The Eyewitness by Stephen Leather Page B

was a good friend of Nicole's?” he asked.
    “I think he had a crush on her, like a lovesick puppy,” Mrs. Berisha told him.
    Solomon took out his wallet and placed his business card on the table next to her.
    “I know it's unlikely, Nana, but if Nicole gets in touch with you, can you phone me? Or get her to call me?”
    Kimete translated.
    “After three years? You think' after all this time she'll come back?”
    “It's possible.”
    The old woman made a moue, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth.
    “I'll keep your card, but don't hold your breath.”
    Solomon was heading out of his office when one of the typists called after him.
    “Mr. Solomon! Phone!”
    Solomon groaned. He was already late for an appointment with the chief forensics officer and he had to get to the other side of the city.
    “Who is it?”
    “He wouldn't say,” said the typist, a forty something battle axe of a woman with savagely permed hair.
    “A boy, I think.”
    It had been more than a week since Solomon had visited Teuter Berisha's cottage, but he knew immediately who was on the line and hurried back to his desk.
    “This is Jack Solomon,” he said. There was no reply, just a static buzz on the line.
    “Hello?” he said.
    “This is Jack Solomon.”
    “Nicole isn't dead,” said a small voice.
    Solomon racked his brains for the boy's name.
    “I hope that's true,” he said. Had the old woman even told him what it was? Perhaps not.
    “But she doesn't want anyone looking for her.”
    “You've spoken to her?”
    “She wants to be left alone,” said the boy, ignoring Solomon's question.
    “Can I see you?” asked Solomon.
    “I need to talk to you.”
    “Why?”
    “Because there are things we have to talk about. What happened on the farm, what happened to Nicole's family. We can't let the people who did it get away with it.”
    “There's no point,” said the boy flatly.
    “No point in what?” pressed Solomon.
    “In catching the men or meeting me?”
    “Both. Neither. I don't know, you're trying to trick me.”
    “I'm not,” said Solomon.
    “I just want to talk to you, face to face. Look, I can drive to where you are. I can be there in two hours.”
    “No!” said the boy.
    “I don't want Nana to know that I've been talking to you.”
    “Well, come and see me.”
    “I can't go to Sarajevo on my own. And I have to take food to Nana before it gets dark.”
    “Tell me a place, then,” said Solomon, reaching for a notepad and pen.
    “I only want to talk.”
    There was a long pause. All Solomon could hear was the boy's ragged breathing.
    “You know the bridge with all the bullet-holes just outside the village?” the boy said eventually.
    “Yes.”
    “Don't go over the bridge. Turn to the right and drive about a hundred metres. There's an old barn there. It was burnt down but the walls are still standing.”
    “I'll find it,” said Solomon.
    “I can be there in two hours. I'll see you there, yeah?”
    The line went dead. Solomon replaced the receiver.
    “You okay, Jack?”
    Solomon flinched.
    “Hell, Jack, didn't mean to startle you.” It was Chuck Miller.
    “You didn't. I just had something on my mind that's all.”
    Miller was holding a steaming mug. He gestured at the phone.
    “Important?”
    “Could be. It's that Pristina case. The truck.”
    Miller frowned.
    “I thought we were done with that. All identified, right?”
    “Yeah, they were all members of the same family.” Solomon jerked a thumb at the telephone.
    “That was a boy who's been in touch with one of the survivors.”
    “Which involves you how?”
    “She might have seen something.”
    “So what's that to do with you? The remains are identified, we inform the relatives and the Tribunal, and we move on.” Remains. Miller always said 'remains'. Solomon had never once heard him refer to 'victims', or 'bodies'. And he never used names. Ever. It was either their reference number, or 'remains'. "Remains': that which was left behind after the