The Coming

Peter Owen Publishers

which tells of a gruesome crime, anger, snow and the corruptness of human nature

The smell of blood reached us even before we entered the house, yet there were no signs of a break-in at the front door. Clearly the murderer had rung the bell and a member of the household had opened up for him. I turned around to Yanko:

'Perhaps it was someone they knew.'

'Psssht!' he hissed, probably afraid the murderer was still in the house.

I looked back. Curious neighbours were already clustering around our patrol car behind the row of cypresses which skirted the Vukotics' property. Some kids were roaring down the road in a souped-up yellow Fiat with music blaring and almost lost control at the bend. They spotted the crowd, slowed down, and drove back.

'Turn that off,' someone yelled at them, 'there's been a murder here!'

I forced the door with my shoulder and took a step into the house, gripping my pistol as tightly as I could, with both hands. It felt cold, as if I'd just picked it up out of the snow. Yanko came in behind me and lit the way with his flashlight. We heard a movement in the dark, or at least we thought we did, but it was hard to tell. We were on edge. Terrified, to tell the truth. It was my first murder, after all. Sure, I'd seen a lot of corpses before, but I don't think any sane person can get used to death.

When we heard the noise, or thought we did, Yanko flashed his light into the kitchen. I stepped forward, ready to shoot. Then my legs caught on something and I fell. My cheek was warm and wet. 'Fuck this,' I called, 'turn on the light.'

I was lying in Senka Vukotic's blood. I found some paper towels in the kitchen and wiped my face and hands, while Yanko photographed Senka.

'I think I moved her,' I told him.

There was a large wound on her head. It turned out that the murderer had dealt the first blow with an axe. Evidently that didn't kill her outright, so he knelt down and cut her throat. We didn't find the knife, but the axe is at the lab in Podgorica for analysis.

The trail of blood led to the internal staircase. The lab later reported that the murderer had been wearing size seven gumboots with worn-out soles. As soon as he set foot on the stairs, Pavle must have fired at him: two shots, we found the buckshot in the wall. It's incredible that he didn't hit him. We combed the house several times but couldn't find any trace of the murderer's blood. That's what fear does to you – Pavle was firing from above, from the top of the stairs, at a distance of no more than five yards. But before he could reload the shotgun the murderer was upon him. From what we've been able to reconstruct, it seems the first blow struck Pavle in the right shoulder. As the murderer swung the axe again to deal the mortal blow, Pavle dashed off into the bathroom and tried to hide.

But what happened next makes us certain that the murderer knew the family and had been to the house before: instead of going after Pavle he went into the children's room. He knew they had children – that's the point – and he knew where to find them. He grabbed Sonja in the bed by the window. She was seven, Jesus Christ ... One blow was enough for a small child like that.

Meanwhile, Pavle realised he'd left the children at the tender mercies of the murderer. He ran into their room and found the intruder on the floor – the killer had needed to set down the axe to grab Helena, who'd hidden under her bed. That was the second chance Pavle had that night. He didn't get a third. Although he now had the axe, which put him at a clear advantage, the murderer overpowered him and cut his throat, like he did with Senka down in the hall.

Helena tried to run away but she didn't get far. We found her body in the living room, on the couch in front of the television, which was still on. Judging by the bloodstains, the murderer sat down next to her. Our psychologists are trying to unravel what that could possibly mean. One thing's for sure – he switched on Animal Planet.

Then he left. No one saw him, no one heard him, and he left no fingerprints or DNA. There won't be any further investigations because, as I'm sure you know, homeless people laid waste to the house and ultimately set it on fire.

Quite a story, don't you think? I reckon you've got something for your two hundred euros! Inspector Jovanovic exclaimed.

'You can say that again!' I said, patting him on the shoulder. I ordered a beer for him, paid, and went outside. But I didn't get very far. Each day I went back to the pub, sat behind the same sticky bar and listened to the same story like a bloody refrain I couldn't get out of my head.

* * *

I remembered all that again as I sat in a long line of cars that evening and stared at the fire-blackened ruins of the library covered with snow. It was like a white sheet spread over a dead body: although it conceals the body underneath, everyone knows there's been a crime.

