Lily White

By Christian Schünemann and Jelena Volic

A thrilling crime novel set in Belgrade that dives into Serbia’s troubled history.

Jelena Volić and Christian Schünemann’s latest thriller follows a case for criminologist Milena Lukin, the protagonist of their previous novels Cornflower Blue and Peony Red. Set in Belgrade, a city of flux between East and West, Lily White is a complex and riveting new story that once again will take Lukin to the dark heart of Serbia’s past.
 
Bouquets of white lilies are mysteriously laid in a Belgrade street where, years earlier, a small Romani boy was beaten to death by two youths. One of the attackers was apprehended and imprisoned. The other was allowed to flee and, after twenty-five years on the run, he returns to Belgrade to confront his past. Days later, his corpse is found floating in the Danube River. After a cursory investigation, the police declare it to have been suicide and close the case, but the dead man’s lawyer and the criminologist Milena Lukin begin an investigation of their own. They soon stumble upon a clue that leads them into the darkest recesses of Serbian politics and to the root of a murder that shaped the fate of a country.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haus Publishing
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781912208661

Book preview

1

The head of celery had been a gift from the stallholder in the market, and the bones came from the butcher, who had passed them out to her through the back door. Svetlana scrubbed carrots, added some marjoram to the pot, and turned down the flame, so the soup would simmer but the lid wouldn’t start rattling. The soup would last for several days, maybe even a whole week. Since she’d come to her decision, life felt better. Not good, but at least a bit easier – as if a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

She felt around in the paper wrapper and found two small potatoes left inside. The darkness didn’t bother her – quite the contrary. Darkness was good. She gathered up the peelings and wiped her hands on her apron. Jovan was fast asleep, breathing deeply and unsuspectingly. The two bottles he had drained over the course of the afternoon and evening stood next to the waste bin; despite being drunk, he had been conscientious enough to take out the rubbish. Her beloved Jovan. The dreams they’d had: to go out into the world, to make it on their own without the clan, to be free and beholden to no one. What crazy ideas. Of course, it wasn’t meant to be.

Svetlana took off her apron. She hadn’t managed to make it, but her daughter would. One day Anna would live in a beautiful house, and the laughter of her children would fill the rooms and make her forget what had happened to her in these months – enough suffering to last a lifetime. For Anna, hopefully, the good times would one day dawn. And maybe then everything would make sense after all.

Svetlana took out the small metal box from beneath the kitchen bench. From under the mending yarn, which she had used the other day to reinforce and tighten the buttons on her pockets, just in case, she pulled out a small piece of paper, which she had purposefully set aside a few weeks ago. She opened the curtains to let in the moonlight. One day, Anna would understand what her mother had done. Until then, she’d follow the advice her mother was giving her now to guide her on her way, because Anna was not only a clever girl but obedient too. Svetlana wrote:

Learn.

Work hard.

Hold your head up high.

Don’t do anything you’d later be ashamed of.

Be happy.

She folded the piece of paper and took it with her into the room behind the curtain. Anna was sleeping soundly and breathing deeply. Svetlana brushed a lock of hair out of her daughter’s face and pressed her lips to her warm forehead, breathing in her aroma. Then she slipped the piece of paper under the pillow, stepped back, and took her cardigan from the hook.

Anna would make her way in the world. Of that Svetlana was certain, and she wouldn’t do anything to hinder her. All was well, all was as it should be, and the Almighty would watch over her daughter. Svetlana extinguished the flame under the pot, pulled on her rubber boots, and opened the door. She didn’t look back.

From beneath the water butt, she retrieved the bricks she’d hidden there a few days before. Shoving one in the left and one in the right pocket of her cardigan, she buttoned up the pockets and straightened the knitted garment. In Jovan’s shed, the glass jar with the lilies of the valley in it stood between pots of paint and glue. She picked up the jar and scooped a little more water into it from the butt.

At this time of night, hardly any cars were on the road, and she encountered no one. She walked along the dark streets in her Wellington boots, work apron, and woolly cardigan as if she were the only person in the world, clutching the jar with the lilies of the valley. Exactly the same roads, the same route, that Dušan had taken, holding in his fist the loose change that his father Jovan had, despite the late hour, allowed him to take to the kiosk specially to buy himself a bag of fruit drops. After all, Dušan had brought home a good school report – top marks in mathematics. He’d been so proud, and she had too. She still was.

