soul had departed.
“If the survivor is an eyewitness, the Tribunal's investigators will follow it up,” Miller continued.
“We have to stay within our brief. Pass on the name and get on with the next case.” He nodded at the white board and its collection of photographs.
“You can get rid of them, too,” he said.
“I've got visitors coming tomorrow and a wall full of corpses is going to put them off their lunch.” Miller sipped his coffee.
“Aren't you supposed to be with Lisa Tourell over at Forensics?”
“Just on my way,” said Solomon.
Solomon headed downstairs and out to the car park. As he climbed into his four-wheel-drive he saw Miller watching him from the window.
As he drove out of Sarajevo, Solomon called Lisa Tourell on his mobile to reschedule their appointment. She was a forensic anthropologist, one of several working for the Commission in identifying the war dead. DNA testing was an expensive business and the forensic anthropologists were helpful in the early stages, ruling out matches based on age, sex, height and previous injuries. Her voice mail kicked in and Solomon left a message.
It took him an hour and a half to reach the ruined barn. There was no sign of the boy. He sounded the horn and a group of crows rose up from the field to his right, cawing angrily at the disturbance. A murder of crows. Solomon smiled thinly. A murder. The collective noun for a group of crows. He sounded his horn again, three long blasts.
He waited for several minutes, listening to the metallic clicks of the engine as it cooled. Then he climbed out and walked towards the barn. The roof had been destroyed by fire leaving two blackened beams at one end, sticking up like a church spire. Sheets of rusting corrugated iron had been hammered over the space where the main door had been, but one sheet was pulled back and flapped in the wind.
Solomon shivered and raised the collar of his sheepskin jacket.
“Hello?” he called.
“It's Jack Solomon.” His voice echoed around the ruin. He stooped and eased himself through the gap into the barn. The boy was crouching in the far corner, his knees against his chest, his head resting on his arms. Solomon walked towards him, stepping over broken roof tiles and blackened embers.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly. The boy didn't look up. Solomon bent and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
The boy looked up. His eyes were red from crying.
“Do you have a cigarette?” he asked.
“How old are you?”
He glared up at Solomon.
“Do you know how many dead people I've seen? Do you know how many times I've had a gun pointed at me? How many times I've been told I'm a filthy piece of Albanian shit and that death is too good for me? Do you think I'm scared of a few cigarettes?”
Solomon took his hand off the boy's shoulder and crouched next to him, his shoulders pressing against the rough stone. He took out his packet of Marlboro, tapped one out and offered it. The boy took it without a word. Solomon lit it with his Zippo, then lit one for himself. They blew smoke up at the sky.
“Look, I'm sorry, but I don't know your name. Nana didn't tell me.”
“Emir,” said the boy.
“Pleased to meet you, Emir.”
“No, you're not,” said the boy bitterly.
“You don't care about me. You're a foreigner, and foreigners don't care what happens here.”
“That's not true,” said Solomon.
“There are people who care. People who are working to make Yugoslavia a better place.”
“Because you're paid,” said Emir.
“You do it for the money, not because you want to help.” He took another long drag on his cigarette.
“No one wants to help, hot really. Other Europeans are scared that the fighting will spill over into their countries so they send their soldiers to keep order. They send charities so that we won't starve, and they put the generals on trial so that it looks like they're doing something but they don't really care. If they could build a
“If the survivor is an eyewitness, the Tribunal's investigators will follow it up,” Miller continued.
“We have to stay within our brief. Pass on the name and get on with the next case.” He nodded at the white board and its collection of photographs.
“You can get rid of them, too,” he said.
“I've got visitors coming tomorrow and a wall full of corpses is going to put them off their lunch.” Miller sipped his coffee.
“Aren't you supposed to be with Lisa Tourell over at Forensics?”
“Just on my way,” said Solomon.
Solomon headed downstairs and out to the car park. As he climbed into his four-wheel-drive he saw Miller watching him from the window.
As he drove out of Sarajevo, Solomon called Lisa Tourell on his mobile to reschedule their appointment. She was a forensic anthropologist, one of several working for the Commission in identifying the war dead. DNA testing was an expensive business and the forensic anthropologists were helpful in the early stages, ruling out matches based on age, sex, height and previous injuries. Her voice mail kicked in and Solomon left a message.
It took him an hour and a half to reach the ruined barn. There was no sign of the boy. He sounded the horn and a group of crows rose up from the field to his right, cawing angrily at the disturbance. A murder of crows. Solomon smiled thinly. A murder. The collective noun for a group of crows. He sounded his horn again, three long blasts.
He waited for several minutes, listening to the metallic clicks of the engine as it cooled. Then he climbed out and walked towards the barn. The roof had been destroyed by fire leaving two blackened beams at one end, sticking up like a church spire. Sheets of rusting corrugated iron had been hammered over the space where the main door had been, but one sheet was pulled back and flapped in the wind.
Solomon shivered and raised the collar of his sheepskin jacket.
“Hello?” he called.
“It's Jack Solomon.” His voice echoed around the ruin. He stooped and eased himself through the gap into the barn. The boy was crouching in the far corner, his knees against his chest, his head resting on his arms. Solomon walked towards him, stepping over broken roof tiles and blackened embers.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly. The boy didn't look up. Solomon bent and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
The boy looked up. His eyes were red from crying.
“Do you have a cigarette?” he asked.
“How old are you?”
He glared up at Solomon.
“Do you know how many dead people I've seen? Do you know how many times I've had a gun pointed at me? How many times I've been told I'm a filthy piece of Albanian shit and that death is too good for me? Do you think I'm scared of a few cigarettes?”
Solomon took his hand off the boy's shoulder and crouched next to him, his shoulders pressing against the rough stone. He took out his packet of Marlboro, tapped one out and offered it. The boy took it without a word. Solomon lit it with his Zippo, then lit one for himself. They blew smoke up at the sky.
“Look, I'm sorry, but I don't know your name. Nana didn't tell me.”
“Emir,” said the boy.
“Pleased to meet you, Emir.”
“No, you're not,” said the boy bitterly.
“You don't care about me. You're a foreigner, and foreigners don't care what happens here.”
“That's not true,” said Solomon.
“There are people who care. People who are working to make Yugoslavia a better place.”
“Because you're paid,” said Emir.
“You do it for the money, not because you want to help.” He took another long drag on his cigarette.
“No one wants to help, hot really. Other Europeans are scared that the fighting will spill over into their countries so they send their soldiers to keep order. They send charities so that we won't starve, and they put the generals on trial so that it looks like they're doing something but they don't really care. If they could build a
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