The Eyewitness (37 page)

“What did you think they were going to do? Take them out for pizza and beer?”

“I keep telling you, I didn't tell them to drive the truck into the fucking lake!” shouted Dragan.

"All I was interested in was the heroin. It wasn't about killing people. It was about drugs. It was good-quality Afghan heroin. Her father was looking after it for a drug-smuggling gang who were shipping it from Turkey into the EC. Hundreds of kilos a month were moving through that farm. Millions of dollars' worth “And how much did you get?”

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I want to know what value you put on those lives, Dragan. A hundred thousand dollars a head? A million? How much for the little girl?”

Dragan crossed the room and held his gun to Solomon's head.

“Fuck you!”

“No!” shouted Nicole.

“Don't!”

Dragan looked across at her, but kept the gun pointing at Solomon's head.

“What choice do I have?” he asked.

“You know what happened. He knows what happened. I can't let you tell anyone.”

Nicole stood up, her back to the bedroom door.

“I won't say anything. I didn't before, why would I now?”

“But he will,” said Dragan, jerking his head at Solomon, 'and he'll get the Tribunal to make you talk. I'll spend the rest of my life in a cage."

“I don't want to die!” sobbed Nicole.

“I don't have any choice in this,” said Dragan.

“You haven't left me any choice.” He glared at Solomon.

“You should have walked away when you had the chance.”

“I couldn't,” said Solomon.

“I know you couldn't!” shouted Dragan.

“You think I don't know that, you stupid bastard?”

“No!” screamed Nicole. She ran at Dragan, her fingers hooked into claws, her lips curled back in an animal snarl.

He took a step away from Solomon and backhanded Nicole with the gun, smashing it against her chin. She fell to the side, arms flailing, and crashed on to the coffee table. It shattered under her weight and she hit the floor. She rolled on to her back.

“You stupid bitch! This is all your own fault!” screamed Dragan.

Nicole tried to get to her feet, but Dragan put his foot on her chest and pinned her to the floor. He swung his gun at her face.

Solomon looked around for something to use as a weapon. The holdall containing the machine pistols was behind an armchair, half a dozen steps away, but with his leg in plaster there was no way he could reach it.

Dragan's finger tightened on the trigger.

“Dragan, don't!” shouted Solomon, but he knew that he was wasting his breath. Dragan didn't have a choice. He couldn't afford to leave any witnesses. He was going to shoot Nicole and then, as sure as night follows day, he would shoot Solomon.

Solomon pushed himself up off the sofa, cursing his broken leg. Then he remembered the knitting-needle, snug in its place beneath the plaster cast. He pulled it out and lunged forward, thrusting it between the policeman's ribs.

Dragan stiffened and gasped. Solomon kept pushing the knitting-needle in and up, driving it towards Dragan's heart.

The gun fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. Solomon pushed with all his might, and he and Dragan toppled over. Nicole scrambled out of the way as they crashed into the remains of the coffee table. Solomon kept the knitting-needle in his hand, pushing hard. Dragan's mouth was moving soundlessly, his eyes wide and staring. Frothy blood trickled from between his lips.

Nicole crawled to the wall and sat there, her hands covering her mouth.

Solomon was on top of the policeman, staring down into his face, his hand still clamped around the knitting-needle.

A bubble of blood popped in Dragan's mouth. He frowned, then his whole body tensed, his back arched, and he lay still.

Solomon rolled away from the body and crawled over to Nicole. He sat beside her and put his arm round her shoulders.

“Is he dead?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“It's over?”

Solomon nodded.

“Yeah. It's over.”

“Can I go back to London, now?”

“I don't know.”

“I want to go back to London. I was happy there.” She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

Solomon looked across at Sasha. And at Dragan. He thought about the bodies in Arizona, and in London. A lot of people had died, and all because Solomon had wanted justice for a family he'd never met. Maybe Dragan had been right. Maybe it would have been better if he'd walked away in the first place.

Then Sasha's arm moved, just an inch or so.

“Sasha?” whispered Solomon, unable to believe what he'd seen. The arm moved again and the fingers clenched into a fist, then slowly relaxed.

“Sasha!”

The man groaned. Solomon crawled across the floor, dragging his cast. He flopped down next to Sasha as he opened his eyes. His shirt was soaked in blood.

“Don't try to say anything, just lie still,” Solomon said.

“Nicole, get me towels from the bathroom.” Nicole didn't move. She was staring into the middle distance, her eyes dead.

