Blood Whispers Read online

  Kaltrina lifted a small compact from her handbag and checked her face in the mirror. The long hair was gone: in its place, a short spiky cut that she had dyed blonde to match the woman’s photograph in the stolen passport. Unfortunately there was no way of matching their ages or their wildly differing facial features. Make-up could only do so much; after that it was down to luck.

  She turned the mirror slightly to check the two cops standing by the main entrance. They seemed relaxed: chatting idly to one another.

  As she neared the front of the line she could feel the adrenaline kicking in. Her skin felt clammy and her hands were trembling. Nothing fitted her properly; everything she was wearing was stolen. Even the shoes were too small, making every step uncomfortable: all this was adding up to a sudden lack of confidence. If there was any hesitation or a suspicious glance from the woman behind the counter she would have to turn and run, leaving behind her only hope of escape.

  The woman nodded for her to come forward.

  ‘Where are you travelling to?’

  ‘Malaga.’

  ‘Any bags to check-in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Passport and booking reference please.’

  Kaltrina handed over the documents then quickly placed her trembling hands down by her side out of view.

  ‘You should have checked in online, saved yourself standing in that big queue,’ said the check-in clerk, handing back the passport. She had barely glanced at it.

  ‘Flight is good on time?’

  The woman checked her monitor. ‘Everything running to schedule today! Have a nice flight.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Kaltrina, unable to keep the look of relief from her face as she turned and headed for the escalators.

  She wouldn’t be able to relax fully until she was sitting aboard the plane, but the first big hurdle had been crossed: for the moment everything was going okay.

  *

  The departure area had brightly lit shops that appeared to sell nothing but perfume, alcohol and cigarettes. Even if she’d had the money Kaltrina wouldn’t have been tempted to buy anything. It was a reminder of the world she inhabited but couldn’t afford to participate in.

  She checked the departures board. Her gate number wasn’t up yet. She rummaged in her pockets for some loose change and counted out enough to buy a regular coffee. As she made her way along the concourse towards the coffee shop she was suddenly aware of someone watching her. Twenty metres ahead a man was crouched forward on a chair with his hands clasped together between his legs, staring at her. Kaltrina stopped dead. She glanced over her shoulder in the hope that there was someone behind her he was looking at, but when she turned back he gave her a thin smile and held her gaze.

  She had a sick feeling in her stomach as she realized she recognized him.

  Edi Leka – one of Abazi’s men – there was no mistaking that skinny hangdog face.

  He’d picked her up from the house a few times and driven her to and from jobs.

  The only way he’d be allowed into departures was if he had a ticket to fly, but there was no way Leka could have known where she was heading.

  Even if he wasn’t boarding her flight, all he had to do was follow her to the gate and he’d find out.

  When she arrived in Spain one of Abazi’s ‘friends’ would be waiting for her with the grave already dug.

  Kaltrina turned and started back the way she had just come.

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Leka was on his feet now, moving towards her.

  Suddenly she sprinted forward, then took a left and headed up a long ramp into one of the lounges. She ran straight through the large, open seating area towards a bar at the far end, beyond which were signs for the toilets.

  Kaltrina had no idea where she was going.

  The short corridor leading to the toilets was a dead-end, forcing her to double back. She could see Edi Leka strolling casually through the seating area heading straight for her, taking his time, both of them aware that there was nowhere for her to go.

  She emerged from the corridor and took a seat at the bar, acting like that’s where they’d arranged to meet.

  Edi knew there was nothing he could do to her in front of all these people. His instructions were – if he found the girl – to simply have a quiet word with her, offer her a deal, tell her anything to get her out of the airport. Once she was in the car he would shoot her in the base of the spine to incapacitate her, then slit her throat and let her bleed to death.

  It was the same for anyone who had betrayed the Clan.

  It looked like this job might be easier than he’d imagined.

  Kaltrina nodded to the barman. By the time he’d made his way from serving at the other end of the bar, Edi Leka was standing next to her.

