The Bone Road E-Book

N.E. Solomons

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 460

Beschreibung

Longlisted for the Crime Writers' Association Gold Dagger Award 2023 ON THE ROAD TO DISCOVERY, EVEN THE DEAD HAVE SECRETS.  High up on a mountain road in the Balkans, former Olympic cyclist Heather Bishop races her journalist boyfriend Ryan. But when he suddenly disappears during the ride, suspicion falls on her.  Local police inspector Simo Subotić already has his hands full investigating two mutilated bodies that have washed up on the banks of the River Drina. Something is telling him that these two cases are connected but nothing could prepare him for what is to come.  Only together can Simo and Heather hope to uncover the truth in time. Their search not only exposes the darkness of Ryan's past but exhumes dangerous secrets of a region still reeling from the trauma of war. Are some secrets so devastating that they should remain buried?

Leseprobe

THE BONE ROAD

Praise for the author’s previous work:

‘A well-paced narrative filled with surprises’

Observer

‘Solomons’ prose is lyrical and her detail immense’

Press Association

‘Oh, my god, I love this book’

JOHN IRONMONGER, AUTHOR OF

Not Forgetting the Whale

‘Rich in atmosphere and character’

Woman & Home

‘Vivid and poignant’

Psychologies

THE BONE ROAD

N. E. SOLOMONS

First published in paperback inGreat Britain in 2022 by Polygon,an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

Birlinn Ltd

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © Natasha Solomons, 2022

The right of Natasha Solomons to be identified as

the author of this work has been asserted in

accordance with the Copyright,

Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978 1 84697 614 8

eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 510 5

Typeset in Adobe Garamond by Polygon, Edinburgh

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.

In cycling it is often said that the rider who suffers longest, wins.

PROLOGUE

The second body was washed up out of the River Drina in the dawn light. Two fishermen found it sprawled on some rocks as they dawdled for early morning carp. It was one of Inspektor Simo Subotić’s own favourite fishing spots, and it seemed less sacrosanct, tarnished and bloodied by the discovery of the swollen and headless corpse. Simo stepped closer and peered down at the unidentified body, the Petar Petrović, what the Americans called a John Doe. The cadaver was naked except for a pair of torn and filthy Y-fronts, and bloated from the water. As Simo stepped closer he saw immediately that the body also lacked hands and feet.

They’d found the first body six weeks ago, two miles downstream, caught in mooring lines. Part of a torso only, and it had been in the water for so long and deteriorated so much that the pathologist was unable to determine cause of death, or whether the damage to the body was ante-mortem or post-mortem and, if it was post-mortem, whether it was a result of being in the river – limbs softening, rotting tissue being hit by boat propellers or rocks, nibbled by fish until they fell away – or whether they’d been removed deliberately. The picturesque Sokolović bridge at Višegrad, only twenty miles upstream, was both a World Heritage Site and a favourite suicide spot. Damaged bodies fished out of the river were both tragic and commonplace. Simo couldn’t entirely blame the coroner for leaving his verdict open.

Yet this time Simo had little doubt. Whoever had dumped this man’s body in the water didn’t want him easily identified when he turned up. He wondered, uneasy, whether these bodies were only the ones that they would find. Two headless, mutilated bodies within weeks was unusual, even along this stretch of river. There wasn’t much they could do, however, to test his hunch except wait and see if there was another body. Dredging the Drina or sending divers was an impossible task. The river was fast and wide, hundreds of kilometres long and forceful enough to power several hydroelectric plants.

Several officers were combing the riverbank but Simo held out little hope – the unfortunate soul had merely washed up here. He was certain he had been dumped upstream and that the real crime scene was elsewhere. The officers combing the site had clearly taken the same view, as to his dismay they were sharing a cigarette as they scrabbled among the rocks and mud.

‘Put it out!’ he ordered, outraged.

Grumbling, they obeyed.

Simo glanced up at the sky. It was light now. Cold and bright. The wide river glittered, startlingly green, twisting amongst the rocks in a mass of foam and spray. An icy breeze blew from the east, carrying with it the stench of death.

Later that afternoon, Simo stood in the autopsy room observing while the eager pathologist re-stitched the Y-incision in the anonymous Petar Petrović’s chest and abdomen. Simo was a man used to unspeakable things, but this was a particularly unpleasant autopsy, as the body had been in the river for so long. He watched in silence as the pathologist, a young Serb who couldn’t be much over thirty, struggled to fill in the required form. There was no head or brain to weigh, no contusions to assess. No fingers to print. No feet to measure for boot size.

‘He’s fifty or fifty-five from the bone density. About your age, Inspektor,’ said the pathologist, and Simo looked at him dubiously, wondering if he was trying to make a joke.

As Simo peered closely he noticed damage to the upper legs. It looked like . . .

‘Is that a dog bite?’

‘Yes. I think so,’ agreed the pathologist. ‘I thought, at first, it might be post-mortem damage, from flotsam in the river, but it isn’t. These are definitely teeth marks from a large dog. And on the wrists, see?’

With some reluctance Simo stepped closer.

‘Defensive wounds. Likely from the same attack,’ continued the pathologist. ‘And he’s been badly beaten. Several broken ribs.’

Simo nodded, listening as the pathologist listed further injuries. Historic fractures – and new ones from more recent beatings. What had happened to this man? Where had he been? He had fought for his life, over and over. Something uneasy stirred deep inside Simo. He’d seen wounds like this before, but not for nearly twenty-six years. The pathologist was far too young to recognise them. Simo studied the pattern of injuries with a ghastly stirring of recognition. He closed his eyes and took a breath. If he had been religious, he would have muttered a prayer.

‘How long ago do you think our Petar Petrović died?’ he asked.

