Nerv Erf

Lieutenant Gomenko’s mobile rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at it, then juggled it to his ear.
He swivelled around in his chair.
“I am,” he said, looking out the office window.
He listened some more.
“We’re not looking the best,” he said.
Outside, pigeons had stopped on the stonework and were looking around like they were lost.
“That didn’t help,” Gomenko said.
One pigeon flew off.
“That would be putting it mildly,” he said.
Then the whole flock of them took off.
“And what offer would that be?”
Gomenko’s eyes followed some back-to-front scene inside his head until they could follow no more.
“Understood,” he said, and pushed End Call.
Then he winced and gently slammed his fist into the desk.

Zdravko knocked on the door that said ‘Principal.’ The rest of the doors were less direct and said things like ‘Compost’ or ‘Room 55.’ Everything was in code.
Mrs Brenner was a middle-aged woman with tousled brown hair and dressed in clothes that seemed to have come from a bygone era. A vegetarian if you could tell by the odourless tone of her skin.
“This is detective Pavlov,” said Zdravko introducing Rusim.
At the principal’s invitation, everyone sat down.
The principal’s office was a disconcerting pink. But her desk said ‘practical.’ On the wall were photographic portraits of ancient Russian novelists.
“Thank you for seeing us,” said Zdravko.
“What can I do for you two gentlemen?”
“We’re here about the dance.”
“Of course. The dance.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“You’re meaning the dance of midsummer, two years ago? I remember it perfectly.”
“There was a man who attended, as I mentioned on the phone. A Robert Gjoeb.” Zdravko handed over a photo.
Mrs Brenner briefly studied the photograph and handed it back. “Yes. I know him well.”
“Know him?”
“Yes, of course. He’s been away.”
“Ah yes. Gone away, in more senses than one. I’m sure he will have informed you he was going away?”
“Yes, he did. He said he was going to prison.”
Zdravko raised his eyebrows. “Did he say why?”
“He said he’d mistakenly sent someone’s very expensive horse to the meatworks.”
“And why would he go and do a thing like that?”
“I’m sure I have no idea.”
“Were you surprised when you heard he’d escaped from prison?”
“To be frank with you, no.”
“Why not, if I may ask?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Robert Gjoeb can do whatever he wants. That may seem strange to a person like you.”
Zdravko looked around the desk. There was a small pile of papers to the principal’s left. And a tiny hammer, the sort a picture framer might own. On the other side was a Mac computer.
“But you have no knowledge of his current whereabouts?”
“Not at all.”
“And what was his connection to your school? I mean, why was he there at that dance?”
“Well of course, he was the benefactor.”
“A benefactor of what exactly?”
“Of course, the dance. Many dances, in fact.”
“You mean he paid for theses dances.”
“Oh yes. The folk dances at least. About one every so many months, according to the season.”
“What do you mean by season?”
“I mean spring, autumn, winter, summer. That’s when we have our folk dances.”
“How did he pay?”
“Bank transfer, I’m sure.”
“Some kind of guy,” said Rusim without looking up from his pad.
“Do you have any idea why he would sponsor a dance?” Zdravko went on.
“Children, detectives. Some people still believe in children. And culture. And small things like that.”
“Would you have a record of the donations?” asked Zdravko.
“I’m sure we would. I’ll arrange to have them sent to you.”
“Do you remember when he first began sponsoring your dances? How did he get in touch in the first instance.”
“By telephone, if I understand you. It was some few years ago. He said he would like to help our school. I mentioned to him that there was a dance coming up.”
“How many years ago?”
“Four or five. Just before he sponsored that first dance of his.”
“Had you ever met him before that first telephone call?”
“No, I had not.”
“Again, have you had any contact with Robert Gjoeb since he went to prison?”
“None.”
“Or since he escaped?”
“No.”
“What else did you talk about when he told you he was going to prison?”
“I thanked him. I thanked him for what he’d done. Maybe it seemed to him like a small thing. But small things count a lot.”
“You thanked him.”
“I wished him well.”
“You may have wished to visit him?”
