The Exiled (22 page)

WAS THIS PERHAPS ONE OF THE BEST
evenings of my life? wondered Anna as she went to bed later that night. She had forgotten all about numbers, about refugees and about unsolved murders. After dinner the whole family had sat on the patio chatting and drinking wine. They’d talked about everything under the sun: good books; the local Kanizsa gossip; the Finnish lakes; Kata’s new pole-dancing hobby; the pig at her mother’s friend’s house that dug up onion bulbs and demanded to be scratched whenever someone walked into the yard. Nobody brought up difficult, painful subjects. Not because they deliberately wanted to avoid them but because they simply didn’t occur to anyone on that gentle, warm summer’s evening. Ákos drank tea. Kata’s children had been put to bed in Áron’s old room. They’d been a little shy at first, sneaking glances at Anna, cautious but curious. But with a little encouragement from Ákos and Kata they soon relaxed and started chattering and giggling. Their funny comments and questions seemed to make the evening even more pleasant. Children can actually be quite wonderful, thought Anna, and couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so at ease.

But another reality awaited her in her bedroom. The night beyond her window was pitch black, and an unfamiliar star had risen into the sky. Anna stared at the fragments of the investigation she’d taped to the wall. Her laughing father looked at her from beside the faceless, grey-haired man. Anna had taken a thick felt pen, written the series of numbers she’d heard from the priest on a piece of paper and attached it to the wall, but now she couldn’t concentrate properly. The wine and tiredness kept pressing her eyelids shut and she didn’t want to let go of the elated emotions that the dinner she’d shared with her family had given her. But she knew she had to carry on. She would not give up. She went to the bathroom and took a quick, cold shower, which invigorated her just enough for her to get back to work for a while.

She tried to make sense of the numbers by imagining dots and spaces between them. After weighing up all the possibilities she could think of, she was almost certain that the beginning of the series represented a date and a time. 61423. Could that be tomorrow evening at eleven?

She let the internet make sense of the rest of the numbers. The results were startling, but fitted the picture perfectly. Coordinates. The GPS on her telephone placed a red dot only a few kilometres from her house – on the banks of the Tisza between Kanizsa and the small village of Martonos.

ANNA MET KOVÁCS GÁBOR
in a café on Fő utca. Gábor was already sitting on the terrace drinking his coffee when Anna arrived. She apologised for being late and allowed the policeman to order her a cappuccino and a mineral water. Sitting at the next table were four dark-haired young men having an animated conversation in Arabic and fiddling with their smartphones. Anna noted their brand-new estate car and fashionable T-shirts. They will be the talk of the town, she thought.

Anna and Gábor exchanged the compulsory pleasantries and talked about the weather and the flowering of the Tisza, which everyone in town was awaiting impatiently. Gábor told her that people came from abroad to marvel at the swarms of insects. ‘Though it looks like this year the audience will consist mostly of Syrians and that lot,’ he said and nodded towards the group of young men. ‘That’s if they have any interest in such things.’

To her relief, Anna noted that there was no hint of disgust or scorn in his voice. Anna’s first impression of a stiff and somewhat arrogant man, old-fashioned and with unflinching opinions, was beginning to change. Gábor planned on taking his boat out on the Tisza as soon as word came that the flowering had started.

‘It’s so beautiful out there, it’s quite moving,’ he said, almost dreamily. ‘But there was something important you wanted to talk about,’ he continued.

‘Yes. I’ve been thinking a lot about my father’s death. It’s really bugging me. I’d like you to tell me everything there is to know about it.’

‘Why is it suddenly bugging you now?’ asked Gábor, a little confused.

Anna wondered whether to mention the rumours she’d heard; she decided against it.

‘It probably has something to do with finding my roots. At some point we all want to know more about our family history, don’t we?’ said Anna.

‘That’s true enough. My wife and I have started looking into our own family history. We’ve been reconstructing our family trees for years, and you wouldn’t believe the interesting things that have come up. For instance, my wife’s great-grandfather on her mother’s side was a general in the Austro-Hungarian army, and nobody knew anything about it. We went to Vienna to look through the old archives and found—’

‘Did you investigate my father’s death?’ Anna interrupted him. She had no interest in the Kovács family’s aristocratic ancestors and she didn’t want to waste her time talking about them.

Gábor gave a sad, wistful smile. ‘No. I wanted to, but I was recused because I was far too close to your father. Besides, I was in shock. To tell the truth I was utterly devastated. Beside myself.’

