Keira wasn’t prepared for the knot in her stomach and the sudden spike in adrenaline. The last time she’d seen him was on the pontoon at Rhu marina with the waters of the Gare Loch dripping from her sodden clothes as she stood over him pointing a gun at his head, her finger on the trigger.
Aware of her presence, E Zeze raised his eyes and shot Keira a thin smile that hit her like a blow to the stomach. Then she remembered the look of fear on E Zeze’s face as her finger tightened around the trigger and Keira smiled back.
She made her way past the clerk of court – sitting at a desk in front of Judge Granville – and climbed into the dock.
George Granville was an establishment figure: one of the top judges in the judiciary and known for his fiery temper. He was an old-school drinker whose mood improved by the glass. The cons called him ‘Happy Hour’, because, before all-day opening, no court session ever ran beyond pub opening hours.
As Happy Hour made some introductory comments to the jury Keira found her mind drifting – estimating the distance between the witness box and E Zeze’s table. Measuring from the heel of her right foot, she figured it to be no more than four metres. No wrist movement, just a simple throw. The knife would make one and a half turns in the air and stick in the centre of the target’s throat.
The judge was talking at her, but Keira’s focus was elsewhere.
She’d spotted a face in the public gallery that she recognised: the stocky guy with the eagle tattoo on his neck.
She could ask to have him removed from the court, but that might spoil things for later.
‘Are you all right, Miss Lynch?’ asked Judge Granville in a tone intended to let her know this wasn’t the first time he’d asked.
‘I’m fine, yes.’
‘Oath or affirmation, then?’
‘Affirmation.’
‘If you could repeat after me: “I solemnly, sincerely and truly declare that I will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”’
Keira rubbed her wrists together behind her back and repeated the sentence.
Patrick Sellar rose from behind his desk and smiled to show the jury that he was the good guy, but his opening question signalled that he was going straight in for the kill. The evidence was stacked against Engjell E Zeze and everyone was watching. Sellar pulled a stopwatch from his pocket and held it aloft, then made a play of pressing the start button.
‘Miss Lynch, how many bullet wounds do you have?’
‘Three.’
‘Someone shot you three times?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were they trying to stop you from doing something, did they miss another target and accidentally hit you? What d’you think the person that shot you was trying to do?’
‘Kill me.’
‘You had a client, a young girl by the name of Kaltrina Dervishi, whom you were defending in a trial, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell us what happened to her?’
‘She was murdered.’
‘Are you able to tell us how she was murdered?’
‘She was stabbed repeatedly, then shot in the head, execution style.’
‘Is it true that she was carrying a child at the time: that she was pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
This got some jury members shaking their heads.
‘Did the baby survive?’
‘No.’
More head shaking.
‘Your assistant at the time was called David Johnstone. Without wishing to make this too arduous for you would you mind telling the jury what happened to him.’
‘He was shot and killed.’
‘Murdered?’
‘Yes.’
Sellar stopped the watch and turned its face towards the jury. ‘We are just over one minute into this case – seventy-three seconds, to be exact – and so far we have an attempted murder, the death of a young mother-to-be and her unborn baby and the murder of a young professional man. Before we get into the detail of each of these cases and before we even start to look at another three murders – which include a serving police officer and a nurse on duty, caring for the sick, can I just ask you, Miss Lynch, were you present when David and Kaltrina – and, of course, her baby – died?’
‘Yes.’
‘You saw them being murdered?’
‘Yes.’
Sellar took his time asking the next question. The courtroom was already under his spell. There was not a sound anywhere: no cough, no rustle nor ringtone to break the solemn mood. First impressions were all that counted and his opening salvo would leave the jury wanting more. He wanted to tip Engjell E Zeze and his defence team off balance as quickly as possible and keep them that way. He dreamed of crafting an opening move that other prosecutors would learn from and employ for themselves in the future. The ‘Sellar’ would be defined in legal textbooks as ‘a knockout blow with the first punch’. The fastest prosecution in legal history.
‘Just before we move on, I have one more question,’ continued Sellar, revelling in the moment. ‘Can you tell us if there is anyone in the courtroom who was also there at the time these murders were committed?’
Keira shook her head.
Patrick Sellar stared at her.
‘Just to be clear, Miss Lynch,’ intervened Happy Hour. ‘Are you saying in response to the Advocate Depute’s question that you cannot see anyone in this courtroom who was also present at the time the murders were committed?’
Keira nodded. ‘Yes.’
*
Patrick Sellar had immediately pushed for and been granted an adjournment. The last thing he wanted was for the E Zeze defence team to get a hold of Keira. If she didn’t start playing ball there was every chance the case against E Zeze could collapse: an outcome that would have seemed unthinkable just a few hours earlier when he was outside with the press, playing it cool, confident in the knowledge that this was a show trial and he was all for playing the lead. Sellar had put a lot of time and effort into his prosecution: it was the case he’d been waiting for. It would show him at his analytical, methodical and logical best. It would guarantee his move up the judicial ladder. Any outcome other than a conviction on all counts and a lengthy sentence would – in his eyes – be a failure.
E Zeze walking free was not an option.
He’d asked Keira to follow into an interview room then slammed the door behind him.
Sellar’s tone was low, each word spat through clenched teeth, but as hard as he tried he couldn’t keep the threat from his voice.
