Blood Whispers (5 page)

At 2.30 a.m. Edi Leka noticed a missed call from Besnik Osmani’s phone. When he returned it, Engjell E Zeze answered.

‘I need your address.’

‘Where is Besnik?’

‘Let me speak with Mister Abazi.’

‘Mister Abazi is sleeping. I’ve to wake him up when you get here.’

‘So, give me your address.’

‘Put Besnik on.’

‘Besnik is not here. What is your address?’

Edi wasn’t sure what to do. They were expecting the Watcher’s arrival, but this was a variation from the plan. Reluctantly, he told E Zeze the address, then added, ‘When you get to the front gates stay in the car and don’t speak, or wind down the window. We’re being watched. When the gates open drive straight ahead into the garage and wait for someone to come and get you. Don’t get out of the car. Just turn off the engine and wait. Do you understand?’

‘I’ll be there shortly.’

Edi took a long draw on his cigarette and wondered what the hell had happened to Besnik.

Twenty minutes later the black Mercedes appeared on the large computer screen he was monitoring. Several other images of different areas of the house were displayed in boxes that came to life whenever any motion or heat source or sound was detected. The car had just drawn up at the wrought-iron gates leading to a small inner courtyard in front of Fisnik Abazi’s house, triggering the camera and setting off a small alarm that beeped every couple of seconds until it was attended to.

The headlamps flashed and Edi pressed the gate release.

Fisnik Abazi and Engjell E Zeze greeted each other with a firm handshake and a head-over-the-shoulder embrace. Both wore blank expressions, so it was difficult to tell if they were pleased to see each other. Even though he wasn’t in the Clan, Abazi had used Engjell’s services on several occasions back home. The guy was prim and prissy, everything had to be neat and tidy, but he was a pro who never screwed up and always did what he said he would do.

‘Engjell, my friend, I would say it’s good to see you, but I know when you arrive – and I mean no disrespect by saying this – it’s Death that’s carrying your luggage.’

Engjell nodded slightly, but that was all.

Fisnik pointed to one of the two large sofas facing each other adjacent to the fireplace and gestured for Engjell to sit down.

They were in a large triple-aspect lounge where everything, including the furniture, looked new and there was a lingering smell of fresh paint. Fisnik saw Engjell checking it out and answered the question before it was asked. ‘We’ve just done the place up . . . one of many. We don’t actually live here, we move from property to property, keep the authorities guessing. We’re making so much money over here, but we need to take it to the laundry. Property is still the best way: high-end only, though. No point scrabbling around with the poor folk when you don’t have to. Where you got your money stashed? You must have a few million lek invested in your pension by now.’

Engjell smiled enigmatically, but still remained silent.

Abazi was wearing dark jeans with black leather Converse All Stars and a black fitted T-shirt. A gold-plated tag showing a wolf baring its teeth hung around his neck as a reminder of his days in the Frenkies: the Serbian special forces. Apart from being unshaven, everything looked clean and sharp: he was in good shape. His bare arms were lean and well defined with a tattoo of the same snarling wolf as his tag showing just beneath the sleeve of his right arm. His cheekbones were set high on his face and there was a thin scar running along the side of his left temple where a bullet had once grazed his skull. An inch further to the right and his life would have been over. It allowed him to use his favourite line when anyone asked how he’d got it: ‘I was an inch from eternity, but didn’t like the view, so I turned and came back.’

‘What happened to Besnik?’ asked Abazi, crossing to sit on the sofa opposite.

‘Who’s Besnik?’

‘Your driver.’

Engjell thought for a moment. ‘He talked to me.’

‘He “talked” to you . . . so what?’

‘I asked for a driver that would keep his mouth shut. Besnik just kept talking.’

‘So what did you do, put a bullet through his head and dump the body on the side of the road?’

Engjell wondered if Abazi was asking a serious question and answered as if he was, ‘There was a moment when I considered doing that.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You don’t know what happened to him?’

‘I do know what happened to him, but I don’t know where he is now.’

‘Jesus Christ, Engjell, it’s three o’clock in the morning, help me out here. What the fuck happened to Besnik?’

Engjell E Zeze gave Abazi a curious look, as if he couldn’t see why he was getting upset. ‘He pulled over for some food and left the key in the ignition, so I took the car.’

‘And left him behind?’

‘I told you, he was talking . . . and the car smelled of cigarettes. I asked for someone who wouldn’t speak and didn’t smoke. I got a talking chimney. I figure if I don’t get him out of the car, I will end up killing him and that I don’t do unless someone is paying me.’

Abazi shook his head – which Engjell didn’t like either.