‘Two weeks. A couple of days either side. It’s hard to be exact with this level of decomp.’

Simo stared at the body on the table, puzzled and unsettled. He’d hoped never to see such things again.

1

On the flight to Sarajevo, Heather had sipped a gin and tonic and imagined Ryan’s reaction when she knocked on his hotel room door, his surprise and delight when he opened it to find her standing there with her suitcase. Before each work trip over the last year, he’d pleaded with her to come out and join him as he covered the Tour de France or the Giro, until she’d finally decided to surprise him, bringing out their bikes so they could explore the Balkans for a few days. Things hadn’t been great for the last few months. She had made a remarkable physical recovery, one that any regular person would be thrilled by. But Heather wasn’t a regular person, or at least she didn’t used to be. It felt to her like she’d been robbed of her superpowers. As well as more ordinary things like her ability to remember which bus to catch. Everything annoyed her. Except Ryan. Even in the bleakest moments he could make her laugh with a filthy joke. And this gesture would show him how much she cared. However, when it came to it, as she stood in the corridor of the Best Western, heart pounding with glee, smile tickling her lips, and he opened the door, he was anything but pleased.

He stood there in his socks, absolutely still, his eyes widening with horror. She searched for another word for it, but no, that was it. Horror. For the briefest moment she wondered if there was another woman inside, and she’d caught him. Everyone told her how he used to be a player before they’d met. But, that had all changed after they’d got together. He hadn’t left her side, not for months after it happened. Of course there wasn’t anyone there. She peered round into the room. He was alone. He hadn’t been drinking either.

Before she could accuse him of ingratitude or worse, a smooth mask of delight slid down across his tanned features and he hugged her and kissed and took her out to dinner and they came back and had sex – good sex. Yet later, as she lay in bed, listening to the rhythmic sound of his breathing as he slept, or pretended to, Heather was haunted by the expression of dismay on his face when he had seen her standing there. A look of fear and dread.

When she woke the next morning, Ryan was up before her. He thrust a cup of coffee at her and kissed her on the nose.

‘I’m taking the day off. I’ve a bit of leave for the end of the tour and it can just start early. Freddie can cover the rest of the tour. Let’s go exploring. Let’s just get on a train and go to Mostar.’

‘Okay, but I want to ride around Bjelašnica for a few days first. This place is beautiful and I’ve heard the biking is amazing.’

Ryan was bouncing on his toes, his eyes oddly bright. ‘Come on, let’s go to Mostar.’

‘Why? I’ve brought the bikes all the way out here, and suddenly you want to leave? Well, I’m riding here for a few days with or without you,’ said Heather, annoyed. She sighed, a lump building in her throat. She really didn’t want to fight. She’d come out here to be with him and to remember the good times.

To her intense relief he threw up his hands.

‘I’m sorry. You’re right. Of course I’ll come with you. I’m being ridiculous. Mostar after?’

‘Sounds perfect.’ She gazed at him in happiness. Of course he was pleased she was here. She’d caught him off guard, that was all. ‘I love you. Let’s watch the finish of today’s stage together. I like watching you work,’ she declared with sudden ebullience.

He stared at her, taken aback. ‘Are you sure you’re ready?’

In truth, she wasn’t, but she nodded anyway, it was too late to take it back. ‘Yeah. It’ll be good to see the old gang. It’s about time.’

She glanced away, so that he couldn’t see her face. She clenched her fists behind her back, digging her nails into her flesh.

In the small village at the foothills of Bjelašnica, Heather looked around. It was better than she expected to be in the mêlée before a race again, even if she was on the wrong side of the barrier, amongst the journalists rather than the riders. Several of them were pleased to see her; Freddie hugged her so tightly, she had to ask him to release her. Yet, she sensed a wariness amongst some of Ryan’s colleagues. Two or three watched her unsmilingly. She supposed that they were probably supporters of Jessie, or else they’d witnessed one of her outbursts. Heather used to have perfect self-control, but since the accident, when riled by an absurd or intrusive question, she’d been known to really lose her temper. Ryan remained staunchly by her side. Probably worried she was going to freak out. Although, to be fair, so was she. Just a bit.

‘I don’t want to stay with the press pack. I want to be in the middle of the crowd. It’s more fun,’ said Heather.

It was partly true. She also wanted to be far from people she knew, just in case she did have one of her episodes. There was a good number of people there for a mountain stage. Heather liked that no barriers had been set up. She understood that lots of the riders didn’t like it – uneasy that the fans were literally in touching distance, but she always felt it was good for the sport for the stars and the followers to be as close as possible. It added to the thrill of the race.

They wandered away from the bar where the press pack was gathered to the heart of the crowd and elbowed their way to the front until they found a good vantage point. The narrow mountain road snuck through the village, snow-covered peaks rearing up on either side. It was unseasonably warm and the first spring flowers unfurled in the sunshine, and vendors hawked bottles of water and soft drinks and beer to the crowd. Scarlet banners in English and Cyrillic declared ‘WOMEN’S TOUR DE BALKANS’, and small children sitting on the broad shoulders of their fathers and uncles and grandfathers waved matching flags, eager for their first glimpse of the race, or simply delighting in the carnival atmosphere.

Heather peered down the road, listening for the sound of the official car, revealing that the riders were on their way. Silence. Only the happy chatter of the crowd and the wind rustling the pine trees lining the road on either side.

‘I’ve always had a penchant for these smaller races,’ said Ryan. ‘Better than being crammed in a press room with another five hundred sweaty journalists in front of a French television set, before running to climb onto an official bus with another fifty journos, in the vague hope of yelling a question at one of the riders at the finish.’

