Blood Whispers Read online

  ‘What if it did?’

  Besnik checked E Zeze out in the mirror again. The guy was small, probably weighed less than seventy kilos. Sitting there with neatly combed hair wearing a suit, wiry and lean. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about him that gave Besnik the creeps. If E Zeze did start getting smart he would stop the car and give the freak a slap. Besnik decided to ramp it up a little. ‘If it did mean that I shouldn’t have said a word to you, then we got ourselves a problem, ’cause I just have. Now, I don’t really need to ask your permission to stop and grab something to eat, I was just being polite. But in order to be polite I have to open my mouth and speak, unless you know another way of doing it.’

  E Zeze didn’t answer.

  ‘You got something up with your voice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure? You sound to me like you’ve had your balls cut off, you know what I’m saying? Like you iron your sheets and listen to musicals: all soft and quiet. That why you don’t want to talk . . . ’Cause you sound like Michael Jackson?’

  E Zeze turned and stared out of the window for a moment deep in thought, then said, ‘Did they tell you not to smoke in the car?’

  Besnik smiled to himself. ‘I didn’t smoke in the car, the cigarette was outside the whole time.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked. I asked if they told you not to.’

  ‘They told me not to, so I didn’t.’ He let a little edge creep into his tone.

  ‘You like Greta Tafa?’ asked E Zeze, referring to the folk music that was playing quietly through the car’s speakers.

  ‘I like her, but not the music so much. Why? You don’t like to have music playing either? I didn’t get a note about that.’ Messing with E Zeze now. ‘She’s pretty hot. Do you think she’s pretty hot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You sure? I figure maybe you’d prefer her husband.’

  ‘Is our destination programmed into the satnav?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Besnik, after giving it just enough time to let the little shit know he was the one breaking the rules now by doing all the talking. ‘But only the city, not the actual address: that I keep in my head in case we get stopped by the cops; so we don’t give them any idea as to where we’re headed.’

  ‘What are you going to eat?’

  Besnik screwed up his forehead. ‘What?’

  ‘When you stop for food, what are you going to get?’

  Besnik shook his head slightly. ‘Why? You hungry now?’

  ‘Depends on what you were thinking of.’

  ‘So now ’cause you’re hungry it’s okay to have a conversation.’

  E Zeze didn’t look too happy at that one, but Besnik didn’t care. ‘I don’t think you get to choose round here. You just have to go with what you can find that’s open and be prepared to eat something that’s been fried.’

  Besnik checked the mirror again. E Zeze had zoned out.

  Neither of them spoke again until Besnik pulled up – almost an hour later – outside a chip shop in the small coastal town of Tarbert.

  ‘Why are you stopping?’

  ‘’Cause I got my foot on the brake . . . and I need some food!’

  Besnik turned off the ignition. He didn’t ask E Zeze if he wanted anything, figuring if he did, he would make him ask. He had the door open and was halfway out of the car when E Zeze mumbled something.

  ‘What d’you say?’ asked Besnik, ducking his head back inside.

  ‘Would you mind leaving the music on? Tafa is a particular favourite of mine.’

  Besnik shot E Zeze a look. ‘Sure,’ then leant in and stuck the keys back in the ignition.

  As he walked away he glanced over his shoulder and caught Engjell E Zeze’s unpleasant little face peering at him through the rear window. E Zeze gave a twisted half-smile which made Besnik want to walk over to the car and punch the little fucker unconscious. It was the only way he could see himself getting through the rest of the journey back to Glasgow.

  There was a short line of people waiting to be served inside the chip shop.

  ‘Fish’ll be a few minutes, do you want me to put one in for you?’ asked the girl serving behind the counter as Besnik joined the back of the queue.

  ‘Yes, is okay.’ He had been in Scotland for just over three years now and although his spoken English wasn’t good he could still understand most of what was being said.

  He pulled out a pack of Marlborough and his Zippo, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Not allowed to smoke on the premises. If you want to stand outside I’ll tap the window when your fish is ready . . . okay?’

  ‘Ah, yes, is okay.’ Besnik headed outside.

  The sky overhead was black and clear. The fish-and-chip shop overlooked the natural harbour – one of only a few in the whole of Scotland. Besnik leant with his back against the large pane of glass and looked out across the water to the lights twinkling on the far shore. He took a long drag on his cigarette then exhaled with a deep sigh. This was the sort of place he could imagine bringing up a family: well away from all the shit that was going on in Glasgow, far enough away from Albania not to be recognized. He looked along the road to where he’d parked the black Mercedes in a pool of light cast down from an overhead street lamp. The top of the little creep’s head was only just visible above the headrest. Besnik couldn’t make out whether he was reading or sleeping, but E Zeze’s head was tipped forward slightly.

  A rap at the window made him turn.

  The girl inside nodded to him that his fish was ready.

  Besnik flicked the rest of his cigarette along the pavement and ducked back inside the shop.

  The fried fish was sitting on a sheet of greaseproof paper waiting to be wrapped.

  ‘Salt and vinegar?’ asked the girl as she shovelled on a pile of chips.

  ‘A lot, please.’

  The girl used both hands to pour on the salt and vinegar simultaneously, then expertly wrapped the food into a neat little bundle.

  ‘Six pounds fifty, please.’

  Besnik handed over the money, then, after waiting a few moments for his change, exited the shop.

  He had only travelled a few metres along the pavement when he stopped dead and swore under his breath.

  The space where the car had been was empty.

  The Mercedes was gone.

  Nine

  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 g
reeted 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.’