Blood Whispers Read online

  ‘Just a glass of water, and the lawyer’s date of birth.’

  Ten

  Janica Ahmeti sat in the waiting area of the remand centre of HMP Cornton Vale, cradling a polystyrene cup full of a lukewarm, brown liquid that could have been tea or coffee, but didn’t taste like either. The women-only prison was situated on the outskirts of historical Stirling, ‘Scotland’s oldest town and newest city’.

  Through the plate-glass partition that separated the waiting area from the rest of the remand wing she could see Kaltrina Dervishi’s lawyer standing by a pay phone, with an unlit hand-rolled cigarette dangling from her lips and the receiver clamped between her shoulder and ear while she rummaged in her bag for what Janica presumed would be a lighter. Restrictions in the remand wing were considerably more lax than the rest of the complex and inmates wandered freely up and down the central corridor ignoring the no smoking signs stuck to every wall. It struck Janica that Keira Lynch was the type of person who ignored most signs telling her what to do. She had an easy, laid-back confidence that people responded to: a coolness that wasn’t manufactured. When they’d first been introduced Janica had found herself blushing as they shook hands. Throughout the course of the day she’d tried to analyse her reaction, but finally had to admit she found Keira oddly attractive. If she was wearing make-up it didn’t show: Keira didn’t need it. Her Celtic-ginger hair was naturally wavy: cut in a short, fifties style, with a straight fringe that looked like she’d done it herself. The hair suited her oval-shaped face and gamine features. The colour was in sharp contrast to the pale skin and impenetrable blackness of her eyes, which showed little emotion. Her flat expression gave no clues as to what she might be thinking, which Janica also found curiously attractive. She left the impression that she was concealing something, a secret ‘darker than the devil’s shadow’, as her grandfather used to say.

  Janica closed her eyes and tried not to think about the meeting they’d just had with Kaltrina Dervishi. The girl’s descriptions of sexual abuse and mental cruelty at the hands of Fisnik Abazi and his men had been difficult. It was the calm, ordinariness of the delivery that made her words all the more chilling.

  A tap on her shoulder made her jump.

  Janica opened her eyes and looked up.

  Her face flushed again.

  Keira was standing next to her. ‘Did nobody warn you about the tea?’

  ‘Is that what it is? I’ve been trying to work it out.’

  ‘D’you mind if we take this outside?’ asked Keira, referring to the cigarette in her mouth. ‘I can hardly breathe in here.’

  ‘Only if I can have one too.’

  ‘Tired?’

  ‘Trying to forget,’ replied Janica, getting to her feet.

  ‘I know what you mean: it’s harrowing shit.’

  ‘I hear a lot of bad things in this line of work that I’d rather not have to listen to, but the girl has barely any English. She needs someone to tell her story, even one so terrible.’

  Keira nodded over at a prison officer who pressed a buzzer to let them into a small holding area, where they were searched before being allowed to exit through a heavily reinforced metal door that opened on to a small car park in front of the low-rise prison building.

  The air outside smelled fresh and clean and Keira took a few deep breaths before lighting up.

  ‘If you moved up here you’d be in big demand, Janica: one of a kind.’

  ‘You have a hard time finding Albanian interpreters in Stirling?’

  ‘I’ve had a hard time finding an Albanian interpreter in Scotland. There’s no such thing: never mind one with all the relevant clearances.’

  Janica raised her eyebrows, ‘Not in the whole of Scotland? Maybe I should move up, although not to Stirling. It is full of ghosts, I think. I keep having the feeling someone is watching me. This place gives me the creeps.’ Janica raised her eyebrows and gave a slight shrug. ‘I’m crazy, no?’

  ‘No, I know what you mean. Where are you staying?’

  Janica looked puzzled, ‘Staying?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry it’s the British way of asking where you’re lodging. Have they put you up in a hotel?’

  ‘Ah, yes, in the centre of Stirling. You?’

  ‘No, I have to get a train back to Glasgow.’

  ‘Sounds far.’

  ‘About an hour: not too bad. You’ll find out for yourself tomorrow. I wondered if you could translate a video we’ve received. Aimed at the girl. We’re pretty sure it’s some kind of threat, but we need to know what they’re saying before we show it to her. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Say . . . midday? I’ll call you first thing to confirm.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m going to walk to the station. We could talk on the way, or if you’d rather we could share a cab?’