“Nicole!” he yelled. Nicole jerked and looked at him, as if she was seeing him for the first time. Solomon pointed at the bathroom door.

“Towels, now! Come on!”

Nicole scrambled to her feet and rushed into the bathroom. Solomon put his fingers on the side of Sasha's neck and found a pulse. It was faint but regular.

“It's going to be all right, Sasha,” he whispered.

“Bullshit,” croaked Sasha.

“I know what I'm talking about,” said Solomon.

“I've been shot myself, remember?”

Sasha forced a smile, then his body was racked by a coughing fit. Spittle flecked his lips but Solomon was relieved to see that there was no blood.

Nicole hurried back into the sitting room with two hand-towels. Solomon grabbed them and pressed one to Sasha's a chest.

“Phone for an ambulance,” he told Nicole, nodding at the telephone.

Nicole picked up the receiver and dialled. Solomon kept the towel pressed hard against Sasha's chest. He had no way of knowing if there was an exit wound but he didn't want to risk turning Sasha over to find out. Sasha's face was deathly white but his mouth was open and Solomon could hear him breathing and feel the rise and fall of his chest. It had been years since Solomon had been on a first-aid course, but he could remember the basics. Sasha was breathing, he had a pulse, and Solomon was doing what he could to stem the bleeding. Other than that, all he could do was wait for the emergency services to arrive.

“Where are we?” Nicole asked, her hand over the receiver.

Solomon told her the address of the apartment and she repeated it into the phone.

“They're on their way,” she said.

“They want to know if he's still breathing.”

Solomon looked down at Sasha. The blood was seeping through the towel and on to his hands.

“Yes,” said Solomon.

“Just about.”

Solomon stirred his cappuccino. He reached for his packet of Marlboro and as he took out a cigarette an overweight woman wearing too much makeup glared at him pointedly. Solomon glared back at her and lit the cigarette. He kept staring at her until she looked away. After what he'd been through, Solomon figured he'd earned the right to a cigarette with his coffee.

He sat looking out of the window at the Wardour Street traffic. His leg itched but he had nothing to scratch inside his cast: Rikki had taken away the knitting-needle when he'd removed Dragan's body and Solomon couldn't bring himself to replace it. He blew smoke at the window, then grinned as he saw Inga walking along the pavement from Oxford Street. Her red hair was swinging loose and, as usual, her eyes were hidden behind her sunglasses. She was wearing a long black coat and black boots and he could hear the tap-tap-tap of the heels over the sound of the traffic. She waved when she saw him, then pushed through the door and rushed over to his table. He was already on his feet and hugged her. She buried her face in his neck and kissed him.

“I'm so glad you're all right,” she said.

“You and me both.”

She released him and stood back, holding his hands.

“I thought I'd never see you again,” she said.

“Bad penny,” said Solomon, but he could see from the blank look that she didn't get the joke.

“It doesn't matter,” he said.

“I'm just glad to be back.” They sat down and Inga took off her sunglasses. Solomon stubbed out his cigarette. He'd told Inga the bare bones of what had happened in Bosnia when he phoned and asked to meet her. The only questions she'd asked were if he was okay and when and where they could meet. There was a long silence as if neither was sure what to say.

“Sasha phoned me last night,” said Inga, eventually.

“From hospital?” said Solomon, surprised. The last time Solomon had seen him it was through the window of the intensive-care unit at Sarajevo's main hospital, hooked up to machines and connected to a drip. Nicole had been there, and so had Rikki. That was before Rikki had gone back to Solomon's flat and taken away the body. He'd even cleaned up the two patches of blood, Dragan's and Sasha's. When Solomon had gone home it was as if nothing had happened. A bad dream.

An elderly doctor with an eye-patch and old shrapnel scars on his forehead had said that the bullet had missed Sasha's aorta by less than an inch but that he was going to be okay. The accident and emergency doctors in Sarajevo were among the most experienced in the world when it came to dealing with gunshot wounds.

“He had a mobile,” said Inga.

“He said he was going to be fine.”

“Yeah, the doctors said he was lucky.” Solomon grinned ruefully.

“Funny how they always say that when someone gets shot. You're either dead or you're lucky.”

“He said he'll be back in London in a week or so.”

Solomon nodded.

“Back to business,” he said sourly.

“He said it would be okay if I saw you,” she said, hesitantly.

“Saw me?”

She nodded.