Accepting that he wasn’t going to get any further, Abazi changed the subject.

‘Are you travelling light?’

Engjell knew he was referring to the holdall full of heroin the uniformed Marine had handed to him as he’d left the plane.

‘It’s in the boot of the car.’

‘D’you need anything else?’

‘Have you found the whore?’

‘Not yet, but they’ve just appointed her a lawyer, so any minute now. I’ll give you the lawyer’s home address before you leave.’

‘You can tell me now.’

‘I’ll write it down for you in a minute.’

‘I don’t want you to write it down. If you tell me now, I’ll remember.’

Abazi shrugged, ‘Okay. Her name is Keira Lynch. She lives at 490 Glasgow Harbour Terrace, in flat 70.’

‘And her date of birth?’

‘Her what?’

‘Date of birth,’ repeated Engjell. ‘Do you know her date of birth?’

‘Why? You want to send her a birthday card?’

Engjell wasn’t enjoying Abazi’s tone so decided to take him on.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I told you her address, and now you want her date of birth?’

‘Yes . . . her date of birth. But why would I send the lawyer a birthday card? I don’t know her.’

Abazi was starting to get exasperated. ‘Shit, you are one tricky little fucker, Engjell. It’s just a joke, you know: I’m not trying to mess with you.’

‘Why am
I
a “tricky fucker”, because
you
decided to use an inappropriate tone with me when I ask for a date of birth. It’s you who is being tricky.’

Abazi could see where this was going. If it was anyone other than E Zeze he would drag them down to the garage and shoot them in the mouth. ‘I didn’t mean to use an inappropriate tone, I just want to supply you with whatever gear you need for the job and let you get on with it.’

Engjell still wasn’t happy, but was prepared to let it drop for the moment.

‘I need some GSM pinhole cameras and as many GSM microphones as you are happy to lose, but I want quad band so I can monitor it from a phone when I’m out and about. I don’t want to have to sit staring at a computer all day. I’ll also need a tres-eight or a nine-mil with a suppressor, but there is no hurry for that. I can wait until we find the girl.’

‘You can take it all with you tonight. Got a nice Beretta, could be the one, and all the surveillance shit you could ever wish for.’

‘Doesn’t matter if the nine is clean or dirty, so long as it works. In fact I prefer if it’s been used already: the dirtier the better. A gun like that is a get-out-of-jail-free card: makes it difficult for the cops to tell who fired what, where and when . . . I’m thirsty.’

Abazi stared back at him for a second. ‘What?’

‘I’m thirsty. You have anything to drink?’

‘Sure.’ Abazi got up from the sofa. ‘What d’you want?’

‘Tea.’

‘Tea? I think we got any kind you like so long as it’s English breakfast.’

‘No mint?’

‘No, we got no mint. You planning to be here long enough for it to get made, then cool down enough for you to drink it?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Much as I’m enjoying your company, I got things to do, Engjell, like get some more sleep. How ’bout I get you some water?’

Engjell nodded. ‘Water will be fine.’

Abazi opened the door leading to the hallway.

‘Andrej, go get my guest a glass of water. And bring up a Beretta 92f with a snap-on Hush Puppy and a box of shells. Then go get as many GSM cameras and mics as we’ve got.’

A young guy with his hands clamped behind his back like he was on guard duty replied ‘Yes, Sir,’ and headed off down the hallway.

‘A few things you should know,’ said Abazi as he came back into the room. ‘My backers think I should take a holiday until you’ve finished the job, but to me that’s a fucked-up way of thinking and here’s why. I am under surveillance. A lot of badly dressed guys hanging around on street corners get their headsets on every time we pick up a phone: couple of our cars have had fast deploy GPS trackers clamped to the underside; so we know we’re being watched and we know they’re serious. If they are watching my every move and I’m scratching my balls in a bar somewhere when the whore is silenced, they’re going to know straight away it wasn’t me. Funny how these guys think they are the only ones with access to high-end surveillance shit though. From the outside it looks like it’s just the cops, but we have intel that it goes higher up the chain than that: security services. We also got a campfire under our asses from the local dealers unhappy with the way we’re running things: a lot of them going out of business, because we can undercut them every time. The assholes are trying to make trouble for us, passing on info to the cops if they see one of our dealers, but we’ve got eyes and ears in all the main players’ houses – make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. We are not just one step ahead of them, we’re standing at the finish line waiting to start the next race. The whore could give us a fucking headache so we want her killed quick and clean, then you can clear the country fast as you like. When we’re done here Edi Leka will take you to one of our shops, but you got to get in the back of a van with all the groceries. We got a delivery business too. He’s wearing a bandage beret and sporting a couple of black eyes where the whore smacked him across the head with a bottle and tried to stick a glass in his neck. Don’t mention it to him ’cause he gets upset and I don’t want to lose another driver. Once you’re in the shop, just walk out front and order a cab to wherever you want to go. You booked into a hotel?’

