Blood Whispers (6 page)

The lone figure of Engjell E Zeze stood at the window of the hotel room on the fourteenth floor looking out over the twinkling city nightscape. The hotel soared some twenty storeys into the darkness and looked like a cubist version of an art-deco building. The faint background rumble from the lanes of traffic speeding along the M8 motorway below was temporarily drowned out by the sound of a kettle coming to the boil on the bedside table. Spread out on the bed, covering most of the duvet, was a collection of pinhole cameras and a tangle of cables with miniature microphones attached, and various boxes of different-sized batteries. Engjell had just finished sorting through the mess of surveillance equipment Abazi had provided and was taking a break before putting it all back into a holdall ready for later.

The kettle clicked off in the corner of the room.

Engjell moved over and sat on the edge of the bed to examine a small dish containing an assortment of teas and coffees, then swore in Albanian before picking up the phone and dialling zero for reception.

‘Good evening, how can I help?’

‘I can order some tea?’

‘There is a kettle in your room, sir, but if you’d rather, we can make you a pot and bring it up.’

‘You have mint tea?’

‘Of course, I’ll just get someone to look in the kitchen and then call you back. If we do have any, would you like me to order you a pot?’

This was why Engjell hated conversing with people. They didn’t think about what they were saying before they spoke. ‘I didn’t ring to check your stock levels. Yes; if you’ve got any send me up a pot.’

‘If we don’t, would chamomile or green tea do?’

‘Is that what I asked for?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did I ring and say I want chamomile or green tea?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then why would either of them do? If I wanted chamomile I would have asked for chamomile. If I’d wanted green tea I would have asked for green tea. I asked for fucking mint tea, because that’s what I want . . . Mint tea. What is your name?’

‘My name is Paul, sir.’

‘Thank you Paul . . . I’ll see you later.’

Engjell stood in front of the bathroom mirror and after applying a thin line of spirit-gum to the relevant areas, lifted a false moustache and beard from the shelf below it and carefully pressed the two pieces into place.

He checked the mirror again before returning to the bedroom.

The loaded Beretta was sitting on the bed next to a medium-sized Bladen tweed holdall containing one change of clothes and all of the recently sorted surveillance equipment. Pulling the clothes from the bag, Engjell tossed them on to the bed before flipping the Beretta’s safety on and pushing it into the side pocket of the holdall. After one final check in the bedroom mirror, he hoisted the bag up and left the room.

A short taxi ride later the small hunched figure of Engjell E Zeze was walking along a narrow pathway that ran along the front of a row of modern apartment blocks. The newly built development was sandwiched between Castlebank Street and Glasgow Harbour Terrace on the north bank of the River Clyde. Keira Lynch’s block was at the far end. There were no shops or bars nearby, which gave the whole area an eerie, deserted feel. In the time it took to find the entrance to her building only one car had driven past on the main road.

Engjell checked the burnished steel call-panel at the side of the large framed-glass entrance and pressed number 68. A few seconds later a voice crackled from the small speaker, ‘Hello.’

‘I’ve got some urgent documents for Keira Lynch, but she isn’t answering. Would you mind buzzing me through so I can stick them through her door?’

‘Sure. What’s the name?’

Engjell played it dumb. ‘Keira Lynch.’

‘Yeah, I meant what’s your name.’

‘It’s Paul, I work beside her at McKay and Co.’

‘Okay. You know where you’re going?’

‘Yeah.’

The glass double-door suddenly parted and Engjell was in.

Head down to avoid the camera in the corner of the small atrium, he headed straight for the fire door leading to the stairs.

Pushing the door firmly closed, Engjell took out a small bullet-shaped object. The dull-black gadget had a microswitch at one end and a compact circular lens at the other. When he switched it on it projected a thin red laser beam that ended in a tiny dot on the wall. Quickly peeling off the protective layer of film from an adhesive strip running down one side of the small cylindrical device, Engjell stuck it to the frame above the door, ensuring that the red dot was pointing at the floor. A code punched into the mobile phone that Abazi had given him activated the SIM card built into the sensor above the door: a second later it beeped twice. The message
ALARM ACTIVATED
flashed up on the screen of the phone.

Engjell opened the door just enough to break the beam of light and watched the screen start flashing red while the phone vibrated silently in his hand.

Engjell then climbed the stairs to the seventh floor. There was a camera on each of the landings and another at the far end of the long concrete corridor leading to the lawyer’s flat.

With no security guard on duty in the atrium, the chances of the cameras being monitored were small. They were most likely recording to a central hard drive and accessed only if there was an incident like a break-in or a robbery.

