‘I asked you to find the boy. All you found was a boy.’
‘I did find the little fucker,’ said Pasha, his act starting to melt, ‘so you are owing me the money.’
‘The photographs I showed the boy you claim is Ermir . . .’
‘He recognise straight away,’ interrupted Daud, ‘he knew straight away that it was his mother.’
‘Then I must be Ermir’s sister.’
‘Now you’re confusing me.’ Daud Pasha turned away as if he was looking for someone to back him up. ‘You start talking about bears and now you’re Ermir’s sister? Where the fuck did that come from?’
Keira took a last draw on the cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray in the middle of the table then took a swig of her warm beer. ‘The photographs I showed the boy were of my mother, not his.’
Daud stared at her like he was unfazed, but Keira knew he was already trying to think of an exit line.
After a few moments he stood and said, ‘I need to go pee.’
Keira shouted after him as he headed back towards the lobby: ‘Is that the best you can do?’
Keira ordered a cold beer from one of the other waiters and picked another cigarette from the packet Daud Pasha had left behind. Over the sound of the mood music playing in the background she could hear the waves folding against the shore somewhere in the darkness beyond the dim lights of the patio. When the waiter returned with her beer Keira asked, ‘Where’s the old guy, Xhon?’
‘He’s on his break,’ replied the waiter.
‘Where does he take his break?’
‘Usually out the back of the kitchen. He does not have long. Is everything all right?’
‘Is it possible to ask him if he wants to take his break with me?’
The guy looked uncertain. ‘I’m not sure if he’s allowed to sit with the guests.’
‘Am I allowed to sit with him . . . out the back of the kitchen?’
The waiter shrugged. ‘I think it is up to you. You’re the guest, you can do whatever you like.’
Keira handed the guy a 500-lek note and told him to keep the change.
‘Can you show me?’
*
Stepping out into a dim yellow pool cast by the bulkhead light at the kitchen door, Keira saw Xhon sitting on a stack of upturned beer crates over by the bins, smoking a cigarette and holding a small coffee cup in his other hand. ‘I still don’t get this shaking-your-head-for-yes thing.’
Xhon immediately stood, gesturing for her to take a seat beside him, which she refused. ‘Thanks, but I’ve been sitting all day. I need to be up and moving around.’
‘I forgot to bring you your beer. Sorry!’
‘It’s fine . . . Is this your coffee break?’
‘Dinner break, but I’m not hungry. A coffee and smoke to get me through. You want a cigarette?’
‘I’ve just finished three, thanks,’ replied Keira. ‘What time d’you finish?’
Xhon shot her a glance. ‘I’m married. Don’t get any ideas. I finish in few hours, but my wife can put hole in you just with her stare. Does the mosquito know you’re here?’
‘He went to the toilet and never came back. Turns out he was a con man, but I didn’t find that out until after he had made off with half my money.’
‘If you want a loan, I’m thinking maybe you are come to the wrong guy. I earn enough to pay my travel to work and from work with a little over for the food.’
‘I don’t need money, I need help.’
‘Got plenty of that. Had some delivered this morning, nice and fresh. Best help in the whole of Albania. How much d’you need?’
‘Could be a little, could be a lot . . . I don’t know yet.’
‘Well, let’s get started and see.’
‘I wondered if I could talk to your son. I’m trying to find someone . . .’
‘You need address?’
‘I have a rough idea where they were last seen.’
‘A missing person?’
‘Not really . . . I don’t know. I don’t know if they’re missing so much as I don’t know where to start looking. I thought maybe your son might have an idea. I have a name . . .’
Xhon looked sceptical.
‘. . . and a crime,’ continued Keira.
‘If there is also a crime, then maybe is the chance. Depends what sort of crime and how long ago. Also, will depend on who did this crime. In Albania there are some people for who the keeping of records is not with the diligence, you understand? One of our main industries is corruption. If you shake an official’s hand, clasp both of them, otherwise his free hand will be stealing from your pocket, you know what I’m saying?’
‘I do.’
‘When did this crime happen?’
‘Not that long ago. This year.’
‘I can see in your eyes it was a bad thing. Can you tell me what it was?’
‘A murder . . . Two murders, in fact.’
‘And your bullet wounds . . . they have something to do with this?’
Keira wanted to be straight with Xhon, but only up to a point. She hesitated before answering, ‘In a roundabout way.’
‘Don’t worry, I will not ask for you to explain more. How long are you here for?’
‘I’m supposed to fly home on Thursday, so only one more day.’
Xhon took a moment to think.
‘Is that a problem?’ asked Keira.
‘Is maybe problem. Tomorrow I am not here at work, my family has the funeral. My son will be there also.’
‘If it’s easier I could talk to him on the phone tonight or first thing in the morning.’
Xhon thought some more, then said. ‘You should meet. I think it’s better. You okay with funerals?’
‘Not on a first date.’
‘You can be ready early in the morning?’
‘How early is early?’
‘Nine a.m.?’
‘Meet before he goes to the funeral?’
‘At the funeral, but it is a few hours’ drive.’