  ‘I’m not sure we’ve got time for a drink.’

  ‘Sure we do,’ replied Kaltrina giving him the big eyes and cute smile. ‘We got plenty of time.’

  ‘What’ll it be?’ asked the barman.

  ‘You have Sauvignon Blanc?’

  ‘Three kinds: French, Australian and South African.’

  ‘Which is most expensive?’

  ‘The South African.’

  ‘That, please! Do you want anything?’ she continued, turning to Edi.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m driving.’

  ‘Small, medium or large of the Sauvignon?’

  ‘Bottle and two glasses, please, in case my friend Happy Edi decide he join me.’

  Edi Leka pulled up a stool and sat down next to Kaltrina while the barman opened the wine and fetched the glasses.

  ‘So what’s on offer? I know how much Abazi likes to do a deal,’ said Kaltrina.

  ‘Mister Abazi is concerned for your safety. You’re his favourite girl and he wants you to come back. I’ve been authorized to offer you whatever you want . . . within reason. He just wants to talk to you: negotiate a way forward. If you’re still not happy your passport and the money you’ve earned will be returned to you and Mister Abazi will drive you back to the airport himself.’

  ‘Is that what happened to Tulla?’

  The question momentarily ambushed Edi, caught him off guard. Kaltrina could tell from his reaction that he knew exactly what she was talking about.

  Edi shrugged his shoulders and gave a lame reply. ‘I never heard of anyone by that name.’

  The barman arrived with the bottle of wine and glasses and placed them on the bar in front of Kaltrina. ‘Would you like me to pour?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Thirty-eight pounds fifty, please.’

  Kaltrina turned to Edi and, playing it straight, said, ‘Thirty-eight pounds fifty, please. Mister Abazi can take it off the money he owes me.’

  Leka shot her a look, before fumbling around in his jeans pocket and slapping a couple of twenties on the bar-top.

  Kaltrina took her time pouring the wine: filling the glass right to the brim, careful not to let it spill over. She then lifted the glass to her lips and took a long slow draught: draining half of it in one go.

  ‘Okay, Edi, I think I know what I would like.’ She placed her glass back on the counter and refilled it. ‘Twenty thousand euros wired over to my mother and father’s bank account, along with the money I’m owed. I also want my passport back and to be given my own flat to work from so that I’m free to come and go as I please. Does that sound “within reason” to you?’

  Edi Leka stared back at the girl wondering what fantasy world she lived in. There wasn’t the remotest chance that Abazi would agree to any of this and he couldn’t believe that she was so naive as to think he might. Edi was already tired of the little charade: sitting there like she was the one holding all the cards. If they weren’t in a crowded airport he would slap her down with his bare knuckles and teach the bitch a lesson. As it was, he simply nodded and said, ‘Yeah, that sounds within reason.’

  ‘So how we gonna make that happen, Edi? A money transfer could take two or three days to clear a
nd I’m going nowhere until the money’s in the account. So what do we do? Sit here and wait?’

  ‘Mister Abazi said you can have whatever you want. You’re gonna have to take my word for it that the money will be transferred. You know him, If he says he’s going to do something . . . that’s it. It gets done.’

  Kaltrina sat staring at her glass.

  ‘Get him on the phone, then,’ she said, after deliberately making him wait. ‘So far all you’ve given me is your word, which counts for shit. Get Abazi on the phone and let me hear him saying it. If he does then I’ll come with you.’

  Edi could feel the muscles in the back of his neck tensing up. He was starting to lose his patience with the girl. Mister Abazi wouldn’t appreciate the call, but if that was all it was going to take to get her skinny arse off the stool and out of the airport it would be worth it. Abazi might promise her the money, and if he did, would make a show of transferring it to her parents’ account, but by that point it would be too late.

  Edi pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and punched in a number. He waited a few seconds then spoke. ‘Sir, I’m with the girl. She’s ready to come with me, but she wants to talk to you first.’

