“Sit down.” A woman of about fifty with dyed brown hair and dressed in a dark suit motioned to a couple of chairs with a silver pen. “My name is Vila,” she said.
“Detective Zdravko Nestorov,” said Zdravko holding out his ID. “This is Detective Pavlov.”
“And what can I do for you two?”
“Rusim needs a drink,” said Zdravko.
“And what do you need, Mister Mouthpiece?”
Zdravko smiled. He was a sucker for shoot from the hip women. “I need a lead.”
Vila looked over at the longhair. “Get these two guys a drink.” She looked back. “What’ll you be drinking?”
“Rakia,” the longhair suggested.
Vila eyed up Zdravko and Rusim. “Rakia all round, then.”
“Zdravko doesn’t drink,” said Rusim.
“Good. Perfect. More for us. What kind of lead?” Vila spoke with an accent Zdravko couldn’t quite place.”
“We’re looking for a man named Robert Gjoeb,” said Zdravko.
“I don’t know anyone called Robert Gjoeb. What kind of a name is that?”
“Hungarian.”
“Maybe you should try looking in Hungary. Can’t say I’ve heard of him. What’s he got to do with this place?”
“Nothing,” said Zdravko. “We came in here because we’re shit out of good ideas. And there you were, right across the street staring us in the face.”
The longhair came back with handful of shot glasses and a bottle of rakia.
“We’re just about closing up,” said Vila. “Doncho. You ever come across a Robert Gjoeb?”
Doncho took his time, racking his brains. “Gjoeb,” he mumbled to himself. “Robert… Gjoeb…” like it pleased him to be racking his yokel brains and pouring the drinks. “Can’t say I have,” he said.
Vila put down her pen and picked up her glass. “Nazdrave, gentlemen!”
Doncho handed Rusim his rakia.
“Nazdrave,” said Rusim.
“Nazdrave,” said Doncho. “To Robert Gjoeb!”
Sometimes low-lifes made more sense than anyone. Rusim drained his glass in one go.
“Who owns this business?” asked Zdravko.
“It’s complicated,” said Vila.
“How complicated?”
“Complicated like a tree.”
“Crime is like a tree,” said Rusim.
“And how does that work?”
“Beats me. Old Shopi proverb.”
“A Shop?” quizzed Vila.
“Son of a Shop.”
“Well, son of a Shop, we ain’t some business up a tree,” said Vila.
Doncho refilled Rusim’s glass.
“What happened to the other guy?” asked Zdravko looking around to the door.
“He’s locked up and gone,” said Vila. She turned back to her computer and typed something in.
“You got a glass of water in here?” asked Zdravko already out of his chair.
“Round the corner,” said Doncho. “What’s that thing around your neck?” Zdravko’s pendant had somehow found its way outside his shirt.
“I don’t know. What was that thing in your holster?”
“Russian police issue.”
Zdravko stopped. “This,” he said holding the pendant up to his chin, “is the seven pointed star. Ancient Thracian symbol of unknown meaning.”
“Thracian,” repeated Doncho.
“Thracians.”
“And what are Thracians?”
“No one knows,” said Zdravko and went off to look for a glass of water.
While Zdravko was out another round got poured.
“You idiot. What are Thracians?” Vila turned back from the computer. “Everyone knows who the Thracians were. They lived here before the Romans and Christianity and Muslims and mobile phones.”
“I’m a Thracian in my own shop probably,” said Doncho. “Drinking with a Shop. A Shop and a cop.”
“There’s a fine line between knowledge and dizziness,” said Vila.
Zdravko looked in the fridge for anything other than tap water. Some kind of bubbles. Maybe ice. Both of those were likely fluoridated anyway. He took out a bottle of mineral water and poured himself a glass.
He looked around the kitchen. Two sinks. A bench virtually spotless. An oven. A dishwashing machine. A tray with salt and pepper and other assorted condiments. Another bench with coffee, tea, sugar, cocoa and cookies. He bent down to take a closer look at the cookies. Beneath was a rubbish bin. On the far wall there were some inane health and safety notices. A photograph of a luxury pleasure boat hung above the fridge. “Balkus,” the caption read. Sleek and white, the yacht looked to be at least thirty metres long, moored up in a harbour three stories high.
The fridge started beeping to be closed.
“Nice yacht,” said Zdravko closing the door.
