Scared to Live

was turned out nicely for the evening. She was glad she’d made a bit of an effort herself. Come to think of it, she might have been wearing the same cord blazer and hand-knitted alpaca cotton top that she’d put on tonight when she came here with Angie. She didn’t get many opportunities to wear them, and nothing else in her wardrobe had seemed suitable.

Kotsev looked at the menu. ‘Could you recommend anything?’

‘The confit of duck is excellent,’ she said, since it was the only thing she’d ever eaten here.

‘I think I will try a steak,’ he said.

Fry wondered if he’d read her ignorance so effortlessly.

‘What would you normally drink in Bulgaria?’

‘Our national drink is rakia — grape brandy. Or wine. People of this country are acquainted with Bulgarian red wine?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Our white wine is also delicious. But Bulgarian folklore presents a lot of songs about red wine and only one about white, which goes: “Oh, white wine, why are you not red?”’

Fry laughed. ‘You said you were born in a village. So your parents were country people, Sergeant Kotsev?’

‘Please. Call me Georgi.’

‘I’m Diane.’

‘Yes, I know.’

Kotsev’s brown eyes were rather sad when you came to look closely. The dark hairs on his wrist curled over the band of a gold watch, and his shirt cuffs were white and crisp. His clothes surely hadn’t come out of his suitcase like that. Fry could picture him ironing his shirts in his hotel room. Not many men could use an iron properly, but she bet that Kotsev did it very well.

‘You know, there were many different types of people in my family in the past,’ he said. ‘But mostly they were shepherds, goat chasers. Peasants, in other words. Sometimes men would come to our village from the city. If they wore long leather coats and had moustaches, we knew they were from the police, from the local administration or from the Party. The law was theirs. One word from them could have changed our lives. It’s difficult for you to understand the way we lived.’

Kotsev’s English wasn’t quite perfect, after all. She was starting to detect a tendency to pronounce the past tense of certain verbs as if there was an extra syllable on the end. Liv-ed. Chang- ed. She put it down to a lack of opportunity to practise conversation with native English speakers. It was understandable, too — since sometimes there was an extra syllable. Fry wondered whether she should correct him when he did it, or if he’d be offended. She decided not to mention it, unless he asked. It wasn’t a problem. In fact, she found it rather appealing.

‘Was this near Pleven?’ she said.

‘No, in the far south of our country, near the border with Greece. Quite a remote region of Bulgaria. No one spoke English there. Generally, it seems that all Bulgarians learn Russian, and a few learn German. But outside of Sofia, English is not commonly spoken. I was glad to go to the capital with my family. Otherwise, I might still be living with the goats.’ He put down the menu. ‘Have you chosen?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

Kotsev looked at the waiter across the restaurant. That was all he seemed to do, yet the man was instantly at their table to take their order.

‘But it’s good to know a little of your family history,’ he said a few minutes later. ‘My grandfather worked in a macaroni factory. When we were living in the countryside, my father used to talk of a girl, the daughter of a jeweller. I think he fell in love with her, you know. But they could never have married. Her family were bourgeois exiles from Sofia.’

‘Bourgeois?’

‘Yes. You understand what that means?’

‘Of course.’

Fry hadn’t heard the expression ‘bourgeois’ for a long time. Not since her student days, when there were still some old-fashioned Socialists around in Birmingham. It sounded rather quaint now.

‘Sadly, my mother died when I was very young,’ said Kotsev. ‘I don’t remember much of her. Only a green scarf with glittering threads woven through it. And I remember she had beautiful teeth. As white as Greek cheese, my father used to say.’

‘Good grief, what sort of compliment is that?’

‘A simple one, but honestly meant.’

A bottle of wine arrived, and Kotsev waited while it was poured.

‘As for my father,’ he said. ‘The memory from my childhood is a smell — a Soviet aftershave, which I think was called Tachanka.’ He smiled. ‘And you, Diane?’

‘Me?’

‘You say you don’t belong in this rural area?’

‘No, I’m from the Black Country. That’s near the city of Birmingham. An urban area, with a lot of people. Over a million.’

‘I see.’ He took a drink of wine. ‘And what of your parents?’

‘My parents?’ said Fry. ‘Like you, I remember almost nothing of them.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Almost nothing.’

Kotsev waited patiently, but realized she wasn’t going to say any more. When the waiter returned, they ate quietly for a few moments. Fry supposed she ought to ask him what he thought of the food. But food didn’t interest her much as a topic of conversation.

‘What exactly is your role in Pleven now, Georgi?’

‘Oh, you wish to talk business?’ he said.

‘I’d like to know how the Zhivko brothers might fit in to our present enquiry. Can you fill me in on some background?’

‘Ah, the Zhivkos — our dear friends Anton and Lazar. They were previously suspected of being engaged in a great number of criminal activities in my own country.’

‘Yes?’

Kotsev’s smile became quizzical as he hesitated under her expectant gaze.

‘There are many issues involved, Diane.’

‘Tell me some of them, at least.’

He nodded. ‘Well, as I mentioned, I’ve been working in co-operation with our colleagues at Europol for some time. Bulgaria is not a member of the European Union yet, you understand, but we co-operate nevertheless. We value their expertise in organized crime. A lot of events have been happening in my country, because of the EU.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Our government has been given conditions to meet before we will be allowed to join the EU. “Clean up your act,” they say. One of the things the EU does not like is our organized crime, our Mafia.’

‘Is organized crime such a big problem in Bulgaria?’

‘A big problem?’ Kotsev laughed. ‘You might say that. There are certain people who have become very rich running crime in my country. They grow so rich that they buy football clubs, or casinos in Sunny Beach. They rule their kingdoms by violence — punishment beatings, shootings. These are very ruthless men, and very powerful. The mutras, we call them. Clever and cruel killers.’

‘Mutras?’

‘In Bulgarian, mutra means “ugly face”. If you saw these people, you would understand. Many of them were out-of-work body builders or wrestlers who had to look for alternative employment. So they learned to shoot guns and joined forces with shady businessmen to exploit Bulgaria after the Change. You know what I mean by the Change? The events of 1989?’

‘Oh, the end of Communism.’

Kotsev nodded. ‘Well, these people made a big name for themselves by offering security to businesses — for