“I told him specifically that I would not be visiting.”
“Why not?”
“Because I did not wish to.”
“Did he ever discuss his circumstances with you? What he did for a living, for example? Where he lived?”
“He did say he had received some money from an inheritance. He was single. He wanted to do something useful for children. I believe he lived in the country near Bojana, in the mountains. It seems odd but I don’t really know much more about him that that, to tell the truth, but that he drove a very nice car. And that he was always well dressed and polite. He had a slight accent. He was from Hungary, did you know?”
“What kind of car?”
“The latest kind. A grey sports car the last time I saw him. It was brand new. I’m sorry. I’m not really a car person.”
“You’re saying, over the years, he changed cars?”
“Yes he did.”
Zdravko took a breath. “And so I imagine he turned up to all these folk dances he was sponsoring?”
“Not all, no. Some.”
“And what kind of expenses are involved in such a dance?”
“Nothing huge. Prizes. Food and drinks. Help with the costumes. I think that’s about it. Sometimes transport. Oh, and musicians. But not always.”
“Prizes,” said Zdravko in a whisper.
The headmistress seemed satisfied.
“Prizes,” Rusim said gazing at a notebook. He looked up, as though waiting for the next line.
“What kind of prizes?” continued Zdravko.
“What kind of prizes?” Mrs Brenner repeated. “Well, the first would be flowers. Or a bouquet of leaves from the forest. A handkerchief. A book even.”
“Do you remember the prizes of that night?”
“I’m not sure. We have a dance of some kind every so many… we have a lot of dances.”
“Try to think back.”
“I think it was flowers. After that… there were always a lot of prizes. Something for everyone. It could have been anything. A pot of honey.”
“Do you have a record of those who won prizes?”
“I believe not. Gentlemen. Jars of honey. Books. Handkerchiefs. Is there something more you wish to know?”
“These dances were always held here at the school?” said Zdravko as if rounding things off.
“Yes. No. Sometimes we held them in the country.”
“The country,” Zdravko repeated.
“Yes, this one, detective. In the country.”
“As in a camping trip?”
“You’ve got it in one.”
“Where exactly?”
“It’s different. It’s not often. We have a good number of people and parents who direct us here and there. There is a rigorous process as to where we might take a camping trip. But usually we need a small hall of some kind. And preferably a river.”
“Not up in the mountains near Bojana, by any chance?”
“No, detective, if I take your meaning.”
“And how old are the children attending, usually?”
“You know that yourself, detective.”
“Principal Brenner. You have been of great help.”
“Mr Gjoeb was… Robert Gjoeb is a good man,” said Mrs Brenner standing. “You are looking for the wrong… I don’t know how to say it. Good luck, gentlemen. Better to find a good man if a ratbag is who you’re looking for.”
“Good men don’t usually go to jail,” said Zdravko, himself standing. “Just one last thing, Principal Brenner. Did Robert Gjoeb have any friends or acquaintances that you were aware of? I mean, someone not from the school? Anyone at all?”
“No one I’ve ever met.”
“Have you ever met Gjoeb any place outside the school functions?”
“No. Never. Only on the telephone.”
“The telephone,” Zdravko repeated. “Did he ever give you to know where he was calling from?”
“I assume from his home or office.”
“But he never said?”
“No.”
“Principal Brenner, I realise this may be going a little too far but I have to be sure. Were there background noises of any kind that you could hear when you were on the phone to Mr. Gjoeb?”
“I don’t think so, no. I couldn’t say I remember anything like that.”
Principal Brenner showed Zdravko and Rusim to the door and the two detectives walked back the way they’d come through the coded corridors.
“You forgot to ask about the photographs on the wall,” said Rusim.

Fifty metres ahead and across the street, Rado finally saw the BMW i8, the same kind of green he’d seen on his phone. He crossed over ul. Solunska.
“Hey Radi! You forgot to keep in touch!”
Rado turned to see Nadejda walking the other way across the street towards Bulevard Vitosha. She was dressed in jeans and a T shirt.
“Nadejda!” he called back.
“Rado!”
“What you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Meet you round the corner in twenty minutes.”