I was beginning to realise that I'd need at least an hour to get out of that traffic jam. It was cold that night, and the snow had turned to ice because there was no one to clear it off the roads. A driver had probably failed to brake on time and crashed into the car in front, and even on an evening like that they managed to get into a fight about it. The police were already on their way to restore order. I could see the blue rotating lights through the snow which was now falling ever more thickly. Luckily, I'd filled up before the Ulcinj petrol station closed and all the staff were sent home. I heard that when the petrol station ran dry, they rang the head office in Kotor to ask for another tankload. They called all morning, and finally around noon they got through to someone. The fellow told them everything was over – no one needed anything now, least of all petrol. 'I mean, what are people going to do with it? It's not like they can escape,' he said, his voice thick with depression. He complained that his wife had kicked him out of the house. She'd told him to get lost – she at least wanted to die without having him around. And with nowhere else to go, he simply went back to the office. There wasn't another living soul at the Hellenic Petroleum depot. When the workers at the petrol station finally realised that the end of the world also meant they'd lose their jobs, they divided up the money in the till. The gas cylinders they'd sold to customers in happier times were now heaved into the boots of their cars, and plastic bags full of sweets, cigarettes and bottles of whisky were crammed into the back seats. They didn't bother to lock the door when they left. Now they're probably guzzling down Chivas Regal and their children are gorging themselves sick on sweets to make sure nothing will be left. Like they say, it's a shame to waste things.

The fuel gauge under the speedometer told me I had enough petrol for all I needed to do that evening. The motor rumbled reliably. I turned up the heating and put in a new CD. Odawas sang 'Alleluia' while several men with long black beards marched past in formation. They were rushing to the mosque because it was time for prayer. The lights on the minarets blinked like a lighthouse. But it's too late now, I brooded, we're still going to hit the rocks. You can crawl under the red altars, run into the minarets – slender rockets ready to take you away to a different world – but it will be as promised: tonight, no one will be able to hide.

That night warranted an update of all our dictionaries, if only there had been time, so as to add the definitive new meaning of 'dead line': everything anyone in the world still planned to do had to be done that night. Working under pressure? I was used to it, even though I initially imagined that being a private detective in a town as small and peaceful as Ulcinj would be safe and easy. Cheated husbands, suspicious wives – who could need my services apart from unhappy people in unhappy marriages? That's what I thought, at least.

* * *

When I first rented an office in the centre of town I furnished it minimally but tastefully, by anyone's standards. Posters of classic old movies went up on the walls: The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart, Chinatown with Jack Nicholson ... The posters were to discreetly prompt clients to compare me with the best. A little pretentious, I admit, but it proved effective. A massive oaken desk dominated the room. Period furniture was installed to give clients the impression they were engaging a company with traditional standards – and people still believe in tradition, although tradition always betrays them if they don't betray it first. The desk sported a black Mercedes typewriter: a real antique and pure extravagance. I wanted everyone who came in to know that we didn't allow any newfangled gadgets like computers in the firm. I wanted clients to know that our methods were time-tested. A detective needs to seem timeless. I wanted people to think: wow, this is a hard-boiled, old-school detective who can be a real tough guy where necessary; a Sam Spade type of character who's seen a lot and knows the mean streets but isn't afraid to jump back into the thick of things if circumstances require.

As soon as I opened my agency, though, it seems all of Ulcinj decided to start killing, robbing, abducting and raping. And there was plenty of adultery too: it must be close to a dozen marriages I've torn apart. I'll always remember those jobs most fondly, given the rest of my blood-soaked career.

I follow the adulterers to their hotel, make myself comfortable in my car, and knock back a swig or two of whisky – just enough to give them time to undress and get down to business. A few photographs as evidence, and the matter is settled. My own experience in such matters is rather scant, I should say, or at least not as extensive as I'd have liked it to be, but one thing's for certain – women cope with adultery much better. A woman sees her partner's adultery as a betrayal: she's angry and offended. But a man who's just found out his wife is cheating on him sees it as a humiliation and irrefutable proof that he's not man enough. When a woman finds out she's been cheated on, her femininity is abruptly heightened. It's as if she has a 'femininity switch' which her husband inadvertently activates by having an affair. But a cheated man crumples like a used condom. Little in this world is as fragile as masculinity – I've learned that lesson well.