It was true, thought Heather, that standing here in the mountains on a bright spring morning listening to the burble of a few hundred joyful cycling fans, as well as many bemused but cheerful locals, had a lot of charm. Despite herself, Heather experienced the familiar pre-race tingle in her belly. Ryan reached for her hand and squeezed it.

‘How you doing?’ he asked, a note of anxiety in his voice.

‘Fine. Please stop fussing.’

Yet, as Heather glanced about, she noticed several police vans and a pack of police officers standing at the edge near the finish line. She nudged Ryan.

‘That’s not normal.’

He looked uneasy. ‘The Balkans have quite a past. Sometimes things get nasty. Tempers get testy, even at things like this. I guess they have to be careful.’

‘Okay,’ said Heather, unconvinced.

But, before she could say anything else, the race car appeared. The voice of the commentator boomed out of the loudspeaker. They were coming. It was a steep incline to this point . . . A good thirty-three percent gradient, and then a three-kilometre sprint on the flat to the end of the stage on the outskirts of the village. They should see the rider win the stage. She strained to hear who was in the lead. The commentator rattled away quickly on the loudspeaker. Jessie Taylor of Great Britain’s Team Pure JoozTM was out in front but only just. Jessie Taylor. The name made Heather shudder, like swallowing a shot of lemon juice. She tried to root for her old rival and former domestique. A Serbian rider was attacking Jessie and clinging to her wheel. The two were in a breakaway well ahead of the peloton of other cyclists, and, on hearing this, the crowd exploded. A local Balkan rider had a chance of winning over the British Olympic medal-winning favourite. At once, the contented Sunday afternoon good cheer shifted into something darker and more volatile.

‘Did you feel that?’ asked Heather.

‘Yeah,’ said Ryan. ‘It’s like being in the wrong stands at a local derby.’

Ryan grabbed Heather’s hand and he tried to take a step back, away from the edge of the road, and collided with a large man’s juddering belly. He apologised. The man said nothing, only grunted, eyeing him unsmiling. They looked around for the rest of the press pack. They were more than two hundred metres away, in a huddle at the other end of the street, chatting and laughing together at a safe distance from the crowd. Heather and Ryan couldn’t reach them quickly. There were far too many people now; more seemed to have emerged from the concrete houses and wooden chalets, all cheering, red-faced and staring intently at the road.

‘It’s fine,’ said Ryan, in a voice that didn’t sound fine. ‘This is the Balkans, not France. Cycling is pretty new here – no one really gives a damn about a road race, honey.’ He smiled at her, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. She’d never seen him so edgy.

‘Ryan,’ she said, ‘I’m fine. It really is okay. There’s police everywhere. Just relax and watch the race.’

She looked up the road, white and smooth against the taut blue sky. The leaders. Two tiny riders at the edge of the horizon. The spring sunshine spilled cool yellow light and flashed off the molten silver of the leader’s helmet as she came at the spectators, faster and faster. Behind her followed the second rider, bent low over the handlebars, attacking, determined to close the gap, chasing the leader down, relentless in her hunt. They hurtled along the road towards the onlookers, the rest of the peloton now appearing over the ridge, following in angry pursuit, the sound of their wheels a furious hornet’s buzz.

The first rider was past them in a second, in a spray of pebbles, and Heather felt the spurt of air from her slipstream. Then, the next rider, hardly any air between them as they sprinted on towards the finish line in the distance. The crowd was yelling, the noise frantic, somewhere between desperation and pleasure.

As Heather leaned forward, peering into the sun, trying to make out which rider was ahead and listening to the frenzied tones of the commentator, she was aware of yet more police vans pulling up several hundred yards ahead. It was odd. She’d never experienced anything like it in all her years of racing.

Jessie Taylor of Great Britaina, declared the announcer.

There was a buzz of dissatisfaction amongst the locals. Grumbles of discontent. Heather watched, with a pang of envy and regret sharp as a stitch, as Jessie’s teammates surged forward to congratulate her the moment they rode across the finish line. She remembered that rocket of adrenalin and bliss. Oh to have that again! Even one last time . . . But then, as the riders huddled around Jessie, police in blue uniforms and baseball caps swarmed amongst the assembled teams gathered beyond the finish line.

There was a racket from the sky, like a small explosion, and glancing up she saw a helicopter circling above. It wasn’t a police or news helicopter, but looked military perhaps, and it was in bad shape. It seemed remarkable that the machine could remain airborne. Ryan stared at it. The noise was tremendous. The boom filled the sky like thunder directly overhead. The helicopter landed on the road at a distance from the crowd, spitting up dust, and a few more policeman sauntered out – presumably more senior than those already on the ground. The rotor blades stopped, and the machine thankfully fell silent. The pilot hopped out – not in police uniform but jeans and a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, and lit a cigarette, idly surveying the scene.

As Heather watched, the police were upon the riders themselves, as well as the support teams, roughly pulling them apart and arresting them, yelling. The riders, masseurs, coaches, drivers were all being lined up and handcuffed and shouted at to sit on the ground with their hands in front of them. One or two of the younger riders looked like they might cry.

‘What the hell . . . ?’ asked Heather.

‘I have no idea,’ said Ryan. ‘Come on. We need to get to the press pack.’

As they hurried back to the press area, police cars raced down the empty road and stopped at the finish line. Heather glanced over her shoulder, staring as team managers remonstrated with the police in a multitude of European languages, gesticulating in fury. It achieved nothing, as the managers and support staff were arrested alongside the riders, handcuffed and herded into waiting police vans.

