Blood Whispers (19 page)

‘Aye, you did good, son.’

Big Paul handed the Holy Man his silenced Beretta.

‘Not you, Edi,’ said the Holy Man just as Edi made to push past him.

Edi Leka suddenly realized what was going on, but it was too late.

The first shot knocked his right leg out from under him; the second shattered the kneecap on his left. As he raised his arm to shoot back Big Paul stamped on it and kicked the gun from his hand with such force that it snapped his wrist.

The Holy Man was standing over him.

‘There is something worse than someone doing the dirty on me, and that’s someone doing the dirty on my friends. We know you were trying to get the heroin back from Jay-Go for Abazi and we know you’ve been doing the double shuffle on us. We are not going to show up on Saturday night and walk into the little trap Mister Abazi has waiting for us, d’you think we’re fucking idiots?’

Edi Leka was writhing around the floor moaning in agony.

‘We’re going to show up on Friday night with an army and malky the fucking lot of you: you know why? ’Cause we are the Holy Ecumenical Alliance Treaty and that’s the way we do things in Glasgow.’

It was just after 8 p.m. when Patrick Sellar arrived home. He was talking on the phone as he pulled into the garage built on to the side of his house. Unclipping the mobile from its cradle, he grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, then squeezed out of the large Audi while the garage doors closed noisily behind him.

‘The mechanism’s buggered,’ he said, explaining the intrusive metallic clunking sounds to James Mac Fadden on the other end of the phone.

The Honourable Lord Mac Fadden was a Senator for the College of Justice; a judge who sat in the High Court of Judiciary where the most serious crimes were dealt with. Sellar was looking to make Keira Lynch’s life as difficult as possible and wanted Mac Fadden on side.

‘There’s something about her and this whole Abazi situation that’s giving off a bad smell, James . . .’

Releasing the Dervishi girl had been a necessary but risky move that had almost blown up in his face. He’d made statements to the press about his conversations with Keira Lynch regarding the girl’s release.

At the time, he’d believed Keira was dead and had overplayed his hand.

The fact that she had survived had come as a shock and made life very uncomfortable for him: people were starting to ask awkward questions.

The news that traces of heroin had been found in her apartment had let Sellar off the hook, but he needed to make the most of it, and quickly. It was the perfect way to discredit her if she started making noises and causing trouble for him. The quantity of drugs wasn’t enough to have her prosecuted for dealing or trafficking, but the fact that they had been found at all was more than enough. The Honourable Lord Mac Fadden was an old friend and sympathetic ear who saw Keira Lynch as a troublemaker too, but it wasn’t his professional advice Sellar was after. Mac Fadden also sat on the council for the Law Society of Scotland: the professional governing body for lawyers set up to oversee and regulate the profession. Even suspicion of involvement in drugs would mean automatic expulsion for any member.

In Scottish law there are three possible verdicts: guilty, not guilty and not proven. All Sellar needed was a verdict of not proven – ‘we know you did it, but there isn’t enough proof’ – and Keira Lynch would no longer pose a threat.

Sellar nudged through a door in the side wall of the garage that led directly into the kitchen, and headed for the fridge in the far corner to pour himself a drink.

Suddenly he stopped and turned.

Something wasn’t right.

‘I’m sorry, James, d’you mind if I call you back in a minute, I’ve just arrived home and I need to get myself sorted . . . I’ll call you back shortly.’

Sellar hung up, placed the phone on the kitchen table and made his way back toward the connecting door.

The lock had been tampered with.

The strike plate was hanging from the door jamb: sitting at an awkward angle where it had been forced from the splintered wooden frame.

Sellar opened the door and peered back into the garage, listening.

The cooling fan on the car engine was still running.

Seconds later it clicked off and everything was silent.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement that made him turn, but his reactions were too slow to protect his face from the blow. A fist slammed into his cheek and knocked him backward against the doorframe. Sellar started to scream.

