Blood Whispers Read online

  ‘I can’t keep my eyes open.’

  Gary Hammond glanced over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I barely remember getting into the car. What the hell was in that syringe?’

  ‘Whisky.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Morphine.’

  ‘I’m beginning to see the appeal,’ said Keira, stifling a yawn. ‘Just you and me?’

  ‘There’s an armed unit following in the van behind, and another couple of officers in the car in front.’

  ‘What’s going on, Gary?’

  ‘Who knows. But, I think – now that someone’s tried to kill you again – it’s safe to assume they don’t believe you’re dead any more. We’re throwing everything we’ve got into trying to find the shooter. We’ve got a name: Engjell E Zeze also known as the Watcher, but that’s about all. It’s as if the son-of-a-bitch is supernatural. He can just vanish into thin air. No sightings, no real leads, no nothing.’

  ‘I thought Jay-Go was in the frame as well.’

  ‘He is, but he’s vanished too.’

  Keira looked down at the clothes she was wearing: a light pink tracksuit top with matching bottoms and a pair of Nike trainers, none of which she remembered putting on or recognized as her own. ‘What am I wearing?’

  ‘One of the female officers nipped out to buy it. She’s in the car in front; you can thank her when we get there.’

  ‘She ever read Vogue?’

  ‘You chose it . . . she brought a selection. It’s just to get you to where we’re going. We’ll send someone to your flat later and get your own things, whatever you need.’

  ‘Was I unconscious when I picked it?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Still has the label on.’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t get it dirty; we’ll take it back and get a refund.’

  ‘When can I move back home?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want to.’

  ‘I don’t. I’m trying to get an idea of how long it stays a crime scene. It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about.’

  ‘You could move in just now if you wanted. The tech teams only take a couple of days to gather up their evidence, then you get the crime and trauma scene decontamination team to tidy everything up.’

  ‘Who organizes that?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Who pays?’

  ‘You do . . . or your insurance.’

  ‘I don’t have insurance.’

  Gary shot her another glance.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to steal . . . except a Bowie photograph . . . I’d rather have experiences than possessions.’

  ‘Then it’s down to you.’

  ‘I didn’t make the mess.’

  ‘Send Abazi the bill.’

  ‘What do these guys do?’

  ‘The decon team?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘They’re like specialist cleaners. They return your property to its pre-crime state.’

  ‘That must be a pretty shitty job.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose. Although I don’t know anyone that doesn’t think their job is shitty. That’s why they’re called jobs . . . short for jobbies.’

  It didn’t feel right to be smiling, but Keira couldn’t help herself.

  ‘Some of the council estates I’ve visited,’ continued Hammond, ‘it’s difficult to tell what’s the crime scene and what’s their living room.’

  ‘My belongings at the hospital . . .’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Can someone gather up the notebooks at the side of my bed? I don’t want them to disappear.’

  ‘Don’t worry, they won’t be touched. Nothing will be removed from the scene until I say it can go.’

  ‘The scene? This time yesterday it was just a room in a hospital: now it’s a scene.’

  ‘Yeah, looks like you’re starting a collection.’

  Keira stared out at the passing countryside as though she was looking at it on the big screen: it didn’t look real. She thought if she reached out and tried to touch it, there would be nothing there. Her senses were intact, but she felt emotionally disconnected.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘A village called Rhu. Used to be called Row but, everyone mispronounced it so they changed it to Rhu. Just past the marina on the outskirts. Out of the way, but not too far from Glasgow if you need any medical attention. Your personal shopper’s name is Rebecca Rey. Nice girl, easy going.’

  ‘Why are you telling me?’

  ‘She’ll be staying with you.’

  Keira didn’t react. The morphine was still doing its job. ‘How long for?’

  ‘How long is a piece of string? This situation is off the Richter scale: seven bodies in the morgue and one on the subs’ bench. It could take a while. Your mum’s staying there too; just as a precaution.’

  ‘Who’s on the subs’ bench?’

  ‘You! We don’t want the total to get to eight.’

  ‘I thought I was number seven.’