‘For the first few nights.’

‘I’ll get you a mobile’s got the latest triple-layer encryption so it’s safe to call us if you need anything else. The only other people got your number are the CIA. You’re playing with the big boys now‚ Engjell. I’ll contact you when we find where they’re keeping the little bitch.’

‘You don’t need to. I’ll find her.’

‘It’s up to you,’ said Abazi with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Where is Besnik’s phone?’

‘I left it in the car.’

‘And don’t hit anyone else but the whore, okay?’

‘I understand.’

‘We’re juggling enough sticks of dynamite without adding any more. Anything else you need, you got to tell me now, ’cause after today, I’m hoping we won’t be seeing each other anytime soon.’

‘Just a glass of water, and the lawyer’s date of birth.’

Janica Ahmeti sat in the waiting area of the remand centre of HMP Cornton Vale, cradling a polystyrene cup full of a lukewarm, brown liquid that could have been tea or coffee, but didn’t taste like either. The women-only prison was situated on the outskirts of historical Stirling, ‘Scotland’s oldest town and newest city’.

Through the plate-glass partition that separated the waiting area from the rest of the remand wing she could see Kaltrina Dervishi’s lawyer standing by a pay phone, with an unlit hand-rolled cigarette dangling from her lips and the receiver clamped between her shoulder and ear while she rummaged in her bag for what Janica presumed would be a lighter. Restrictions in the remand wing were considerably more lax than the rest of the complex and inmates wandered freely up and down the central corridor ignoring the no smoking signs stuck to every wall. It struck Janica that Keira Lynch was the type of person who ignored most signs telling her what to do. She had an easy, laid-back confidence that people responded to: a coolness that wasn’t manufactured. When they’d first been introduced Janica had found herself blushing as they shook hands. Throughout the course of the day she’d tried to analyse her reaction, but finally had to admit she found Keira oddly attractive. If she was wearing make-up it didn’t show: Keira didn’t need it. Her Celtic-ginger hair was naturally wavy: cut in a short, fifties style, with a straight fringe that looked like she’d done it herself. The hair suited her oval-shaped face and gamine features. The colour was in sharp contrast to the pale skin and impenetrable blackness of her eyes, which showed little emotion. Her flat expression gave no clues as to what she might be thinking, which Janica also found curiously attractive. She left the impression that she was concealing something, a secret ‘darker than the devil’s shadow’, as her grandfather used to say.

Janica closed her eyes and tried not to think about the meeting they’d just had with Kaltrina Dervishi. The girl’s descriptions of sexual abuse and mental cruelty at the hands of Fisnik Abazi and his men had been difficult. It was the calm, ordinariness of the delivery that made her words all the more chilling.

A tap on her shoulder made her jump.

Janica opened her eyes and looked up.

Her face flushed again.

Keira was standing next to her. ‘Did nobody warn you about the tea?’

‘Is that what it is? I’ve been trying to work it out.’

‘D’you mind if we take this outside?’ asked Keira, referring to the cigarette in her mouth. ‘I can hardly breathe in here.’

‘Only if I can have one too.’

‘Tired?’

‘Trying to forget,’ replied Janica, getting to her feet.

‘I know what you mean: it’s harrowing shit.’

‘I hear a lot of bad things in this line of work that I’d rather not have to listen to, but the girl has barely any English. She needs someone to tell her story, even one so terrible.’

Keira nodded over at a prison officer who pressed a buzzer to let them into a small holding area, where they were searched before being allowed to exit through a heavily reinforced metal door that opened on to a small car park in front of the low-rise prison building.

The air outside smelled fresh and clean and Keira took a few deep breaths before lighting up.

‘If you moved up here you’d be in big demand, Janica: one of a kind.’

‘You have a hard time finding Albanian interpreters in Stirling?’

‘I’ve had a hard time finding an Albanian interpreter in Scotland. There’s no such thing: never mind one with all the relevant clearances.’

Janica raised her eyebrows, ‘Not in the whole of Scotland? Maybe I should move up, although not to Stirling. It is full of ghosts, I think. I keep having the feeling someone is watching me. This place gives me the creeps.’ Janica raised her eyebrows and gave a slight shrug. ‘I’m crazy, no?’

‘No, I know what you mean. Where are you staying?’

Janica looked puzzled, ‘Staying?’

‘Yeah, sorry it’s the British way of asking where you’re lodging. Have they put you up in a hotel?’