Walking up to the BMW, Rado pulled out a key from his pocket and opened the driver door. He got in and cranked up the engine.
Every engine had its own sound. This one was brilliant and mournful at the same time. He pulled out and drove off in a westerly direction.

Sure enough, half an hour later, Nadejda was sitting at her seat drinking god knows what. It wasn’t even possible to know what Nadejda was drinking. They kissed either cheek and Rado pulled up a stool, grumbling as if it were an effort.
“Heard you got pulled in,” he said.
“Since when did you hear that?”
“Since this morning.”
“Shit. You got ears.”
“I got ears,” Rado agreed. “Eagle ears.” A ginger haired barman ventured close enough for Rado to wave him away. Although not overly tall, Rado was built like he could squash a waiter in one hand.
“Guess you’re not drinking then,” said Nadejda.
“I got a Porsche to go. But why am I telling you this?”
Nadejda said nothing.
“Oh yeah,” Rado sighed to himself.
“So what else do you know, Radi? I mean about my comings and goings.”
“Cops shot some guy. They killed some guy at The Grand.”
“That was me. I was there.”
“That’s what I heard. Crap.”
“He was a nice enough guy.”
“Too bad.”
“Today’s my day off.”
“I should fucking hope so.”
“And now I know so many cops.”
“What does that mean?”
“I got friendly with some cops.”
“Speak in the Irish.”
“I fucked a cop, ok?”
Rado went silent for about two seconds. “I suppose, one day, we might have to thank you for that.”

After a while, Valentina turned up and Rado had to go.
For a madame, Valentina had a singular calmness and tidiness to her manner that said all was well. Fret not. Policemen were human beings. Some of the best. She once knew a very bad man who got locked up. He was a pimp.
Valentina also laughed like a trooper. She did a lot of things that only half covered the truth. It wasn’t seemly to punish the whole truth. Even the very cold hard truth needed the odd slant of sunlight and a breath of fresh air. A walk round the exercise yard.
“Poor Maria,” she said. “There’s a first for everything. I feel for her. She’ll be right as rain. I told her so myself.”
“Maria’s a foosball.”
“Nadejda! That girl has talent, don’t mistake. Native talent. Exactly so, I believe. Dortmund. Liverpool. A year. Maybe two.”
“Oklahoma Thunder.”
“Now there’s a very good name.”
“Shall we eat?”
“Let’s go outside.”

Outside was a small courtyard with umbrellas. Under an umbrella Valentina looked like another person.
Nadejda pulled out a cigarette. “You are so beautiful,” she said.
Valentina smiled.

Rusim stopped halfway along the bridge crossing the Slatina. He was dressed in a white shirt, faded grey trousers and worn-out brown boots.
The Slatina was a slut, he told himself. A bite on the arm with false teeth and no comeback.
Zdravko was late.
He crossed to the other side of the bridge and stood looking upstream smoking a cigarette.
A concrete river trapped in its reverse direction.
Pedestrians. Cyclists. The scrabble of lunchtime.
Things cooked themselves, as the Shopi say.
Work was a drug. And every other fluffhead wanted to get out of it.
Which included getting the fuck outta here.
And someone coming around the corner soon.
But hell.
Here’s what we’re gonna do.
Some other gypsy’ll be sleeping in.
He’ll be rosy.
I’ll be standing here on this bridge just for fun.
Upstream is a stash of secret reasons not to eat.
Else why would anyone be on the edge of a bridge looking at people with nothing to do?

“You’re the busy fuckbrain, isn’t it?”
“I was most of the morning on the phone and at the office,” Rusim admitted without looking around. He threw away his cigarette, turned and looked Zdravko up and down. “Don’t ever think I’ve seen you in a suit before,” he said.
“Me neither.”
Rusim shook his head.
“So where are we going?” Zdravko said.

Off the bridge, Rusim turned towards town. “Some people think you can demean a man for long enough and he’ll run away and die,” he said.
“Where the fuck did that come from?”
“Don’t know. Just thinking to myself. I didn’t know you were following me.”
“I guess we’re all gonna crawl off and die then?”
“I’m weighing it up.”
“I can see you’re in a good mood,” said Zdravko.
“I don’t like waiting. Don’t like too much of anything this morning.”
“Well it’s not morning any more. And I’m not some skapanyak on a pristine beach who could never say sorry. I’m perfectly sorry. That’s twice in a row. Three minutes late each time. Six minutes in total.”
“Asshole. Remember, I got a fucking camera in my pocket. I’ll put you in my book.”

Somehow, Zdravko and Rusim just kept walking. There was nothing to stop for. Without too much thinking, they walked right past a Chinese place selling every kind of fruit and vegetable. Factory shops selling whiteware, T shirts, auto parts. A takeaway joint. A random gas station.
No shop selling leads. Shops selling leads were all out.

“I don’t even know how I could be late.” Zdravko stopped at a pedestrian crossing. “I’m never late.”
“Maybe jet lag?”
“I’ve never had jet lag.”
“Maybe too much banging?”
“I don’t think so. I got an alarm on my dick.”
“That must’ve been pretty good, Africa?”
“More than good,” mumbled Zdravko.
“That good?”
Zdravko twisted his face. “I’ve got this cheap hotel in Maputo. First night in town, I get to meet some people. Next day, I’m hanging out in a fishing village up the coast.” He stepped onto the street. “I’m in heaven. Every day. Fishing for kinds of fish no one’s ever eaten before!”

Rusim took a turn into a service lane housing the back end to a row of shops. “This whole Gjoeb story smells like a set up,” he said.
Zdravko said nothing.
Rusim gave him a look. “There is no Gjoeb,” he said. “He’s a made-up name in a figment Hungarian universe. He escaped from the only halfway decent sitcom in Bulgaria, abetted by a dead guard.”
“A set up for the purpose of what?”
“Something that don’t smell too good for us.”
Zdravko walked into the the delivery entrance of a restaurant. “Apart from being late, what else could I do to really piss you off?”
Rusim didn’t answer.
“Well?” Zdravko insisted.
“You’re missing the point.”
“I’m on the point.”
“What could you do to really piss me off? What, you gonna try something new? Turn up two hours late?”
“Gjoeb’s a real fuck who’s got more brain cells than Julius Caesar.”
“Well, it’s not looking good. This whole morning’s been a lot of dead rats. Barring a trip to Budapest or England, I got nothing except Gjoeb’s money comes from the British Virgin Islands. CJLL Trust, run through a legal firm out of London. Brewer Thain. I got the crazy idea to look through the leaked banking details of clients from Mossack Fonseca. Bingo. Or no bingo. Looks pretty stand up. Money comes in from Brewer Thain. Sole payee is one fairly wealthy R. Gjoeb. Where the lawyers get their money from is the next question. Meanwhile, his mother remains in a rest home outside of Budapest with Alzheimers. Dad’s dead. No siblings. No kids. But this you know. Other than that, no telephone, no contacts, no chattels. No motive for stealing a horse. Hardly a cigarette butt. But we still gotta check in on the folk dance lady.”
“Let’s do that.”
The kitchen was in full swing. Somewhere very close, people were eating.
“We’re gonna find this guy,” said Zdravko.

Robert Gjoeb woke up on the couch, threw off the blanket and shuffled to the doorway in the dark. He flicked on the dining room light and looked at the time. Pen and paper in hand, he headed for the toilet.
Then he returned to make a cup of coffee.
After that he sat on the deck and smoked a cigarette.
The estuary was a mystery buried in motorway lights. A mid point between mud and heaven.
Auckland. Third windiest city in the world if Marco was right. Marco was a yachtie. He should know.
A cat sidled up to his feet.
“Hello,” it said.
The other side of the world.
But here it was too dark to read, the light switches were upside down, and the wind had died.

