the next bigger bit

Zdravko followed in last to the briefing room which was known as The Theatre. The Theatre was care of the communists. The communists liked to watch their videos big. Once everyone sat down in the movie style chairs, the lights dimmed like magic. The video started with a shot of some Bulgarian folk dancing. Zdravko recognised the song. ‘Helena Girl.’
“Here’s our man clapping. The guy in the middle.” A quartet of men stood clapping to the side of the costumed dancers, who were in a circle.
“Which guy in the middle?” asked Zdravko.
“The left hand one, you idiot.”
They watched some more, Gomenko himself being the other guy in the middle.
“Do you know when you know what you want and can’t find it ever?” Gomenko said. “That’s the kind of thing my wife thinks about shoes.”
Rusim and Zdravko exchanged a glance in the communist dark.
The home-made video went on in the same vein for about three minutes, sometimes including footage of the four clappers, sometimes not. Then it finished.
“And?” was Rusim’s first question.
“You want baby photographs?”
“Where’s the rest?”
“There isn’t much.”
Silence.
“Where is it?” asked Rusim.
“Probably with my wife’s shoes,” said Gomenko as if he were somehow pleased.
“You’re telling me the court records, the police shots, identity card, his home holiday snaps are with your wife’s shoes?”
“Not exactly. Not everything is missing.”
“Where did this vid come from then?”
“From the wardrobe. That’s my own video. That’s my nephew dancing two years ago. I had the honour of being introduced to our Mr. Gjoeb. Chunky guy as you can see. Polite. Kind of neutral, but friendly enough. I remember his kind of smile. I remember his name and what he did for a living. I remember the accent, the kind of suit he wore. But of all things, I don’t know why he was there. I assumed his son or daughter was a dancer too but it turns out he hasn’t got any kids.”
“Maybe his nephew,” said Zdravko.
“Maybe.”
Rusim let out something halfway between a sigh and a whistle.
“There’s one thing more,” Gomenko went on.
“What?” asked Zdravko.
“This Gjoeb got nicked for stealing a horse.”
“Shit. Three years is a long time for stealing a horse.”
“The horse was worth two and a half million.”
“What happened to the horse?”
“Current thinking is it went to the meat works.”
Rusim did his whistle-sigh thing again. “So what is missing apart from one medium security prisoner?”
“Actually two,” said Gomenko. “Well, not really. The other guy is Petko Antonov, a guard at the prison. Take a look.” Several still shots of both men followed. Then footage of two prison guards exiting what looked to be Pazardjik prison, one emerging ten metres before the other and then turning back, appearing to say something, and then the second following. Grainy close-ups followed. Gjoeb was the straggler. The two men continued walking at normal pace across the compound and out the gate. Then there was a long range shot of a white sedan parked up in some street. Two men approached and got in either side. The car drove off at no great speed.
“Getting into that car is our last sighting,”
The Theatre lights dimmed on.
“What’s missing?” repeated Rusim.
“There’s two lines of enquiry here. Your man Gjoeb, and this Petko Antonov. Georgieva and Petrov will be looking into that particular gentleman’s current sleeping arrangements. May even be worth while keeping in touch with those two. What is missing is that this guy Gjoeb’s a nobody. A rich nobody. A recluse. He’s lived in the Sophia district at least for a good part of his time, but it’s sketchy. No police record. No parking ticket. Minimum record of travel. As I say, no wife, no kids. Everything we’ve got is in the file.”
“Shit,” said Rusim.
“Keep me up to date. I need a result here. You got that? I’ll see you same time Friday.”