Blood Whispers Read online

  The story had worked in Edi’s favour: everyone, including the police, was searching for the missing Jay-Go.

  All Edi Leka had to do was make sure he got to him first, kill the son-of-a-bitch, recover the heroin and return it to Mister Abazi.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do tonight,’ said the Holy Man. ‘It’ll have to wait. Can yer man keep an eye on him, let me know if the situation changes?’

  ‘Ah’m sure he can.’

  At the end of the Mass, as the rest of the congregation filtered out, the Holy Man passed the word around for everyone in his party to stay where they were, then walked down to meet the priest, who was already halfway along the aisle on his way to greet him.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Father David.

  ‘No worries, Father . . . Could I have five minutes to address my gathering, then we’ll be on our way?’

  ‘Certainly‚ Mister McMaster‚ take your time.’ As the priest turned heel and headed for the vestry, the Holy Man rejoined the group of men, most whom were now on their feet.

  ‘Take a seat for a moment, gentlemen, this won’t take long. A lot of you, I know, are wondering why this choice of venue and I’ll come to that in a moment. The reason I wanted us to gather for Mass en masse was for everyone to get a good look at each other before Saturday night. In particular our new friend Mister Leka, without whom none of this would have been possible . . . Stand up, Edi.’

  Edi Leka stood for a second, gave an awkward nod, then sat down again.

  ‘It was Edi that gave us the information about the large shipment Mister Abazi will be receiving at the weekend and it is he who will make sure the gates are open and the alarm system disabled when we enter the premises. He is also the one responsible for fingering which building to target – a haulage warehouse on the Darnley estate. If and when the shooting starts, please make sure our friend Mister Leka is not in the firing line. The same applies to all of you. Take a good look around. Memorize as many of the faces that are unfamiliar to you as possible. I don’t want there to be any casualties on our side caused by friendly fire. Mister Abazi is allegedly planning to retire, but not before he’s sent us a “fuck-you-all” leaving present. He wants to flood the market with extremely cheap, extremely pure product in an attempt to kill off our business or kill off our clientele before he goes. Either way it’s an act of sabotage. Which brings me nicely to the reason I’ve chosen St Andrew’s as the venue for our wee get-together. When the cathedral was first being built, because of the prejudice against Catholics and the resistance to them having their own place of worship, all the work that was carried out during the day was dismantled in the middle of the night by saboteurs. Such was the level of interference, and the cost of repairing the damage done by the bastards, that it looked like the Church would run out of money and the project remain unfinished. Guards had to be placed outside to protect the construction works. However, congregations from other Christian denominations didn’t like what was going on. They took collections, offered the money and worked to help the Catholic Church complete the building that we are sitting in now. This is why I brought you here. To show you what can be achieved with a little co-operation. Let us unite in a Holy Ecumenical Alliance Treaty . . . HEAT for short. For the ignorant amongst us, it means that we may not agree on a lot of things, but if we co-operate with one another, bury our differences for a short while and work for the common good, we can not only protect our business interests, but sort that wee bastard Abazi right out.’

  When Holy Man had finished there was a brief pause, followed by an awkward smattering of applause.

  *

  Jay-Go sat on one of the two armchairs in the bay window of his room in the Ewington hotel. He was hunched over the round coffee table in front of the chairs rolling a joint. He’d scored some grass from a street-dealer in the park across the road from the hotel. The room was clean and comfortable with plenty of space to move around, but the colour scheme was doing his brain in – aquamarine coloured chairs, rose pink carpet, yellow walls and a floral patterned bedspread. As soon as the spliff was cooked he’d go for a walk in the park to get a break from the décor.

  He pulled back the curtain.

  The street lamps had just come on, but it would be another twenty minutes or so before it was dark enough to venture out. Over a week had passed since Yogi had copped it. In that time Jay-Go had managed to grow a short, stubbly beard. Using some of the money the Holy Man had given him, he’d also bought some new clothes. His hair was starting to grow back too, but he still didn’t look different enough to feel confident going out in daylight hours. He had his own key to the front door of the hotel, so he could come and go as he pleased and avoid any unnecessary contact with the staff, but it was only a matter of time before someone clocked who he was and contacted the police.