‘Ah, yes, in the centre of Stirling. You?’

‘No, I have to get a train back to Glasgow.’

‘Sounds far.’

‘About an hour: not too bad. You’ll find out for yourself tomorrow. I wondered if you could translate a video we’ve received. Aimed at the girl. We’re pretty sure it’s some kind of threat, but we need to know what they’re saying before we show it to her. Would that be okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘Say . . . midday? I’ll call you first thing to confirm.’

‘Sure.’

‘I’m going to walk to the station. We could talk on the way, or if you’d rather we could share a cab?’

‘No, let’s walk . . . give the ghosts something to think about. You want to go for a drink?’ Janica felt the warmth rush to her face again.

‘Sorry, I can’t miss my train. Another time.’

The two women set off along a narrow footpath that bordered their side of the road. Opposite was a rough grass verge that gave way to the open countryside beyond.

After a few hundred yards walking along the unlit footpath they came to the edge of an estate full of grey council houses and the welcome glow of street lamps.

‘Is Glasgow where you’re from?’ asked Janica, making small talk.

‘I wasn’t born there, but it’s where I grew up.’

Janica nodded. ‘I too am one of the displaced: forced to leave my country by Milošević when I was just a teenager. When I look at Miss Dervishi my eyes sting. She has the look of the forsaken that I once had.’

‘Do you ever think of going back?’

‘All the time, but the Serbian troops destroyed our passports and papers so we would have no way of proving where we are from. The ones that do go back are called liars and cheats then chased away or . . .’ she hesitated, ‘or worse.’

Keira flicked her cigarette into the air and watched as it hit the pavement in a flurry of orange sparks then tumbled off into the gutter.

‘Why d’you only smoke half the cigarette?’

‘It makes me think I’m smoking less.’

‘It works?’

‘No!’

‘I don’t like being a smoker,’ said Janica filling in the silence that followed. ‘I don’t like the hold it has over me. When I can’t smoke I want one, and when I do smoke I don’t enjoy it because I know it’s screwing up my health. There’s also something perverse about being made to stand outside in the fresh air when you want to fill your lungs with smoke.’

Keira didn’t reply.

‘No matter what I do, I can’t stop.’

‘You’re thinking about it too much.’

Janica nodded in agreement. ‘I do think about it too much, you’re right; at least twenty times a day. That’s one hundred and forty negative thoughts per week, times fifty-two over the year; what’s that add up to?’

‘A headache, you’ll make yourself ill. You’re probably doing yourself more harm worrying about the cigarettes you haven’t smoked, than if you’d just smoked the damn things in the first place.’

‘Probably.’ Janica smiled.

‘So what did you want to ask me?’

Janica glanced over her shoulder. Despite the street being deserted she lowered her voice and checked that no one was in earshot. ‘She has lots of problems, the girl?’

‘Yeah, quite a few. You’re in a unique but unfortunate position, Janica. Obviously you hear everything that is being said, but I can’t really talk about the case with you . . . you understand that?’

‘Of course, I understand, but it is not the case I wish to speak of.’

‘Okay.’

‘Fisnik Abazi sounds like a . . .’

‘An arsehole.’

‘I was going to say “piece of work”, but arsehole is good too.’

‘I would also be careful about mentioning that name out loud,’ Keira said seriously. ‘You never know who might be listening.’

‘Please, you have no worries with me. I come from Kosovo, I know of such men there and what they are capable of. I know when to keep my mouth shut. This is why I need to speak. I think maybe he is a member of the Clan. If you are agreeable, this I will ask the girl tomorrow.’

‘The Clan?’

‘They are heavy into the drug trade, prostitution also: mostly ex-members of the Serbian army, so they are fighting lots of battles under Milošević, and very violent. You must hope that they have not come to Scotland.’

‘Are they a gang?’

‘More an organization.’

‘Like the Mafia?’

‘Sure, but worse, much more ruthless,’ answered Janica with a frown. ‘For them a human life is nothing, but they are fiercely loyal to each other. They will never give evidence against another member. This is why I am scared for the girl.’

Keira already knew the answer to the next question, but asked anyway. ‘Why are you scared?’

‘If Abazi is a member of the Clan – and she is saying things about him, or against him – they will not let her live.’

There was no drama in Janica’s voice.

‘I am sorry to say these things, but I believe the girl is in danger, there is a bad feeling around her, don’t you think?’

Keira stared straight ahead. She didn’t want to acknowledge it to Janica or to herself, but she had the same sense of foreboding when it came to Kaltrina.

‘I’m not going to let anything happen to her,’ replied Keira, even though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself.