Yavarov smiled ruefully. “Because of the bomb scare and the train cancellations, all the hotels in Belfast are full up.”
This didn’t surprise me. Belfast only had three hotels in the entire city because they kept getting blown up by the IRA. The Europa Hotel had been destroyed and rebuilt four times since the Troubles had begun.
“There’s actually a hotel in Carrick, the Coast Road, they owe me a favour. One of their guests was murdered and I found out who did it,” I said. “I’ll call them.”
“Thank you.”
I called up the Coast Road but it was no dice there either, even for Inspector Sean Duffy of Carrick RUC.
“Sorry, they’re booked out too,” I said.
“How long do these bomb alerts last?”
“They’ll usually have the line checked and inspected by the morning.”
“I am used to roughing it, maybe I could sleep in one your cells until then?”
“The cells? Nonsense. They’re freezing. Come home with me. I’ve got a spare bedroom at the back.”
“Really? It’s no trouble?”
“No trouble at all. We’ll have to walk though. I didn’t take the car into work this morning. It’s only a ten-minute hoof-it.”
Yavarov agreed, I got my coat and we walked to Coronation Road.
The rain had driven everyone inside so it was a quiet night in the estate.
“This reminds me of parts of Sofia,” Yavarov said.
“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”
“Sofia was not as heavily bombed as some cities in the war,” Yavarov said, which didn’t really clarify matters.
When we got to #113, I heated up the remains of a previous night’s chilli con carne and went upstairs to turn on the paraffin heater.
“You have a daughter?” Yavarov asked, looking at the doll collection and Disney Princess colouring books and assuming that they weren’t mine.
“Wife and daughter are down staying with her parents for a few days.”
Yavarov raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“You want a drink?”
“You have vodka?” he asked.
“Do I have vodka? Of course. I make a mean vodka martini and an even meaner vodka gimlet.”
Yavarov grimaced. “Just vodka will be sufficient.”
I handed him a half full bottle of Absolut blue label and a couple of glasses while I finished the chilli.
“Swedish? I have never had Swedish vodka before,” Yavarov said.
“I’m no vodka expert, but I think it’s pretty good.”
Yavarov poured us a couple of healthy measures.
“Nazdrave!” he said and finished his shot. He reflected for a moment before nodding. “You’re right, it’s good. But there is something, what is the word … unwholesome about it.”
“Unwholesome? I don’t think that can be the word you’re after.”
“Unwholesome, no that is the word. It tastes of Sweden. It is neutral, clean, antiseptic, healthy.”
I nodded.
“I think I know what you need, mate.”
I went out to the shed in the rain and came back with a jar of poteen.
I poured him a shot of it.
“What is this?”
“Moonshine. You know what that is?”
He nodded. “You make it?”
“No, a bloke up the road who has a pet lion.”
“You are joking with me.”
“I wish.”
He swallowed down a healthy measure. “This is more like it,” he said.
Six more shots and a bottle of wine with the chilli and we would have praised the virtues of paint thinner.
We talked about Bulgaria and Ireland and the lack of any connection at all we could think of between the two countries. I told him that Kenny Dalziel had forbidden me to fly to Bulgaria so the murder of Mr Deauville better not have a complicated international dimension.
“You think such a thing is possible?” Yavarov asked.
“Anything’s possible but I think we’re probably looking at some kind of internal drug war here, or possibly a vigilante. Most likely it was some lone wolf nutjob among the Proddy paramilitaries. They’re not known for attracting a high calibre of personnel.”
“You don’t think Mrs Deauville did it, then?”
“No. Unless she’s a good actress or a KGB agent. She’s not a KGB agent?”
“You think the KGB would employ someone like that to work for them?”
“Of course. Last person MI5 would suspect.”
“MI5 suspect everyone,” Yavarov said sadly.
“You’re not KGB, are you?”
“In Bulgaria there is no KGB.”
“What’s the Bulgarian equivalent?”
“One does not speak of such things,” he said.
“You are one, aren’t you? I can tell. I’ve met quite a few spooks in my time. Don’t worry, it doesn’t bother me. KGB, CIA, MI5, you’re all the same. Who gives a shit?”
“In Bulgaria it is called the Durzhavna Sigurnost. The State Security Police. But I am not Durzhavna. Believe me, if I was I would not have had to take the train up here today.”
“Tell me off the record about Mrs Deauville. What’s her story? What do the files tell you?” I asked, now that he was in confidence-spilling mood.
“There is nothing to tell. She was a travel agent. She met Deauville and apparently they fell in love.”
“How did she get to leave Bulgaria?”
“Her husband paid off the right people.”