‘Run along,’ she’d told him, as she propelled him out of the door. ‘And hurry back.’

Her route took her uphill to Belgrade Street – quite a climb with the bricks in her pockets. Who knows what would have become of Dušan? Maybe a teacher or – his idea of a career – a tram driver. He would surely have succeeded and overcome the disadvantages he’d been saddled with.

She noticed that the kiosk was already closed, but she didn’t mind. All those people who’d been there, and who’d either turned a blind eye to the incident or looked on impassively – she’d have looked them straight in the eye, including the kiosk owner. Would she have felt hatred? She didn’t know. She had no more tears to shed. Svetlana set the jar with the lilies of the valley down at the spot where it had happened.

At the big intersection, she bore right and crossed the park, paying no attention to the drunks and lovers in the darkness.

Branko’s Bridge was bathed in a yellow light. Although she hadn’t expected it to be so well lit, it seemed like a welcoming omen. There was only the odd car on the road. The night had something special about it. Svetlana walked on without hurrying, until she reckoned she’d reached the middle of the bridge. She couldn’t see the river, but she could smell it. A deep feeling of peace and determination came over her.

Though the railing was at chest height, it seemed lower than she had imagined. She took hold of the cold cast iron with both hands. The tips of her boots fitted comfortably between the vertical bars, as if it were a small stepladder. She hauled herself up, rested her midriff on the top of the railings, and then pulled up her other leg. Down below, she could hear the river flowing by. It sounded like a whisper, and the cool air that wafted up to her had a comforting feel.

She wrapped her arms around her body as if she were hugging her little boy, closed her eyes, and stepped forward into emptiness.

2

Driving down Prince Miloš Street, heading out of town, Milena abruptly switched to the left-hand lane, paying no heed to the symphony of car horns behind her, and drew up a mental shopping list for the way home: 1,500 grams of butter for the buttercream icing, two bags of praline, and some small cake candles – eleven of them. For Adam’s birthday, Vera was planning to bake both a crown cake and a snow tart. That meant sixteen eggs in all. No, better get twenty. Her mobile started buzzing.

Milena groped around on the passenger seat, looked at the screen, and took the call.

‘Hey there,’ came Siniša’s booming voice. ‘I couldn’t get hold of anyone at the hotel. When exactly is your ex supposed to be arriving?’

‘Philip’s coming next week, on Thursday. Adam’s already totally beside himself. Is there a problem?’

‘I’m en route to Sarajevo right now, so I was going to suggest you swung by the place yourself – Hotel Amsterdam, Little Sava Street. They were planning to open on Monday. I guess it’s a bit of an imposition on you, but I know this young couple; they’ve put so much effort and love into the project, and I think we ought to give them our support.’

‘All right then,’ Milena replied, flicking on her indicator.

‘And have you managed to have a word with your ambassador_-boss yet?’

‘About your contract? No, not yet.’

‘There’s no hurry. Really.’

‘Thanks for reminding me. I’ll take it up with him ASAP,’ Milena promised.

‘By the way, I’ve got a wonderful present for Adam. The little tyke will be thrilled.’

‘That little tyke’s growing bigger by the day.’

‘Exactly!’

‘See you later.’ Milena hung up, placed the handset on the dashboard, and wound down her window.

The gate guard, a young man, emerged from his booth and straightened the jacket of his blue uniform. ‘Can I see your ID, please?’

‘I work here – you know that!’

‘Don’t take it personally. I’m only following orders.’

‘Of course.’ Milena pulled her handbag off the passenger seat and began rooting around in it. Amongst a variety of items including her purse, some jelly bananas, and other stuff, she lighted upon the small plastic-coated card faster than she had expected.

‘A little tip,’ the young man said as he handed the card back. ‘You could wear the ID on a lanyard round your neck, like a necklace. Then you wouldn’t have to search for it every time.’ He saluted her and disappeared back into his booth.

A moment later, the gate opened, and Milena rolled into the compound of the embassy. Legally speaking, she was now on the territory of the Federal Republic of Germany. Whenever she turned into her reserved parking space here and switched off her engine, she found herself totally at ease with this foreign country, its strict rules and regulations, and the people who conscientiously made sure the rules were followed. All she needed to appreciate this fully was to tot up all the time she had wasted trying to find a parking space uptown, near her institute.