‘Please don’t hurt me, please.’

Another blow caught him hard in the stomach, winding him, and another to the side of his head knocked him to the ground.

He was squealing now, ‘Please just take what you want; please don’t hurt me.’

As he cowered on the floor Sellar was struck in the side of the face by a savage kick that snapped his head backward against the wall where he slid, unconscious, to the floor.

Sellar’s brain was grinding at the inside of his skull. He tried to push himself up from the floor, but had to stop as an attack of vertigo made his arms collapse from under him. Eventually he managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position, with his back resting against the wall.

The clock on the wall opposite read 8.35 p.m., which meant he’d been out for only a few minutes. It also meant his attackers could still be in the house. If they were after the safe they could be back at any moment demanding the combination. There was nothing of much value in the smaller of the two safes – a few hundred pounds cash, some insurance documents and a couple of fake Rolexes he’d bought on one of his frequent trips to Thailand. The larger safe, which was built into a cupboard in the upstairs hallway, contained some smaller works of priceless art – copies of which hung on the walls of the living room and the lounge. It had over thirty thousand in cash and most of his ex-wife’s jewellery, which he’d managed to claw back from her as part of their separation agreement, but hadn’t got round to selling. It also housed his ‘dirt diaries’: corroborated evidence of wrongdoing he’d gathered over the years, mostly against friends and work colleagues.

Some of it would never see the light of day, some of it already had. It was his nuclear option: back-up for when things weren’t going his way. No one, not even his ex-wife, knew of the larger safe’s existence.

If they wanted the code for that they’d have to torture him.

Sellar tried again and this time he managed to get to his feet. He staggered out into the hall and pressed the silent alarm on the small keypad by the front door, then suddenly feeling nauseous quickly made his way back into the kitchen and over to the sink.

He didn’t make it in time. One step short of the basin he emptied the contents of his stomach all over the floor and across a pile of dishes sitting on the draining board.

He stood, bent double with one hand resting on the edge of the worktop and vomited again.

His brow was covered in beads of sweat, his face drained of colour.

He wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth and saw that it was covered in fresh blood. He examined his reflection in the kitchen window to see where the blood was coming from, then rubbed his hand over his scalp and round the back of his head, feeling for cuts or grazes, but there was nothing there. He lifted his face to the ceiling and pinched his nose with his right hand to see if that was the source, but – again – there was nothing. Confused, Sellar stumbled over to the kitchen table and reached out for his phone. As he did so, something caught under the cuff of his left sleeve and sent a sharp, stabbing pain up the length of his arm. Sellar let out a yelp and dropped the phone to the floor. He stared down at his hand. It was dripping with blood.

He removed his jacket and dropped it on to the table.

The sleeve of his white shirt had a patch of red spreading slowly toward his elbow.

He carefully unbuttoned the cuff and rolled the sleeve back, then turned his hand.

He stared in disbelief.

A large surgical needle was protruding from one of the veins in his wrist.

The makeshift cannula was held in place by a piece of light blue electrical tape wrapped roughly round his wrist. There were still droplets of blood squeezing from its end: each small red bead swelling in rhythm with his heartbeat, then dripping on to his skin and trickling over the palm of his hand, down to his fingertips.

Sellar’s head glanced off the corner of the table with a loud crack as he collapsed to the floor unconscious once more.

Keira’s mother pulled another bath towel from the washing line and dropped it and the pegs on top of the pile in the red latticework basket sitting on the grass by her feet. Grabbing hold of the moulded plastic handles, she carried the load indoors and tipped the contents on top of the kitchen table ready for sorting.

Orlaith suddenly stopped and looked up, convinced she’d caught a movement out in the hallway next to the front door. ‘Keira? Is that you? I thought you were going for a walk . . . Keira?’

There was no reply.

She stood listening for any further signs of movement. Except for the gentle hum from the fridge in the corner, the house was silent.

She emptied another wet load from the washing machine and headed back out to the garden.

