Ardiana stopped when she saw the look on his face. Slowly she swung her legs over the side of the lounger and sat upright. Glancing down, she realised that it wasn’t coffee splattered all over her torso. Fatjo’s hands were clasped around his throat, trying to stem the flow of blood seeping from the exit wound made by the bullet that had just passed through the back of his neck and out via his windpipe.
Ardiana watched in stoned silence as Fatjo’s bulky frame slumped heavily to the floor.
Twenty-one
The coach turned off of Rruga Adria, into a large square filled with buses parked at a slant, and drew to a halt adjacent to the main railway station: the final destination on the Tirana to Durrës route.
The pneumatic doors hissed open allowing a draught of cool air in.
It was early Sunday morning so the motorway between the two cities had been much quieter than usual and the bus had made good progress: a relief for the overheated travellers onboard.
‘What time do you leave again for Tirana?’ Lule asked the driver as she waited for the elderly couple in front to manoeuvre themselves down the stairs holding a clutch of cases.
‘Five – ten minutes. I have a coffee, a cigarette, load up and go.’
‘And the next after that?’
‘There’s one on the hour, every hour.’
‘Will the next one have air-con?’
‘They all do. I get too cold, so I don’t turn it on. S’it hot back there?’
‘I’ve dropped a dress size.’
‘Shoulda asked. Locals complain it gets too cold, then the tourists complain it’s too hot. Can’t win.’
The older couple in front finally made it out onto the tarmac. Lule jumped off behind them and stood in the sunshine with her eyes closed, letting the small beads of perspiration evaporate from her face. It was just before eight a.m. According to the map on Lule’s phone the address she was heading for on Rruga Mili Goga was just over a kilometre away: a ten-minute walk or a two-minute taxi ride. Lule figured an hour would give her plenty of time to do what she had to do and still make it back for the nine o’clock bus.
She was in no hurry so decided to walk. Hoisting her bag over one shoulder, she made her way between the stationary buses, heading north towards a pedestrian bridge that spanned the four lanes of Rruga Adria.
On the opposite side of the road a street barista was setting up stall from the back of a three-wheeler Piaggio Ape. He was in the process of laying out the syrups on a small table to the side, but the smell of warm coffee already filled the air. Lule ordered a kafe turke, then smoked a cigarette while she stood watching him prepare it.
‘Don’t usually get a customer this early on a Sunday. You’re my first. Cool breeze, but the sun is already warm. I think it’s going to be a good day.’
‘Do people drink lots of coffee even when the weather’s warm?’
‘Sure. I do iced as well, but mostly they take it hot.’
Lule could see him checking her out: staring a bit too long at her taped-up hands, but still smiling the dumb smile guys do when they want to let you know they’re interested.
The coffee was almost ready. ‘You want any syrups? I got caramel, vanilla, mocha, everything.’
‘Just nude,’ replied Lule. ‘No adornments.’
‘You on your way home or on your way out?’
‘Visiting someone who’s dying.’
‘Shit. I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘D’you ever wake up in the morning and wonder what it would be like to know this was your last day on earth?’
‘Never,’ replied the guy, accepting the offer of a cigarette.
‘You don’t walk around thinking this might be the last time I look out at the sea or feel the sun on my face,’ continued Lule, ‘or hear a human voice, or smell the scent of wild jasmine? The last of everything.’
‘I wake up in the morning and think about water. Nothing in this world grows without water, nothing in this world works without water. I buy my beans from a guy that sells the good stuff. I get the best quality I can afford, but doesn’t matter how good the coffee beans are if you don’t have the aqua. It’s only a small tank I can fit in here. Sometimes I sell so much I run dry and I have to pack up and go home. So most of the time I don’t think about dying, I think about having enough water. Some people take coffee as it comes, some people try to make it a little sweeter, some people have the same thing every day, some people mix it up a little: have it a different way, it’s like life . . . and then there’s those that like Earl Grey. They don’t count.’
The barista handed Lule her coffee in a small glass. ‘In return for the smoke, and as you’re my first of the day, this is on me.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Does your friend know he’s dying?’
‘It’s a she, and no.’
‘Shit. How long does she have?’
Lule checked her watch.
‘Not long.’
*
Ten minutes later Lule was standing in the shade of a tree, across from number eight Rruga Mili Goga, staring up at the top-floor balcony, wondering how she was going to get into the building, when a car pulled up outside and a fat guy with a neck like a bull got out and headed for the front door.
He stood with his finger on the buzzer, waiting to be let in.
Lule crossed towards him, pretending to search her bag for keys.
She timed the cross just right. As she closed the last few steps towards him the main door buzzed open and Lule was able to follow him through into the lobby. He even held the door open for her.
‘Thanks. Saves me hunting for my keys,’ added Lule lamely.
He pressed the button to call for the lift.
‘You going up?’
‘I’ll take the stairs, but thanks,’ replied Lule.
As she headed for the stairwell Lule was sure she could feel the guy staring after her, but it didn’t matter.
She was in.
Lule climbed the concrete staircase to the top floor and had just started to push through the fire door onto the top landing when the lift arrived. She stepped back and peered through the long rectangle of glass in the centre of the door.