Sandra, the ambassador’s PA, was standing at her desk in the outer office and checking the contents of a package, a pile of white shirts in a flat box. As ever, she was wearing a suit with a broad belt accentuating her wasp waist, and her make-up was as immaculate as if she’d just returned from an appointment with a stylist.

‘Good morning,’ said Milena, knocking gently on the door. ‘Is Mr Kronburg in his office?’

‘Count Kronburg,’ Sandra responded without looking up, ‘is in a meeting.’ She replaced the tissue paper covering the shirts and closed the lid. The coat of arms on the laminated box indicated it was from a very upmarket outfitter. In all likelihood, the shirts had come from a London tailor.

‘Could you let me know when I could talk to Mr Kronburg?’ Milena adjusted the strap of her bag over her shoulder. ‘And I wanted to ask you–’

Sandra countersigned a delivery note and placed it on top of the box, before depositing it on the top of the filing cabinet. ‘The meeting’s scheduled to end at 4 p.m.’

‘Did Mr Kronburg mention anything about a consultancy agreement with Mr Stojković?’

‘Mr Stojković?’ Sandra gazed challengingly at Milena. ‘You mean your friend, the lawyer? Sorry, I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Thank you.’ Milena turned on her heel and crossed the hall to her office.

She would have loved to slam the door. It was inconceivable that Sandra was oblivious. She spoke three languages fluently, left nothing to chance, and supervised everything. She even arranged for her boss, Count Alexander Kronburg, to be served dill with his fish on evenings out, rather than the parsley that was customary in Serbia. Milena flung her bag down on the leather couch, followed by her denim jacket.

But what most irritated her was that a young woman – who at twenty, was less than half her age – could get under her skin so easily. A condescending tone and a raised eyebrow from her were enough. In short, Milena was irked because she felt like she’d been caught trying to wangle a well-paid consultancy agreement for a friend. But nobody knew their way around the jungle of Serbian paragraphs and legal texts better than Siniša and, by the same token, no one was more qualified to advise and support her in expediting Serbia’s integration into the EU.

Milena slumped into her comfortable desk chair, which, being well-sprung, easily absorbed the sudden impact of her weight. The resubmissions folder was lying on the desk, perfectly squared with the edge; the flowers in the vase were fresh, and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. Milena popped a jelly banana into her mouth and opened her email.

The minutes of a meeting last Wednesday. The new staff list, petty cash receipts, lots of useless stuff. And a note from Philip, already two weeks old, which curiously had fetched up in her spam folder. We’ll be arriving on Thursday 5 May, at 1 p.m., he wrote, at Nikola Tesla Airport in Belgrade. Are we meeting Adam at the airport or should we go straight to our hotel? Incidentally, which hotel is it? Can you send me the location? All the best, Philip. PS. Jutta’s really looking forward to finally meeting you.

‘Of course she is,’ muttered Milena to herself. ‘So am I. In fact, I can hardly wait. Why don’t we roll out the red carpet for you while we’re at it?’ But the business with the hotel – that really needed to be sorted urgently.

She opened the search engine and typed in Hotel Amsterdam Little Sava Street, and a message appeared on the screen: Website under construction. No telephone number, nothing. What if she simply booked a different hotel?

‘Hope I’m not disturbing you?’ Alexander Kronburg, the German ambassador, was leaning in the doorway, one hand in his trouser pocket.

‘Do come in.’ Milena brushed a stray lock from her forehead, hoping that by some miracle her hair was going to arrange itself into a well-ordered wave.

‘Please, don’t get up on my account.’ Alexander appeared strangely nervous. ‘Sandra told me you wanted to speak to me.’

‘That’s right.’ As Milena was still pondering how best to clear away the mess on the sofa, Alexander had already taken a seat on the armrest.

‘You look upset,’ he said.

‘I was at the American embassy yesterday.’

‘And?’

‘The Americans are thinking of withdrawing from the project.’

Alexander sighed. ‘I feared that might happen.’

‘Really?’

‘Because our Serbian partners are cheating with their emissions figures, and the Americans aren’t very patient when it comes to those kinds of shenanigans.’

‘But we’re in the middle of negotiations.’

‘What would you suggest, then?’ Alexander stretched out his legs.