Just as she approached the threshold of the back door she saw him, standing in the same spot she had occupied just a few minutes earlier.

A small, stocky man wearing a black shirt, buttoned up to the neck. His hair was shaved close and his face – although not old – was haggard and tired looking, set in a permanent frown. Without speaking, he raised the gun he was holding and pointed it at her chest.

A noise from behind made her turn: another man was standing in the doorway leading through to the lounge. He too had a gun, this one dangling lazily by his side.

‘Don’t be scared, everything is be okay,’ he said quietly in a foreign accent. ‘Where is she?’

Orlaith’s mind went blank, her thoughts whitewashed by the sudden surge of adrenaline. ‘Not here,’ she heard herself say.

‘I think she’s gone for walk?’

The man lifted his hand to his mouth and spoke something unintelligible into a small microphone concealed in the cuff of his jacket.

He turned back to her. ‘Where?’

Orlaith opened her mouth to reply but the guy cut in, ‘Where is she? Just to talk . . . We are not hurt her.’

His laid-back manner was strangely reassuring. There was a cool, dispassionate air about him that gave the impression he wasn’t about to do anything rash. Orlaith figured if she screamed or tried to run he would probably kill her, but for the moment he seemed pretty relaxed. He touched his finger to his ear now, as though he was receiving a message, then started nodding: his attention not on Orlaith for a moment.

‘Okay, we are leave you now,’ he said. ‘As you say, short and sweet. You stay quiet your daughter is safe. You call the police she will be dead. We are just to talk to her, so please, no police. You understand?’

Orlaith nodded.

With that he turned and walked calmly through the lounge, into the hallway and out through the front door.

Orlaith looked behind her into the garden, but the small stocky guy had disappeared too.

Polite!
was her only other thought.

Two figures scrambled over the large mound of rocks that formed a breakwater on the western shore of Rhu marina. The women’s outlines, silhouetted against the glistening water of Gare Loch, shimmered in the early evening haze.

On the far shore the low, distant hills behind Rosneath ran the length of the Garelochead peninsula in a dark flickering streak.

Moment’s later officer Rebecca Rey crossed a small metal platform bridging the watery gap between the shore and four rows of pontoons that stretched into the man-made harbour in the shape of a giant pitchfork, each prong having twenty or so boats moored at right angles along its length.

‘How you feeling?’ she asked as she helped Keira across the unsteady platform.

‘Better than yesterday, and yesterday was better than the day before. If I fall over, at least I’m still moving forward.’

‘You’re limping a bit. Are you still sore?’

‘A pinch here and there, nothing serious. I still couldn’t jog it. A brisk walk’ll do for now. How far d’you think it is?’

‘From here to the house?’

Keira nodded.

Rebecca looked back along the crescent shoreline to a small cluster of trees where the cottage was situated. ‘I don’t know . . . half a mile, maybe a bit less.’

‘Half a mile! Shit! I feel like I’ve done a marathon.’

The two women stood for a while taking in the view across the Rhu Narrows, Rebecca aware that she was probably enjoying the moment more than Keira.

She’d been with Keira for nearly a week now and in all that time had never seen her smile. Keira didn’t watch television, or use a computer, preferring instead to read or review old case notes, boxes of which were piled high in her bedroom. Keira was polite and considerate, but she didn’t engage. Her eyes remained dull, her expression flat; it was as though her mind had pulled the shutters down and turned off all the lights.

Today, however, she seemed different. Whereas before she’d hardly leave her room, it had been her idea to walk to the marina. Even at breakfast Rebecca could sense that something had changed: she’d turned a corner.

The boats were unusually still, barely moving as they floated silently side by side, creating little more than a ripple on the glossy surface of the harboured water. Even the birds were silent, lending an eerie undercurrent to the scene. The only sound to penetrate the quiet was the occasional rush of a car as it swept along the main road through Rhu on its way to Garelochead in one direction, or Glasgow in the other.