The big guy got out of the lift and made his way over to an apartment at the far end of the hallway. It looked like the door had been left open for him. Just as he was about to disappear inside, the fire door next to Lule slammed shut. It was only a few centimetres of travel but it let out a metallic clanking sound that echoed down the landing and caused him to turn and look over.
Lule ducked back against the wall.
She waited a few minutes – until she was sure he’d gone inside – before she risked poking her head round to check. Lule cursed under her breath as she saw the number on the door and realised it was the same apartment that she was heading for. She checked her watch. It was already a quarter past eight. If she wanted to make the next bus back to Tirana she’d have to start making her move.
Lule slipped the bag off her shoulder and reached inside. The rubber grip of the Beretta was cool to the touch. The guy she’d bought the gun off said they were ‘custom fitted for comfort’. Lule wrapped her fingers around the handle and squeezed. The guy had been right; it felt good.
Lule leant in and pressed her ear against door. There was a faint mumble of voices from somewhere deep inside. She pressed a little harder, then stepped back as the door suddenly sprang open.
Lule thrust her hand into the gap between the edge of the door and the frame to stop it from closing. She stood frozen, holding her breath, straining for any sign that the occupants had heard the click of the latch, but their conversation continued.
Lule edged through the narrow opening into the apartment, then reached down to close the door quietly behind her. In the same moment a draught of air pushed down the hallway and slammed the door closed.
The voices stopped.
Then footsteps.
Someone was coming.
Lule ducked into the nearest doorway
and found herself in the bathroom. She tucked in behind the door, clutching the Beretta across her chest with her finger through the trigger guard. A shadow passed in the hallway. Then a voice: ‘Door’s closed and locked. You want me to take a photo on my phone to show you?’
Lule watched as the shadow passed the other way, waited till she could hear the conversation start up again, then cautiously made her way back into the hall. In just a few steps Lule was standing at the entrance to the kitchen. On the far side the big guy was blocking the doorway out onto the balcony, with his back to her, a mug in his hand. Beyond him – naked on a lounger – lay Ardiana. Lule couldn’t see her face, but she recognised her voice. She was discussing what had happened the night before, giving the big guy some mouth, like she was calling the shots. She mentioned ‘the boy’ and a name that Lule had heard before: Vedon.
Verbër Vedon – the boss of the Clan. If he was the man behind Ermir’s kidnapping and everything that had happened to the lawyer over the past few days then Lule knew that what she was about to do was dumber than dumb.
She raised the Beretta, aimed it at the back of the big guy’s head and pulled the trigger. The bullet exploded from the end of the barrel with a deafening crack. Lule could hear ringing in her ears as she watched the big guy drop to the floor and saw Ardiana sitting up, her breasts and torso spattered with blood.
Both women watched Fat-Joe Jesus twitching on the floor as a large pool of blood spread out beneath him. It took several minutes for him to die and in that time their eyes never left him. Finally, the gurgle of air from his lungs hissed to a stop and it was over.
Ardiana looked up to see Lule staring at her breasts.
Lule said the first thing that came into her head.
‘Are they real?’
Ardiana stared back, eyes bloodshot, just starting to come up on the Thai temple ball. ‘What?’
‘Your tits. They look good. Are they real?’
‘Got them done a few years ago, before they discovered it was the same silicone they used for mattresses. Though I tell you this, no guy’s ever seen these and wanted to go to sleep.’
‘They look good,’ repeated Lule.
Ardiana held out what was left of her joint. ‘You want some of this? Might chill you out a little.’
‘Got a bus to catch.’
‘So?’
‘So, I don’t have time.’
‘How did you know where I lived?’
‘Word of mouth.’
‘Would that mouth have belonged to a bitch called Helena, lives not far from your mom?’
‘That would be the bitch.’
‘You just killed Fatjo Jesus. You know who he works for?’
‘I heard you talking.’
‘Verbër Vedon’s going to chop you into little pieces and feed you to his dog when he gets hold of you. He don’t even own a dog, but he’ll go buy one specially for the occasion. If you want I can talk to him: say it was a misunderstanding. Tell him Fatjo was cleaning his gun and shot himself or some shit like that. Although you’d have to explain why the bullet caught him in the back of the neck.’
‘Where would Vedon have taken Ermir?’
‘Who the fuck is Ermir?’
‘You’re involved in this game and you don’t even know the main player’s name?’
‘Ermir’s the boy?’
‘Where would they take him?’
‘You ever heard of the Dhi Gondolë?’
‘No.’
‘Chances are he’s on that.’
‘What is it?’
‘Vedon’s got a boat tied up in the port down there. You can’t miss it: it’s the only privately owned yacht that’s allowed to moor in the whole goddamn harbour: what does that tell you? Might be a good place to start.’
‘And it’s called the Dhi Gondolë?’
‘That’s just its nickname. They fill the boat full of kids they’ve stolen off the streets then sail them down to Greece and sell them to heavy-shit paedo gangs. You might as well go buy yourself a lifetime supply of tissues, go home and start grieving. If your boy’s on there it’s already too late.’
