Maria at Hotel Kotor

I last visited her in 1928.

I had left you and the children at your sister’s place in Woking and made the journey alone, as I had always done.

I am sorry I deceived you my dear. If you had known I was travelling all that way to see her you would have certainly got the wrong impression.

How could I explain it?

As I mentioned, it was 1928, and I had made the journey from London to Kotor, Montenegro.

In those days it was a flight to Paris, then Marseille, then Rome, then a bus to Bari followed by an overnight ferry.

It wasn’t a trip you could do often, but in the gravest of circumstances, the job called for it.

I don’t think the Chief Inspector really knew what went on in Montenegro. My colleagues at Scotland Yard thought I was visiting my mother in Manchester.

In my time since returning from the war I had fallen in love with police work. The method and order to it plus the satisfaction of solving a crime.

I remember feeling such shame on the ferry to Kotor. She gave us an advantage that couldn’t be matched. It felt like cheating.

Maria had run the Hotel Kotor since 1918. She was the widow of my commanding officer Rupert. I was the one who had delivered her the news of his death in France.

In the years since I had made eight visits to Hotel Kotor. In all eight instances, what Maria gave us lead us straight to the killer.

Eight visits, eight murderers, eight convictions. It never missed.

The hotel itself was an old manor house that had been converted into a bar and bistro with accomodation upstairs. The prior owner had died in 1914 in the Serbian campaign. He left it to his young wife.

The place had passed from widow to widow. For one it meant grief and pain, and for the other a fresh start and means to escape.

The patrons were all regulars. Most had moved down here specifically to come to the Hotel Kotor every night.

There was never a Montenegrin in sight. French, Austrian, British, American….all tourists, and they didn’t come down here for the drinks that’s for sure.

They were hooked on something else.

When I walked through the door in 1928, very little had changed since my last visit. It was filled with smoke, dimly lit, and had soft jazz playing. Maria was behind the bar.

“If you want a drink order quickly Charles, I have an appointment in 5 minutes” she said.

I looked over my shoulder to the back of the venue. There was a curtained off area where she took her “appointments”.

A little French man sat on a stool next to the curtains. He looked a mess, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Unshaven, hair disheveled, eyes watery and nervous looking.

“Who’s the frog in the corner?”

“A customer, my next appointment”

“Jesus, look at him Maria! Why don’t you let the poor wretch move on with his life?”

“It’s not my place. I also don’t think you can be so judgmental. I expect you haven’t come all this way for a martini?”

“It’s different. I’m here for business. We need your help”

Maria rolled her eyes and walked over to the French man. Took his hand, and lead him behind the curtain.

I decided to come back the following night.

She was in a less defensive mood. I had only known her as a widow, but it was hard to imagine her ever being a joyful woman.

We sat down at the table behind the curtains. Maria in the centre, myself to the left, and an empty chair to the right.

“Is she here?” I asked impatiently.

Maria’s eyes had rolled to the back of her head and she was trembling.

“Yes. She is”

“Lucy, it’s Detective Inspector Charles Moore from Scotland Yard. I need to know some facts regarding your death. I need to know who killed you, and anything else you can tell me about how it happened”

“She is crying. Her face is in her hands. She is screaming ‘I can’t, I can’t”

“Lucy, I need this information. We need to find the killer, or he could hurt more people Lucy. You can do this.”

Maria was silent for a long time, her eyes still rolled back. Finally she says “The Ship Inn, opposite the station in Hammersmith. One of the bartenders invited me to stay back after close for a drink. That’s all I remember.”

I had him. We would be able to interview all the staff and someone would identify Lucy and who was sweet on her that night. It was only a matter of time now.

Once all the punters had gone home I stayed back for a drink with Maria.

“Don’t you find it unnatural? The way you let these decrepit folks drink themselves into oblivion waiting for you to connect them to a dead loved one?”

“You didn’t lose someone in the war Charles. That’s something I have in common with all of these people. Moving on is a choice. I haven’t, so how can I be so self-righteous if others can’t.”

“You’re not even giving them the chance though Maria, it’s a vicious cycle”

“When you lose someone, and you can let go so easily, then you can come down here and lecture me”

I would eat those words my dear, and all too soon.

After calling in the information on Lucy’s killer to Scotland Yard we learned that the key suspect was a Serb named Dulanovic. He had left London for Belgrade the day after Lucy was found.

As I was only a few hours away in Montenegro the Chief Inspector asked me to work with the Belgrade police to bring him in.

Arriving at his door was the last thing I remember my dear.

Maria held my wife’s hand and said “Charles can’t remember anything after they arrived at Dulanovic’s place in Belgrade”

She had seen my body when it arrived home. She had been advised by the Belgrade police how it happened, how Dulanovic had came out firing, not wanting to be taken alive. She sobbed quietly.

Maria’s eyes rolled back again, “Charles wants you to know he loves you and the children so much. He is sorry. He wanted you to understand the full story of how things came to be as they are”

“He doesn’t want you to be sad for him. He has the company of so many spirits who’ve made their home at the Hotel Kotor. British and French playing board games and drinking with Austrians and Germans, all sides at peace, at last”