Halfway along the corridor Engjell stopped outside the lift and pressed the call button. As the lift made its way up the muffled sound of a television and the dull thumping bass-beat from an unrecognizable song could be heard reverberating along the hallway.

When the lift arrived and the door opened Engjell held it with one foot and leant over to insert a small skeleton key into the slot marked
MAINTENANCE
. With a single turn, the lift was disabled.

Standing outside Keira’s front door, Engjell punched a number into his phone and waited. After a few seconds a muted ringtone could be heard from somewhere inside the apartment. Engjell put an ear against the door and listened. There were no sounds of any movement inside the apartment. After four rings Keira’s answering machine clicked on and he hung up. Engjell pressed the doorbell and waited for a few moments in case she was screening her calls, but there was no response.

Producing a thin piece of plastic that measured double the size of a credit card, Engjell slid it behind the door jamb in line with the lock and leant against the door to apply some pressure. A few seconds later the door sprung open.

The apartment was in darkness.

Most alarms were programmed to sound within thirty seconds of being activated.

The clock was ticking.

To the left, opposite the front door, was a row of cupboards with louvred doors. Experience told him that this would be the most likely location for an alarm: close to the main entrance, but concealed from view.

Sure enough, the cupboard nearest the end wall housed the control panel.

Engjell used a small atomizer full of clear liquid to spray a fine mist over the keypad, then waved a key ring that had an ultraviolet light source over the area. The spray adhered to the natural secretions of sweat left behind by contact with skin and the UV revealed the thin swirling lines of Keira’s finger prints.

Engjell’s watch read ten seconds left.

Three of the keys glowed Day-Glo blue.

Keira’s birthday was the third of April nineteen eighty-four. The keys numbered three, eight and four were glowing bright blue in the darkness along with the key marked
ARM
.

Five seconds.

Engjell reached out to press the numbers, then stopped, gloved hand hovering over the keypad. The alarm had not made any warning noise when the front door had been opened: none of the usual beeping sounds associated with the countdown to its activation.

Time up.

Nothing happened.

The lawyer must have forgotten to set it.

Engjell closed the cupboard door, then moved down the hallway and into the lounge.

For him, this was the most exiting moment: standing in the darkened room of a stranger’s house, the nervous anticipation of exploring a person’s life in its unguarded state. Like the party guest who has arrived too early, before everything is ready. You get to see things as they really are.

Engjell drew the curtains closed and switched on the overhead light. It was time to get to work.

Keira paid the taxi driver, then stood for a moment and watched as it drove off, waiting for the street to return to silence. A thin mist had started to form in the cooling autumnal air, giving a hazy definition to the pools of light surrounding the street lamps dotted along the walkway that led to her block of flats. She considered having one more cigarette before going indoors, but she was tired and wanted to get to sleep straight away. The nicotine would probably keep her awake, so she decided not to.

As she set off, Keira looked up towards her small balcony on the seventh floor and frowned. There was a dim glow emanating from behind the drawn curtains. She wondered if the cleaners might have left the light on by mistake, then remembered that they weren’t due for another few days.

She counted the floors again: it was definitely her flat.

Keira started moving towards the building without taking her eyes off the window.

Suddenly she stopped.

A shadow passed in front of the curtains.

Someone was in there.

Keira rushed inside the building and stood for a few moments hitting the side of her fist against the call button. When the lift failed to arrive, she turned and headed through into the stairwell taking the stairs two at a time.

When she reached her landing she pulled a small can of pepper spray from her purse and made her way along the corridor until she was standing outside her front door. Pepper spray was illegal, but so was breaking and entering.

Sliding her key into the lock, Keira opened the door as quietly as possible and slipped cautiously into the darkened hallway of her apartment. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she pushed the door gently shut behind her. She stood for a moment listening, her ears straining for any sounds that didn’t match the familiar creaks and groans of the flat.

The door to the living room was open, but the light had been switched off. There was a faint odour of sweat and cheap aftershave: a musky scent that didn’t belong.

As she moved into the lounge Keira felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. The curtains were now open.

Light from outside lined the edges of every object and piece of furniture in the room with a pale orange glow.

She slowly scanned the room, but there was no sign of movement.

Suddenly the sound of the telephone ringing cut through the silence and made her flinch. ‘Holy shit,’ she muttered under her breath.

Keira didn’t move, but stood waiting for the answering machine to click in.

‘Hey, Keira, it’s David. Just checking you got home okay. If you’re not too late getting in, call me back, otherwise I’ll see you in the morning.’ Her assistant’s voice rattled loudly against the stillness. She stepped towards the kitchen worktop and snatched the phone out of its cradle. ‘Hey!’