The crowd lost it. They were pushing and shoving and shouting in fury. Not only had the local favourite lost, but now this farce. A bottle whizzed past Heather’s ear. She ducked and swore. An elbow landed in her ribs, and she gave a whine of pain. Ryan gripped her hand tightly and tugged her through the crowd. There was a stink of beer and sweat and anger. She was being pushed and shoved, but Ryan would not let go of her. Her hand was slick with sweat and she fumbled for his fingers, trying not to lose him. More police sirens. A small child began to cry. Others, clearly, were deciding that they’d had enough, and the families began to drift away.

Taking advantage of a small break in the crush, Heather saw Freddie only fifty metres away. He waved, frantic.

Ryan grabbed her arm.

‘Come on.’

They ran, reaching the small cordoned off area outside a bar that had been designated the ‘press area’.

‘Doping?’ demanded Heather, when she saw Freddie.

He frowned. ‘Nah. Can’t be. That’s not a police matter. Must be something else. I’ll see if I can find someone local to brief us.’

They watched as a hundred riders and their support teams were made to sit down as searches were conducted. Some people were arrested and driven away. It was a large and coordinated operation.

‘There is no way this is doping,’ muttered Ryan.

Some of the crowd remained, curious, buying beers, settling in for the remainder of the afternoon, deciding that this was an alternate kind of entertainment, better even than a bike race. The cycling fans were angry, convinced that their race had been hijacked. A couple of men in yellow jerseys wandered over to the press pack and started to fire questions at the journalists.

‘No idea, mate,’ said Ryan with a shrug. ‘Sorry.’

One of the men in yellow noticed Heather. ‘Hey, Heather Bishop! Great to see you here. I was such a fan.’

Heather winced. She loathed it when people spoke about her in the past tense. She wasn’t actually dead. The man didn’t notice and continued to rattle away.

‘My brother-in-law had a T.B.I. but he didn’t make anything like recovery you have. He still needs a stick to walk. And he really struggles with depression and that now. But you’re all good, right?’

‘Great,’ she mumbled, trying to force a grin and not stare at her feet. She ought to be used to members of the public knowing her medical history. All the lurid details had been printed in the press, after all. The cycling fans were invariably kind and meant well, but she always detected a tug of pity. She felt Ryan watching her, ready to pounce and cut off the conversation, in case she lost it. She pushed down the anger that bubbled in the pit of her stomach like indigestion, and the buzz of resentment and anger in her ears that built and hummed like tinnitus.

She was saved from the awkwardness of the encounter by the arrival of a policeman. He was tall with thick greying hair. He ambled over, hands thrust into his pockets, and nodded amiably at the assembled press.

‘Good afternoon. I’m Inspektor Simo Subotić. I’ve been asked to come and tell you what is going on. This isn’t my case, but I speak the best English, so hey, lucky me, and lucky you. We received a tip that this race was being used to smuggle drugs into the Balkans. I can’t release any more than that at this stage without jeopardising the ongoing investigation.’

There was a groan from the reporters at the lack of actual information and then a cacophony of questions was instantly fired at Simo. He held up one hand with a peaceable shrug.

‘Hey. One at a time.’ He pointed at Freddie. ‘You.’ ‘What drugs? Which team? How?’

‘Can’t say. Don’t know. And couldn’t tell you, even if it was my case.’

A man joined Simo. He was wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and Heather recognised him as the pilot of the helicopter. He spoke to Simo in a low voice. Simo nodded then looked around the faces in the sunshine. ‘Anyone else?’

A classroom of hands shot up and Simo sighed. He pointed to a female journalist in dark sunglasses. ‘You there.’

‘Were there riders involved?’

‘Again. It’s not my case. I’m only talking to you because I speak the best English. But even if this was my case, I couldn’t say. This is going to be a very unsatisfactory question-andno-answer session. I’m enjoying this pleasant sunshine, and we can keep at it. But maybe you want to wait until the department releases a full statement about the afternoon’s events.’

Ryan’s hand was in the air. ‘Can you confirm that the drug was cocaine? And that you’ve found a stash in one of the support vehicles?’

Simo studied Ryan for a moment. ‘I can say nothing at this moment. As I said, you need to wait for the afternoon statement.’

Heather tugged on Ryan’s arm. ‘I’ve had enough.’

He nodded. ‘Okay, let’s get outta here.’

As they walked away, Heather looked at him. ‘Where did you hear that it was cocaine?’

Ryan shrugged. ‘You know me. I asked one of the local reporters. I’m good with languages.’ He smiled at her, and put his arm around her shoulders.

2

Heather was relieved to leave the chaos and confusion of the race behind them and ride out into the peace of the open road. By mutual agreement, she and Ryan barely discussed the previous day’s events. It cast a pall over breakfast. They were both subdued and saddened. Heather had dedicated her first life to racing, and she’d give anything to have her career back, so the thought that anyone would jeopardise the sport enraged her with numb fury. If she thought about it too much, it was going to spoil everything. She mustn’t get too upset. She mustn’t. Something was beginning to hum inside her skull.

Ryan had mapped out a full day’s riding but declined at first to say where they were heading. The route lay in the shadow of the mountains, creeping skywards, unlit by the morning sun. An old tractor had crashed over the rusted barrier some time ago, and no one had moved the carcass. It sprawled tyre-less, windows smashed, a warning to careless travellers.

‘I want to make a detour to see the old Olympic rings from the eihty-four Winter Games. They’re at the top of Bjelašnica peak. It’s a bit of schlep, but the view is astounding. All abandoned. It’s sad and weird – kinda poetic. Nothing else, just the rings and a derelict cable car station, on a mountaintop,’ said Ryan, peering into the glare through his Ray-Bans.

‘You’re kidding? A detour? For Olympic rings,’ said Heather, hurt.

