?”
Vjeko shook his head. “No. I do not think it is true. I have listened to him talk about it, and I think he did what he did to get revenge for losing his job.”
“If that’s so,” said Banks, “then he’s caused Daniel Charters an awful lot of grief.”
Vjeko spread his hands. “But what can anyone do? I did not know Ive back in Eastvale, when all this happened, and I do not know this Father Daniel Charters. Perhaps he is a good man; perhaps he is not. But I do think that Ive is tired with his revenge. He has had enough. The problem is that he is mixed up with lawyers and human-rights campaigners among our own people. It is not so easy for him to turn around and say to them it was all a lie, a mistake or a joke. He would lose face.”
“And face is important to him?”
“Yes.”
Dragica returned carrying a sleeping Jelena in her arms and said something in Croatian; Vjeko nodded, and she went into the kitchen.
“Dragica asked if dinner is nearly ready,” he said. “I told her yes.”
Banks stood up. “Then I won’t use up any more of your time. You’ve been very helpful.” He stuck out his hand.
“Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Vjeko asked. “It is not very much, just
sarma
. Cabbage rolls. But we would be happy if you would share with us.”
Banks paused at the door. It was almost six-thirty and he hadn’t had anything since lunch at Whitelock’s. He would have to eat sometime. “All right,” he said. “Thanks very much. Yes, I’d love to stay.”
II
Instead of continuing along Roundhay Road towards Wetherby and the A1, Banks cut back down Roseville Road and Regent Street, then headed for Burmantofts. He had dined well with the Batoracs, and conversation had ranged from books and teaching to the Balkan war and crime. After their goodbyes, it was a quarter to eight on a fine May evening, and dusk was slowly gathering when Banks pulled up near Jela
č
i
ć
’
s flat. In the failing, honeyed light, the shabby concrete tower blocks looked as eerie as a landscape on Mars.
There were plenty of people around in the recreation areas between the buildings, mostly teenagers congregated in little knots here and there, some of them playing on swings and roundabouts.
Banks managed to climb the six flights of graffiti-scarred concrete without incident, apart from a little shortness of breath, and rapped on Jela
č
i
ć
’
s door.
He could already hear the television blaring “Coronation Street” through the paper-thin walls, so when no-one answered the first time, he knocked even harder. Finally Jela
č
i
ć
answered the door, grubby shirt hanging out of his jeans, and scowled when he recognized Banks.
“You,” he said. “
Š
upak
. Why you come here? You already have killer.”
“Things change, Ive,” said Banks, gently shouldering his way inside. The place was as he remembered, tidy but overlaid with a patina of stale booze and cigarette smoke. Here he could light up with impunity. He turned down the sound on one of Jack and Vera Duckworth’s loud public arguments.
Jela
č
i
ć
didn’t complain. He picked up a glass of clear liquid— probably vodka, Banks guessed—from the table and flopped down on the settee. It creaked under his weight. Jela
č
i
ć
had put on quite a few pounds since they had last met, most of it on his gut. He looked about eight months pregnant.
“You’ll be glad to hear,” Banks said, “that your alibi still seems to hold water.”
Jela
č
i
ć
frowned. “Water? Hold water? What you mean?”
“I mean we believe you were playing cards at Mile Paveli
č
’s house at the time Deborah Harrison was killed.”
“I already tell you that. So why you come here?” “To ask you some questions.”
Jela
č
i
ć
grunted.
“First of all, when exactly did you come here from Eastvale?”
“Was last year. September.”
“So the St Mary’s girls would have been back at school for a while before you left?”
“Yes. Two weeks.”
Banks leaned forward and flicked his ash into an overflowing tin ashtray, which looked as if it had been stolen from a pub. “Now the last time we talked,” he said, “you swore blind you’d never seen Deborah Harrison, or at most that you might just have
seen
her once or twice, in passing.”
“Is true.”
“Now I’m asking you to rethink. I’m giving you another chance to tell the truth, Ive. There’s no blame attached to this now. You’re not a suspect. But you might be a witness.”
“I saw nothing.”
Banks nodded towards the TV set. “I don’t suppose you watch the news,” he said. “But for your information Owen Pierce was found not guilty and released earlier today.”
“He is free?” Jela
č
i
ć
stared open-mouthed, then began to laugh.
“Then you failed. You let the guilty man go free. Always that happens here.” He shook his head. “Such a crazy country.”
“Yes, well at least we don’t shoot them first and ask questions later. But that’s beside the point. He may or may not have committed the crime, but officially he didn’t and we’re reopening the case. Which is why I’m here. Now why is trying to get the tiniest scrap of help from you like getting blood out of a stone, Ive? Can you tell me that?”
Jela
č
i
ć
shrugged. “I know nothing.”
“Don’t you care what happened to Deborah Harrison?”
“Deborah Harrison. Deborah Harrison. Silly little English rich girl. Why I care? More girls killed in my homeland. Who cares about them? My father and mother die. My girlfriend is killed. But to you that means nothing. Nobody cares.”
“‘Any man’s death diminishes me.’ John Donne wrote that. Have you never heard it, Ive? Have you never heard of the concept that we’re all in this together, all part of mankind?”
Jela
č
i
ć
just looked at Banks, incomprehension written on his features.
“Why don’t you answer my questions?” Banks went on. “You saw the girl, you’ve admitted as much. You must have seen her quite often when you were working outside.”
“I work inside and out. Clean church. Cut grass …”
“Right. So you liked to watch the St Mary’s girls—we know you did—and you must have noticed Deborah. She was very striking and she complained about your making lewd gestures towards her.”
“I never—”
“Ive, spare me the bullshit, please. I’ve heard enough of it to last a lifetime. Nobody’s going to arrest you or deport you for this. Bloody hell, they might even give you a medal if you tell us anything that leads to the killer.”
Jela
č
i
ć
’
s eyes lit up. “Medal? You mean there is reward?”
“It was a joke, Ive,” said Banks. “No, there isn’t a reward. We just expect you to do your duty like any other decent, law-abiding citizen.”
“I see nothing.”
“Did you ever notice anyone hanging around the graveyard looking suspicious?”
“No.”
“Did you ever see Deborah Harrison meet anyone in St Mary’s churchyard?”
He shook his head.
“Did she ever linger around there, as if she was going to meet someone, or was up to something?”
Again, he shook his head, but not before Banks noticed something flicker behind his eyes, some memory, some sign of recognition.
“What is it?” Banks asked. “What is what? Is nothing.”
“You remembered something?”
But it was gone. “No,” said Jela
č
i
ć
. “Like I say, I only see her when she walk home sometimes. She never stay, never meet anyone. That is all.”
He was lying about something, Banks was certain. But he was equally certain Jela
č
i
ć
was too stubborn to part with whatever he had remembered right now. Banks would have to find more leverage. Sometimes he wished he had the freedom and power of certain other police forces in certain other countries—the freedom and power to torture and beat the truth out of Jela
č
i
ć
, for example—but only sometimes.