  Jay-Go’s phone suddenly buzzed on the table. He stared at it, hesitating for a second, before picking it up and clicking on ‘message’.

  Ready or not, here I come, was all it said.

  He put the spliff between his lips and lit up.

  Taking a long, deep draw he sat motionless and continued to stare at the screen.

  Eventually he started nodding his head, as though he’d come to a decision. He would have a couple of tokes to get him started, then finish the rest in the park. Ten minutes at most, just to get some fresh air.

  Jay-Go placed the phone back on the table and stood up.

  On the way to the door he lifted his PPK off the bed, tucked it behind his back and pulled on his jacket.

  There was no need to check that the gun was loaded: in the last few days that was all he’d done.

  Jay-Go took a right out of the hotel and walked to the corner of Queen’s Drive and Balvicar, then turned left, heading for the main gates of the park. Black metal railings ran at chest height around the perimeter, beyond which, through the trees and bushes, he could see the flat, well-tended square of a bowling green and its low club building lit from the ground by security lights.

  The streets were quiet.

  Somewhere behind him a car door clicked open. Jay-Go turned and saw a figure moving down Queen’s Drive towards the corner, but the overhanging branches of a large sycamore tree obscured his view.

  Jay-Go set off again, upping the pace this time.

  Ahead, in a row of cars parked under the huge octagonal spire of the gothic-style Baptist Church, the doors of a white Ford Transit van swung open and two men jumped out.

  One of them moved to block off his escape route down the side of the church while the other started across the road toward him.

  Jay-Go turned, figuring he would head back to the hotel, but Edi Leka was waiting for him on the corner holding a handgun by his side.

  Jay-Go whipped the PPK from behind his back and pointed it at the man crossing the street.

  ‘Take another step and I’ll fuckin’ waste you, dickhead.’

  The guy stopped in the middle of the road.

  Edi Leka raised his gun.

  Jay-Go was playing it cool. As he saw it, he was still holding all the aces. If they wanted to know where the heroin was hidden the last thing they’d do was shoot him dead.

  It was still a risky call.

  ‘Can I just say one thing, bawface, before this all kicks off?’ Jay-Go said, addressing Leka. ‘I could jump these railings and make a run for it and have youse chasing me all over Queens Park for half an hour shooting at me, and me shooting at you, but to be honest, I don’t fancy my chances; I’ve never been a good runner. Add serial class A user into the mix and it’s a blessing I can even walk. I had no idea the heroin belonged to Mister Abazi. If I’d known that at the time, I’d have left well alone, but we are where we are. If you promise to let me walk away, I promise to tell you where the heroin is, but it means going back to my hotel room to pick up a few thing in order to make that happen.’

  ‘Why don’t we just go for a ride in the back of our van and you take us to where we need to be? Or we jus
t beat the shit out of you until you tell us, and we go get it ourselves.’

  ‘You’d literally have to beat the shit out of me because I’ve swallowed the key.’

  ‘We’re in no hurry.’

  ‘There’s a combination too. And I don’t know what that is. The only way I can find out is to phone somebody and say a code word, and the only way I can do that is if I have my phone, and that’s back at the hotel. But if there is any pissing about I’ll say the wrong code word: they’ll hang up and you’ll walk away with fuck all. Even if you go back and get the phone yourself and go through every number in my contacts until you get the right person: if they don’t hear my voice they’re not going say niente.’

  Edi Leka kept his gun pointing at Jay-Go while he thought through what had been said. Eventually he nodded. ‘Okay. But if I think there is problem even for one second . . . smack or no smack . . . I blow your fucking brains out.’

  ‘Only fair.’ Jay-Go lowered his gun and walked toward him.

  *

  Jay-Go and Edi Leka climbed the last few steps on to the landing then pushed through the heavy fire door into the hallway leading to Jay-Go’s room. Edi had left his two companions at the bar downstairs, knowing he could easily handle the junkie on his own if there were any problems. His instructions were to recover the heroin, no matter what. If that meant waiting for the junkie to have a shit, so be it. Even if he had to shoot him in the head and cut him open, that was all right too. Edi figured he had a nose for this kind of situation. If Jay-Go was stringing him along he’d drop him right there in the room and go borrow a steak knife from the hotel kitchen.