Zdravko woke up with the phone ringing. It was Rusim. Zdravko listened while eyeing up the darkened, daytime apartment. Curtains were still drawn, the bedroom door shut. Silence but for a vaguely ill sounding city. The cup of tea was missing. A folded blue blanket lay over the end of the sofa.
“The bridge at twelve,” Zdravko confirmed and hung up. The time was 10.14am.
As he made himself another tea, Nadejda arrived back from shopping, a full bag of groceries in her arm. She was dressed in a turquoise T shirt, jeans and espadrilles. There was not one piece of jewellery on her.
“Good morning, detective Nestorov,” she said, dropping the bag on the kitchen bench. “Breakfast,” she said. “Time to pull the blinds.”

They sat down at the table. Mint tea and coffee and fresh pastries. Nadejda looked even more beautiful under daylight. Less make-up. As they talked, Zdravko got to meet her greenish eyes more often than was good for a sleep-deprived policeman.
“Death makes me nervous,” he was saying.
“It’s not really funny. I had to go to a funeral recently and I was shaking like a leaf. I had a speech to make. I just couldn’t stop shaking.”
“Whose funeral?”
“My big brother’s.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nadejda said nothing.
“What did he die of?”
Nadejda’s eyes focussed on some far away shirt button. Or some ruffled head of hair right in front of her that no one else could see. “They say his heart just exploded. He was twenty nine,” she said.
“That’s too young.”
“He was autistic. Borislav never had a good outlook for a long life.”
Zdravko stared at his plate, full of pastry crumbs, pushing them round with a teaspoon as if he could change the future. “Sometimes it’s like life’s a joke,” he said. “And we can never get ready for these things.” He pushed the crumbs round some more without looking. “And that was very sad about Antonov last night. We needed him alive.”
“From what I heard, sounds like he wanted to be dead.”
Zdravko raised his eyebrows. “Antonov didn’t have a good prognosis either. Tumour on his brain. Maybe you knew that already. Maybe not. Probably, he didn’t have long to live. But we didn’t know that last night.”
“Well you know it now,” said Nadejda. She finished her coffee. “I don’t know about life being a joke. I got taught to think of life like it was a bowl of cherries. Not even someone dying changes that. Not even sadness.”
“I guess we all got a lot of different upbringings.”
“You’ll need a shower,” she said.
“I’ve only got these clothes. I can take a shower at work.”
“Don’t be silly. I have some clothes that will fit.”
“And how will it be with me walking around in a twenty something year old woman’s undergarments?”
“Zdravko! Men’s clothes. I have all… I have a whole drawer full of men’s clothes. And new underwear.”
“Wow,” said Zdravko.
“They were Bobi’s,” she reproved him. “He was about your size. Only better looking.”
Zdravko put down the teaspoon. “You are very beautiful,” he said. The words just appeared of their own. Waltzed out the gate without any kind of anybody’s say so.
Nadejda gazed back at him across the table for a few seconds. Then she said: “You can kiss me if you like.”
The crumbs had fallen. Serious cherry shape.
“It’s a long way to kiss,” he said. “Maybe I could meet you at the end of the table.”

Nadejda’s was the kind of beauty resistible only to those who refused to fight, kill or die for anything. How she ended up a prostitute was not truly comprehensible. She should have been living on the top floor. A made woman. But some people are as cranky as goats. They turn up at the crossroads and take the least likely path.
At least she wasn’t poor. Her apartment was not too far away on ul. Uzunjovska. Not a poor person in sight. Not at 5am. She got out of the taxi, turned around and leant back in. “Take me up,” she said.
She could have carried on. Said she was too scared. She could have made something up.
“Why not,” was the only thing Zdravko could think to say.

The apartment door was like any other door. Once you went in, you’d never be the same. Nadejda smiled. But it wasn’t really a smile. It was a challenge. Zdravko stood his ground. “I gotta get to bed.”
“Come on in,” she said. “You probably want to take a look around. I can’t promise anything.”
“What’s to see?”
Nadejda opened the door and went in. “I might be hiding some vital clue,” she said over her shoulder.

