‘Yes, him.’
‘Why do you want to ring him? Isn’t he a suspect? A person of interest? I thought we were going to interview him again today.’
‘He found the body. That’s all. Ah, here it is.’
Boyd shook his head. ‘I hope you’re not going to do what I think you’re going to do.’
‘You know me too well, Boyd.’
‘I’m serious. This is—’
‘Career suicide? I know. But look at it this way. If he had anything to do with the murder, the letter might scare him into confessing. Or something.’ She hesitated for a moment before tapping the number into her phone. For some reason, she wanted to see Petrovci’s reaction to the letter. Right or wrong, she was going to run with it.
Boyd noisily stacked his files back in order on his desk. ‘You’re on a kamikaze mission. Day two back at work, Lottie. Day two. Don’t do this.’
She listened to the call ringing before being cut off.
‘Suicide,’ he muttered.
‘Shut up,’ she said, and waited a moment before trying the number again.
Fourteen
Andri Petrovci, with his boss Jack Dermody, loaded the work van and headed for Columb Street. The road management crew had been late arriving on site to divert the traffic and vehicles now trailed slug-like through the town. It took them half an hour to reach the new dig.
This piecemeal pipe-laying to appease the retailers exasperated motorists who didn’t know where an excavation would spring up next. The contractors were like summer weeds sprouting in a smooth lawn, Petrovci supposed, unwanted and generally making a nuisance of themselves.
As he checked the temporary traffic lights at the Main Street junction, his phone vibrated. He didn’t recognise the number, so he disconnected the call and shoved the phone back into his trouser pocket. When he looked up, a small fat man was rushing towards him.
‘Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?’ said the red-faced man, his ginger hair a beacon to the sun.
Twisting round, Petrovci looked down at him and shrugged. He kept walking, brushing by the man, who only reached his shoulder. The man grabbed his elbow.
‘Problem?’ Petrovci asked.
‘How are the trucks going to deliver to my yard?’ The man pointed to the car dismantler’s depot. ‘Bob Weir. That’s me and that’s my business.’
Petrovci swiped the man’s chubby fingers from his arm and strode onto the site. He knew Bob Weir from Cafferty’s Bar. Got a few earfuls one weekend as he’d tried to sip his Guinness in peace. But Weir’s voice had soured his pint so he’d left it on the counter and made his way home. Racism was rife in Ragmullin, he concluded. But they were only words. In his homeland, he had encountered racism at the barrel of an AK-47.
As he picked up his tools, his phone vibrated again. This time he answered rather than having to listen to Weir’s ranting at the roadblock.
The letter lay on the green-Formica-topped table in front of Andri Petrovci, along with a plate of chips. Mugs of black coffee for Lottie and Boyd.
Lottie kept her eyes on the workman’s downturned shaved head. ‘Do you know the language it’s written in?’
He had agreed to meet her once she’d said they didn’t have to go too far from the site. The Malloca Café on the corner was quiet, even though it was lunchtime. Louis, the owner, stood behind the counter glaring at them. He probably blamed the contractors for decimating his trade.
Boyd, sitting with his arms folded, was frowning. She should have come alone – she knew he didn’t approve of this course of action – but he was in his persistent-mole mood, so she had relented.
‘I busy,’ Petrovci said. ‘Boss, he not happy.’
‘Mr Petrovci. Just tell us what the note says. DS Boyd will write everything down. Then you can go back to work,’ Lottie said.
He picked up the note. ‘Not signed.’
‘No,’ she said curtly. She wasn’t about to tell him where it had come from.
He studied the page. She studied him. Thick fingers with dirty broken nails. Behind long dark lashes his brown-black eyes appeared couched with pain. The caverns of his sunken cheeks might be from hunger, or maybe it was his nature. And the scar. An uneasy shiver slid down Lottie’s spine and her smile drowned on her lips in a sea of confusion. Was it a mistake involving him? Boyd thought so. She hoped not. Her last case had landed her in enough trouble without her making the same mistakes this time.
‘The note is in Albanian,’ he said.
‘Can you read it?’ Lottie asked.
He shrugged.
‘Please,’ she urged.
‘The person who write say not free to leave. Want your help. Find missing friend Kaltrina. Help escape.’
Lottie leaned forward, keeping her eyes on his. ‘Escape? From what?’
‘I only know what it say. This friend Kaltrina, not seen for few days.’
Lottie turned and looked at Boyd. Could Kaltrina be their dead girl?
‘Anything else?’ she asked.
Petrovci shook his head. ‘Need your help. That all.’ He pushed the page towards Lottie. ‘I go now?’
‘Wait. It must say something else. Was this Kaltrina pregnant?’
His eyes darkened. ‘I tell you what is written.’
Learning nothing from his stony expression, Lottie said, ‘Can you tell us where you were this weekend and what you were doing?’
‘You arrest me?’
‘Just asking a few questions.’ Lottie felt Boyd’s eyes boring into her. She refused to acknowledge him.
Petrovci said, ‘I at home. Alone. Okay? I go now.’
‘We will need to take another formal statement from you. Don’t leave town.’
Standing up, Petrovci gestured for Boyd to get out of his way. As he eased out of the seat, Lottie noted that he was a good head taller than Boyd, who was over six foot. He walked out, hi-vis vest billowing in the breeze orchestrated by the swinging door.
She saw Boyd watching her looking after Petrovci. He shook his head slowly.
‘What?’ she snapped.
‘Big mistake. Big mistake.’ He folded his notebook into his trouser pocket. ‘You shouldn’t be interviewing a suspect in a fucking chipper’s. And you had no right to show him that letter. You learned nothing from him, and what if this Mimoza really is in trouble? Did you think of that? Maybe your construction worker there is the source of that trouble. You need to stop and think before you act.’
He walked out, leaving Lottie to pay the bill.
Mistake? Shit.
* * *
‘I wonder if our murdered girl is this missing Kaltrina,’ Lottie said, walking behind Boyd, trying to make conversation.
She caught up with him as he swung his jacket from one shoulder to the other. The street was steaming with clogged traffic going nowhere. Dust from the roadworks swirled around; noise from heavy machinery polluted the atmosphere, raising temperatures higher than a mercury barometer.
‘The note doesn’t mention she was pregnant, so your guess is as good as mine.’ Boyd shifted his jacket once again.
‘I don’t do guesses.’
‘But you go to potential suspects for help.’