I once became obsessed with a huge boil on the back of General Mladic’s neck. We were in Pale — the Bosnian Serb ski-resort turned capital — at a meeting of their parliament, in the summer of ’94. I was there as the Balkans correspondent of the Observer and had, by that time, met Ratko Mladic several times. He was holding court, surrounded by henchmen, at the centre of the awestruck MPs; a menacing, enormous man with bulging arms and shoulders, like an inflatable killing doll. But it was the Butcher of Bosnia’s enormous boil that struck me. It must have caused him immense pain. Knowing what he had done, and what he went on to do, I’m glad about that. A year later, July 1995, I was in the UN refugee camp at Tuzla airport watching the women of Srebrenica cooking for their children, darting between the tents.