Ryan clicked his chinstrap. ‘Okay, we won’t be able to get right to the top. We’d probably need to hire mountain bikes to get all the way up there, but we’ll get a great view even from the end of the road.’

‘Ryan, I don’t want to see the rings.’

‘I know, honey. But I think you should.’

He pedalled off, ending the discussion, and Heather had little choice but to follow. Her legs were tired; they felt soft, like they used to after over-training, and she climbed slowly, already hurting, not attacking the incline with her old fury. Despoiled Olympic rings felt horribly like her own ruined dreams. She wanted to tell him that she understood that she was supposed to fade with dignity and embrace a gradual decline. But the athletes who had managed that had been at least allowed to compete at their peak; and even if they’d lost, never touched gold or even won a single race, they hadn’t had their best snatched from them. There had been time to prepare for retirement. The now familiar anger pulsed through her veins like a heartbeat. Yet her irritation began to dissolve with the last of the morning’s mist – Ryan was right, the view was remarkable. High puffs of clouds cast shadows on the coarse grass sloping down the valley; a silver river idled between rocky foothills stubbled with dark forests. As they cycled higher, the trees became sparer, only the odd ragged pine until they pierced the treeline entirely. Bleached boulders studded the steep valleys, and the paved road surface became more and more uneven. The white houses below were as small as teeth. They passed shattered buildings.

‘Avalanche?’ asked Heather.

‘War,’ said Ryan.

They stopped for a drink and a snack at a viewpoint, and Heather started to disappear behind a bombed-out house to relieve herself. Ryan grabbed her arm.

‘Don’t. It isn’t safe. There were minefields here. Don’t go off the road. Just pee here. I won’t look.’

‘Jesus.’

After pulling up her shorts, Heather looked at Ryan with some hesitation. She knew he hated to talk about his time during the conflict. She understood he’d been here as a U.N. peacekeeper during the war, but whenever she tried to get him to talk about it, he’d change the subject. He’d seen things he didn’t want to talk about, but she wished he would.

‘Were you here then? In ninety-two? Is that how you know about the minefield?’

He looked at her strangely and then laughed. ‘I was here last week with a hundred and fifty of the world’s best cyclists. They didn’t want one of the women going off the road and getting blown up. That’s not really the sort of publicity the Tour de Balkans is after.’

‘No. Especially after yesterday.’

There was an eerie stillness biking high up in the mountains. There was little sense of life above the treeline – no birdsong and barely even the skitter of insects. The wind buffeted the bikes and trembled the tiny wildflowers that were sprayed across the grass like dabs of blue and purple paint. The road skittered into rocks and stopped. Ryan climbed off, sweat pouring down his brow.

‘Jeezus,’ he said, drinking from his bottle. ‘Whose stupid idea was this ride? I’m too old for this shit.’

‘Hey,’ said Heather. ‘Go easy, or you’ll make yourself sick.’

She looked up and saw the concrete of a ruined building stark against the bold blue of the sky. Behind it were the rings themselves.

Ryan placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘You made it. Not the way you wanted to, I know. But you did.’

Heather swallowed, unable to speak for a moment. ‘But what do I do now?’

Ryan shrugged. ‘You’ll figure it out.’

Heather wanted to believe him. ‘Can I have a minute?’

He planted a kiss on the top of her head and walked away, flopping down with a groan beside a clump of brilliant blue gentians. Heather pulled down her sunglasses and swallowed the lump in her throat. Ryan was right. She needed to come here, see the rings and grieve for the lost part of herself. The last few months hadn’t been her best. She’d been edgy and ill-tempered. Until recently, it had all been about her recovery. That had defined her. In many ways it hadn’t been so different from training. She’d understood it. She had an impossible goal, something out of reach to strive for as all the nurses and physiotherapists marvelled at her progress. It was easier to focus on her recovery than to try and consider what she had lost. That was too big. But she was better now, or as better as possible, and she needed to consider who she was going to be next. Now that she was no longer the Heather Bishop. The uncertainty was making her tetchy, triggering the mood swings again. The counsellor said that was to be expected. Part of the recovery process. She needed to accept the change and come to terms with this new version of herself. Only, she didn’t want to. She preferred the old one. Besides, ‘recovery process’ was bullshit. It suggested that recovering the previous ‘Heather’ was possible, like an old corrupted file being restored. This was a total rewrite.

Everyone kept telling her how lucky she was to have survived, but the truth was she hadn’t. Not all of her. The time had come to finally accept that and try to let go. She glanced at her palm and saw that she’d plucked one of the tiny papery yellow flowers and was mulching it between her fingers. She blew it away, and it caught on the wind like flakes of gold.

It was dusk by the time they reached Zikoč, a dreary collection of buildings huddled in the shadow of the foothills at the base of Jahorina mountain. One or two of the houses were old or had been repaired but most were clearly new, built after the war. It was a charmless town. A pink neon sign missing the ‘H’ announced ’otel. The hillside resonated with the sound of barking dogs. A man yelled and the barking paused for a moment and then resumed.

They checked in and Ryan had the first shower then sat with a cold compress on his knee. He was tired and short-tempered after the long ride.

‘Why don’t these motels ever have a bath? And why is the water pressure always like some dude pissing on you?’ he grumbled. His Californian accent always grew stronger when he was annoyed, and, when he emerged, he was rubbing his very blue, now slightly bloodshot eyes.

Heather went into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes and climbed into the grubby shower. The water was barely warm. She shivered.

‘It’s cold,’ she yelled.

‘It was hot when I had mine,’ he called back. ‘Anyway, you like ice baths.’

‘That was different,’ she muttered.