“Outside work.” She looked down, avoiding his eyes.

“If you wanted to.”

Solomon wasn't sure what to say. He felt as if Sasha was somehow giving his blessing to the relationship, and he resented that the other man still had power over her. His blessing was a painful reminder of what she was. A hooker.

Inga looked up at him and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Do you want to?”

“Of course I do,” said Solomon, but he could hear the hesitation in his voice.

“Really?”

Solomon nodded. More sure this time.

“Really.”

“Good,” she said, and her smile brightened.

There was another long silence. Again Inga spoke first.

“Did you find her?”

“Who?”

“The girl you were looking for. Nicole.”

Solomon nodded and stirred his coffee.

“Oh, yes, we found her.”

“And she spoke to you?”

“She told us what happened, yes. The man who killed her family was the man who shot Sasha. He's dead now.”

“And what's going to happen to her?”

Solomon was glad that she didn't ask him how Dragan had died. The image of Dragan impaled on the knitting-needle kept flashing through his mind. The feel of it squeezing through flesh, popping through the heart muscle, the look of fear in Dragan's eyes as his lifeblood drained away. Solomon shuddered.

“She's coming back to London,” he said.

“To work?”

Solomon nodded.

“The man who killed her family's dead, she has no one in Bosnia apart from one old lady. There's no reason for her to stay there, so she's coming back to work for Sasha.” Solomon had been with Nicole when she'd spoken to Rikki, who had said he was sure that Sasha could use her in London. If that was what she wanted. Nicole had said yes, that was exactly what she wanted.

“I'll take care of her,” said Inga. She reached across the table and held Solomon's hand.

“She'll be okay.”

Solomon shrugged but didn't say anything. He doubted that Nicole would ever be okay. The guilt she felt for the death of her family would be with her for ever, and working as a prostitute would do nothing for her self-esteem. He felt a sudden wave of helplessness. There was nothing he could do to help her, nothing he could offer as an alternative to prostitution.

“It's just a job, Jack,” said Inga, as if reading his mind.

“It isn't,” said Solomon.

“And you know it isn't. She's selling herself. She's letting men use her. Abuse her.”

“Are you talking about her, or me?” said Inga quietly.

“I'm sorry,” said Solomon.

“I'm not being judge mental about her or you. I know what your lives were, and I know how much money you can earn here. If our positions were reversed, maybe I'd be selling myself.”

Inga grinned mischievously.

“I hope it never comes to that,” she said.

“I don't think you'd make much money selling your body.”

Solomon laughed.

“You know what I mean,” he said.

“What can I say to her? Go back to Kosovo and work in a factory? There are hardly any factories there. Get an office job? There aren't any. The only people making money in Kosovo are criminals and the internationals. At least in London she can have a decent place to live, maybe save some money. Start a new life. But I've seen the damage prostitution can do, physically and mentally. And I'm not sure she'll cope. She's just a kid.”

“I'll help her,” said Inga.

“And who'll help you?” asked Solomon bitterly.

“My life isn't so bad,” said Inga, 'not compared with what it was like in Bulgaria. I don't do drugs and I'm careful, so I won't get sick. I'll have worked off my contract eventually. Then I'll be able to save money. Enough to start a small business, maybe."

“You think Sasha will ever let you go?”

“Maybe,” said Inga.

“Eventually.” She squeezed his hand.

“Jack, it's all right. I chose this life, I wasn't forced into it.”

“That's not true,” said Solomon.

“If you had money, you wouldn't have to do what you do.”

“And if you were rich, would you do your job? Would you spend your time telling people that their loved ones are dead?”

“It's not the same,” said Solomon.

“To me it is,” said Inga.

“We do what we must to survive. Neither of us takes pleasure in what we do, but we do it, and we make the best of it.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the traffic go by outside the window.

“What if I were to buy out your contract?” asked Solomon.

“No,” she said firmly.

“I've got some money. I could talk to Sasha.”

“No,” she repeated.

“You'd be buying me, Jack, and I wouldn't want that. I don't want to be owned by anyone. I'll work off my debt.”

Solomon nodded. He knew how she felt and she was right. If he paid Sasha he'd be buying Inga, and he didn't want that. She had to come to him of her own free will, because she wanted to, not because he'd paid for her.

“Are you okay with this?” she asked.

Solomon smiled and took her hand in his. She bit down on her lower lip as she waited for his answer. He nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I'm okay with it,” he said. And realised, to his surprise, that he meant it.