Blood Whispers (3 page)

As Kaltrina reached out to take the phone from Edi her elbow knocked the almost full glass off the counter and sent it tumbling to the floor, where it smashed into three or four large fragments. Most of the wine had tipped on to her lap and she could feel it soaking through the thin fabric of her trousers and running down her legs.

Edi Leka’s instinctive reaction was to bend down and pick up the pieces. As he did so Kaltrina grabbed the wine bottle from the counter and brought it down in a wide sweeping arc on to the back of his head. She grabbed the other glass and smashed it against the counter, then thrust its jagged edge as hard as she could towards the side of Edi’s neck. Edi dropped the phone to the ground and grabbed hold of her wrist just in time to stop the razor-sharp point from puncturing his throat.

The first blow to the head had knocked him to his knees.

As he struggled to his feet Kaltrina raised the bottle and struck him again. Edi Leka’s legs buckled and he dropped back to the floor, unconscious.

The commotion had already attracted a lot of attention.

Two police officers at the far end of the lounge were sprinting toward Kaltrina, shouting at her to put the bottle down.

Kaltrina smacked Edi Leka across the head one more time, then carefully placed the bottle back on the counter. She bent down, scooped the mobile phone off the floor and started toward the cops, talking as she walked.

‘This is for my friend Tulla, you son-of-a-bitch. All I wanted was to go home, Abazi, now . . . I’m going to destroy you.’

With that she dropped the phone to the ground and raised her hands above her head in surrender.

‘My name is Kaltrina Dervishi and I travel with false passport,’ she said as the two cops grabbed hold of her.

Jay-Go’s pace quickened as he reached the top end of Hope Street. He swaggered from side to side as he moseyed his way past the other pedestrians with his hands tucked inside his jacket pockets and a single-skin roll-up hanging loosely from his top lip: giving the stare to anyone who unintentionally caught his eye. His skin was pale and haggard – messed up by years of doing class A.

A crooked boxer-nose, fashioned on the streets rather than in the ring, was flattened against his long, scrawny face, which was topped-off by a No. 1 all-over buzz cut. There was a hole in the nylon lining of the right-hand jacket pocket, big enough for him to put his fist through and grip the mottled handle of the gun he had tucked into the top of his well-worn Wrangler jeans. He’d been walking at a steady pace for nearly two hours now and despite the cool breeze had worked up a sweat that made his T-shirt cling to his back and the Walther PPK feel clammy and uncomfortable to the touch.

His heart was beating hard, dragging the mixture of cigarette smoke and cool air into his lungs like burning brier.

No worries
, thought Jay-Go.
Nearly there
.

Keira Lynch cleared a space amongst the clutch of legal documents spread out on the table in front of her and placed her half-empty glass of Irn Bru in the centre. The Pot Still bar was stocked with more than three hundred types of whisky, some of which ranked in her all-time top ten, but even though it was after hours she was still working, so soft-and-fizzy was the limit. She was sitting at one of the tables on the raised section of platform that took up half the entire back area of the cosy bar. The ceiling above had ornate cornicing dating back to the period when the building was first erected some time in the early 1800s and there were comfortable, green leather, button-backed rows of bench seating running around the walls of the upstairs section, with a similar version in red leather on the ground level below.

Keira suddenly became aware of a presence next to the table and looked up.

‘Ye awright, Miss?’

‘Jay-Go. Didn’t have the Pot Still down as one of your locals. The Centaur closed for refurbishment?’

‘Aye, you’re good.’ Jay-Go smiled back at her. ‘When Ah discovered the joys of classy-class A, Ah lost my appetite for the bevvy. Ah hivnae set foot in the Centaur for about ten year. Great pub, but the last time Ah wis in there it wis after hours.’

‘A lock in?’

‘Robbing the place. Ah’d offer to get ye a drink, but it’d break the terms of my parole.’

‘I think buying alcohol for your lawyer would be seen as a pardonable offence rather than a breach of your parole conditions, but why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you one.’

‘Don’t want to end up back inside,’ replied Jay-Go. ‘No alcohol must pass these lips.’

‘If you promise not to tell anyone, I will too.’