Heather closed her eyes and counted, willing herself not to feel the burning cold. Felt a creak of discomfort in the bridge of her nose where it had been broken in a crash long ago. In the cold, the old fracture prickled. It had given her small nose a slight bump, which she didn’t mind. Without it she thought she looked too much like a china doll, green-eyed and small-boned. She’d always been tougher than she looked. Opponents underestimated her, and her lightness was a godsend on the hill climbs.

Climbing out of the shower, she palmed a couple of pills, then jumped, realising that Ryan was eyeing her from the doorway.

‘Which pills are you taking, honey?’

‘Just the painkillers. The nerve in my neck is playing up.’

He studied her for a second to see if she was lying, and Heather closed the door on him. She couldn’t bear it when he watched her like this. He called it concern. Love. She tried not to find it claustrophobic, but she knew how much he worried about her. She’d put him through hell. In the early days after she’d been allowed back home, he’d been called to the supermarket to pick her up after she’d gone out alone, bloody-minded in her determination to be independent and buy a tub of Ben & Jerry’s in mid-December. The doctors all told him that he had to let her – to just go with it. But then she’d forgotten why she was in Tesco. And who she was. She was sitting on the floor panicking amongst the rows of humming freezers, and Ryan sat down beside her and held her as she sobbed, and then he walked her home. It hadn’t been the last time he’d received one of those phone calls.

These days she often felt him watching her while he pretended to check his phone or stir the pasta. Every time he went on tour he worried that he should cancel. Now she felt compelled to put on a performance of coping at every moment.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ he demanded, the anxious, habitual frown creasing his forehead.

Heather rubbed the familiar fault line of the scar running just above her right eye. ‘I’m fine. Absolutely fine. I love you.’

It was exhausting.

They had dinner in the one restaurant the little town had to offer. They were a handsome couple: Ryan older, but not uncomfortably so – enough to intrigue and warrant a second glance. Even after nearly two decades in the U.K., he maintained a permanent Californian tan. She supposed it was the constant travel to sunnier climes.

A few locals had wandered in now and were gathered at the bar, drinking beer and the unnamed local spirits. Ryan snuck a look at them. Heather studied him with concern.

‘Are you okay? Do you need to call Freddie?’

‘No. Why would you say that?’

‘You keep looking round at the bar. Do you want a drink?’

Ryan reached for her hand. ‘It’s fine, I’m just people watching.’

‘Okay.’ Heather shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

‘Have some faith, Heather. Please.’

‘I do. You know I do.’

Ryan’s phone began to vibrate and he picked it up, listening intently. He ran his fingers through his hair, a worried tell. He swore softly as he hung up and shook his head, leaning back in his chair. ‘It was cocaine. Hidden in support vehicles. They confirmed it.’

‘Which team?’

‘Zero-Zoom.’

‘Shit.’ Heather stared at him.

Ryan looked around again at the bar, as though desperate for a drink. ‘I feel real bad for the riders. Managers should have known better. Free transport. Free drivers. If a thing seems too good to be true . . .’ he concluded with a helpless shrug.

‘Are you going to write about it? It’s a good story.’

To her surprise, Ryan shook his head. ‘No. It’s too goddamn depressing. They’ve cancelled the rest of the tour. Everyone is flying home. They’re at the airport. What a goddamn shame.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Almost makes me long for doping.’

‘I know you feel bad for the riders, Ryan, but do you not think that it was their job to ask questions? I know I did.’

‘Sure, Heather Bishop. Paragon, on and off the road.’

‘That’s not fair, Ryan.’

She felt two points of colour rising in her cheeks, twin angry suns. She pushed back her chair and slapped some money on the table to cover her share of the bill. ‘I’m going back to the hotel. I’m going to bed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just sad about the race. I shouldn’t take it out on you.’

‘Okay.’

‘Come here.’

He caught her wrists and then, pulling her closer, kissing her, sliding the cash back into her pocket at the same time.

‘I’ll get the cheque. Be along in a minute.’

Heather walked back to the little hotel, listening to the idle barking of the dogs and the growl of a motorbike. Lights were on in several windows. She could see the blue flicker from old TV sets. The night was clear and cold, and she shivered. Tangles of stars were strung all around the mountain peaks like Christmas lights, impossibly bright and clear.

She brushed her teeth. Her neck hurt and her mind was buzzing; she felt restless and jumpy. She took another pill – it would help her sleep. Ryan wasn’t here to see her take it and fret. She fell asleep the moment she undressed, vaguely aware that Ryan had not come to bed.

She woke to find his side of the bed empty. Reaching out, she grabbed her phone. It was nearly two in the morning. She wondered vaguely whether she ought to go and look for him, but she was so tired. She would wait half an hour and if he hadn’t come back, she’d go look for him. Please don’t let him be in the bar. Please.

It was light. Early sunshine trickled in beneath the stained net curtains and puddled on the brown carpet, illuminating the cigarette burns. Heather glanced at the empty space beside her. She sat up, heart hammering. She supposed she’d have to go and start checking near the bar. She knew she ought to have made him call Freddie. That’s what sponsors were for.

No. This wasn’t her fault. This was Ryan’s disease; it belonged to him and she couldn’t take responsibility for it – it wasn’t fair on either of them. She rehearsed the support group’s phrases, unsure whether she believed any of them.

There was a crash against the door, it burst open and there was Ryan, holding two cups of coffee, a paper bag between his teeth.

He dropped the bag on the bed and, after setting the coffee on the bedside, gave her a quick kiss. He smelled of coffee and soap. Nothing else. Heather exhaled the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

‘Thank God. I was worried.’

He shook off her concern, handing her a coffee. ‘Here, it’s not bad. And I found croissants. They look pretty good.’

‘I didn’t hear you come in last night, Ryan.’

