He unlocked the car by feel.
It took him a while to figure out all the buttons and levers on the BMW , but when he did the engine purred to life and he pulled away. His left knee hurt as he pressed the clutch, making for rough gear changes. But otherwise it was a pleasure to drive the car. He’d always wanted to.
He came off Strumbić’s track onto the Samobor road and was starting to accelerate around the bend when a shape loomed out of the dark at him. Della Torre pounded the brake and clutch at the same time, cursing at the pain that shot up through his leg. The seatbelt tugged in on him with the sudden deceleration, causing him to feel the agony in his ribs as well.
He sat there for a long moment, taking deep breaths, reminding himself not to drink so much when stealing an unfamiliar car, before he finally registered what he was seeing in the stark light of the car’s lamps. It was a man, standing hunched, half swaying, more or less in the middle of the road. Della Torre got out of the car. As he got closer he could see it was the tall Bosnian. At least it wasn’t the drowned one.
Gingerly, della Torre put the man’s arm round his shoulder to give him support and straighten him out. But the Bosnian, the one who’d done all the talking, was bent sideways like a banana. He groaned.
“Bad accident, eh?” della Torre asked in the soothing voice he put on for difficult interrogations.
“Ummm,” the Bosnian replied. Della Torre wasn’t sure if the injured man recognized him.
“Here, I’ll lend you a hand. Can you walk a bit?”
The Bosnian moved his legs like a marionette, but mostly in the same direction, and slowly the two men edged out of the glare of the headlights to the side of the car, where they stopped. Della Torre slipped his hand into the pocket of his new leather coat and took out the Beretta. He replaced the gun in the Bosnian’s shoulder holster and clipped the holster down so the gun wouldn’t fall out. And then, turning him slightly, della Torre ducked out from under the Bosnian’s arm and leaned back against the car. For a long moment the tall Bosnian swayed there unsupported, almost upright, in the dusting of the car’s headlights, wavering like an erratic pendulum. Blackness spread behind him. His eyes blinked hard, as if he were having difficulty focusing, his high, hard cheekbones and sunken cheeks making the effect all the more ghoulish. He growled unintelligible sounds, saliva bubbling in the corner of his mouth until it became a thin line of drool.
Della Torre stepped forward and gently pressed his fingers against the man’s chest, as if to steady him. And then he gave a sharp push. Flesh hit stone as the Bosnian fell back into the ravine, and then there was the sound of sliding scree. Apart from an initial surprised grunt, he remained quiet.
“Must have hurt,” della Torre said, standing at the edge of the road. It was like looking into a bottomless well. “But it’s better than getting run over.”
Della Torre sidled back into the car, trying not to bend his sore knee too much. He didn’t feel the smallest grain of remorse. If the Bosnian had survived the car wreck, clearly he wasn’t made of icing sugar and baked custard. Chances were he’d survive the fall too. If he didn’t, too bad. The man was a cold-hearted killer, and not a very good one at that. Worse still, he’d had his sights on della Torre.
If by some freak of nature Strumbić died from his wound, or more likely from a heart attack as he tried to dig his way out of the cellar, the cops would find the Bosnian in the ravine, match the gun with Strumbić’s bullet wound, and solve a five-star cop-killer crime. Strumbić was a senior detective. The gun was probably one that had made such a mess in Karlovac. So unless the investigating officer was even dimmer than a September firefly, he’d have a brace of solved premier-league crimes under his belt. Who cared that the Mercedes married to the tree was
It took him a while to figure out all the buttons and levers on the BMW , but when he did the engine purred to life and he pulled away. His left knee hurt as he pressed the clutch, making for rough gear changes. But otherwise it was a pleasure to drive the car. He’d always wanted to.
He came off Strumbić’s track onto the Samobor road and was starting to accelerate around the bend when a shape loomed out of the dark at him. Della Torre pounded the brake and clutch at the same time, cursing at the pain that shot up through his leg. The seatbelt tugged in on him with the sudden deceleration, causing him to feel the agony in his ribs as well.
He sat there for a long moment, taking deep breaths, reminding himself not to drink so much when stealing an unfamiliar car, before he finally registered what he was seeing in the stark light of the car’s lamps. It was a man, standing hunched, half swaying, more or less in the middle of the road. Della Torre got out of the car. As he got closer he could see it was the tall Bosnian. At least it wasn’t the drowned one.
Gingerly, della Torre put the man’s arm round his shoulder to give him support and straighten him out. But the Bosnian, the one who’d done all the talking, was bent sideways like a banana. He groaned.
“Bad accident, eh?” della Torre asked in the soothing voice he put on for difficult interrogations.
“Ummm,” the Bosnian replied. Della Torre wasn’t sure if the injured man recognized him.
“Here, I’ll lend you a hand. Can you walk a bit?”
The Bosnian moved his legs like a marionette, but mostly in the same direction, and slowly the two men edged out of the glare of the headlights to the side of the car, where they stopped. Della Torre slipped his hand into the pocket of his new leather coat and took out the Beretta. He replaced the gun in the Bosnian’s shoulder holster and clipped the holster down so the gun wouldn’t fall out. And then, turning him slightly, della Torre ducked out from under the Bosnian’s arm and leaned back against the car. For a long moment the tall Bosnian swayed there unsupported, almost upright, in the dusting of the car’s headlights, wavering like an erratic pendulum. Blackness spread behind him. His eyes blinked hard, as if he were having difficulty focusing, his high, hard cheekbones and sunken cheeks making the effect all the more ghoulish. He growled unintelligible sounds, saliva bubbling in the corner of his mouth until it became a thin line of drool.
Della Torre stepped forward and gently pressed his fingers against the man’s chest, as if to steady him. And then he gave a sharp push. Flesh hit stone as the Bosnian fell back into the ravine, and then there was the sound of sliding scree. Apart from an initial surprised grunt, he remained quiet.
“Must have hurt,” della Torre said, standing at the edge of the road. It was like looking into a bottomless well. “But it’s better than getting run over.”
Della Torre sidled back into the car, trying not to bend his sore knee too much. He didn’t feel the smallest grain of remorse. If the Bosnian had survived the car wreck, clearly he wasn’t made of icing sugar and baked custard. Chances were he’d survive the fall too. If he didn’t, too bad. The man was a cold-hearted killer, and not a very good one at that. Worse still, he’d had his sights on della Torre.
If by some freak of nature Strumbić died from his wound, or more likely from a heart attack as he tried to dig his way out of the cellar, the cops would find the Bosnian in the ravine, match the gun with Strumbić’s bullet wound, and solve a five-star cop-killer crime. Strumbić was a senior detective. The gun was probably one that had made such a mess in Karlovac. So unless the investigating officer was even dimmer than a September firefly, he’d have a brace of solved premier-league crimes under his belt. Who cared that the Mercedes married to the tree was
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