by Peter James
‘Who are you?’ Adrian Morris asked.
But he was speaking to a dead connection.
4
Three days earlier
A few days after her nineteenth birthday, the hour had almost arrived. These past weeks had seemed an eternity. Florentina Shima was excited, but she was also very nervous.
Perhaps he would not come.
The first thing she did when she woke in her room was to look at his photograph. Her fiancé, Dragan.
Well, he wasn’t actually her fiancé, but he soon would be! By the end of today, provided her grandmother agreed the financial negotiations. And not long after, she would be going with him to his home in Serbia, to a new life, to marry a man she would love forever, the way people did in stories, like the way her sister, Eva, had.
Florentina didn’t know exactly where Serbia was, but she knew it wasn’t far, and she knew she would love it there, because she would love anywhere that she was with Dragan.
She looked at his lean, rugged face and beautiful eyes; at his hair, his rich black curls that gave him the look of a bandit in a cowboy film – but a nice bandit! A few years older than her, but not many, she estimated. She liked the idea that he was older – there was so much he would be able to teach her about life, about the world she craved to know so much more of.
The world she read about in books and saw in films and shows on their television. The whole exciting world beyond their remote mountain smallholding in northern Albania, where she lived with her parents and grandmother with their ten goats, twelve hens, twenty-two sheep, three pigs and one cow, as well as two German Shepherds to protect their animals, which gave them their livelihood, from wolves, bears and foxes.
Dragan also reminded her, just a little, of her older brother, Jak, who she had adored, who had been killed in a motorbike accident five years ago. Her younger brother, Zef, was different: he was quiet, dutiful, resigned – or committed, she never really knew which – to helping out with the animals and to toiling on the sixty dunams of land on which they grew their rotation of crops in the poor soil.
All her friends at the village school she’d attended first, and then the high school in Krujë, had met local guys who they later married. But no one had sparked for her. In her heart, she had always harboured bigger ambitions, to venture out into that wider and much more exciting world. And now, finally, with Dragan it was about to happen.
She looked at the pretty dress her mother had bought her, especially for today, which was draped over the chair. She was excited to put it on. Then she picked up her mobile phone, the one Eva had sent her last year as a birthday present, so the two of them could keep in touch. There was a text message from her.
Paç fat!
Good luck!
Four years ago, Eva, twenty-four, always much worldlier than herself, and scared of ending up a spinster, had heard of a broker who could find potential husbands in neighbouring Serbia. Leaving her family to go and live in a country where she didn’t know anyone, or speak the language, seemed a better option to Eva than living out a lonely life here. Some months later, a pleasant, nice-looking man called Milovan had arrived at their house.
Their grandmother had handled the negotiations, and the old woman decided on po – yes!
Milovan paid 20,000 leks to her family and left to buy some gold jewellery and clothes for his fiancée. He returned three weeks later, after Eva had received her passport, to take her away to her new home. Subsequently, she had written regularly to say how happy she was in Serbia, that Milovan had a large farm and was a kind and considerate husband. She now had one baby, with another on the way, and urged her younger sister, Florentina, to try to find a husband the way she had done.
So, she had.
Shortly after midday, Dragan arrived. His name, she had been told, meant joy. But when Florentina saw him she was gripped with everything but. Most of all, revulsion and blind panic.
The sheep farmer stepped towards her with a broad grin, revealing just three teeth in an otherwise empty mouth, and wearing the most terrible clothes. He stank. And he looked nearer to fifty than the late twenties of his photograph. He looked older than her father.
Once again, as with her sister, her grandmother took over the negotiations. Dragan was wealthy, the old woman told her, he had over forty sheep. Two hundred hens. Twelve pigs. What was not to love about him? And he was willing to pay a fortune, 200,000 leks. Twenty times the amount Milovan had paid for her sister!
Again, her grandmother decided on po. Dragan went off to make the passport arrangements, and said he would return as soon as they were done to collect his bride-to-be.
That evening, Florentina made a decision. At midnight, when everyone was asleep, after ramming a few belongings and some bread and cheese from the kitchen into a rucksack, she ran. And kept on running. With few clothes, other than those she stood up in, and little money, she slept the first night in a cave, some miles away, with the rank smell of wild animals all around her, awake most of the night, scared. At daybreak she ate her provisions and left, walking for hours down the narrow, twisting mountain road.
Every time she heard a vehicle approaching she scrambled down over the edge of the road and hid in the bushes, scared it might be her father or Zef, coming to look for her. It grew steadily hotter throughout the morning – for the past few days the temperature had been over forty degrees, and it felt that now. After a few hours she was exhausted, frightened, thirsty and hungry. Many kilometres ahead – she did not know how far – was the city of Tirana, her destination. Perhaps there she could find work, maybe in a bar, and the chance of meeting the man of her dreams.
Shortly before midday, traipsing round a bend in the road, she saw over to her left a large bar and restaurant with a pretty garden in front of it. A handful of people, mostly groups of men, sat at tables, drinking coffee. There were fancy cars parked outside. One, she recognized, was a Mercedes. She knew what it was because the rusted shell of a Mercedes had sat, all her life, next to the stall where the pigs lived. Jak used to tell her that one day he would restore this car and they could go driving in it, in a Mercedes! Then he had died.