‘So what’s the boat’s real name?’
‘I don’t know. It’s some Greek bitch. A goddess or something: I can’t remember. There’s a party on the boat every Thursday night. Local dignitaries, high-ranking Clan members, that sort of thing. Dress up a bit smarter and you could get yourself on board. You let them fuck you in the ass, they’ll let you go ashore again. Otherwise they’ll fuck you anyway and throw you into the dock with a stone tied around your neck. If you’re lucky they’ll send you overseas.’
‘Yeah, I have some experience of that.’
‘You do? Well then, put the gun away. We’re practically sisters.’
‘What happens to the kids?’
‘Those with slightly less conventional tastes get to go belowdecks and take their pick. If you’re lucky you might get to see your boy one last time.’
‘D’you ever wake up in the morning and wonder what it would be like to know this was your last day on earth?’
‘All the time.’
‘What do you see yourself doing?’
‘I’d roll a big fat joint and sit right here on this balcony and stare up at the sun until my eyes burned out. That way I’d no longer be able to see what I was missing.’
‘You want to take a big deep lungful of that shit and fight death off for as long as you can, before it’s too late?’
Lule was quoting something Ardiana had said earlier.
Ardiana corrected her. ‘It’s not death you fight off with this shit, it’s life.’
Lule put her straight with three bullets.
The first knocked Ardiana backwards against the balcony railings, the second punched a hole just below her ribcage and the third bullet ripped a hole in her right breast that started oozing industrial silicone.
Lule checked her watch. If she wanted to make the nine o’clock she’d have to run.
She looked up and caught an old guy on the balcony opposite staring over. Lule dropped the Beretta to her side and waved across to him. He didn’t wave back.
Twenty-two
Jak Greco’s doughy face grimaced as he tugged the joint from his mouth then reached across and turned the music down. He sat listening for the dull thump to come again.
The cops had been crawling through the building all night long and the banging from the flat below had only finished about an hour earlier. The noise from downstairs had kept him awake most of the night so he was feeling the need to relax. As far as Jak was aware, they’d been in collecting evidence and were all done, but maybe they’d forgotten something and come back. He frowned, hoping it wasn’t about to start again.
Then he heard it: not from below, from down the hallway – someone at the front door.
Jak scrambled to extinguish the spliff, then slid open the balcony door to waft out the smoke. The cops had already been in: some guy called Variboba asking all the questions. They’d taken a statement, wondering what, if anything he’d heard, but luckily he’d been out at the time of the murder and couldn’t tell them a thing; asked him how well he knew the dead girl. Jak had stumbled over that one. He used to drop her in a bag of weed now and again and he’d tried to screw her flatmate Nikki one night at a party in their flat, but Jak didn’t go into any of that. He told the cops he didn’t really know her at all, which was kind of true: started babbling about them saying hi to each other in the lift or if they bumped into each other at the corner store, but just because he lived above her didn’t mean they were best of friends. He knew her name was Lule, but didn’t know her well. Said she was a head-turner, although she didn’t give much away: dressed down, like she didn’t want the attention. Also, she had a son. Told the cop he’d heard her kid crying in the middle of the night; it had woken him up a few times. Sure it had pissed him off, but not enough to want to beat her to death. They asked how did he know she’d been beaten to death? The old guy in two-twenty
told him the girl had screamed and cried like an animal: he’d heard every sickening smack of fist on flesh as they’d beat her, the walls being no thicker than a cereal box: the old guy said it was the worst thing he’d ever heard.
By the time the cops left, Jak’s paranoia had kicked in. He felt like he’d talked himself into becoming a suspect.
Jak checked the whites of his eyes as he passed the mirror in the hallway.
He looked stoned.
He felt stoned.
First view through the fisheye peephole showed the hall outside was empty: then Jak caught a movement. Relieved it wasn’t the cops, Jak slipped the latch and opened up.
‘You supposed to be dead.’
‘Cops got it wrong.’
‘So who is dead?’
‘Nikki.’
‘You stopping in for Sunday lunch?’
‘Just passing. You mind if I come in?’
Jak swung the door wide and ushered Lule through. Before closing it again he checked the hallway outside. ‘Where’s your son?’
‘Been kidnapped . . . and he’s not my son.’
‘He your lover!’
‘Not even funny, you sick fuck.’
Jak stared after her as she strode down the corridor and into the lounge.
‘What you been smoking?’ asked Lule, sniffing the air.
‘You can still smell it?’
‘All the way from the lobby.’
‘Shit. There are cops all over the building. I put it out when I heard the door. You want a blast?’
‘I’m on rakia.’
‘Got some in the fridge. You on for some more?’
‘I’ll take a shot if you’re offering.’
Lule stepped out onto the balcony. The car park below had emptied except for a few of the residents’ cars and one police vehicle over by the entrance.
It felt strange to look out over a scene that was so familiar knowing it wasn’t just the viewpoint that was different: everything had changed.
Jak was behind her with a glass of rakia filled to overflowing and the joint fired up again.
‘They had a recovery truck attach a line to your green Mercedes. Pulled it onto the tilt-tray this morning and towed it away.’
Walk in Silence Page 14