Jay-Go pulled a chair out from under the table and sat facing her.

‘If you think it’ll stand up in court, I’ll have a vodka and Coke.’

‘Have you ever heard of an Ardbeg 1974?’

‘Can ye snort it?’

‘Practically. They do an Ardbeg ’75 here, which is as near as damn it. If you’re going back inside for breach then you might as well enjoy a decent whisky. Ardbeg’ll give you something nice to think about when you’re dreaming of your next score from behind bars.’

‘Aye, you’re good. Fire up one of those fur me.’

Keira made her way to the bar and ordered a large ’75 and another can of Irn Bru. The whole time she was aware of Jay-Go’s eyes following her.

When she got back to the table he had picked up a few of her documents and was scanning through them, feigning interest as he browsed.

Keira placed the drinks down on the table and lowered herself back into her seat.

‘Anything interesting?’ she asked, prising the sheets of paper from his hand and slipping them back into her small leather work-satchel.

‘Naw! Ah cannae read. Ah was looking to see if there were any pictures. You not joining me?’

‘I don’t drink when I’m at work.’

‘Ye want some gear?’

‘I don’t do that either, not any more.’

‘Man, that’s grim. How d’ye get yer kicks? Sex?’ Jay-Go downed the Ardbeg in one gulp and sat staring at her, like he might be interested in a liaison. ‘Man, a bit of make-up and you’d be a looker. You’ve got that Lois Lane vibe goin’ on. Pure stealth, you know what I’m saying? Second-glance stunner.’

Keira ignored the remarks and changed the subject. ‘How did you get here?’

‘Grabbed a cab, Miss, cost me nearly twenty quid. Any chance you could spot me a refund and some cash for the journey back?’

Keira knew Jay-Go and his type all too well. She’d represented him and hundreds like him, over the years in court, against crimes and misdemeanours ranging in severity from possession, and loitering with intent all the way up to murder and rape.

Jay-Go was always working the angles, pushing for a quick fix and instant gratification, but he was at the bottom end of the social structure where the pickings were mostly the leftovers from society’s plate. If his effort and cunning could be employed more fruitfully Jay-Go would be a multimillionaire. He was as good a liar and a cheat as any of them.

Keira tried again. ‘Did you get the bus?’

Jay-Go stared back at her like he was going to take her on, then changed his mind. ‘Na! I walked it. Where would I get the money to splash on a luxury trip in the back of a cab?’

‘You walked all the way from Easterhouse?’

‘Aye. “Ah’d walk a million miles” an’ all that. But listen, I can see that you’re busy so I’m no’ gonnae keep ye back.’ Jay-Go stopped abruptly, as though he’d had second thoughts over whatever he was about to say next. He suddenly seemed nervous and started looking distractedly around the bar. Keira repeated his name three times before his focus came back round to her.

‘Jay-Go, are you all right?’

‘Aye fine. Ye got any smokes on ye?’

‘What were you going to say?’

‘Let’s go outside for a smoke an’ I’ll tell you.’

‘Why can’t you tell me in here?’

‘Nae reason; I’m just dying for a fag.’

Keira lifted a soft pack of Virginia Plain with two roll-ups ready-made and a Zippo from her handbag, then nodded towards the entrance. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

The traffic on Hope Street was building up as the town-centre office workers spilled on to the streets and started to make their way home.

Keira lit the two expertly rolled single skinners and handed one to Jay-Go.

‘Man! I thought you’d be smoking one eh’ them posh brands like Mayfair, or those French fags that smell of shite.’

‘Gauloises is French for shite.’

‘Is it?’ asked Jay-Go, thinking he’d guessed correctly.

Keira gave him a look.

‘Aye, well, they’ll be the ones.’

‘I prefer to roll my own: I smoke less and enjoy it more. When did you get out?’ Keira drew down a lungful of smoke.

‘Last week.’

‘And how’s business?’