He sat on the edge of the bed, stirring his coffee. ‘No. You were dead to the world.’ He leaned over and kissed her, first on the forehead and then on her mouth.

Heather left Zikoč without regret. It was frustrating to be carrying their luggage with them – Heather was obsessed was keeping the weight on her bike low – but she was an expert at packing light. There was little in her panniers except a single change of clothes, a fleece, toothbrush and a phone charger. The village was drearier still in the pinkish glow of morning. They cycled past a few residents on their way out of town. A plump woman swaddled in a lurid pink dressing-gown sat on a doorstep, texting and smoking a cigarette. Two old men huddled together, drinking coffee and arguing companionably. A pair of stray dogs slept and scratched, silent now. As they left the village, the road immediately began to climb steeply up into the mountains. Trees gave way to scrub. There were fewer and fewer dwellings, and here and there as they turned onto smaller roads, roaming higher and higher, they passed the ruins of military towers, remnants of the war. Yet the landscape had a wild and ancient beauty. The distant peak of Jahorina loomed darkly in the distance, bare and ragged above the plateau. Yellow wildflowers were sprinkled like stars across grassy slopes that ran sharply down vast craters scooped out by the glaciers of a distant ice age. Heather understood how myths had been told about this place. The stories felt close to the surface, etched into the hillside in ice and rock. The wind thrummed a song in a high strand of barbed wire. The road fell away steeply where it had been hewn into the mountainside and many of the crash barriers had collapsed. They rode briskly but with caution, Heather dutifully waiting for Ryan every half hour. He struggled and huffed as the road became progressively steeper and more ragged, cut up and cracked by endless winter frosts. After a while, he barely had the energy to steer around the cavernous potholes, and once or twice nearly came off, swerving far too close to the unguarded precipitous edge, so that Heather screamed at him from the switchback above, making him wobble even more.

‘Take a break. Push, if you need to,’ she yelled.

He shook his head, too tired to speak.

He was sweating so much that it dripped like rain down his brow, and he blinked it away from his eyes. She’d offer to take his panniers on her bike, but she knew he’d only refuse. Ten minutes later, after she watched him nearly collide with a boulder on the edge of the carriageway, she kicked at her chain and gave a yelp.

‘My chain’s come off. Give me a hand, will you?’

He caught up and, climbing off his bike, flopped beside her on the bank, closing his eyes. ‘Do we have to pretend that you need my help? Can’t I just take a nap?’

She laughed. ‘Yes. But drink some water and have something to eat.’ She unwrapped a Mars bar and fed it to him in chunks. ‘Who was the leader in this section of the Tour?’ she asked.

Ryan propped himself up on his elbows and peered down, shading his eyes, remembering. ‘Jessie Taylor.’

Heather winced at the name. If he noticed, he pretended not to.

‘Holy shit, this road is brutal. I’m not the first rider to get caught by those potholes.’ He pointed to the shattered cliff edge. ‘Over there. One of the Americans crashed, taking out two of team Monaco-Red. There was still snow on the top here a few weeks ago. Skidded all over the place. Huge crash.’

Heather closed her eyes, trying to visualise it all, hearing the excitement in Ryan’s voice.

‘It always amazes me – you seem to love writing about biking as much as actually doing it. No, definitely more sometimes.’

Ryan shrugged and then took a long drink of water. ‘Writing about cycling takes imagination. There are as many stories up here on the mountain as there are riders. I like to sift through them, piece them together. Heroes. Attacks. At fifty or sixty kilometres an hour in the sun and ice and snow. Victory and defeat.’

‘You make it sound like war.’

‘It’s nothing like war,’ said Ryan, quietly. ‘It’s a sport. A joyful, thrilling sport.’

In the late morning, they reached the road’s summit, which had a glorious view of Jahorina peak, and they took an early lunch. It was cool at this altitude, and as soon as they stopped moving, they shivered in the wind. The woods far below looked as soft and stroke-able as moss. They looked down at the way they had come. The grey road slithered in and out of the mountains, weaving between cliff faces and brown scrubby grass battered by last winter’s weather. A few goats and skinny Alpine sheep picked their way among the stones. There were more signs warning of minefields. A lone pick-up truck wound its way up the hairpin bends on the other side of the hill, travelling towards them.

‘Race you down?’ said Ryan.

Heather only laughed. He wasn’t serious. He hated it when they raced. Yet Ryan was on his feet, strapping on his cycle helmet. ‘Well, if you’re scared of being beaten by an old man . . .’

Heather raised an eyebrow and started to pack away the snacks. ‘You’re on. But don’t be stupid. It’s really uneven. I want to spend the afternoon in a spa, not sampling local hospitals.’

‘Okay then. Gimme a proper head start. Say, five minutes.’ ‘Fine.’

Ryan gave her a cheerful wave and pedalled off, whistling.

Heather laughed. Ryan liked downhill runs. He was as fearless as a ten-year-old kid. It was oddly charming. The descent wasn’t nearly as steep as the ascent; it wound almost leisurely down this side of the mountain. This was the easy, pleasant part of the ride. She gave him a good five minutes and then followed. She could just make him out ahead, zipping above the treeline, then disappearing round a bend. He was going fast, having found his legs. She quickened her pace; it was fun having to catch up. She soared round the corner on an excellent line but he’d already gone. She smiled. Good for Ryan. She was impressed. He really was fearless on the downhill runs. She checked her Garmin – she was chasing him at fifty-five kilometres an hour. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Lots of professional riders lost their nerve on high-speed descents. Those were the ones you had to watch out for. They’d wobble and suddenly take a wallowing line. If you weren’t careful and you got trapped when they bombed out, they’d take you out with them. But not Ryan, thought Heather with something like pride. The uphill this morning had taken it out of him. It had been wickedly steep, vertiginous, with the altitude high enough to make you gasp, and yet here he was rushing down fast and efficient, so quick that she was having to sweat to catch him. The slope levelled off enough that she started to pedal, and hard. There was still no sign of his silver bike. She had to give it to him – this was more fun than she had expected.