‘I haven’t shed a tear’ said Keira eventually, as if trying not to break the spell, ‘Not one. It’s like my emotions are in lockdown: like I’ve forgotten how to be a human being.’

‘You’re being too hard on yourself. The fact that you’re even thinking these thoughts contradicts what you’ve just said.’

Keira turned to look at her and continued, ‘Not even when my grandmother died?’

‘How honest d’you want me to be?’

‘I raised the subject, so you can be as honest as you like.’

Rebecca thought for a second before continuing.

‘I think you’re just suffering from depression. Which, given the trauma you’ve been through, is hardly surprising. I say,
just
suffering, but I don’t mean to belittle it. Depression can be a major pain in the arse. It has an impact on things like being able to cry. When my dad died it was nearly a year before the floodgates opened. Eva Cassidy singing “Songbird” started me off: d’you know it?’

Keira nodded, ‘Yeah. Ironic.’

‘I know! The opening line says there’ll be “no crying”. A week later, after I’d shrivelled up from dehydration, I finally stopped. It took a year for me to realize his death had actually happened. Maybe not realize, but accept that it had happened.’

Keira was staring at the ground. ‘Yeah, someone else said that to me once.’

‘When you’re learning the most effective way to kill someone with a firearm you have to learn what makes them tick, so that hopefully – when the time comes – you don’t have to pull the trigger. I don’t speak French or German, but I’m fluent in “Body”. It’s the only other language I understand. The downside is you end up micro-analysing every gesture and facial expression of everyone you meet, wondering what lies beneath.’

‘Have you been micro-analysing me?’

‘You don’t give much away, except for maybe the wrist thing. But you don’t smile much, which makes you difficult to read.’

‘My gran could always predict which boxer was going to lose the fight at the weigh-in. It was the one doing the smiling: you know that smug “I’m not scared of you” grin thing. Apparently it’s a submissive action: smiling.’

‘Is that why you don’t do it much?’

Keira shook her head. ‘No. I don’t have much to smile about.’

‘That’s what makes me think you’re going to be all right.’

‘Because I don’t smile?’

Rebecca nodded. ‘It shows that you’re stronger than most. Don’t worry, just because you haven’t sprung a leak yet. When you do: I’m heading for one of those boats.’

The two women watched in silence as a long, narrow-beamed cigarette boat came into view around the point, motoring on idle across Rhu Bay. Eventually it pulled alongside one of the moorings at the far end of the pontoon, positioned nearest to the mouth of the harbour. The powerboat was just over twelve metres long and had a small open cockpit where the driver sat, its low, sleek lines complemented by a metallic blue colour scheme with contrasting go-faster stripes that ran the length of the hull. The metallic lettering on the side read
XЕРОИН
.

The first thing that struck Keira was how different it looked from all the other boats in the marina.

While the driver negotiated the mooring, his companion, who had been standing beside him, jumped off and started along the pontoon toward the girls.

As he approached, Rebecca noticed that he was wearing a small black earpiece that had a wire extending toward his mouth.

The only way off the floating platform was to go past them, but Rebecca’s training told her this was something different. The way the guy walked, the way he was staring at them, the self-assured manner all spelled danger. A noise from the boatyard behind them made her turn, just in time to see a figure duck behind one of the thick wooden stilts used to raise boats off the ground for maintenance. Over to her right another two shapes were moving along the shoreline, heading in their direction.

All their escape routes were blocked.

Rebecca let her hand drop slowly to her side and unclipped the safety-strap from her Glock service pistol.

Even Keira was aware that something wasn’t right.

‘I don’t like this,’ muttered Rebecca quietly. ‘We’re wide open here. We need to get off this jetty as quickly as possible.’

‘There’s someone behind us in the boatyard.’

‘I’ve seen him. Let’s move back across the bridge and see what happens. If it all kicks off, drop to the ground until I’ve dealt with him, then move as fast as you can up to the main road. Keira! Are you listening? KEIRA!’