‘Division of labour,’ Milena said. ‘I’ll try and secure a meeting with the Serbian energy minister. Or at least the parliamentary private secretary.’

‘What about me?’

‘You’ll need to soft-soap the Americans and buy us some time.’

‘Agreed.’ Alexander smiled, causing the little laugh lines that Milena liked so much to appear around his eyes.

‘How long have you been with us now?’ he suddenly asked.

Milena thought for a moment. ‘Almost three months.’

‘And you’re not finding this double workload too much, what with your job at the institute, working with detectives and criminologists?’

Milena made a non-committal gesture. ‘As long as I’m free to organise my own time, I’ll be fine. And integration into the EU is very dear to my heart.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ He stood up. ‘Even so, I’ve a small suggestion to make.’

‘Which is?’

‘Why don’t you bring in a few personal items? A photo of your son, for example.’

Milena glanced round in astonishment.

‘And next week,’ he turned to go, ‘we’ll finally have time to talk over a few things.’

‘What things?’

‘Well, for instance, what to do about your friend Mr Stojković.’

‘Let me just make one thing clear,’ Milena smiled. ‘He’s only a colleague.’

Alexander held up his hands disarmingly and disappeared, leaving Milena in a state of bewilderment.

Next week. Plenty of time. Alarmed, she clicked on her appointments calendar. 5–8 May: Donor Conference for the Western Balkan States, Foreign Ministry, Berlin.

Milena leant back. That was the first she’d ever seen of that entry. The sixth was Adam’s birthday; his father was arriving from Hamburg with his partner on the fifth; Vera was baking a crown cake and a snow tart; and Siniša had a brilliant present – there was no way she’d have agreed to attend the meeting.

She picked up the phone, hesitated, replaced the receiver, and strode over to the anteroom.

Sandra was typing, and the door to Alexander’s office was closed.

Milena stepped closer to Sandra’s desk. ‘The meeting next week in Berlin,’ she said. ‘There’s no way I can go.’

Sandra removed two little earphones. ‘We have a problem, then.’

‘When did you put the appointment in my diary? Just recently? Why wasn’t I told about it?’

‘I don’t keep a record of such things, but I’ll happily call the IT department and get them to look into it for you.’

‘I need to speak to Mr Kronburg this instant.’

‘Count Kronburg is in the middle of a telephone conference.’ Sandra leant across the table and gazed up at Milena with her large doe-like eyes. ‘Ms Lukin,’ she said, ‘if it’ll make you happy, I’ll take full responsibility in this matter. No problem. Really no problem at all. But if you could excuse me now…’ She replaced her earphones, and in the next moment a muffled, rhythmic clatter pervaded the room once more.

Milena crossed the hallway again to her office. She really had to get in the habit of checking her diary more regularly, and dealing with things she’d been tasked with in a more timely fashion, not to mention following Siniša’s example and – wherever possible – delegating jobs to others.

In the car, as she drove back into town, her phone rang. It was her mother, Vera. ‘Dinner’s on the table,’ she said. ‘We’re waiting for you.’

‘I’m on my way,’ Milena replied. ‘I’ve just got to make a quick detour to reserve a room for Philip and Jutta.’

3

‘When’s he supposed to arrive?’ Cecilia asked.

‘At four.’

‘Are you nervous?’

Luca looked at his watch. ‘Why would I be nervous?’

‘Tell me one more time.’ She moved closer to him, took his arm, and put it round her shoulder. ‘You saw him yesterday, you say?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘The day before yesterday,’ she repeated. ‘And that was the first time after how long?’

Luca stroked her cheek. ‘Twenty-five years.’

‘Twenty-five years.’ From Cecilia’s lips, it sounded almost like a prayer. ‘You were only seventeen back then.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And how about him?’

‘A year younger.’

‘And you were best mates.’

‘Bosom buddies.’

‘But you’ve had no contact with him since? No letter, no postcard, no phone call?’

‘Nothing. Complete radio silence.’

Cecilia turned her head to look at him. ‘And when you met him the other day, how was it?’

Luca shrugged. ‘How do you think? It was nice.’

‘Nice?’ Cecilia laughed. ‘Come on. I mean, is he still like he used to be? Did you recognise him straight away?’

‘He’s aged, of course,’ said Luca. ‘And… how shall I put it? He’s not as carefree as he