Blood Whispers (4 page)

Patrick Sellar made a gesture like he was going to interrupt, but Keira held up her hand and waved her finger at him. ‘Uh, Uh! You’ve played your cards, now it’s my turn. If you think I’m going to let another man, particularly one whose task it is to uphold the law, try to exploit or abuse my client by blackmailing her into appearing as a witness, and if you think you have even the remotest chance of a jury convicting this girl of any of these charges, then I’ll be very happy to stand against you in court. One other question before I leave,’ continued Keira as she stood up and gathered herself together. ‘Do you have my CV on your desk?’

Sellar looked back at her as though a grenade had gone off in his stomach and was about to explode out the top of his head. ‘I’m not sure I understand the question.’

‘I’m not interested in your summation of how you think my career is panning out. I’m not here looking for a job; I’m here
doing
my job.’ Keira stood to deliver the head shot. ‘If you’re using looks as a measure of someone’s ability to perform a task, you would have to mark yourself down as a “fail”.’

She headed for the exit, but she wasn’t finished. At the door she grabbed the handle and turned. ‘I win cases because I’m good at what I do, not because I look good when I’m doing it.’

The offices of McKay and Co. Solicitors occupied all three floors and basement of Elmore House in Royal Crescent, just off the lower end of Sauchiehall Street on the western edge of Glasgow city centre. The terrace of whitewashed Victorian buildings had survived the bombs of the Second World War unscathed, and – although attractive to look at – appeared at odds with the modern office blocks surrounding them. There were three police cars sitting outside with a number of officers milling around the entrance. Keira recognized her boss, John McKay, from behind, talking to one of the officers. McKay was a media bunny. He loved the limelight. He wasn’t that great a lawyer, but he knew how to sell. Early on in his career he’d been involved in some high-profile cases and had made the most of the publicity generated to start his own practice. The Armani suit was from a few seasons ago and the swept-back hair was grey and cut in a style that in no period of hairdressing had ever been fashionable. He wore a gold Rolex, drove a Porsche and named his dog Maggie in homage to the former Tory leader.

He turned as she approached.

‘You getting busted for possession again?’

‘Aye, right. We’ve got a crime scene, but no crime!’

‘How does that work?’

McKay shrugged, ‘Beats me. Where’s your phone, we’ve been trying to get a hold of you all morning?’

‘I left it on my desk, on the charger,’ answered Keira lamely. ‘Needed charging. Why? What’s going on?’

‘Did you swing by the office earlier this morning on your way to the meeting with Sellar?’

‘Why are you asking?’

‘The alarm was activated at about five a.m. Looks like we’ve been burgled.’

‘So why were you trying to get hold of me?’

‘They opened the inner doors using your pass key.’

That wasn’t the answer she was expecting.

‘Was anything taken?’ she asked as she rummaged in the over-the-shoulder rucksack that passed as her handbag.

‘Not that we can see. Nothing obvious. Everyone has checked their computers, but nothing seems to have been tampered with . . . More to the point, all the computers are still there. Curious. D’you think you might have misplaced the key card?’

Keira opened the purse she had just lifted from her bag and pulled out a blank rectangle of plastic with a brown magnetic strip on one side. ‘This is it,’ she said, handing it over. ‘Could just be a fault in the system.’

John McKay shook his head. ‘The surveillance system shows quite clearly a figure entering the building.’

‘Shit, really? What were they after?’

‘No idea! Have you been known to sleep walk?’

‘Did it look like me?’

‘Face was covered. And we’re fairly certain it was a male. You’re in the clear.’

‘Whose rooms were they in?’

‘We don’t know. The disc was erased.’

‘So how d’you know they got in?’

‘The camera at the entrance door is on a different system. It backs up to my computer rather than the DVD. That’s the only reason we know someone definitely entered. They must have erased the disc thinking it covered all the cameras. You’re the last to check in. Let’s go have a look round your desk, see if anything’s been taken.’

They climbed the stairs to the third floor and entered Keira’s office: one of four rooms that led off a small square landing.

The building was a converted Victorian family residence with high ceilings and ornate plaster cornicing. The cornicing had been painted over so many times it looked like melted sugar-icing. Her office was in the attic space, with two large dormer windows looking out over a small crescent garden to the new-builds across the street. The room was filled with natural light and had a bright, airy feel. Keira threw her coat on to a peg on the back of the door and headed over to her desk. Everything was just as she had left it the night before.

‘Looks fine.’

She sat behind the desk and pulled open each drawer one at a time.

‘Yours the only desk without a computer?’ asked the police officer. ‘Or has it been stolen?’

‘I write everything longhand or dictate it and my secretary types it up. If I need a computer, I use his. Some people see it as quaint, some as a pain in the arse. Truth is, I’m not a very good typist. I can do things a lot faster with a pen.’