  Jay-Go turned the key in the lock and the two men entered.

  His phone was sitting where he’d left it on the table.

  Edi gestured with his gun for Jay-Go to pick it up, while he stepped to the side and checked there was no one hiding in the bathroom.

  Just as Jay-Go reached the table there was a knock at the bedroom door.

  ‘Who’s that?’ whispered Edi.

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’

  ‘Open up, Edi. I saw you walking in there with that wee fucker Gormley.’

  ‘Don’t open the door,’ said Jay-Go, his voice rising in panic. ‘It’s the Holy Man . . . Don’t open the door.’

  Edi kept the gun pointing at Jay-Go and twisted the sneck.

  ‘Wait, you need to hear me out . . .’ started Jay-Go as the Holy Man entered the room followed by Big Paul, Nick-Nick and a heavy Jay-Go recognized as Happyslap from the Holy Man’s bar.

  Holy Man touched his forefinger to his lips and mouthed a silent ‘shh’.

  ‘I don’t need to hear anything, horse-head, so keep your fucking mouth shut.’

  All the guys except for the Holy Man were carrying.

  ‘What are you doing here, Edi?’ asked the Holy Man.

  Edi was sharp, thinking on his feet: ‘I hear you say you have no time to catch this shithead, so I think I do you a favour.’

  ‘Good man. Showing initiative. I like it.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ cut in Jay-Go. ‘He’s here trying—’

  The Holy Man raised his gun and pointed it at Jay-Go. ‘Clamp it! Open that wee, skinny gob of yours again and I’ll shoot you in the fucking mouth, d’you hear me, junkie?’

  ‘But Holy Man—’

  ‘Not another word.’ The Holy Man was starting to lose his temper. ‘There’s nothing I like worse than somebody trying to do the dirty on me. You had your big chance, Gormley, and you blew it out yer arse. Now keep your mouth shut and let’s go for a wee drive. On the way you can tell me where I can recover my merchandise. The game’s a bogey, wee man.’

  Edi Leka looked relieved as he stood to one side to let Jay-Go past. For whatever reason the Holy Man didn’t seem too bothered that Edi had gone after Jay-Go: if anything, he had praised him for his efforts. All Edi had to do now was figure out a way of getting the heroin back from the Holy Man, which may not be so easy.

  Happyslap led the way, followed by Jay-Go then Nick-Nick, who had his gun pressed hard into Jay-Go’s back.

  The Holy Man gave Jay-Go a wink.

  ‘And the Oscar goes to . . .’ said Jay-Go as he passed him.

  ‘Aye, you did good, son.’

  Big Paul handed the Holy Man his silenced Beretta.

  ‘Not you, Edi,’ said the Holy Man just as Edi made to push past him.

  Edi Leka suddenly realized what was going on, but it was too late.

  The first shot knocked his right leg out from under him; the second shattered the kneecap on his left. As he raised his arm to shoot back Big Paul stamped on it and kicked the gun from his hand with such force that it snapped his wrist.

  The Holy Man was standing over him.

  ‘There is something worse than someone doing the dirty on me, and that’s someone doing the dirty on my friends. We know you were trying to get the heroin back from Jay-Go for Abazi and we know you’ve been doing the double shuffle on us. We are not going to show up on Saturday night and walk into the little trap Mister Abazi has waiting for us, d’you think we’re fucking idiots?’

  Edi Leka was writhing around the floor moaning in agony.

  ‘We’re going to show up on Friday night with an army and malky the fucking lot of you: you know why? ’Cause we are the Holy Ecumenical Alliance Treaty and that’s the way we do things in Glasgow.’

  Thirty-four

  It was just after 8 p.m. when Patrick Sellar arrived home. He was talking on the phone as he pulled into the garage built on to the side of his house. Unclipping the mobile from its cradle, he grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, then squeezed out of the large Audi while the garage doors closed noisily behind him.