  As Kaltrina reached out to take the phone from Edi her elbow knocked the almost full glass off the counter and sent it tumbling to the floor, where it smashed into three or four large fragments. Most of the wine had tipped on to her lap and she could feel it soaking through the thin fabric of her trousers and running down her legs.

  Edi Leka’s instinctive reaction was to bend down and pick up the pieces. As he did so Kaltrina grabbed the wine bottle from the counter and brought it down in a wide sweeping arc on to the back of his head. She grabbed the other glass and smashed it against the counter, then thrust its jagged edge as hard as she could towards the side of Edi’s neck. Edi dropped the phone to the ground and grabbed hold of her wrist just in time to stop the razor-sharp point from puncturing his throat.

  The first blow to the head had knocked him to his knees.

  As he struggled to his feet Kaltrina raised the bottle and struck him again. Edi Leka’s legs buckled and he dropped back to the floor, unconscious.

  The commotion had already attracted a lot of attention.

  Two police officers at the far end of the lounge were sprinting toward Kaltrina, shouting at her to put the bottle down.

  Kaltrina smacked Edi Leka across the head one more time, then carefully placed the bottle back on the counter. She bent down, scooped the mobile phone off the floor and started toward the cops, talking as she walked.

  ‘This is for my friend Tulla, you son-of-a-bitch. All I wanted was to go home, Abazi, now . . . I’m going to destroy you.’

  With that she dropped the phone to the ground and raised her hands above her head in surrender.

  ‘My name is Kaltrina Dervishi and I travel with false passport,’ she said as the two cops grabbed hold of her.

  Five

  Jay-Go’s pace quickened as he reached the top end of Hope Street. He swaggered from side to side as he moseyed his way past the other pedestrians with his hands tucked inside his jacket pockets and a single-skin roll-up hanging loosely from his top lip: giving the stare to anyone who unintentionally caught his eye. His skin was pale and haggard – messed up by years of doing class A.

  A crooked boxer-nose, fashioned on the streets rather than in the ring, was flattened against his long, scrawny face, which was topped-off by a No. 1 all-over buzz cut. There was a hole in the nylon lining of the right-hand jacket pocket, big enough for him to put his fist through and grip the mottled handle of the gun he had tucked into the top of his well-worn Wrangler jeans. He’d been walking at a steady pace for nearly two hours now and despite the cool breeze had worked up a sweat that made his T-shirt cling to his back and the Walther PPK feel clammy and uncomfortable to the touch.

  His heart was beating hard, dragging the mixture of cigarette smoke and cool air into his lungs like burning brier.

  No worries, thought Jay-Go. Nearly there.

  *

  Keira Lynch cleared a space amongst the clutch of legal documents spread out on the table in front of her and placed her half-empty glass of Irn Bru in the centre. The Pot Still bar was stocked with more than three hundred types of whisky, some of which ranked in her all-time top ten, but even though it was after hours she was still working, so soft-and-fizzy was the limit. She was sitting at one of the tables on the raised section of platform that took up half the entire back area of the cosy bar. The ceiling above had ornate cornicing dating back to the period when the building was first erected some time in the early 1800s and there were comfortable, green leather, button-backed rows of bench seating running around the walls of the upstairs section, with a similar version in red leather on the ground level below.

  Keira suddenly became aware of a presence next to the table and looked up.

  ‘Ye awright, Miss?’

  ‘Jay-Go. Didn’t have the Pot Still down as one of your locals. The Centaur closed for refurbishment?’

  ‘Aye, you’re good.’ Jay-Go smiled back at her. ‘When Ah discovered the joys of classy-class A, Ah lost my appetite for the bevvy. Ah hivnae set foot in the Centaur for about ten year. Great pub, but the last time Ah wis in there it wis after hours.’

  ‘A lock in?’

  ‘Robbing the place. Ah’d offer to get ye a drink, but it’d break the terms of my parole.’

  ‘I think buying alcohol for your lawyer would be seen as a pardonable offence rather than a breach of your parole conditions, but why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you one.’