‘I heard there was a substantial sum of money found at the place where he was shot. What happened to that money?’

Gábor thought back for a moment. ‘The state confiscated it. It belonged to the mafia.’

‘So you were both looking into the case?’

‘Yes; or rather we were both involved in the larger investigation. It was a big case.’

‘What happened then?’

‘A few mid-level and grassroots operatives were eventually sentenced. The big fish got away. Typically.’

‘Who shot my father?’

‘One of those gypsy rats. Lakatos János was his name. He’d got himself mixed up with the mafia crowd. He was a small-time crook – already had a few convictions for theft. One of the police’s old acquaintances, you might say. It took us all a bit by surprise that small fry like him was involved in such a high-profile case. You don’t normally see the gypsies working together with the white mafia.’

‘What were you doing that evening?’

‘I was afraid you might ask that, Anna. It’s plagued me for years.’ Gábor looked pained. He squeezed the napkin in his hand. Anna stared at the liver spots on his weather-beaten hands and waited for him to continue.

‘I was supposed to be with him that evening.’

‘Really? What happened?’

‘I didn’t know what he was planning. He hadn’t told anyone.’

Anna could see the man was trying in vain to hold back his emotions. A large tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek; he wiped it away immediately.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Gábor unable to prevent a sob.

The young men at the next table turned to look.

‘I … I didn’t know he’d gone out there. If only I’d … Damn it. I was at the station, writing up case reports in my office. It was a quiet night and I had a backlog of paperwork to get done. Your father disappeared while I was sitting there and I didn’t notice a thing.’

Gábor blew his nose and dried his eyes. He drew a series of deep breaths to steady himself, took a gulp of coffee and continued.

‘Back then the mafia wielded a lot of power round here, and, like I said, we were investigating one branch of their operations – in this case, dodgy building work. At some point István turned a bit mysterious. He wouldn’t tell me everything he knew or suspected. At first I didn’t think anything of it – he wasn’t the most talkative guy to start with and he liked to investigate things by himself. But later on, after he’d died, I began to wonder what was really going on. I heard rumours but I didn’t want to believe them. I still don’t want to believe them.’

‘Such as what?’ Anna was getting restless. She could sense that she would soon hear something vitally important.

‘I probably shouldn’t talk about it. They were just rumours. There was never any evidence.’

‘Tell me. I want to hear everything, even rumours.’

‘Very well. There was a rumour at the time that someone close to
him – close to us, that is – was involved with the mafia. That would explain why he didn’t tell me what he was doing.’

‘Was the chief of police working here back then?’ Anna asked immediately.

A pained expression flashed across Gábor’s face.

‘Yes, although he wasn’t the chief back then. But I simply can’t believe … No, Anna. Now you’re letting your imagination get the better of you. He was a low-level traffic cop at that time.’

‘Where is the farm where this happened? I want to see it,’ said Anna.

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

‘No, but I want to see the place all the same.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No, but thank you for the offer. Does anyone live there nowadays?’

‘Not to my knowledge. I think it’s been empty ever since…’ Gábor again tried to hold back his tears and stared far into the distance. ‘If only István had told me what he was up to.’

‘You might have been shot too if you’d been there.’

‘Or I might have been able to save his life. Can you imagine what it’s been like, having to live with that thought? And to see you here now, a poor fatherless girl?’

‘How do I get to the farm?’

Gábor sighed. ‘Anna, are you absolutely sure you want to do this? If you ask me, you’re just torturing yourself.’

‘I’m not sure of anything any longer. Although I do know that I want to understand my past…’

Gábor explained how to get to the farmstead. Anna was confident she would find it, even though there was no marked road, just a dirt track leading up to the house, as was the case with so many farms out in the
puszta
. The farmland between Velebit and Kanizsa was immense, but Anna had walked round that area so many times with Réka, she could just about picture where the farm was. Maybe it’s not wise to go out there, thought Anna, but I have to see the place where my father spent his final moments.

AT FIRST ANNA COULDN’T FIND
the farmstead. She drove slowly along the tracks that scored the
puszta
, admiring the monotonous countryside that opened up around her almost like a lunar landscape.

Eventually she had to stop at a small farm to ask for directions. A group of shaggy dogs – a black puli and two small brown terriers – came bounding up to the car and informed the people indoors that someone had appeared in the yard. A small, old man stepped into the garden, lit a cigarette and looked warily at Anna and her white rented car. A few geese waddled across the garden, pecking the ground for something to eat, harassed by a clutch of chickens. Anna explained what she was doing, and the man told her that the farm she was looking for was two kilometres away and that it was empty.

‘Are you going to buy it?’ he asked her.

‘Maybe, but I want to see it first,’ Anna replied.

‘It’s only on the market for ten thousand.’

‘Do you know who owns it?’

‘A rich man in Szabadka, apparently. An artist, he is, or something like that. Never visits the place. I can find his name in case you want to get in touch.’

‘Thank you, that would be kind. Has he always owned the farm?’

‘No. If I remember rightly, he bought it sometime in the late 1990s.’

‘I’ve been looking for a farm for a long time, a summer place for me and my family. I imagine it needs a lot of work,’ said Anna, surprised at how easily she lied through her teeth.

‘It’s been empty for a good while now. But as far as I know it’s still in pretty good shape. It’s still standing, that’s something.’

‘I heard that some terrible things happened there once,’ said Anna.

‘You mean the policeman’s murder? That was decades ago.’

‘Did you live here back then?’

‘Yes, and I remember the day it happened very well. We heard on
the news that shots had been fired. My wife was frantic. She was still wanting to keep the doors locked for weeks after.’

‘Did you hear the shot? Or did you see anything that evening?’

‘I didn’t hear anything; we live a bit too far away. But I saw the headlights of two cars driving across the
puszta
.’

‘What cars were they?’

‘First, I saw one set of lights heading towards the farm and soon after that another set. It caught my attention because we see so little traffic out this way. It was quiet back then. Still is. The road to the farm runs along there.’ The man pointed to the fields far off to the west. ‘In the dark you can see any headlights quite clearly.’

Anna thanked the man, agreed that she’d stop on her way back to pick up the name of the farm’s owner and drove off in the direction the man had shown her. Before long she found the farmstead in precisely the location where the farmer had said.

The farmhouse itself was stunning. Its white roughcast had begun to crumble in places, but the roof was in one piece and all the windows were intact. In the yard stood two large outhouses and a cowshed, which was in the worst condition of all the buildings; it was about to collapse.

Anna tried the front door of the farmhouse, but it was locked. She walked round the building, looking in through every window. The house was empty. It contained five rooms, arranged one leading into the next, and had thick wooden floorboards and decorative rafters on the ceiling. It was beautiful.

Anna took some photographs, then went to examine the outhouses. It was in one of these buildings that her father had died, here that he’d been shot to death. How had it happened? Anna didn’t know whether her father had been killed by a single, carefully aimed bullet, or by a random volley of machine-gun fire. Did he have time to register that he was about to die? Had he suffered? Did he lie there in agony? Why did he come out here by himself? I would never do something like that, she thought. Though I’m here by myself now. The now-familiar, uneasy shivers ran the length of her arms, even
though the air was stiflingly hot. She’d learnt that this meant she could be in danger.

The doors were locked with thick chains and padlocks, but a small window behind one of the outhouses was broken and there was just enough room for Anna to squeeze through the gap. It was dark and cool inside the building, almost cold, like walking into a stone church on a hot day. The broken window cast a thin strip of light on the concrete floor, and the air was thick with decades of dust. All around her was junk covered in cobwebs and dirt; farming machinery, spare parts, boxes and pieces of wood were all piled up along the far wall, but other than that the space was empty. Is this where it had happened?

A scratching sound came from the corner. A large rat pattered along the wall, its nose twitching. Anna gave a start and the rat darted into hiding. Once her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, she went through the building, opening up some of the boxes and peering beneath and behind the bits of machinery, as though she were looking for something – perhaps a shadow, perhaps a memory hidden between the dark walls – something that had stayed behind to haunt her. She found nothing. The building remained silent. Anna sat down on the rough concrete floor, her back to the small window, the faint light trying to force its way inside and disrupt the quiet, motionless atmosphere of the room. She lay down and stretched herself out, the cool of the concrete against her back, the smell of damp and mould covering her as she closed her eyes. The rustling of the rat had stopped. Outside she could hear the sound of faint birdsong. Her thoughts scurried fleetingly here and there. She would have to go to the river that evening, she thought, and felt as though she didn’t have the energy, that all she wanted was to lie here and sleep.

The beep of her phone brought her back to reality. She couldn’t say how long she’d lain there. Her back felt cold and numbed. She’d received a text message. A shiver made the fair hairs on her arms stand on end. Judit’s message contained two names: Farkas Lajos and Bakró Bertalan. One was serving a life sentence in the Szabadka town jail, the other had been dead for years.