  ‘The mechanism’s buggered,’ he said, explaining the intrusive metallic clunking sounds to James Mac Fadden on the other end of the phone.

  The Honourable Lord Mac Fadden was a Senator for the College of Justice; a judge who sat in the High Court of Judiciary where the most serious crimes were dealt with. Sellar was looking to make Keira Lynch’s life as difficult as possible and wanted Mac Fadden on side.

  ‘There’s something about her and this whole Abazi situation that’s giving off a bad smell, James . . .’

  Releasing the Dervishi girl had been a necessary but risky move that had almost blown up in his face. He’d made statements to the press about his conversations with Keira Lynch regarding the girl’s release.

  At the time, he’d believed Keira was dead and had overplayed his hand.

  The fact that she had survived had come as a shock and made life very uncomfortable for him: people were starting to ask awkward questions.

  The news that traces of heroin had been found in her apartment had let Sellar off the hook, but he needed to make the most of it, and quickly. It was the perfect way to discredit her if she started making noises and causing trouble for him. The quantity of drugs wasn’t enough to have her prosecuted for dealing or trafficking, but the fact that they had been found at all was more than enough. The Honourable Lord Mac Fadden was an old friend and sympathetic ear who saw Keira Lynch as a troublemaker too, but it wasn’t his professional advice Sellar was after. Mac Fadden also sat on the council for the Law Society of Scotland: the professional governing body for lawyers set up to oversee and regulate the profession. Even suspicion of involvement in drugs would mean automatic expulsion for any member.

  In Scottish law there are three possible verdicts: guilty, not guilty and not proven. All Sellar needed was a verdict of not proven – ‘we know you did it, but there isn’t enough proof’ – and Keira Lynch would no longer pose a threat.

  Sellar nudged through a door in the side wall of the garage that led directly into the kitchen, and headed for the fridge in the far corner to pour himself a drink.

  Suddenly he stopped and turned.

  Something wasn’t right.

  ‘I’m sorry, James, d’you mind if I call you back in a minute, I’ve just arrived home and I need to get myself
sorted . . . I’ll call you back shortly.’

  Sellar hung up, placed the phone on the kitchen table and made his way back toward the connecting door.

  The lock had been tampered with.

  The strike plate was hanging from the door jamb: sitting at an awkward angle where it had been forced from the splintered wooden frame.

  Sellar opened the door and peered back into the garage, listening.

  The cooling fan on the car engine was still running.

  Seconds later it clicked off and everything was silent.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement that made him turn, but his reactions were too slow to protect his face from the blow. A fist slammed into his cheek and knocked him backward against the doorframe. Sellar started to scream.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me, please.’

  Another blow caught him hard in the stomach, winding him, and another to the side of his head knocked him to the ground.

  He was squealing now, ‘Please just take what you want; please don’t hurt me.’

  As he cowered on the floor Sellar was struck in the side of the face by a savage kick that snapped his head backward against the wall where he slid, unconscious, to the floor.

  *

  Sellar’s brain was grinding at the inside of his skull. He tried to push himself up from the floor, but had to stop as an attack of vertigo made his arms collapse from under him. Eventually he managed to manoeuvre himself into a sitting position, with his back resting against the wall.

  The clock on the wall opposite read 8.35 p.m., which meant he’d been out for only a few minutes. It also meant his attackers could still be in the house. If they were after the safe they could be back at any moment demanding the combination. There was nothing of much value in the smaller of the two safes – a few hundred pounds cash, some insurance documents and a couple of fake Rolexes he’d bought on one of his frequent trips to Thailand. The larger safe, which was built into a cupboard in the upstairs hallway, contained some smaller works of priceless art – copies of which hung on the walls of the living room and the lounge. It had over thirty thousand in cash and most of his ex-wife’s jewellery, which he’d managed to claw back from her as part of their separation agreement, but hadn’t got round to selling. It also housed his ‘dirt diaries’: corroborated evidence of wrongdoing he’d gathered over the years, mostly against friends and work colleagues.