‘So, nothing out of place?’ asked the officer.

‘Not that I can see.’

Keira followed John McKay’s eyeline and saw that he was staring at the phone on her desk, unplugged: the charger nowhere close by. She was sure she’d left it on charge, but quite often the cleaner would pull it from the wall to hoover so that wasn’t too unusual.

‘You’d know better than most,’ said the police officer to McKay. ‘If no crime’s been committed, there’s no criminal. Someone entered your building using one of your employees’ security passes and didn’t steal anything, didn’t spray the walls with graffiti or have a shit on your carpet. The bastards even reset the alarm as they were leaving. Even the headline writer at the
Daily Record
would be struggling to get anything out of that scenario. Obviously it’s not always apparent straight away, so if anything does come up, let us know. It could be they were disturbed and had to leave or – the only other option I can think of – they may have left a listening device or bug or whatever. You know, it might be an idea to get one of those firms in to scan the place, but I’m clutching at straws. I only mention it because of the type of work you do and the type of people you have to deal with. I wouldn’t put it past some of them . . . It’s a weird one!’

The phone on Keira’s desk started ringing just as John was following the cop back towards the door. ‘Okay, well, thanks for your help, officer, we’ll let you know if anything—’

‘Wait!’ said Keira suddenly.

The two men turned back to face her.

‘It’s not mine . . . the phone!’

‘You sure?’

‘It’s the same model, but it’s not my phone . . . not my ringtone.’

Keira looked up at the cop. ‘No caller ID. Should I answer it?’

‘Why not,’ the officer made his way back to the desk. ‘D’you mind if I listen in?’

Keira lifted the phone to her ear, angling it so that the policeman could hear the conversation, then waited before saying anything.

A dull, guttural voice at the other end said six words, then hung up.

‘Open the video, Keira. Press play.’

Keira slowly placed the phone back on the desk. John McKay was staring at her expectantly.

‘Anyone we know?’

Keira shook her head. ‘No idea.’

Parked on the opposite side of the street from the small, green crescent garden outside Keira’s office sat a white Ford Transit van. The driver cut his call, then dialled another number. He didn’t have to wait long for someone to answer. ‘She’s got it,’ he said as he casually flicked a cigarette from a soft-pack and pressed the lighter button.

The phone was a standard BlackBerry modified with military grade voice encryption. Speaking in his native language meant most people in this country who weren’t Kosovan couldn’t understand him anyway, but even the most sophisticated monitoring equipment couldn’t listen in either.

‘What did she say?’

‘She didn’t say anything, I didn’t give her a chance.’

‘Get back here and pick up the Merc.’

‘What time’s E Zeze’s flight landing?’

‘Sometime early evening: could be sooner, could be later: it’s down to the Americans.’

‘When d’you want me to go?’

‘Now.’

‘Why don’t I drive up in this? I put my foot down, this thing could fly me there.’

‘Stop trying to think for yourself, Besnik. Get your fat ass over here and pick up the Merc.’

‘Okay, see you in half an hour.’

Besnik replaced the mobile in its charging cradle and turned the engine. The Duratec six-litre V12 shoe-horned in under the bonnet was taken from an Aston Martin and sounded like a peal of thunder as the van pulled away from the kerb and roared up the road.

Besnik took a long drag on his cigarette and smiled. Even if the cops across the street gave chase, they’d never catch him.

‘Horsefly to EGEC, Horsefly to EGEC, looks like we are gonna make it in time for a pinkie.’

‘Horsefly, this is Spec War Detachment One, broadcasting live from EGEC: We got you, Marine. You got a civilian crate at thirty thousand, west and three miles out, apart from that the sky is yours and the runway is clear. Throttle back and set her down anytime you like. How long you visiting for?’

‘Just long enough to top off and grab a beer. Got a black-shoe to drop off, too. Ain’t spoke a word since he boarded and – perversely – is wearing brown shoes.’

The air traffic control officer in military fatigues continued, ‘Say your state, Marine.’

‘State one plus one-zero to splash, so more than good, but if I don’t get a beer I might ditch her anyway and swim to the nearest bar. Got a transatlantic ahead of us we’re feeling oh-so warm and fuzzy about.’

‘I hear you, Horsefly. We’ll stick a few in the freezer: get them nice and chilled.’ The officer was operating from a secret command-and-control bunker in Machrihanish on the west coast of Scotland: International Civil Aviation Organization airport code EGEC. The facility was located inside a little used domestic airfield that was also home to a detachment of US Navy Seals. He checked the location of the small white blip on his screen then pressed the talk-button again. ‘What’s the view like on this fine and pleasant evening? I got you just over Stornoway.’