‘I don’t want to intrude. A funeral might not be the best place.’
‘It will be fun day. I will send a car.’
‘I have a hire car. All I’ve done so far is drive from the airport to the hotel. It could do with a run.’
‘You will never find us: I’ll send a car. You can meet lots of real Albanians. We are like the Scottish: friendly and warm when you get to know us. But we are better-looking.’
‘Like the Irish, then.’
Five
At 8.35 a.m. on Wednesday morning Keira was sitting by the pool drinking coffee. The intensity of the thick, chalky liquid was like nothing she’d ever tasted.
She liked it.
A basket of freshly baked pastries sat alongside a saucer on the small glass table in front of her. Aside from a waiter busying himself nearby in preparation for the other breakfast-goers, the pool area was empty. As she lifted the tiny cup to her lips Keira noticed two police officers standing at the concierge’s desk. The concierge nodded in the direction of the patio, then pointed at her. Keira finished the coffee, placed the cup back on the saucer and watched as the officers in their light blue cotton shirts headed through the lobby and out towards her.
‘You are Miss Lynch?’ asked the taller of the two as he approached the table.
‘Yes.’
‘You would like to come with us.’
‘I’m not sure. Would I like to come with you?’ replied Keira.
‘You can finish your coffee and we will wait for you outside.’
‘I’m finished already. Can I ask what it’s about?’
‘The funeral.’
‘Are you my car service?’
‘Yes, we are here to drive you.’
‘One of you is Xhon’s son?’
‘Xhon’s son is our colleague. He is at the burn already so asked if we would take you for the lift. Special escort. It is quite far so we must leave soon.’
‘Okay, I’m ready.’
Ke
ira offered them a pastry, which they both refused, then, grabbing one for herself, followed the officers through the lobby and out into the cool of the shaded street.
All three climbed into a dark blue Volkswagen Golf with a decal reading POLICIA that was parked on the pavement right outside the front entrance to the hotel.
‘Where are we headed?’ asked Keira from the back seat.
‘Gjirokaster,’ answered the officer who was driving. ‘It is known as “The City of the South”. It is very nice place. It has a castle, a bazaar that is very old, lots of coffee shops and tavernas. It is a good place to live and a good place to rest when you are dead.’
‘What’s the burn?’
‘Sorry, not understand.’
‘You said Xhon’s son was already at the burn.’
‘It is the place where they are putting the dead body in the fire.’
‘The crematorium?’
‘Yes, this is the place. Krematorium. Same in Albanian.’
The lights changed to red as the Volkswagen approached. The officer flipped a switch on the dashboard to sound the siren then accelerated towards the crossing. Keira’s knuckles whitened as she clutched the door handle and pushed herself deeper into the seat. She braced her knees against the back of the driver’s seat as the police car cut through the stream of traffic in front.
The officer sitting in the passenger seat turned and shouted over the wail of the siren. ‘Gezim is very good driver. The best in Albanian Policia.’
The driver then cocked his head over his shoulder and – keeping one eye on the road – added, ‘Gezim is off sick today, but I’m pretty good too.’
*
Just over two hours later the police car came to a halt outside a squat, umber-coloured, municipal building in the centre of the hillside town of Gjirokaster. John-with-a-kiss left a small group of people gathered in the shaded courtyard area outside the entrance and hurried over to open the car door.
‘Come, I’ll introduce you to everyone.’
Keira followed Xhon through the small gathering to a line of family members standing just inside the entrance waiting to receive the mourners.
‘You must leave your shoes,’ whispered Xhon as they approached.
Keira slipped her shoes off, placed them alongside rows of others laid neatly to the left of the door, then stepped into the dark corridor.
‘Zoti ju lasht shnosh, is what you say at funerals. It means, “Let God leave the others untouched.”’
With Xhon walking along behind making introductions in Albanian, Keira made her way along the line of people, shaking each of their hands in turn, saying, ‘Zoti ju lasht shnosh,’ and adding, ‘Sorry for your loss,’ under her breath to each of the family members. As she extended her hand to the last in line – a man of a roughly similar age to her – he replied, ‘Don’t be sorry . . . he was a shit.’
Keira turned as she walked away and saw that he was smiling after her. She noticed straight away that he was a younger version of Xhon. Same eyes, same shape face; only difference was a narrower frame and slightly darker hair.
Following those in front, Keira made her way through into a large reception hall where drinks were being served from a bar comprising two trestle tables laid end to end. A large plastic bin filled with ice was being used as the wine cooler and beer fridge. Two long rows of tables covered in white embroidered linen ran the length of the hall, with simple place settings for over a hundred people arranged neatly along either side. Apart from a huge Albanian flag – a two-headed eagle silhouetted against a deep red background – hanging on the far wall, there were no decorations.
Xhon was at her shoulder with a bottle of beer. ‘Thought you might need this.’
‘Thanks,’ replied Keira, accepting it from him and taking a drink.
‘It’s a beautiful town. Is this where you live?’
‘Two doors down from here.’
‘A long walk home, then?’
‘Less then thirty metres, but my wife will be so drunk I will still have to call for a taxi.’