‘You’re there!’

‘Are you nearby?’

‘I’m at home. Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine, but I think someone’s been in my flat,’ she whispered, unaware of the figure moving through the shadows in the hallway behind her.

‘I can hardly hear you. Is everything all right?’

‘I think I’ve been burgled.’

‘No shit! Do you want me to come over?’

‘No, but will you stay on the line while I have a look round?’

‘First the office and now your apartment . . . Shit. Have they taken anything?’

‘I don’t know, I’ve only just come in.’

‘Jesus. Keira, hang up and call the cops . . .’

‘No, just stay on the phone.’

Keira flicked the lights on and looked around the lounge. Everything was exactly how she’d left it. Suddenly she felt a cold draught of air as the lounge door swung open and slammed hard against the wall.

David heard her gasp. ‘Jesus, Keira, what’s going on . . . Keira?’

Keira couldn’t speak. The front door that she’d closed just minutes earlier was now wide open.

‘If I don’t call you back in sixty seconds, call the police.’

Keira didn’t wait for a response. She hung up then threw the telephone on to the sofa and ran to the front door. The fire door at the far end of the corridor was also wide open, filling the hallway with the sound of wind howling around in the stairwell beyond. Keira sprinted past the lift, on into the stairwell and down the stairs. She was soon on the ground floor. The glass sliding doors at the main entrance were drawing closed as she squeezed between them and emerged into the cool night air, panting for breath.

She stood for a moment peering into the shadows, but the street was deserted.

Keira sat upright and swung her bare feet off the sofa. The telephone was ringing on the coffee table next to her. Half awake, she quickly scanned the room to reassure herself that she was on her own before lifting the receiver.

She didn’t want to admit it, but the day’s events had definitely rattled her.

Keira glanced at her wristwatch.

It was just after midnight.

‘Hey?’ Her voice sounded hoarse.

‘Did I wake you? I’m sorry!’

‘No, it’s all right, Ma. I’d nodded off on the sofa; you’re doing me a favour. Is everything okay? I’m sorry, I meant to call earlier. It’s all going off at work. I had to go through to Stirling and, well, it’s just the usual . . . shit . . . really.’

‘Don’t worry. What were you doing in Stirling?’

‘Cornton Vale; I’ve got a client on remand there . . . How’s Gran?’ she asked quickly, changing the subject.

‘Not great, I’m afraid.’ There was a short silence before her mother carried on. ‘I don’t think they expect her to last long . . . I was struggling to make out what the doctor was saying; he was speaking so fast, but the official line is, she’s “very poorly”.’

Keira sighed heavily. ‘Have they taken her in?’

‘Sure, they wanted to, but she insisted on staying at home.’

‘You can hardly blame her.’

‘She keeps asking for you. Every time someone walks into the room she says your name, then shakes her head when she realizes it’s not you.’

‘Stop it, Ma,’ said Keira, rubbing her hand along the frown on her forehead.

‘I’m not trying to make you feel bad, I’m just telling you how it is. I know you’ve a lot going on, I’m not trying to make things harder for you, I’m just saying. And I can handle everything down here, you know that, it’s fine.’

Keira stood up and started pacing round the room.

‘There’s something she wants to tell you,’ continued her mother.

‘Like what?’

‘I’ve no idea; she won’t say – not to me, anyway. I don’t know if it’s the drugs they’re giving her or what, but she’s repeating it, over and over. Mumbling to herself, you know.’

‘Repeating what?’

‘Your name.’

‘I’ll leave work early and drive down tomorrow. I’ve already booked the afternoon off.’

‘No, listen, that’s not why I was calling,’ insisted her mother. ‘It was just to tell you what was happening and make sure you were okay. It’s unlike you, not to call.’

‘I know, sorry! It’s been a bit of a day, and then I fell asleep on the sofa. You’ve saved me from a sore neck and an imprinted face that says flock cushions. Drugs or no drugs, if Gran says there’s something she wants to tell me then there’s something she wants to tell me. I want to see her, too.’

‘I’m not going to lie to you, Keira; I don’t know how long she’ll last.’

Keira stood frozen for a moment. It may just have been her imagination, but she was sure she’d picked up the scent of the guy’s aftershave lingering in the air: just a trace, but enough to give her a kick of adrenaline.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ she answered distractedly.

‘Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t sound like yourself.’

‘I’m fine . . . It’s just . . . When I got home from work tonight I think I disturbed a burglar or something . . . someone in the apartment.’

‘Dear God, Keira, are you serious? Why didn’t you say?’

‘I’m saying now.’

‘Did you call the police?’

