when they fled over the mountains into Albania. She wished she’d fought at her brother’s side with the KLA and caught the bullet he caught. She wished the plane had crashed and killed everybody on board. She wished…she wished…she wished in vain.
For the plane hadn’t crashed. She escaped the soldiers and the bullets and survived the dangerous trek over the Prokletije Mountains. She was special. Millions hadn’t survived, and she owed it to them to keep their stories alive. Next morning she set to work. She systematically left her finger and palm prints on every surface in the two rooms. She pressed her hands on every inch of every wall. Sheleft prints on top of the door, down the jamb and under the drawers. When she’d finished there wasn’t a square foot of surface that was without her secret signature. There was no doctor, of that she was now sure, and they would probably murder her, but no matter how well they cleaned that room, proof of her imprisonment would always remain. She was bleeding slightly, so she left traces of her blood on the wall, behind the bed head. A light bulb had failed in the bathroom, so she left her mark on that, too.
The man with the limp came back later that day, but he didn’t lay a finger on her. ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘you work for me and do as you’re told. Remember, we have friends over there, and what would your parents think if they knew how you were earning your living? Clean yourself up and look nice for tomorrow night. I have a client for you. Just one, to start with. He’s not a proper doctor but he’s interested in anatomy.’ He laughed but she did not understand.
‘Duggie will come for you,’ he went on, and she flinched at the sound of the name. Duggie was the bigger of the two men who brought the beer.
‘Ah, you don’t like Duggie, eh?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘That’s alright. He won’t hurt you. If he ever touches you again, let me know and I’ll deal with him. Understand?’
‘Yes. I think.’
‘Good girl. From now on, I protect you. Comprendez ?’
‘Yes. I understand.’ She did, and it was almost a relief.
The press office collected all the obituary announcements and I found them on my desk when I returned from Gilbert’s morning meeting. Also with them was a report from John Rose about Selina Wallenberg, saying she had a conviction for running a house of ill repute in Kensington, back in the Eighties. I marked it for filing and turned back to the new case and the obituaries. Anthony Turnbull Krabbe, OBE they were headed. I read each one carefully, then spread them out and read them again. The one from The Times was the most fulsome, probably because he’d reported directly to them from some of his trips. His record of first climbs was impressive and his bag of peaks over 8,000 metres put him in the top echelons of the sport. He was the complete climber, we were told. Be it on rock, ice, Alpine dash or big expedition, he was always up there with the best. His latest book, Kingdoms of the Gods, ( £ 28, Times Books) was amasterpiece, and for the last few years he’d concentrated his efforts on fundraising for various charities.
I pinned them together with a compliments slip and directed them towards the incident room. They could go on the wall for the others to read. I wasn’t sure how much of what they said was typical hyperbole, dredged up when any celebrity died, or whether he was really up there with the greats.
‘Wallenberg,’ John Rose announced as he came into my office.
‘I got your note on his wife,’ I said, gesturing for him to sit down and handed the cuttings to him.
‘Good. She’s been round the block a couple of times. What are these?’
‘Tony Krabbe’s obituaries. They make him sound like something between Neil Armstrong and Nelson Mandela. What have you got?’
‘Quite a bit, some of it off the record.’
‘OK, start with the concrete stuff.’
‘Right. First of all, he sponsored Krabbe to the tune
For the plane hadn’t crashed. She escaped the soldiers and the bullets and survived the dangerous trek over the Prokletije Mountains. She was special. Millions hadn’t survived, and she owed it to them to keep their stories alive. Next morning she set to work. She systematically left her finger and palm prints on every surface in the two rooms. She pressed her hands on every inch of every wall. Sheleft prints on top of the door, down the jamb and under the drawers. When she’d finished there wasn’t a square foot of surface that was without her secret signature. There was no doctor, of that she was now sure, and they would probably murder her, but no matter how well they cleaned that room, proof of her imprisonment would always remain. She was bleeding slightly, so she left traces of her blood on the wall, behind the bed head. A light bulb had failed in the bathroom, so she left her mark on that, too.
The man with the limp came back later that day, but he didn’t lay a finger on her. ‘From now on,’ he said, ‘you work for me and do as you’re told. Remember, we have friends over there, and what would your parents think if they knew how you were earning your living? Clean yourself up and look nice for tomorrow night. I have a client for you. Just one, to start with. He’s not a proper doctor but he’s interested in anatomy.’ He laughed but she did not understand.
‘Duggie will come for you,’ he went on, and she flinched at the sound of the name. Duggie was the bigger of the two men who brought the beer.
‘Ah, you don’t like Duggie, eh?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘That’s alright. He won’t hurt you. If he ever touches you again, let me know and I’ll deal with him. Understand?’
‘Yes. I think.’
‘Good girl. From now on, I protect you. Comprendez ?’
‘Yes. I understand.’ She did, and it was almost a relief.
The press office collected all the obituary announcements and I found them on my desk when I returned from Gilbert’s morning meeting. Also with them was a report from John Rose about Selina Wallenberg, saying she had a conviction for running a house of ill repute in Kensington, back in the Eighties. I marked it for filing and turned back to the new case and the obituaries. Anthony Turnbull Krabbe, OBE they were headed. I read each one carefully, then spread them out and read them again. The one from The Times was the most fulsome, probably because he’d reported directly to them from some of his trips. His record of first climbs was impressive and his bag of peaks over 8,000 metres put him in the top echelons of the sport. He was the complete climber, we were told. Be it on rock, ice, Alpine dash or big expedition, he was always up there with the best. His latest book, Kingdoms of the Gods, ( £ 28, Times Books) was amasterpiece, and for the last few years he’d concentrated his efforts on fundraising for various charities.
I pinned them together with a compliments slip and directed them towards the incident room. They could go on the wall for the others to read. I wasn’t sure how much of what they said was typical hyperbole, dredged up when any celebrity died, or whether he was really up there with the greats.
‘Wallenberg,’ John Rose announced as he came into my office.
‘I got your note on his wife,’ I said, gesturing for him to sit down and handed the cuttings to him.
‘Good. She’s been round the block a couple of times. What are these?’
‘Tony Krabbe’s obituaries. They make him sound like something between Neil Armstrong and Nelson Mandela. What have you got?’
‘Quite a bit, some of it off the record.’
‘OK, start with the concrete stuff.’
‘Right. First of all, he sponsored Krabbe to the tune
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