Jay-Go flicked her a look. ‘It’s shite, by the way, because Ah wis busted, naebody’ll sell me stock, and even if they did the punters think the cops are still watching me so they’re blanking me too. And the bawbags that moved in on my area of the scheme when I was sent down, they think I’m aiming to chisel my way back in again so they’ve put a marker on me: fuckin’ Serbians. When the Poles moved in it was fine, ’cause they’d deal with anyone. They recognized there wis enough for everybody, but the fuckin’ Serbs are mad. They’re all ex militia, man! Too aggressive, ye know what Ah mean? It’s getting pure lawless up there. It’s a self-limiting business, anyway . . . I know that. How many junkies d’you know over thirty-five? I
am
planning to start up again, but just till I get the one big score, then I’m fuckin’ off out of it. Off to New York on a cruise liner, pure
Titanic
fashion, know what I mean? Gonnae do rehab over there. There are more junkies in the States than the population of Belgium, so they know what they’re on about; clinics are better quality. Got a cousin in Dublin’s a fuckin’ riot: take him along for the craic, and the crack . . . if he’s got any.’ Jay-Go half smiled to himself, thinking it was a good line. ‘But that’s no’ the point,’ he continued. ‘When the economy is on the downturn, recreational drug use is on the up. There’s plenty business out there for us all to have a share. But now I have to watch ma back the whole time, man: carry a shooter, just in case, you know what I’m saying?’

‘Don’t tell me things like that‚ Jay-Go,’ said Keira coolly. ‘Chances are your parole officer will be writing to me to sign-off on all the papers, which I won’t be able to do if I know you’re walking around with a gun in your pocket selling drugs.’

‘You asked the fuckin’ question, Miss,’ he retorted.

‘I know I did, but I didn’t mean it literally, I meant how are things in general?’

‘Aye, well, in general, things are pure Gauloises . . . So there you are.’

The two stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the passers-by and finishing off their smokes.

Eventually, Keira said, ‘Is that it?’

‘Is that what?’

‘Well, I’m presuming that since you spent the best part of two hours walking from Easterhouse to find me, there must be something more than just a confession and moaning about the Serbian mafia.’

‘Aye, well that’s right.’ Jay-Go was suddenly serious. ‘A bit of info for you. And the only reason I’m telling you, is because you’re a stand-up bitch and I know you’ll not land me in the shit over it.’

‘Should I take that as a compliment?’

‘Fuckin’ right you should. This is serious and I’m only gonna say it once, then I’m off. No questions, right? I’m no’ a grass and I never have been, but this is payback time.’

‘I don’t know why you’re saying that, Jay-Go. You don’t owe me anything.’

‘You’re not like all those other monkeys you work with. You looked out for me, so now I’m looking out for you. I’ve got your back, Miss, that’s how the Jay-Go works, but no questions, all right?’

Jay-Go was staring at her now, his expression intense, waiting for her response.

‘I’m not quite sure what I’m agreeing to, but if that’s what you want, then fine – no questions.’

‘The girl—’ started Jay-Go, but Keira interrupted him.

‘What girl?’

‘No questions!’ snapped Jay-Go. ‘Just listen.’

Keira nodded, but she suddenly had a bad feeling; an uneasy sense of foreboding that made her want to tell him to stop whatever he was about to say.

‘There is only one girl,’ he continued, ‘and you know exactly who I’m talking about, so don’t say another word, just let me finish. She’s cursed. You’ve got to stop any dealings with her ’cause there’s gonna be no survivors: pure bad news. You need to protect yourself from her. It’s all shit, Miss, and the word in the Bar-L is the bogey man’s coming.’

‘You’re not making any sense, Jay-Go,’ said Keira, holding up her hand to stop him from protesting, ‘and I’m not asking a question, I just don’t understand what you’re telling me.’

‘The whore! The one that got lifted at the airport – they’ve ordered a hit on her.’

With that Jay-Go turned on his heel and started up the road.

For a moment Keira could do little more than stare after him. How could he know about the girl? How could he know that she had been appointed to represent her; no announcement had been made, official or otherwise. It was supposed to be a closely guarded secret. How could he possibly know? The Bar-L – Barlinnie – was Scotland’s largest prison, but who in there could have found out? Keira called after Jay-Go just as he rounded the corner on to West Regent Street. She ran after him calling his name, but when she reached the corner just a few seconds later, Jay-Go was gone.