Another thing which quickly became clear to me: whether I'm solving serious crimes like murder or crimes of the heart (as one romantically inclined and, to my delight, promiscuous lady client once described adultery), the most important thing is to understand what the client wants. The ones who hire me to find out if their partner is cheating on them thirst for evidence that their suspicions are justified. If a wife is cheating on her husband, she's a bitch; if she isn't cheating on him, he's a swine for suspecting her. Faced with the choice between a negative image of her and a negative image of himself, he always chooses the former. Each of us obviously has unlimited potential for swinishness. Whether and in what form that potential comes out is just a minor technical detail. So I always make a point of presenting extensive evidence of adultery – a photomontage works wonders, irrespective of whether the said adultery actually took place. If it didn't, it still could have, so in a way I'm communicating a deeper truth. And after all, the client comes first. If the client is satisfied, my own satisfaction is assured.

Things are more complicated with murder. To generalise a little, I'd say there are two kinds of murder-investigation clients: those who want to know who committed the murder, and those who want to know why. With the latter it's easy: you have a chat with them. When they drop in to inquire how the investigation's going, you invite them down to a local bar ... people loosen up after a drink. Sooner or later they'll give you a hint as to their suspicions, and then the case is as good as cracked. From then on you just confirm the story they themselves have come up with. Tell them you're close to solving the case, but make them wait a little longer. For some reason people consider what they call arriving at the truth to be a thankless job. The truth is a hard road, several clients have said.

But those who want to know who the murderer was are hard to please. They usually want to take revenge, so you can't just point a finger at the first passer-by. It usually ends up that after trying to resolve the case for a while, I give up, cancel the contract and just ask them to cover my expenses.

The way people think is to a detective's advantage. Tell them any old story and they'll exclaim: I knew it! Whatever tale you tell, even if it's got as many holes as Swiss cheese, people will say: Yes, it's logical! There's evidence for everything – all you need is a story to back it up. By way of illustration, let's take the World Cup football final. A penalty shoot-out will decide who gets to be world champion. The last shot is taken by the best player on the planet. Whether he scores or misses, people will say: I knew it! Because it's logical that the best player will score when it's hardest, just as it's logical that the best player will miss in a decisive moment because, as we know, fate is often unkind.

My point is that a detective's work isn't so much about finding out the truth as inventing a story which people will accept as the truth. It's not about discovering the truth but about discovering what truth is for those people. Truth always appears as a fiction and takes the form of a story. I am a storyteller.

* * *

Still stuck in the un-moving traffic, I looked back on my detective career and remembered when the first of the e-mails arrived which caused my grand illusion to collapse ... Funnily enough, around that time I found myself in a similar situation to now: caught in a long line of cars after leaving Inspector Jovanovic with his beer and his inability to accept that the massacre he'd described for me did actually happen. Fortunately, this inability didn't prevent him from selling me the information. The massacre at the Vukotics' would always be an 'incident' for him – something which happened despite the fact that things like that don't happen. Or always happen to someone else. I believe we're able to overlook the horror of our own lives, and we owe our strength to that blindness. Lies are all that liberate us: one drop of the truth would be enough to destroy what remains of our life.

I remember it was feeling every bit of 40 degrees centigrade that day, and the wind had turned into a dry sirocco from North Africa. The fishermen, who sleep with radios close to their ears, had hauled their boats up onto the sand the night before. Ulcinj doesn't have a marina, so an accurate weather forecast and quick legs are all that saves their boats from the waves determined to smash them on the rocks. Radio Dubrovnik got it right again yesterday: the sea did rise after midnight.

It was as if someone had created a vacuum over the town. Everything under the sky was gasping for breath. I searched for a whiff of fresh air in the park across from the pub. Then I went up to the bar: a whisky with two ice cubes. All in vain: wherever I went I breathed in the heat. It was as if the world had turned into an oven which was open right in front of my face and I was leaning into it. But isn't it like that with every change: we decide on it not because of things, but despite them?

All the local schizophrenics were out on the streets that day – drinking Coca Cola, ranting, smoking as they walked, and often changing pace and direction as if they didn't know where they were going, making them indistinguishable from tourists. The town was full of people whose diagnosis was unknown but whose condition obviously required immediate hospitalisation.

A little later I found myself driving through a horde of tourists: moving like a herd of animals heading to a watering hole. That's how they go down the steep Ulcinj streets to the beach, knocking over and trampling everything in their path. They walk right down the middle of the road because it's wider than the pavement, so they can move faster, and speed is important because it allows them to occupy a spot on the beach closer to the water. They don't move to the side when a car comes – experience has taught them that the driver won't run them over. They don't react to the honk of horns and don't comprehend verbal abuse.