She went inside out of the heat. It was almost empty, apart from a group of men smoking at one table, beneath a NO SMOKING sign. A young woman behind the bar, about the same age as herself, took pity on her, gave her water and a plate of eggs and a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. When Florentina told her where she was headed, the woman went over to one of the men at the table and spoke to him. He turned and smiled at her.
She returned and told Florentina that he was a nice guy, her cousin, she could trust him and he would give her a lift to Tirana.
Two hours later the man dropped her at a roundabout in the vast city, in the searing afternoon sun, and pointed her in the direction of the city centre. She thanked him, then looked around, bewildered, at all the buildings. Suddenly, she felt both safe and lost at the same time.
She had never before in her life been in a city. Streets rammed with cars and trucks. Shops. Cafés. Restaurants. The roar of motorbikes. The scream of a police siren.
Thousands of people. Strangers, all of them.
She walked past a huge arch with a white statue on top and statues on either side. Ahead was another roundabout, in the middle of which was the national emblem, a black, double-headed eagle mounted on a stone plinth. Nervously, hesitantly, she waited until a group of people crossed, and she went with them. She walked on, past a filling station, shops with awnings, cafés with umbrellas. Past a restaurant with a display of fish on ice just inside the door. A tall, modern skyscraper stood ahead with the name PLAZA HOTEL in red lights along the top. Desperately thirsty again, she came to a park with an ornamental pond with several fountains in it. A group of men sat around, most of them smoking. She walked over, knelt and scooped some water into her mouth.
Where should she go?
She was totally lost and bewildered. No one took any notice of her. Should she go home? Was she
crazy to be doing this?
She didn’t even know where she would sleep. On the streets? In a park?
Lost in thought, she walked on, her feet sore, and feeling a blister coming on. She reached a busy, confusing junction, with noisy traffic coming from every direction. The Plaza Hotel looked as if it might be the centre of this city. Might someone there be able to tell her if there was bar work anywhere? Or waitressing? Or cleaning?
She stepped out into the road, heard the blare of a horn, heard the scream of brakes. Saw a cement lorry bearing down on her.
She froze.
Then, out of nowhere, a hand grabbed her and jerked her back, hard, just as the lorry thundered past inches in front of her.
Turning, she saw a man, perhaps of her father’s age, but smart-looking, with elegant black hair. He was wearing a suit with an open-necked shirt and had all his teeth – nice white teeth.
‘Thank you,’ she gasped.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, pleasantly. ‘That was close!’
She nodded.
‘Are you sure?’ her saviour asked. ‘You don’t look OK to me.’
‘I’m – I’m lost,’ she replied.
He told her his name. Frederik. He took her to a beautiful café by a lake. It had white umbrellas and was full of people, many of them young and good-looking.
He bought her a Coke and a sandwich and an ice cream. He seemed gentle and kind and interested in her. He asked her what she would like her life to be. She opened up to him, told him why she had come here, and he listened, sympathetically. Then he excused himself and made a phone call. When he had finished he turned back to her, smiling, and told her his sister was going to join them, and she would help her.
Half an hour later, a glamorous woman came to the table and sat down. She said her name was Elira, and she could help her to start a whole new life, somewhere abroad. Had Florentina ever been abroad, she asked? How about England? Would she like to go there? To a beautiful city called Brighton, where they had a job waiting for her and a nice apartment to live in. But first, she needed a proper meal, and to get cleaned up and have some rest.
Elira and her brother took her to a beautiful house, high on the hills above Tirana – the kind of place she had only ever seen in films. A kind, elderly lady called Irma, the housekeeper, cooked her a meal, led her to a bathroom and helped her afterwards to bathe. Then the woman tucked her into a big, soft bed, where she fell asleep almost instantly.
The next morning, Elira took her into the city. They went to a huge, modern shopping centre called the European Trade Centre, all glass and steel, like nothing Florentina had ever experienced before. Elira bought her fancy new clothes, jeans, a cream blouse, trainers, a lightweight leather jacket and a smart wristwatch, then a new handbag. Next, she took her to a beauty salon, where she had her hair done and make-up, and her nails for the first time in her life.
She felt pampered. Like a millionairess. It felt as if she had landed in paradise and she could scarcely believe her luck.
Elira bought her a small, wheeled suitcase, packed with more clothes and a washbag full of toiletries. They had lunch together, then, in Elira’s chauffeured limousine, returned to the mansion in the hills. Florentina spent the afternoon lazing by the swimming pool, truly living a dream.
That evening the housekeeper helped her bathe again, then afterwards Elira dressed her in her new clothes and groomed her long, freshly styled dark hair in front of a mirror.
‘You are a very pretty young lady,’ she told her. ‘You look like a movie star!’
And she did!
Florentina twirled in front of the mirror, feeling like a whole new person. From the desperation of just a couple of days ago, she felt transformed. Strong. Ready for adventure.