  ‘That’s what I was going to tell you before you started on about your wardrobe. It looked for a minute like your friend the junkie was number seven. At least we thought it was him, but the prints don’t match up. They haven’t positively ID’d the body yet, but we think it’s one of his hash-hombres: a guy called Yogi Bearcat from his estate.’

  Keira was staring at the back of Gary’s head, trying to focus her thoughts. ‘Gary‚ I’m sitting here whacked out on brain bleach, barely able to speak, never mind think straight, wondering what the hell are you on about.’

  ‘Jason Gormley, your pal: Jay-Go. Somebody tried to give him a facelift using a nine-mil. Small hole in the back of his head, big hole at the front. Only they got the wrong guy. We had a team right outside his house when it happened: reckoned this Yogi Bearcat was dead before his brain hit the floor, but we’re struggling to come up with a scenario that fits. All we do know is that Jay-Go wasn’t home at the time, so he wasn’t the shooter. He’s probably lying low somewhere.’

  ‘Wait! How come seven bodies? I only count six.’

  ‘We found out why Janica Ahmeti didn’t show up.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Fished her corpse out of the River Forth near Stirling . . . they’re still looking for her head.’

  Keira turned and stared out at the loch. Even with the morphine her wounds were suddenly throbbing and painful again.

  Eventually, after a long silence, she said, ‘I could have killed him.’

  ‘Who?’ Gary kept his focus on the road ahead.

  ‘E Zeze, the Watcher or whatever the cocksucker calls himself . . . I had his gun in my hand, pointing straight at him, but I couldn’t pull the trigger.’

  ‘Yeah, well‚ don’t be sitting there blaming yourself for acting like a normal human being. Ninety-nine per cent of us would have done the same. None of this is your fault, okay, so don’t let that particular train of thought drop you off at the wrong station. Killing someone has the same emotional impact on these guys as you experience when you order a cappuccino . . . It means absolutely nothing to them. If you’d pulled the trigger . . .’

  ‘The cop and the nurses . . .’

  ‘. . . would still be alive?’ said Gary. ‘Is that what you were about to say? Okay . . . if Kaltrina Dervishi had booked a flight from Edinburgh airport instead of Glasgow, or Engjell E Zeze hadn’t followed you into your flat with a gun in the first place, or the trained firearms officer had raised his weapon a split second earlier in the hospital or the nurses had called in sick that day or any thousand other variations on how this could have panned out . . . Too many if’s, only one certainty . . . It’s not your fault.’ He paused briefly to let that one sink in then continued. ‘We’re not even a hundred per cent certain it was E Zeze in the hospital. The only people who got a look were a couple of male nurses, and all they can remember seeing was the gun.’

  ‘I am. I’m certain . . . one hundred per cent.’


  ‘You said you didn’t see him.’

  ‘I didn’t see him.’

  ‘So how do you know?’

  ‘I smelled him. When I stood at the door listening, I could smell him on the other side. And on the way out: the smell of him in the corridor.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Aftershave or cologne, but something not right: like it’s reacted with his skin or doesn’t suit his skin type, you know.’

  She could see Gary didn’t get it.

  ‘When perfumers describe a scent they talk about the different notes, like it’s a piece of music. With E Zeze the heart notes, top notes and bass notes are all playing a different melody. When it hits your nose the smell is off key; it’s wrong.’

  ‘I’ve smoked all my life: can’t smell a thing.’

  ‘Not even when you’re in a restaurant, someone comes in wearing too much perfume and it ruins your dinner. You’re sitting there gagging and they don’t realize?’

  ‘I’ve never had that.’

  ‘You’re lucky. My instinct is to say something, but I never do. I just sit there quietly, letting it spoil my meal: fantasizing about leaning across and saying, “I know you think you’re giving off the modern, confident woman vibe, with an alluring and mysterious sense of hidden sensuality, but the tag line’s ‘splash it all over’, not ‘take a shower in the shit’.”’

  Keira caught Gary staring back at her in the rear-view mirror and stopped talking.

  After a while she said, ‘I’m bombed on Miss Emma.’

  Gary shook his head. ‘Did Jay-Go teach you that?’

  ‘One of many! I think “Miss Emma” is morphine.’

  ‘D’you have any idea what the aftershave is called?’

  ‘No. But, I’ll tell you one thing . . . E Zeze is so used to his own smell he probably doesn’t realize how much he’s putting on . . . and, it’s not my dinner the son-of-a-bitch is ruining, it’s my life.’

  Thirty

  Edwin Kade was changing the dressing on the back of his head when the doorbell rang. Even though the wound had scabbed over and was almost healed, it was still raised and sensitive to the touch. The shaved area around the branch-line scar left behind after the attack in the hotel room had short stubble starting to show through that made the sterile gauze difficult to stick down. Holding the dressing with one hand, Edwin sprayed some mouth-freshener in an attempt to disguise the smell of the large vodka he’d just downed, then headed out of the bathroom. He negotiated his way past the low coffee table taking up most of the floor area of the modern lounge-diner and flicked the noisy daytime television programme off as he continued towards the front door.

  Through the peephole he could make out the distorted figures of two men standing casually in the hallway.

  Edwin slipped the chain and opened the door.

  ‘Jesus, you guys,’ he said, standing aside to let them in. ‘I’m going off my frickin head here. Literally! Did you ever imagine when all this shit started the three of us would be getting together in an apartment in Glasgow, Scotland: that’s a diary entry you don’t see too often. How’s it hangin’? What’s with the beards?’

  Officer Tommy Aquino reached out and gave him a warm handshake as he passed on into the lounge. Officer Gregg Moran just nodded.

  ‘What’s up, Moran, that pencil you got stuck up your ass run out of lead?’ said Kade, taking him on straight away.

  ‘He’s been like that since we left Fairfax County,’ replied Aquino. ‘I’ve never heard anyone complain so much in all my life about nothing that matters.’

  Moran pulled a face. ‘I’ve had four hours’ sleep in the last twenty-four hours.’

  ‘And you moaned for the other twenty,’ cut in Aquino. ‘‘These potato chips are too salty; this beer is too malty; this seltzer is too fizzy . . .” We hitched a lift on a C130, you’re lucky we got anything at all. It’s been like travelling with my eighty-year-old mom!’

  ‘Your mom’s dead.’

  ‘So she’s got an excuse for being a cranky old bitch.’

  ‘Where have you put yourselves up?’ asked Kade.

  ‘Technically, we’re not here.’

  ‘We’re illegal immigrants,’ chipped in Moran.

  ‘We thought we’d stop over and offer you a lift. Get you out of this mess. See if we can make contact with Abazi before we have everyone breathing down our necks. We’re just passing through, on our way to Germany, then doubling back on ourselves and entering the country legally on a commercial flight. That’s why the beards. A precaution in case someone’s watching.’

  ‘Does this place have any security cameras? We don’t want evidence of us having had any contact with you before we’ve made our presence known to the Brits.’

  ‘There’s an alarm, but no cameras.’

  ‘The front door?’

  ‘Video entry, but it doesn’t record.’

  ‘We thought about booking a room at the Radisson, but we heard the room service gives you a headache.’ Moran was looking round the apartment and refused to catch the pissy look Kade threw his way.

  ‘Nice rental,’ he said.

  ‘Easier than staying in a hotel: cheaper too. You want a beer, Tommy?’ asked Kade.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll have one if it’s cold.’

  ‘I’ll have whatever you’re on,’ said Moran pointedly.

  ‘I’m on vacation.’ Kade let a little edge creep into his tone.

  ‘Okay! I’ll have a large vacation and orange.’ Moran cracked a smile for the first time as he slumped back on to one of the sofas. ‘And you’re not on vacation, you’re on sick leave,’ he continued. ‘We’re still paying your salary, you son-of-a-bitch.’

  Kade made his way behind a run of low-level cupboards that divided the rest of the lounge from the small kitchen area and opened the fridge door. He fixed a couple of screwdrivers, opened a bottle of St Mungo lager and handed the drinks out.

  ‘Wait till you taste the beer: brewed locally,’ he said, searching for some snacks to go with. ‘It’s been the highlight of my stay so far, I kid you not.’

  Tommy Aquino drained most of the bottle in one go then let out a satisfied groan. ‘Who the hell is St Mungo?’ he said, holding the bottle at arm’s length to study the label.

  ‘Who gives a shit, if he makes beer this good.’ Kade pulled open a large bag of potato chips he’d found in one of the cupboards and poured them into a bowl. ‘It’s good, yeah?’

  Aquino nodded in agreement, ‘Yeah it’s good.’

  ‘So what the hell is going on? You here to help me pack: carry my things to the airport?’ Kade crossed the room with the bowl of potato chips and sat in one of the two armchairs facing the guys on the sofa. ‘You know, I haven’t heard a word from Abazi since the girl landed an overhand right on the back of my skull. You expect to get a sore head from a bottle of champagne, but not like this.’

  ‘No contact with him at all?’ asked Moran.

  ‘The asshole doesn’t pick up or return any messages. I’m totally out of the loop here. I haven’t heard from you guys either. Been sitting here wondering what the hell is going down.’

  ‘The local cops have been keeping an eye on you,’ said Aquino. ‘We thought it best to leave you alone in case this whole thing exploded . . . which unfortunately it has.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s all over the news here. Big story.’ Kade took a large slug of his drink. ‘It must have created quite a bang to get you two off your lazy asses and on to a plane.’

  Aquino exchanged a look with Moran that Kade caught.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you well enough to travel?’

  ‘Sure. I had to surrender my passport after the girl got whacked, though. They’ve only just made the connection that it was her in the hotel that night. I hadn’t given the cops anything, but they made her on one of the hotel’s security cameras. Might want to call me in to give evidence now. I think they may even have me down as a goddamn suspect. That’s two headaches that bitch has given me.’<
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  ‘Don’t worry about your passport, we can sort that out later,’ said Moran. ‘Why did you travel on your own name?’

  ‘I know! It was dumb. It was only meant to be a short trip.’

  ‘What the fuck were you thinking? They know you’re CIA.’

  Kade sat shaking his head, ‘What can I say? . . . It’s a fuck-up. It was a routine trip and the girl screwed everything except me. But I know what you’re saying. I should have been more careful. Is there going to be a trial?’

  ‘If they can find Abazi,’ answered Aquino. ‘We’re here to make sure that doesn’t happen.’

  ‘We’re closing him down,’ cut in Moran as he finished off his screwdriver in one gulp. ‘Son-of-a-bitch has laid us wide open.’

  ‘If you can find him!’ replied Kade. ‘The guy is smarter than your average bear. He works all the angles. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already gone. With all the shit on the television and in the newspapers about the lawyer’s murder, he’ll know we’re not going to be happy. He’ll be expecting us to come after him. That’s why he’s not picking up. The guy’s a fighter, but only when he knows he can win. If Abazi thinks he’s in trouble he plays dead. I had a conversation with him at the dinner table – the night the girl went AWOL. All he talked about were the failings of the great dictators. He reckoned that the one thing they all had in common was they didn’t know when to quit.’

  ‘“The crisis point”,’ Aquino responded.

  ‘That’s right. He studies this shit looking for the patterns: where the regime went wrong, identifying the similarities and trying not to make the same mistakes. Paul Kagame – Rwanda, Ceauşescu – Romania, even obscure ones: Roman von Ungern-Sternberg from Mongolia, for Chrissake. This guy Roman was captured by his own troops and handed over to the Red Army. Abazi didn’t like that. It’s all about loyalty with him. He wanted to phone Bashar al-Assad in Syria and tell him he’d missed his moment. A couple of years ago Assad was offered a get-out clause. He could have gone anywhere: Paris, Berlin . . . London, even. Taken his money and made a quick exit. But Abazi reckons Assad misread the cards. He tried to hold on and now he’s got no out: the French won’t touch him; the Germans won’t touch him . . . he’s screwed. Abazi asked me if I could get a number. Like the president of Syria is going to take his call. Abazi has a handle on all of this, that’s why he’s survived this long and also – if I can remind you – why we chose him. He knows when to fight and he knows when to run. I think he’s chosen the exit door.’