But Keira wasn’t listening: she was transfixed by the figure heading toward them along the pontoon.

Rebecca grabbed hold of her arm and tried again. ‘KEIRA, WE HAVE TO MOVE!’

Keira was certain now: she recognized the approaching figure. ‘It’s him.’

The guy was less than ten yards away; too close for Rebecca. She drew her Glock from its holster and – aiming just above his head – shouted a warning. ‘Armed police officer, stop right there. If you come any closer I will fire. STOP RIGHT THERE.’

The guy did as he was told, then, without prompting, held his hands out to the side and spun round in a circle to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

Fisnik Abazi looked smaller in real life than Keira had imagined: dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt and seemingly unfazed at having a gun pointed at him.

‘I’m unarmed,’ he said. ‘But if you look behind me you’ll see the man on the boat with a 50-calibre long-range sniper rifle. The gentleman behind you is carrying an AR15 semi-automatic and the guys walking along the beach have B&T MP9s.’

‘Is this a sales pitch?’ asked Keira.

Abazi stared back at her and made a face like he didn’t get it.

‘The guns; are you telling us their names in case we want to buy one?’

‘I’m just letting the police officer know – in case she’s weighing up her odds – what she’s up against. Please, throw your weapon into the water, it’s no good to you any more.’

Losing the Glock would leave them completely defenceless, but Rebecca knew she’d only be able to take down one target. With that sort of firepower pointing at them, if the shooting started there would be nothing left of her or Keira to bury.

‘D’you mind if I drop it over the side here on to the rocks? If I clock off without my weapon I’ll get a bollocking from my commanding officer. It’s a disciplinary offence. This way it’s out of reach, but at least I can retrieve it later.’

Abazi shrugged his shoulders. ‘Go ahead.’

Rebecca held the Glock out over the edge of the pontoon and dropped it just to the right of the aluminium bridge. She watched it land in a crevice between two boulders close to the water’s edge.

‘I was told you’d packed your bags and left town,’ continued Keira.

‘The CIA’s big problem is they think they’re too smart to be outsmarted.’

‘How d’you know it was the CIA that told me?’

‘Because I don’t think I’m smart, I know I am.’

‘Is that why you’ve dropped by, to tell me how clever you are?’

‘To tie up a few loose ends.’

‘Am I a loose end?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘What, then?’

‘I want to hire you.’

Keira didn’t raise an eyebrow. ‘As what?’

‘Ha!’ smiled Abazi. ‘You’d make a lot of money as one of my girls, but I’m thinking lawyer . . . for now.’

‘I’m not practising at the moment,’ replied Keira, letting a little ice slip into her tone. ‘Got shot.’

‘I have a cheque here as a down-payment, sort of like a retainer.’

‘I can’t accept money upfront, I’m afraid. It can be too easily misconstrued. I’d have to invoice you.’

‘You’ve got the cop here as a witness. I’m paying for your services as a lawyer.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need representation soon; also, I have information you need to hear.’

‘Go ahead. You can say what you like without me representing you.’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Because these are things I would say only to my lawyer. Lawyer–client privilege sort of shit.’

‘Okay, I’m ready.’

‘Not until we shake hands and you say it out loud, so we have a verbal agreement.’

‘It’s an oral agreement.’

‘Who gives a shit! Just say the words, then we can shake hands and get down to business.’

Abazi suddenly touched his hand to the side of his head; listening to something in his earpiece. His focus shifted away from the two women to the boatyard behind.

A police car with blue-and-yellow Battenberg markings had just drawn up and a uniformed officer was making his way toward the metal bridge.

Abazi barked something in Serbian into the microphone.

The sniper on the boat eased himself lower and retrained his sights on to the approaching police officer.

Rebecca noticed that the figure standing by the stilts was nowhere to be seen: the guys on the beach had disappeared too.