Inside the apartment, everything was tasteful and where it should have been. The stereo was on the shelf. Couches were on the floor. The cream and blue patterned curtains had attached themselves to runners. Wine and beer was in the fridge. Grappa was in the cupboard, above and to the left. Coffee was on the bench.
“Pretty nice spot,” said Zdravko once he’d got as far as the window. He resisted the temptation to peer throughout the curtains.
“I gotta take a shower,” Nadejda said.
“I should go.”
“Stay for a while.”
Zdravko made himself tea while Nadejda took a shower. He didn’t rightly know what he was doing in her apartment so he sat down on the dark grey sofa and put his tea on the glass table. The couch had a pull-out foot rest so he pulled it out and rested his feet.

Nadejda came back into the living room wearing a kimono style dressing gown. She stopped. She could hear Zdravko breathing. A policeman asleep on her sofa. She could almost reach over and touch his dreams. He looked like a good guy for a slouch. A good, tired guy at home in a bad, busy world. Then she walked into the kitchen and made herself a coffee.

Every bit of ash has a life of its own. Gets brushed off. Flies along. Runs away. Disappears. Joins an army somewhere.
Maybe Antonov knew where he was going.
And none of those folk-dancing kids were in any way related, if you believed that kind of shit from above.
Maybe Gjoeb was the sound guy, slash chauffeur, researching adolescent folk-dance.
And maybe Gomenko wasn’t really an asshole.
Maybe that log seat was awake and could remember the entire thoughts of a forest.
Maybe the barman knew nothing.
The Bentley was a fake.
And people were allowed to escape from prison.
One thing though. Georgieva was right to be a legalised sociopath. That way, she put the lie to reality.

Zdravko waited in the Opel, parked up in ul. Gurko not fifty metres west of the Grand Hotel, and facing away. It was near one o’clock in the morning. So as not to attract attention, Rusim smoked a cigarette with the window down. He also had the stereo on. Eighties Iranian club sounds. Or something like that.
“La Pulga,” said Rusim looking in the mirror. “Here he is.”
Zdravko checked the passenger side mirror but the hotel entrance was empty.
“Two girls and a cigar,” said Rusim.
“Let’s give him a second then.”
“I’m gonna take a look,” said Rusim. He got out of the car and flicked his cigarette into the night. Zdravko kept his eye on the side mirror. Antonov was walking in The Grand Hotel with a girl on either arm. “Antonov’s here,” Zdravko said talking into his microphone. “Couple of girls.” He got out and ran. For a round shouldered, phlegmatic forty two year old, his movements were surprisingly graceful and quick. Within a few seconds he was beside the hotel entrance. Rusim was dancing across the street.
The purple-uniformed doorman stepped aside at the sight of two pistols pointed slightly forward of his shoes.
Inside the lobby, things were getting tense. Antonov and the two girls were motionless facing the lift. Georgieva was in the lobby, Petrov in front of reception. Both had their weapons trained on Antonov. The reception staff had miraculously disappeared. One of the hookers had her face in her hands. Antonov and the other girl had their hands wavering behind their heads.
“Get out of here, ladies,” said Georgieva. Rusim, his Makarov still levelled at the floor, shifted in the direction of the lobby. Zdravko stayed at the entrance door. For some reason, the two ladies stayed put.
“Don’t shoot,” said the girl who didn’t have her face in her hands.
“What’s your name, honey?” said Georgieva.
“Nadejda.”
“That’s a lovely name. Tell your friend it’s gonna be alright. We need everyone just to be alive. Why don’t you reach over, take the…” The lift door opened. “Grab your friend and walk into that lift.”
The girl with the name reached over, took the other girl’s hand out of her face, and together they walked into the lift.
“Now press the button that says two. You’ll be OK.”
The lift door closed.
“Now turn around slowly,” said Georgieva to Antonov in a more serious tone.
Antonov stood motionless.
“Turn around or I’ll put a bullet in your back.” Georgieva’s voice had taken on the tone of the lift.
Petrov raised his gun a fraction higher. “Turn around and on the floor, motherfucker.”
Then Antonov did a strange thing. He lowered his arms to the horizontal. Like Jesus on the cross, except he was back to front and dressed in a tuxedo. And then he swivelled round so fast that Petrov got a fright and let off a round. Antonov crashed sideways onto the tiled floor.
Petrov swivelled around like there might be someone looking. Georgieva walked up to take a closer look. She prodded Antonov’s ribs with her boot, blood pouring from his head like an expanding red speech bubble.
“Goddam idiot,” she said.