‘Man, I don’t care what it’s called, got no goo for as far as the eye can see to the west and maybe three lumps of
cumulus mediocris
overland to the east – it’s beautiful. I’m thinking to emigrate here it looks so fine. There’s even a goddamn beach.’

There was a brief silence followed by a short crackle of static then the pilot spoke again. ‘EGEC, this is Horsefly, we got three down and locked, get the bottle opener on standby.’

Besnik Osmani left the outskirts of Campbeltown just as the sun was setting. Rose-coloured rays grazed the underbelly of three huge white clouds cruising gently above the two-mile-long runway of Campbeltown airport, Machrihanish.

Besnik pulled off the single-track road running alongside the perimeter security fence of the tiny airport and came to a halt in the car park adjacent to the domestic terminal building. His was the only vehicle there. The building was the same length as two average-sized terraced houses joined together and appeared to be deserted. All the window shutters were closed and the storm doors covering the entrance were padlocked. Besnik wondered for a moment if he’d come to the wrong part of the airport, but the instructions had been very specific, although there’d been no mention of the place being shut.

The journey from Glasgow had taken nearly five hours, past Loch Lomond heading north to Inveraray, then doubling back south past Lochgilphead on the Kintyre peninsula. The spectacular scenery he’d driven through reminded Besnik of a greener rendering of the area in Albania where he’d been born. With proper road markings, finished hedgerows and lochs full of expensive looking boats marking the only differences between the two.

Besnik was hungry and needed the toilet. He got out of the car and stretched away the stiffness, then strolled across to the end of the terminal building and pissed against the wall.

A few hundred metres to his left was the conning tower and at the far end of the runway he could see three large grass-covered bunkers.

The only signs of life were a few seagulls gliding silently overhead.

He checked his watch. Despite the heavy traffic coming out of Glasgow he had still managed to get there ahead of schedule, but if he’d known that the airstrip was in the middle of nowhere and too small to include anything like a restaurant or café he’d have stopped off on the way and picked up some food. He didn’t have enough time now to drive back to Campbeltown village.

It was then that he became aware of the noise: a low rumble at first, in the distance, but all the time gaining in volume and intensity. The shutters on the terminal building started to rattle and shake as if the whole building was about to crumble to the ground.

A few seconds later a military transport plane roared overhead, flying so low that Besnik’s instinct was to duck. The plane sped on towards the mountains, banked to the left and started to climb up through the clouds – momentarily disappearing from view – until eventually it turned full circle and dropped back towards the far end of the runway. A few minutes later there was a loud screeching noise as the huge rubber tyres of the C130 skidded and smoked along the tarmac and eventually taxied to a halt just yards from the bunkers.

Besnik wandered back to his car, climbed in and twisted the key in the ignition. He turned down the volume of the up-tempo folk song blasting out of the sound system, wound open the window and lit a cigarette. He was careful to hold the cigarette outside the car and made sure he exhaled out of the window too.

The sun had now disappeared behind the distant hills and the burnt-orange sky was beginning to fade.

He flicked the half-finished stub on to the nearby grass bank and wound the window back up. Moments later someone opened the boot of the car and threw something heavy inside. Before Besnik could get out to open the passenger door they’d climbed into the back seat.

There was no exchange of pleasantries. Besnik stuck the shift into drive and pulled out of the car park. A couple of miles along the road he was thinking about his stomach again.

‘You mind if I stop and grab something to eat?’ he said, glancing at his passenger in the rear-view mirror. The question got no response. Besnik checked the road was clear then turned and looked over his shoulder figuring maybe Engjell E Zeze was wearing headphones or something.

He tried again.

‘If it’s okay with you I’m thinking I’ll stop and get something to eat?’

‘Do you like to do things you’re not supposed to?’

‘Do what?’ replied Besnik, trying to figure out what E Zeze meant.

‘Were you told you shouldn’t speak to me?’

‘Sure.’

‘So what are you doing now?’

‘I’m speaking to you,’ said Besnik, trying not to give E Zeze too much attitude, but not afraid to take on the little fuck.

‘Even though you were specifically told not to?’

‘Well, I figured that meant shit like, “How was your flight?” and “How long you on vacation for?” That sort of bullshit. I didn’t think it meant not speak to you at all.’

‘What if it did?’

Besnik checked E Zeze out in the mirror again. The guy was small, probably weighed less than seventy kilos. Sitting there with neatly combed hair wearing a suit, wiry and lean. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about him that gave Besnik the creeps. If E Zeze did start getting smart he would stop the car and give the freak a slap. Besnik decided to ramp it up a little. ‘If it did mean that I shouldn’t have said a word to you, then we got ourselves a problem, ’cause I just have. Now, I don’t really need to ask your permission to stop and grab something to eat, I was just being polite. But in order to be polite I have to open my mouth and speak, unless you know another way of doing it.’

E Zeze didn’t answer.