Keira sheltered inside the porch to the entrance of the Prosecutor’s office in Blythswood Square. She was leaning against one of the pale Georgian support pillars, finishing off the last of her roll-up. The square of cream sandstone buildings overlooked a public garden that in Victorian times would have been filled with bedding plants and well-tended perennials, but over the years and – more recently – with successive cuts in local council spending the garden had been neglected and left to manage itself. When it was first built, the plot had been enclosed by metal railings, but the shortage of steel for bomb making during the Second World War led to their removal and left the small green area feeling exposed and ill defined. Keira could see the irony in the metal once used to protect an area of beauty in the centre of a town being cut down and fashioned into something whose sole purpose was to destroy similar places in a different country.

It had started raining and there was a cool, blustery breeze whipping over the top of the hill on which the square was located, just a few minutes’ walk from Glasgow’s city centre. Keira was killing time till her 10 a.m. appointment. It was still only 9.50 and she was already on her third cigarette: if she kept smoking at this rate she’d be all out of tobacco before lunch.

Keira was habitually early for appointments. It was a trait she found irritating in herself, but she couldn’t help it. This morning, however, it had worked to her advantage: given her some more time to think.

The conversation with Jay-Go the night before had been unsettling. She was trying to figure out whose best interests would be served by making this knowledge public, but so far she had drawn a blank.

Then there was the death threat against Kaltrina. Jay-Go couldn’t possibly have known the importance of this girl’s co-operation in the case that was being built against Fisnik Abazi, but someone did; and that someone had passed the information on to Jay-Go in the knowledge that it would find its way back to her. It was this train of thought that had kept Keira up for most of the night. As soon as she was back from visiting her grandmother in Dumfries she would track Jay-Go down and find out who he’d been hanging out with. In the meantime she would have to be even more careful. If nothing else, it had made Keira more determined than ever that no more harm would come to the girl.

A voice behind her made her jump.

‘Your office have just called and asked if you could get in touch. Sounded serious.’

Advocate Depute Patrick Sellar appeared over her shoulder. He was a short wiry man in his mid fifties, with a ratty face and a ghoulish complexion. Long strands of greying hair were swept across his balding pate and there was a faint odour of decay if he stood too close. He gave Keira the creeps. She’d come across him in court a few times, so she was aware that – despite appearances – he was sharp to the touch, and liked nothing better than a good scrap. If you took him on, your defence was likely to bleed to death through a thousand tiny, painful incisions.

The slimeball was not to be underestimated.

‘Lost your mobile?’

‘No.’

‘Battery dead?’

‘Brain tumours.’

Sellar made a face. ‘The frequency they transmit microwaves at isn’t in the same bandwidth as the ones that cause cancer.’

Arsehole!
thought Keira.

‘So you don’t use one.’

‘I do. I just don’t let them use me. I’m not quite as reliant on one as everybody else seems to be. If anything, I find life a little more tolerable without them.’

He still wasn’t convinced.

‘What about emergencies?’

‘Depends what you define as an emergency.’

‘Do you want to use mine?’

‘I’ll head straight back there at the end of our meeting, but thank you. And thanks for seeing me today instead of tomorrow. I’m sorry to muck you about,’ she said, following him through the small lobby.

‘Not at all. Your secretary gave the impression you were jetting off somewhere. Business or pleasure?’

‘Neither. A family matter. And not exactly “jetting off”: driving to Dumfries.’

As they reached the stairs, Sellar announced, ‘There is a lift, but it’s only two storeys. I prefer to walk,’ as though his was the only opinion that mattered. He indicated for Keira to go first.

Keira walked up the red-carpeted stairs ahead of him, conscious of his eyes on her backside.

Nether of them spoke again until they were inside his office.

‘You were probably surprised I agreed to see you at all,’ said Sellar as he eased himself into the large swivel chair behind his glass-topped desk, ‘given that I’m not known for doing deals.’

‘It did cross my mind,’ replied Keira taking her place on the other side of the desk.

‘I keep hearing good things about you. Wanted to see for myself how you operate. Would it be fair to say you’re a promising up-and-comer?’

‘I’ve never really assessed my career, or the path it’s taking. I just do what I do.’ She uncrossed her legs, then noticed Sellar gazing at them and crossed them back again.