The following morning, after she’d enjoyed a huge breakfast, prepared by Irma, of yoghurt, layered spinach pie, salami, eggs and fresh fruits, Frederik came into the kitchen. He stopped and stared at Florentina with a big, warm smile. He told her she was beautiful and that he had spoken to friends in the city of Brighton and Hove who indeed could help her and were looking forward to meeting her. He would give her a passport and documentation, and her parents would never find her there. She would be safe. She would have a great job in a bar, with an apartment of her own, and a chance to make new friends and a new life – and, absolutely, one day she would find the man of her dreams.
To cover her air fare and other expenses, all she had to do for him was one small thing.
5
Saturday 12 August
05.00–06.00
Adrian Morris’s phone began ringing. It didn’t rouse him, he was already awake, as he had been for much of the night, lying in the grip of fear, his brain releasing him occasionally into sleep, only to torment him with nightmares.
He was in turmoil. Should he have made the decision to call the game off? Was not doing this something he would come to regret for the rest of his life?
It still wasn’t too late.
The room was brightening; from outside came the first tentative sounds of the dawn chorus. Dawn. Dawn breaking on the biggest day in his club’s history, and a shadow loomed over it. Question after question churned over and over in his mind. What had he missed? What could he do that he had not already done?
Chirrup-chirrup. Chirrup-chirrup.
For a few seconds, in his hazy mind, he thought it was just another bird joining in the growing orchestra out there in their garden. Then his wife stirred. ‘Phone,’ she murmured.
The clock showed 5.04 a.m.
Who was phoning at this hour? One of his night-security team?
He reached across his bedside table and grabbed the cordless off its cradle. ‘Adrian Morris,’ he answered.
The voice chilled him. The same accented English, as polite as before.
‘Mr Morris?’
He responded as quietly as he could, walking across the thickly carpeted floor towards the door. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry for this inconvenient hour, but we don’t really have very much time left, do we?’
‘Can you hold a moment, please.’
He slipped out onto the landing, closed the door behind him and entered his den, switching on the light and perching on the chair in front of his desk. ‘Who am I speaking to?’
‘You are speaking to a football fan who is very concerned about your beautiful stadium – and who does not like to hurt people.’
‘How did you get this number?’ Morris asked. It was his private home landline, and ex-directory.
‘By disobeying my instructions and going to the police, you have eliminated my option to call you on your mobile. So I had to make, shall we say, a little more effort. You can get anything if you push the right buttons. Anything, Mr Morris. You can join the football stadium as an ordinary steward and one day rise to become its security boss. Anything at all. And that includes a bomb in your stadium, on or under a seat, this afternoon. Unless you pay the £250,000 I’ve suggested. This is a small amount. You will today, just in ticket sales alone, take around £1.5 million – and about the same again in drinks and pies, and over £10 million for the television rights. So, for a mere fraction of today’s revenue you can sleep in peace and the club will be safe. Would this not be a win-win?’
‘In your sick mind, perhaps.’
‘Who will come off worse from this tragedy? You, the Amex Stadium or Sussex Police? You would prefer to see fifty – perhaps one hundred – of your loyal fans blown to pieces, Mr Morris? That is all human life means to you? I think you should take a look in your bathroom mirror, and there you’ll see the one who has the sick mind. Why don’t you sleep on it? I will make contact later to give you one last chance.’
‘Look,’ Morris said, his brain racing. ‘Even if I was to agree, you’ve left it very late – how could I find a quarter of a million pounds on a Saturday morning?’
‘You really should have thought about that yesterday, this is very bad planning by you. I’m glad you don’t
work for me. Goodbye, Mr Morris.’
The line went dead.
Instantly, Morris dialled 1471 to see if he could get the number. But all he got was the message saying it was withheld. He picked up his wallet, which was lying beside his laptop, and pulled out the number of the Detective Inspector who had come along yesterday with two other officers, after the blackmailer’s first call.
Glenn Branson answered on the first ring.
6
Saturday 12 August
10.00–11.00
At 10 a.m., Kipp Brown’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. It was from the racing tipster firm to which he subscribed.
Good morning, Mr Brown, we have two bets today. The first horse is DAAWY and take the 4/1 with Paddy. Also back MYSTERY OF WAR and take the 4/1 with Betfred. Both horses should be backed this morning taking the early price and both are WIN bets. Good luck – TONY FORBES
Immediately, Kipp made his daily call to his private bookmaker, recklessly asking him to place £10,000 he did not have on each horse.
7
Saturday 12 August
15.00–16.00
I’m a bomber! Uh-huh! Boom!
It felt good to be wanted!
Ylli Prek had been told by his mother that his first name meant ‘star’ in Albanian and his last name came from a freedom fighter.
That’s what he was! A freedom fighter with a bomb!
But for the moment, at 3.30 p.m., as he walked away from the train station at the Amex football stadium and across the busy concourse, he was Ylli Prek, football fan. Slung from his shoulder was an elaborate Sony FS7 camera, the kind professionals used.
Although it wasn’t a camera at all, of course.
It was a bomb. Filled with nails, bolts and ball bearings. The explosive charge packed inside would be enough, he had been told, to kill at least forty people all around him. And to injure at least one hundred, if not more.