  ‘No, let’s walk . . . give the ghosts something to think about. You want to go for a drink?’ Janica felt the warmth rush to her face again.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t miss my train. Another time.’

  The two women set off along a narrow footpath that bordered their side of the road. Opposite was a rough grass verge that gave way to the open countryside beyond.

  After a few hundred yards walking along the unlit footpath they came to the edge of an estate full of grey council houses and the welcome glow of street lamps.

  ‘Is Glasgow where you’re from?’ asked Janica, making small talk.

  ‘I wasn’t born there, but it’s where I grew up.’

  Janica nodded. ‘I too am one of the displaced: forced to leave my country by Milošević when I was just a teenager. When I look at Miss Dervishi my eyes sting. She has the look of the forsaken that I once had.’

  ‘Do you ever think of going back?’

  ‘All the time, but the Serbian troops destroyed our passports and papers so we would have no way of proving where we are from. The ones that do go back are called liars and cheats then chased away or . . .’ she hesitated, ‘or worse.’

  Keira flicked her cigarette into the air and watched as it hit the pavement in a flurry of orange sparks then tumbled off into the gutter.

  ‘Why d’you only smoke half the cigarette?’

  ‘It makes me think I’m smoking less.’

  ‘It works?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I don’t like being a smoker,’ said Janica filling in the silence that followed. ‘I don’t like the hold it has over me. When I can’t smoke I want one, and when I do smoke I don’t enjoy it because I know it’s screwing up my health. There’s also something perverse about being made to stand outside in the fresh air when you want to fill your lungs with smoke.’

  Keira didn’t reply.

  ‘No matter what I do, I can’t stop.’

  ‘You’re thinking about it too much.’

  Janica nodded in agreement. ‘I do think about it too much, you’re right; at least twenty times a day. That’s one hundred and forty negative thoughts per week, times fifty-two over the year; what’s that add up to?’

  ‘A headache, you’ll make yourself ill. You’re probably doing yourself more harm worrying about the cigarettes you haven’t smoked, than if you’d just smoked the damn things in the first place.’

  ‘Probably.’ Janica smiled.

  ‘So what did you want to ask me?’

  Janica glanced over her shoulder. Despite the street being deserted she lowered her voice and checked that no one was in earshot. ‘She has lots of problems, the girl?’

  ‘Yeah, quite a few. You’re in a unique but unfortunate position, Janica. Obviously you hear everything that is being said, but I can’t really talk about the case with you . . . you understand that?’

  ‘Of course, I understand, but it is not the case I wish to speak of.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Fisnik Abazi sounds like a . . .’

  ‘An arsehole.’

  ‘I was going to say “piece of work”, but arsehole is good too.’

 
; ‘I would also be careful about mentioning that name out loud,’ Keira said seriously. ‘You never know who might be listening.’

  ‘Please, you have no worries with me. I come from Kosovo, I know of such men there and what they are capable of. I know when to keep my mouth shut. This is why I need to speak. I think maybe he is a member of the Clan. If you are agreeable, this I will ask the girl tomorrow.’

  ‘The Clan?’

  ‘They are heavy into the drug trade, prostitution also: mostly ex-members of the Serbian army, so they are fighting lots of battles under Milošević, and very violent. You must hope that they have not come to Scotland.’

  ‘Are they a gang?’

  ‘More an organization.’

  ‘Like the Mafia?’

  ‘Sure, but worse, much more ruthless,’ answered Janica with a frown. ‘For them a human life is nothing, but they are fiercely loyal to each other. They will never give evidence against another member. This is why I am scared for the girl.’

  Keira already knew the answer to the next question, but asked anyway. ‘Why are you scared?’

  ‘If Abazi is a member of the Clan – and she is saying things about him, or against him – they will not let her live.’

  There was no drama in Janica’s voice.

  ‘I am sorry to say these things, but I believe the girl is in danger, there is a bad feeling around her, don’t you think?’

  Keira stared straight ahead. She didn’t want to acknowledge it to Janica or to herself, but she had the same sense of foreboding when it came to Kaltrina.

  ‘I’m not going to let anything happen to her,’ replied Keira, even though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

  Eleven

  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 wa
s 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.