‘You got something up with your voice?’

‘No.’

‘You sure? You sound to me like you’ve had your balls cut off, you know what I’m saying? Like you iron your sheets and listen to musicals: all soft and quiet. That why you don’t want to talk . . . ’Cause you sound like Michael Jackson?’

E Zeze turned and stared out of the window for a moment deep in thought, then said, ‘Did they tell you not to smoke in the car?’

Besnik smiled to himself. ‘I didn’t smoke in the car, the cigarette was outside the whole time.’

‘That’s not what I asked. I asked if they told you not to.’

‘They told me not to, so I didn’t.’ He let a little edge creep into his tone.

‘You like Greta Tafa?’ asked E Zeze, referring to the folk music that was playing quietly through the car’s speakers.

‘I like her, but not the music so much. Why? You don’t like to have music playing either? I didn’t get a note about that.’ Messing with E Zeze now. ‘She’s pretty hot. Do you think she’s pretty hot?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sure? I figure maybe you’d prefer her husband.’

‘Is our destination programmed into the satnav?’

‘Yes,’ replied Besnik, after giving it just enough time to let the little shit know he was the one breaking the rules now by doing all the talking. ‘But only the city, not the actual address: that I keep in my head in case we get stopped by the cops; so we don’t give them any idea as to where we’re headed.’

‘What are you going to eat?’

Besnik screwed up his forehead. ‘What?’

‘When you stop for food, what are you going to get?’

Besnik shook his head slightly. ‘Why? You hungry now?’

‘Depends on what you were thinking of.’

‘So now ’cause
you’re
hungry it’s okay to have a conversation.’

E Zeze didn’t look too happy at that one, but Besnik didn’t care. ‘I don’t think you get to choose round here. You just have to go with what you can find that’s open and be prepared to eat something that’s been fried.’

Besnik checked the mirror again. E Zeze had zoned out.

Neither of them spoke again until Besnik pulled up – almost an hour later – outside a chip shop in the small coastal town of Tarbert.

‘Why are you stopping?’

‘’Cause I got my foot on the brake . . . and I need some food!’

Besnik turned off the ignition. He didn’t ask E Zeze if he wanted anything, figuring if he did, he would make him ask. He had the door open and was halfway out of the car when E Zeze mumbled something.

‘What d’you say?’ asked Besnik, ducking his head back inside.

‘Would you mind leaving the music on? Tafa is a particular favourite of mine.’

Besnik shot E Zeze a look. ‘Sure,’ then leant in and stuck the keys back in the ignition.

As he walked away he glanced over his shoulder and caught Engjell E Zeze’s unpleasant little face peering at him through the rear window. E Zeze gave a twisted half-smile which made Besnik want to walk over to the car and punch the little fucker unconscious. It was the only way he could see himself getting through the rest of the journey back to Glasgow.

There was a short line of people waiting to be served inside the chip shop.

‘Fish’ll be a few minutes, do you want me to put one in for you?’ asked the girl serving behind the counter as Besnik joined the back of the queue.

‘Yes, is okay.’ He had been in Scotland for just over three years now and although his spoken English wasn’t good he could still understand most of what was being said.

He pulled out a pack of Marlborough and his Zippo, and lit a cigarette.

‘Not allowed to smoke on the premises. If you want to stand outside I’ll tap the window when your fish is ready . . . okay?’

‘Ah, yes, is okay.’ Besnik headed outside.

The sky overhead was black and clear. The fish-and-chip shop overlooked the natural harbour – one of only a few in the whole of Scotland. Besnik leant with his back against the large pane of glass and looked out across the water to the lights twinkling on the far shore. He took a long drag on his cigarette then exhaled with a deep sigh. This was the sort of place he could imagine bringing up a family: well away from all the shit that was going on in Glasgow, far enough away from Albania not to be recognized. He looked along the road to where he’d parked the black Mercedes in a pool of light cast down from an overhead street lamp. The top of the little creep’s head was only just visible above the headrest. Besnik couldn’t make out whether he was reading or sleeping, but E Zeze’s head was tipped forward slightly.

A rap at the window made him turn.

The girl inside nodded to him that his fish was ready.

Besnik flicked the rest of his cigarette along the pavement and ducked back inside the shop.

The fried fish was sitting on a sheet of greaseproof paper waiting to be wrapped.

‘Salt and vinegar?’ asked the girl as she shovelled on a pile of chips.

‘A lot, please.’

The girl used both hands to pour on the salt and vinegar simultaneously, then expertly wrapped the food into a neat little bundle.

‘Six pounds fifty, please.’

Besnik handed over the money, then, after waiting a few moments for his change, exited the shop.

He had only travelled a few metres along the pavement when he stopped dead and swore under his breath.

The space where the car had been was empty.

The Mercedes was gone.