‘Modest, too: I like that. And a looker: always an advantage. I can see why you attract a lot of business.’

Keira let the ‘looker’ comment pass for the moment. She was soberly dressed in a light-grey shapeless wool suit and not wearing any make-up, but was well aware of Sellar’s reputation for being a lech.

‘Do you want something to drink?’

‘No thank you.’

‘The Albanian girl is an interesting case. What’s your pitch?’

Now that the pleasantries were out of the way, Sellar was straight into it. Keira responded likewise.

‘I want the charges against her dropped before it goes to court.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that both she and I feel as though she’s being blackmailed into appearing as a witness against Fisnik Abazi.’

‘So? If we drop the charges she’s free to go, and if she’s free to go she’ll disappear. If she disappears a major component for the case against a major criminal disappears also.’

‘So you
are
blackmailing her.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite so strongly as that: more like using whatever leverage we have as effectively as possible. You look mildly surprised, but that’s the way it plays.’

Keira was more than mildly surprised. She had been expecting him to argue the opposite, but he appeared to be confirming what she believed.

Sellar continued, ‘She was working as a prostitute. There’s CCTV footage of her stealing from a shop. She broke into a house and stole money, a passport and various items of clothing. She was caught red-handed trying to leave the country using said passport, having attacked a man at the bar. He was lucky to survive. Prostitution, assault, theft, burglary, et cetera, et cetera: we didn’t trump up any of these charges, they’re real.’

‘Abazi hasn’t even been arrested yet. She could be stuck in jail for months before anything happens on that front; I don’t think prison is where this young woman ought to be.’

‘I haven’t met a defence lawyer yet who doesn’t think their client should be walking the streets rather than serving their sentence.’

‘She hasn’t been convicted of anything yet; she’s not serving a sentence.’

Sellar ignored the interruption and kept talking. ‘Abazi is under twenty-four-hour-a-day surveillance. When all the pieces are in place they’ll move in and make an arrest. I’m led to believe that is imminent. The girl is too important to the prosecution’s case to simply let her walk away. It was she who suggested giving evidence against him in the first place. It’s in everyone’s best interest to press on with charging her. There has been talk of deporting her, but if she co-operates with the Abazi case then I’m sure there will be some room for manoeuvre on that front. That’s as much as you could hope for at this point, Keira. But it’s obviously all speculation on my part. These things are not within my powers to gift . . . yet.’ He then added, ‘I’ve been given the nod that I may be prosecuting the Abazi case, but nothing in writing.’

‘Kaltrina Dervishi has given me her word that she will appear as a witness, she wants this guy put away just as much as everyone else, but pursuing the case against her is much less likely to make her co-operate. It’ll make her back away from that position at a hundred miles an hour. And threatening her with deportation will only reinforce her unwillingness.’

‘Just to correct you on one point,’ replied Sellar. ‘No one is threatening anything. I merely mentioned deportation because there’s been some background chatter on the subject.’

Sellar thought he was being smart: letting the fact that there may have been a discussion over deporting the girl linger for a moment in an effort to ramp up the pressure.

Keira was happy to play along.

‘If they deport her she will be murdered.’

Sellar was shaking his head. ‘We have no cause to believe the girl’s life is in any danger. Abazi’s a bad bastard, no one’s denying it, but there has been no indication that anything like that would happen at all.’

‘I’ve received information from a reliable source that there is already a contract out on her.’

Keira paused for a moment to let that one sink in.

‘Then I’m confused. Why would you want her out on the streets if you believe her life to be in danger? If she’s locked up, she’s contained and out of harm’s way.’

‘I didn’t say I wanted her out on the streets, I said I wanted the charges dropped. I also think that rather than being stuck in jail, she should be put in the witness protection programme. Then everyone gets what they want. You get your witness and I get some degree of safety for my client.’

‘I take your point, but it’s an expensive process and at this moment in time I’m not entirely sure it’s necessary.’ Sellar let out a snort. ‘As it stands she’s a defendant, not a witness. And we can’t put her in the programme until Abazi is under arrest. Technically there is no case against him, therefore no such thing as witnesses.’