  ‘Don’t want to end up back inside,’ replied Jay-Go. ‘No alcohol must pass these lips.’

  ‘If you promise not to tell anyone, I will too.’

  Jay-Go pulled a chair out from under the table and sat facing her.

  ‘If you think it’ll stand up in court, I’ll have a vodka and Coke.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of an Ardbeg 1974?’

  ‘Can ye snort it?’

  ‘Practically. They do an Ardbeg ’75 here, which is as near as damn it. If you’re going back inside for breach then you might as well enjoy a decent whisky. Ardbeg’ll give you something nice to think about when you’re dreaming of your next score from behind bars.’

  ‘Aye, you’re good. Fire up one of those fur me.’

  Keira made her way to the bar and ordered a large ’75 and another can of Irn Bru. The whole time she was aware of Jay-Go’s eyes following her.

  When she got back to the table he had picked up a few of her documents and was scanning through them, feigning interest as he browsed.

  Keira placed the drinks down on the table and lowered herself back into her seat.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ she asked, prising the sheets of paper from his hand and slipping them back into her small leather work-satchel.

  ‘Naw! Ah cannae read. Ah was looking to see if there were any pictures. You not joining me?’

  ‘I don’t drink when I’m at work.’

  ‘Ye want some gear?’

  ‘I don’t do that either, not any more.’

  ‘Man, that’s grim. How d’ye get yer kicks? Sex?’ Jay-Go downed the Ardbeg in one gulp and sat staring at her, like he might be interested in a liaison. ‘Man, a bit of make-up and you’d be a looker. You’ve got that Lois Lane vibe goin’ on. Pure stealth, you know what I’m saying? Second-glance stunner.’

  Keira ignored the remarks and changed the subject. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Grabbed a cab, Miss, cost me nearly twenty quid. Any chance you could spot me a refund and some cash for the journey back?’

  Keira knew Jay-Go and his type all too well. She’d represented him and hundreds like him, over the years in court, against crimes and misdemeanours ranging in severity from possession, and loitering with intent all the way up to murder and rape.

  Jay-Go was always working the angles, pushing for a quick fix and instant gratification, but he was at the bott
om end of the social structure where the pickings were mostly the leftovers from society’s plate. If his effort and cunning could be employed more fruitfully Jay-Go would be a multimillionaire. He was as good a liar and a cheat as any of them.

  Keira tried again. ‘Did you get the bus?’

  Jay-Go stared back at her like he was going to take her on, then changed his mind. ‘Na! I walked it. Where would I get the money to splash on a luxury trip in the back of a cab?’

  ‘You walked all the way from Easterhouse?’

  ‘Aye. “Ah’d walk a million miles” an’ all that. But listen, I can see that you’re busy so I’m no’ gonnae keep ye back.’ Jay-Go stopped abruptly, as though he’d had second thoughts over whatever he was about to say next. He suddenly seemed nervous and started looking distractedly around the bar. Keira repeated his name three times before his focus came back round to her.

  ‘Jay-Go, are you all right?’

  ‘Aye fine. Ye got any smokes on ye?’

  ‘What were you going to say?’

  ‘Let’s go outside for a smoke an’ I’ll tell you.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me in here?’

  ‘Nae reason; I’m just dying for a fag.’

  Keira lifted a soft pack of Virginia Plain with two roll-ups ready-made and a Zippo from her handbag, then nodded towards the entrance. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  *

  The traffic on Hope Street was building up as the town-centre office workers spilled on to the streets and started to make their way home.

  Keira lit the two expertly rolled single skinners and handed one to Jay-Go.

  ‘Man! I thought you’d be smoking one eh’ them posh brands like Mayfair, or those French fags that smell of shite.’

  ‘Gauloises is French for shite.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Jay-Go, thinking he’d guessed correctly.

  Keira gave him a look.

  ‘Aye, well, they’ll be the ones.’

  ‘I prefer to roll my own: I smoke less and enjoy it more. When did you get out?’ Keira drew down a lungful of smoke.