‘What about you?’
‘I am working at the hotel later, so I take it easy.’
‘Shouldn’t you be in the line-up? Are you not family?’
‘I have done my duty at the crematorium. They are now just greeting the stragglers and those that missed the burn.’
‘Should I have been here earlier?’
‘No . . . not necessary! You are only come for the fun part.’
‘I take it the guy on the end is your son?’
‘Yes. Is okay, you will sit with him at the meal. Then you can talk: ask him about murder and the missing person you’re not really sure is missing.’
*
‘What brings you to Albania? And more, what brings you to the funeral of a stranger?’ Xhon’s son had just pulled up his chair alongside Keira and introduced himself as Pavli Variboba the cop.
‘I’m happy to wait for another time,’ replied Keira. ‘I did say to your father that we could talk on the phone.’
‘We’re not here to celebrate the life of my grandfather, we’re here to celebrate his death; most of the people you see in this room – the older ones in particular – have come only to make certain he’s dead. If you look over at my grandmother you will see no grief on her face, only relief. My grandfather served under Enver Hoxha as a member of the Sigurimi. They were the intelligence service, the secret police. Now they are called National Informative Service or SHIK, which is same dog, different bark. They were not liked – did lot of terrible things. Only my father would have anything good to say about the old man. But my father has only good things to say about everyone. He still believes that people are good.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I’m with Zola. Inside every human there is a beast: La Bête humaine. I have seen too many bad things to think it is any other way. So don’t feel awkward that we find ourselves in this setting. We can talk here just as we can talk in any other place. My father mentioned that you are trying to find someone. This is correct?’
‘Yes, a boy.’
‘But, is not straightforward?’
‘No.’
‘There was murder connected to this, yes?’
‘Two murders . . . his grandparents.’
‘You have their names?’
‘I have the family name, and a good idea of where they lived, but I have no idea where the boy is now, or even if he survived. I could be wasting your time.’
‘Can I ask what is your interest in the boy?’
Keira found herself pressing the scars on her wrists firmly together under the table. She took a moment before answering. ‘I let his mother down. I want to try and make amends. She left behind some money. I thought if I could track the boy down, maybe I could give it to him or whoever is looking after him and somehow make his life a little better.’
‘You are his guardian angel?’
‘Just trying to do the right thing.’
‘Where is the mother of the boy?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘What is happened to her?’
‘She was also murdered.’
‘At same time?’
‘No, she was murdered in Scotland, but I believe it was the same killer in both cases.’
Pavli looked puzzled. ‘The grandparents are killed in Albania, the mother of the boy is killed in Scotland, by same person?’
‘The perpetrator is already in custody awaiting trial.’
‘Here?’
‘In Glasgow – Scotland. He definitely killed the mother.’
‘You are sounding very sure about this.’
‘I was there when it happened. Unfortunately, I’m the prime witness in the trial. And I’m fairly certain he killed the grandparents too, but that’s irrelevant at the moment. I’m only interested in finding the boy.’
‘And you have flown all the way to Albania to do this? To find this boy.’
‘To try.’
Pavli reached
across and lifted a bowl of tabbouleh from the table and offered to spoon some on to Keira’s plate.
‘Thank you.’
‘Some bread to go with?’ he said, pulling a large platter covered in circles of wheat bread across the table and tearing a piece into strips. ‘We’re lucky that it is my grandfather’s funeral we are meeting at. Normally the men and the women would have to sit in separate rooms, but my grandmother deliberately mixed it up to upset his rotten, dead soul. It is her act of defiance. She wants to show him disrespect and let the people here know that she is on their side, not the side of the Sigurimi. He would be furious with this arrangement. This also why she had him cremated. There will be no gravestone.’
Keira watched Pavli pinch some tabbouleh with a stub of bread between his fingers and pop it in his mouth. ‘Bread, salt and heart,’ he said as a toast. Following his lead, she did the same.
The table was covered in a selection of large platters each containing a different entrée.
‘What’s in the stew?’
‘It called paçe. You don’t want to know what’s in it. All you need to know is, it tastes good. You want to try some?’
‘Sure.’
Pavli spooned some on to her plate then lifted Keira’s glass and hovered a hand over two bottles placed nearby. He leant in to be heard above the din of voices echoing around the large bare room. ‘Wine or rakia? The wine is sweet; the rakia is strong.’
‘I’ll try the wine.’
Pavli poured out two large glassfuls then handed one to Keira.
‘You like the wine? Before you answer, I have to tell you my grandmother makes it.’
The clear, yellow liquid had a fruity taste, more like a dessert wine.
‘It’s sweet. I’m a cold beer kinda girl.’
‘It has the taste of friendship in it, I think. The first year she made it she let the plums overripen. Everyone in my grandmother’s village preferred hers to the rest of the villagers’ efforts so she makes it that way ever since. Okay, if I can, I am try and help you,’ continued Pavli. ‘First, I need to know more about what has happened. Where did the grandparents live?’
‘A place called Dushk.’
‘Yes, it is a small village, north of Fier.’
Walk in Silence Page 3