Sellar was being an arse. He could just as easily have agreed that the witness protection programme was a good way forward, and – given Abazi’s reputation for violence – probably necessary, but instead, he was choosing to play the power game.

Sellar noticed Keira start to rub her wrists together. It was a small subconscious gesture, but one that made him smile inwardly. Over the years he’d made a habit of researching anyone who might have any bearing on the outcome of a case he was involved in. Judges, fellow solicitors, defendants; it didn’t really matter to him. Something always turned up that gave him a slight advantage over them. It was usually a small and seemingly inconsequential fact, or story, but even just a few hours spent panning the Internet would usually produce a golden nugget. And here, once again, his rigour was paying off right before his eyes. The one little nugget he had found out about Keira Lynch from a casual conversation with her boss, John McKay, was that she rubbed her wrists together when she was on the back foot, unsure of her ground or nervous about something. That one small involuntary action gave her away. He wanted to ask her if she ever played poker; maybe challenge her to a game and then sit back and smile benevolently as she marvelled at how well he could read her. But that would just be toying with the poor girl.

‘One other thing I should mention.’ He paused as if he was still deciding whether it was a good idea to continue, then started shaking his head as if, despite his reservations, he simply had to.

It was all an act, and not a very good one; nowhere near as good as Keira’s. She had already decided that no matter what he said she would make no response.

‘There is a small additional complication with regards to the case for deportation.’ This would give Miss Lynch something else to worry about on her way back to the office, thought Sellar as he delivered the body blow. ‘They’re looking at the possibility of citing Part II Section 15(3) of the 1971 Immigration Act as one of the grounds.’

Sellar turned his hands to the ceiling and gave a little shrug of his shoulders as if to say ‘I’m sorry’.

He watched her closely for a response, but she wasn’t giving anything away. After a few seconds he said, ‘I’ll write it down for you so that you can look it up when you get back to your office.’

Keira sat for a moment weighing her options. She had all the ammunition she needed to blast Sellar into the air and keep him bouncing around like a tin can in a cowboy movie. But that would almost be too easy. The professional option was to thank him for his time, then walk out and tear him apart in court. But she was going to do that anyway.

Stillness descended over her as she sat quietly collecting her thoughts. Her wrist rubbing routine had worked again: the feint before the sucker punch. She knew now what the Advocate Depute was thinking in relation to her case – in fact she had gotten far more than she had bargained for. She also knew exactly what Part II Section 15(3) of the 1971 Immigration Act contained: it meant an appeal against deportation would not be granted on the grounds that Kaltrina Dervishi was considered a threat to national security. How that – in any way – related to the girl was something she would investigate later, but for the time being she wasn’t going to give Sellar the satisfaction of entering into a conversation about it. Keira let him think he’d rattled her for a few seconds longer, waiting until the silence in the room had gone beyond awkward before making any kind of response.

Sellar was squirming around in his chair, obviously feeling the strain.

Keira had made a decision. She’d take him apart now
and
in court.

Her tone was calm and measured.

‘Kaltrina Dervishi didn’t come to Great Britain on a holiday visa and decide to stay after it had expired so that she could become a prostitute and a thief. Yes, she did all these things that you are accusing her of, but let’s get some context here. She was effectively trafficked to this country. She thought she was coming over to a better life, but it was all a con. She was allowed one phone call home to say she’d arrived safely, then her passport was taken and she was forced to work in the sex trade. She has been raped several times: not just by Abazi, but also by a number of the men who work under him. She’s also been beaten and tortured by these same men. She did break into someone’s home to steal some clothes, but only because her own were covered in blood. She did steal food from a shop, but only because she had so little money or means to support herself that she could do nothing else to prevent herself dying of starvation, and yes she did try and leave the country using a false passport, but given the level of abuse and exploitation she had suffered, wouldn’t you have done the same? A point to note: she effectively handed herself in, and the reason she handed herself in was because one of Abazi’s men was waiting for her in departures: he’s the one she assaulted in order to get herself arrested. In anyone’s book, Abazi’s actions represent far more than just a threat. She strongly believed that Abazi’s man had orders to kill her. Without special protection she is a sitting target.’