She swept round another corner and regained the treeline. The road ahead was smooth and empty. He’d sprinted on. She changed gear again and gave chase. The breeze tickled her back. A kite soared above, surfing the warm air currents. She found that she was laughing at the sheer joy of it. This sensation was as close as she’d ever come to flying. She imagined the peloton just behind, frantic to catch her as she tore down the peak in pursuit of Ryan in the leader’s yellow jersey. A river curled beside the road, bouncing over stones and making the road slippery. This route had it all. Ryan was right. It was a magnificent place to ride and the lack of traffic was a dream compared to Nice or even the French Alps.

She picked up her pace again and sailed around the bend, bent low over her handlebars, feeling the burn in her legs. She realised she was starting to sweat properly, more than she’d sweated before in a race with Ryan. He was really going for it. The road was tightly wooded and she couldn’t see beyond fifty metres ahead. He was probably around the next bend, only just in front but hidden. She pedalled faster, conscious that lactic acid was starting to build in her legs. She was going quickly now, much quicker than Ryan could cycle, and she ought to have caught him. A faint unease fluttered birdlike in her chest. He’s just around the corner. He must be. Heather remembered the truck that they’d watched heading up towards them. When it reached her, she would flag it down and ask them where they’d seen Ryan. There was only one road up and one road down; it would pass her in a minute.

She turned. Another tight bend. Trees. Nothing else. She was descending velodrome fast and, now she was amongst the trees, she couldn’t see the long spread of the road, only the short stretch before the next bend. She checked her watch. She’d been chasing him for nearly half an hour. She ought to have caught him a long time ago. It was odd. The joy of earlier popped like a series of balloons. Anxiety rose in Heather’s chest like indigestion. Ryan was always furious with her when she didn’t stop and wait. Perhaps he was trying to prank her. Maybe he’d stopped and let her ride past to try and spook her. Confusion as well as fear jostled in the pit of her stomach; it wasn’t really like him to tease her. Other people perhaps, but not her.

She slowed down and sitting back on her bike, yelled, ‘Okay, Ryan. You’ve had your fun. Come out now. Don’t be a dick.’ There was no sound but the whirr and tick of her own tyres on the stones. She yelled again. ‘Ryan. Ryan! For fuck’s sake.’

The unease built up in her like lactic acid, ripping through her muscles, burning. She took out her phone and dialled his number. It rang out.

She started to pedal again. Perhaps he’d had a problem with his brakes and had just hurtled down very fast. If he’d had an accident, she would have found him on the road. With a prickle of dread, she thought of the steep drop at the side of the carriageway higher up. The broken barrier. She’d not looked over the edge at any point. But surely, if he’d fallen, she would have heard something? The mountains echoed when there was a crash, didn’t they?

‘Ryan! Ryan!’

Her voice sounded hollow and thin. It certainly didn’t echo around the hillside. She kept calling his name until her voice became hoarse and she was too breathless to pedal. She was starting to shake but couldn’t tell whether it was fear or exhaustion.

She turned the next corner and all at once the road opened up into a clear route straight through a long, low valley. She could see miles of clear and empty road, nothing but smooth grey tarmac and waving emerald grass. There was no Ryan. No bike. He had simply disappeared.

Heather climbed off her bike and sat for a moment at the side of the road, wondering what to do. She checked her phone. Nothing. No missed calls. Not a text. She dialled Ryan again, and again it rang out. She left a message. She couldn’t phone the police and report an accident. She didn’t know that there had even been one. She supposed she ought to start calling hospitals, and the next hotel. Perhaps he’d got a lift? But why hadn’t he called? Was his phone broken? She was going to kill him. She had one bar of reception. Just enough to call the place they were staying tonight. Hotel Jelena.

‘No. Mr Ryan Mackinnon has not yet checked in. We look forward to welcoming—’

Heather hung up. She didn’t have enough of a signal to start looking up hospitals in Bosnia and calling them. In any case, what were the chances of them speaking English? And, she reminded herself, she hadn’t seen any sign of an accident and there was only one road.

She took a deep breath. She must turn around and look for him. Make sure he hadn’t fallen and slipped near one of the barriers. Or under it. She shuddered. A billowing wave of nausea rose in her throat.

‘Stop it,’ she told herself. ‘Get a hold of yourself.’

Quickly, she climbed on her bike and traced her route back to the foot of the mountain trail. It didn’t feel so gentle on the ascent. Her legs were spent and it felt like cycling with elastic bands instead of functioning muscles. It was nearly two o’clock and she’d been cycling since nine, and the adrenaline surging through her body was making her tremble and feel sick. She forced herself to drink some water and eat a chocolate bar. If she let herself get too tired, then she wouldn’t be able to get back up the hill and search for Ryan. She pedalled agonisingly slowly, at the very edge of the precipice, so that she could peer over and scan the void for his bike or signs of a rockfall. She stopped every few minutes to listen and call his name.

‘Ryan! Ryan?’

Nothing. Only the insect hum of the early spring bees. A thrush watched her mournfully from the spindly arm of a withered pine. The river burbled cheerfully below, while on the path above, the signs announced the minefield. Surely Ryan hadn’t stopped near there for a pee and got into some kind of difficulty . . . Heather stopped herself. No, because even if Ryan had done something stupid, his bike would still be there. She squinted, shading her eyes against the afternoon sun, and scrutinised the hillside. There was no sign of either Ryan or his bike.