‘I did, but there was nothing taken, so there’s not much they can do. They came round, and were very nice, but as I say – what could they do?’

‘Was he inside?’

‘I’m pretty sure he was still inside the apartment when I got home. I could see the light on from the street when I got out of the taxi.’

‘Jesus, Keira, that’s awful!’

‘I ran up the stairs, but when I got here the light was off and the flat appeared to be empty. I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me, but I keep catching a smell of the guy’s aftershave . . . it’s weird. Unless, of course, your mind can play tricks on your nose . . . I suppose that’s a possibility.’

‘Why don’t you call David and ask him to come over and stay? I don’t think you should be in there on your own.’

‘I spoke to him, and he offered, but if there
was
a burglar, I doubt they’ll be coming back. I’ll be fine. David’s not really the guard-dog type. He’d scream louder than me. He can stop a person dead in their tracks with a bitchy comment, but I’m not sure that would work on your average criminal. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Tell Gran I’ll be really pissed off if she dies before I get there.’

‘Don’t joke, Keira, she may well.’

‘I’m not joking.’

Engjell E Zeze was lying on the bed in the hotel room, staring at the screen on his laptop. The image was split into four sections, each section covering a different area of Keira Lynch’s apartment. The surveillance cameras had the facility to zoom in and out but they couldn’t pan or tilt, and therefore offered only one perspective. The picture quality, however, was surprisingly clear. Stifling a yawn, Engjell tapped one of the images, which expanded to fill the screen: Keira in her bathroom, starting to undress.

There were a few things about her that didn’t stack up. She was an attractive woman, but there were no signs of a husband or boyfriend or lover. She was slim, but could do with a bit of toning; the muscles on her arms and legs lacked definition. Her body shape could take anything, although she chose to dress down. Her face reminded Engjell of a photograph that had appeared in
Life
magazine; a young Sophia Loren lying on her front in a field with her legs bent up behind her. The lawyer’s hair had the same messy look and style, even though it was the wrong colour and she lacked both the make-up and the glamour. Her flat had also felt surprisingly empty. Aside from boxes filled with files and papers relating to work scattered everywhere, there were few possessions: no ornaments or personal mementos. Her walls were bare, except for one framed photograph of David Bowie taken in 1979 and signed by the photographer, Mick Rock. If there were a fire, or she had to leave in a hurry, Keira Lynch could grab the photograph, leave the apartment and no one would know she’d ever lived there. It lacked an identity.

She’d spent an hour chatting to the cops, answering their questions matter-of-factly, playing it cool. Showing no outward signs that she’d been fazed by the fact that someone had broken in. She’d even refused her assistant’s offer to come and stay the night.

Suddenly Keira appeared on screen, stripped down to her bra and pants, standing in the middle of the room. But it wasn’t the sight of her near-naked body that caught Engjell’s attention. She’d dipped her fingers in a tub on the side of the sink then gently smoothed it over her wrists before pressing them together, then rubbing them in small circles against each other, over and over again. Next she slowly swept her arms out to the side, her hands trailing in a balletic movement as she arched the small of her back and made the shape of a cross. It was surprisingly graceful, as though she was moving in slow motion. Finally, she let her head drop forward, until her chin was almost touching her chest.

It looked to Engjell as if she had stopped breathing.

She stood motionless in this pose for almost half an hour before slowly lowering her arms, raising her head and exiting the bathroom.

Engjell sighed heavily. ‘
Ju jeni një kurvë çuditshëm
. Man, in any language, you are one weird bitch.’

A few seconds later Keira reappeared wearing a T-shirt and stood by the sink to brush her teeth.

Engjell clicked the small
RECORD
icon in the top right of the screen and put the laptop on the bedside cabinet: tiredness was kicking in. There was something thrilling about observing people in their unguarded state. Even the mundane held a fascination. But every now and then, in private, when they thought no one was looking, a person would do something extraordinary, just as Keira Lynch had. Standing almost naked, in total silence as though she had been crucified. Engjell E Zeze, the Watcher, wanted to call the lawyer and freak her out; tell her, ‘I’ve been watching you . . .’ Ask her, ‘What have you done to your wrists?’ and ‘Who is crucifying you?’ Leave her in no doubt she’d been observed, then hang up. Sit back and watch her panic.

Engjell stared distractedly out of the window.

It felt good knowing that at any time the lawyer could be destroyed. No guns, no weapons, just words! ‘I’ve been watching you.’

Engjell pulled the computer closer again, tapped at the keyboard and waited for the search engine to come up with the results. ‘Cornton Vale women’s prison, Stirling.’

It shouldn’t be this easy.