Zdravko leaned one arm over the rail to scan the dance floor below for Rusim. Rusim was never that hard to find. He danced so bad it was good, especially if he smoked a cigarette. Not everyone could get the idea of dancing badly. They preferred to be young, dress sharp and have all their hair. And cigarettes probably weren’t allowed no more. Amidst that sea of bodies dancing in time, Rusim was with some girl who was looking pretty good. Zdravko returned to the conversation and Georgieva.
“I fell asleep today,” he said. “In the forest.”
There was no obvious reaction. A cop with a bad mind wasn’t any more admirable than a cop with a good mind. Georgieva had pinball eyes and a suit to match. Her frizzy black hair was the kind that was practically unmanageable. She must have looked at herself every morning and thought: “OK. Fuck it. I’ll just tie it up again.”
At the end of the table Petrov seemed in a particularly good mood. “You need a rest,” he said. “You look all worn out from your holiday.” Petrov was dressed like mafia central. Leather jacket, next generation T shirt, religious bling, and shoes made from the blood of halfway honest, in-debt citizens.
“You have something to tell me.” Zdravko kept his focus on Georgieva.
“We have a line on the guard.”
“Good.”
“Want to come along?”
“Why not?”
“Your Gjoeb must be one stupid motherfucker,” put in Petrov.
“I hope so,” said Zdravko looking directly at Georgieva.
“The Grand Hotel,” Georgieva said.
Petrov stood up, peering over the dance floor.
“Sit down Trendafil,” said Georgieva.
Petrov sat down.
“We were lucky,” said Georgieva, her demeanour unmoved. “One of the other guards at Pazardjik had a few stories to tell. One thing led to another.” A fleeting wistfulness passed across her lips and eyes. Then it was gone.
“Hats off,” said Zdravko.

Rusim needed a drink so they stopped into a local bar. The Moreni was built out of stone and varnished wood in the style of a chalet and stood next to a carpark and bus stop on the main road. A handful of punters sat at their tables drinking, talking, or playing Four Square. A giant of a man with a black moustache stood behind the counter.
Rusim ordered a vodka for himself and a lemon soda for Zdravko. “Ever seen this man?” he asked holding out a photo of Gjoeb as the barman poured his drink.
“Not recently,” deadpanned the barman in a voice deeper than hell.
“Maybe a year or two ago?”
“Never seen him.”

Zdravko and Rusim sat at a table apart. Two men who looked like they might have owned the place sat talking in the corner. Or maybe they owned the whole mountain. One thing for sure, one of them owned the Bentley parked outside.
“We’re missing something up here,” said Zdravko.
“Maybe,” said Rusim as he pulled the phone out of his breast pocket and took a call. “We’ll see,” he said, putting the phone in his other hand. “Go,” he told the phone. After that he just listened or mumbled assent. “Run a check of furniture removal outfits around the time the power was cut. And let me know how the ID check on the video’s going,” he said finally and clicked off. He looked at Zdravko and said: “The power was turned off two weeks before Gjoeb’s sentencing. Nothing from customs. Nothing from the bank.”
“I like this guy already,” said Zdravko.
Rusim knocked back his vodka and looked over at the bar. “Gjoeb’s got a lot of cash.”
“In which case he’s gone.”
“In which case he had a double identity before he went inside,” said Rusim stroking his beard with the upside of his fingers. “Robert isn’t even a Hungarian name,” he added.
“Hungarians are wierd,” said Zdravko.
“I need a smoke,” said Rusim.
They got up and walked out to the smoking area, collecting Rusim’s new drink from the bar on the way. Outside, the afternoon was contemplating an even more fantastic version of itself. Zdravko walked up to the railing and stood looking at the mountains. “This is just too beautiful,” he said as Rusim finished lighting his cigarette. “Makes me want to go to sleep.”
“You can drive,” said Rusim.