‘What was that all about?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t start playing ignorant with me, Ms Lynch. I’ve been in this game long enough to know when someone is trying to blow a hole in a case, so don’t insult my intelligence by throwing down the coy card. Let me warn you now, if you start backtracking on your statement I will rip you to fucking pieces professionally.’
Keira could feel her temperature rising, but still managed to play it cool on the outside, ‘What are you talking about?’
Sellar pulled a pen he was white-knuckling from his pocket and for a moment looked as though he was going to stab Keira with it. His face twisted and contorted until finally he managed to rein back from assaulting her. The struggle to control his rage was playing out right in front of her.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, he was back in command of himself. ‘I will put today down to pre-trial nerves: a blip in the prosecution case due to . . . jet lag. You can have a copy of the statement you gave to the police at the time of the murder to take home and read tonight. If that doesn’t spur your memory I’ll have you dismissed as a hostile witness. I advise you to think very carefully about your next move. You know full well I can get your statement adopted, and it will then become the evidence used in the trial anyway. You can vacillate as much as you like, Miss Lynch, it makes no difference, but if you do . . . I promise you this: not only will I have you up for contempt but I will do everything I can t
o prove you are guilty of perjury.’
Twenty-five
Keira’s new office was a fifteen-minute walk from the High Court, along Bridgegate to Gorbals Street, crossing the murky waters of the Clyde, then down past the Sheriff Courts into the cobbled road and Yorkstone pavements of Carlton Place.
The office was one of many in a yellow sandstone terrace of Victorian properties fronting the river. Two rooms sat on the top floor with views along the seven arches of Glasgow Bridge that stretched across the Clyde to Jamaica Street, where the Procurator Fiscal’s old offices in Custom House sat abandoned on the opposite bank.
As she stepped up to the front entrance of the building Keira looked over her shoulder. The guy with the eagle tattoo had left the High Court at the same time and was making no attempt to disguise the fact that he was following her. He stopped to light a cigarette when he noticed Keira staring at him.
A few seconds later she was heading in his direction.
‘I’m only going to be in here for a short while,’ started Keira as she drew up beside him. ‘Then I’m going to run my assistant home – you might want to write some of this down – she lives in Bearsden. After dropping her off, I’ll head to the airport and catch a flight to New York. I’m still waiting to find out if I’m good to go this evening, but I’m fairly certain I’ll get on a plane.’
The guy didn’t respond so Keira kept going.
‘You might want to go get something to eat, have a coffee or something: have a break. If you give me your number I can call you – let you know what time the flight is and just meet you at the airport: save all this fannying around. I don’t know you well enough to tell whether you can understand what I’m saying or if you’re just ignoring me, but give it some thought. Who is it you work for? Is it Vedon in Albania or are you one of the guys left over from Abazi’s gang in Glasgow that used to do all that prostitution-and-drug-lord thing? What happened? You don’t hear much about him these days. I was told he wound up dead in a posh hotel in Paris. Is that true? Did he retire? Can you guys retire? You don’t really meet that many older criminals, do you? Short life expectancy – one of the pitfalls. My assistant and I were wondering what the hell that is on your neck. Is it a bruise? An ink stain? A birthmark, maybe? The marks on my face will go, but yours are so distinctive, they’d be very easy to identify in a line-up when you get arrested for intimidating a witness and God knows whatever else they’d hang on you. Anyway, I love our little chats, but I have to run: plane to catch. New York. Don’t know the time yet, but I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.’
Without waiting for a response, she turned and headed back.
*
The small office space was stacked with shipping boxes full of past case notes and legal documents still to be unpacked. For a brief moment, while she was sitting by the pool in Albania at the Hotel Shkop, Keira had been able to forget about how much of the mundane there still was to deal with back home. A couple of months had passed since E Zeze had been arrested and charged with multiple counts of murder. Still recovering – Keira hadn’t really worked since he’d attacked her – most of her time had been spent trying to track down Ermir, but in the intervening weeks she’d also resigned from her old practice and set up on her own.
Three of the murders committed by E Zeze had taken place in Keira’s old apartment: she couldn’t face going back there, so most nights were spent sleeping on a foldaway bed in the office. It was supposed to be a temporary set-up, until she could sell the apartment and find somewhere else to live, but Keira was getting used to the simplicity of it. There was a shower in the toilet and a microwave on top of the fridge if she wanted hot food, although she mostly ate out. Weekends were spent down on the west coast at her mother’s house in Scaur. What few possessions she owned had been packed up and shipped there too: everything but the Mick Rock photograph of David Bowie, which now hung behind Kate’s desk on the wall opposite, positioned there so that Keira could see it without having to crane her neck round to look.
Today the boxes and scattered paperwork were acting as a reminder of all the shit that still had to be done.
Kate caught her expression. ‘Don’t worry; in a few weeks we’ll have this place sorted. Needs a few soft furnishings, a bit more storage and the inevitable touche de rouge, but you can leave all that to me. And you can stay at my place as often as you like. It depresses the shit out of me thinking of you sleeping on the floor in here. It’s starting to smell like a bedroom. It’s also against the tenancy agreement. Flight’s booked for eight thirty tonight. You need to be at the airport by six, so if you want to see my dad, we’d better get a move on. What kept you?’
‘I was going through my itinerary with the tat guy. He doesn’t give much away.’
‘Your coffee’s gone cold, d’you want me to make a fresh one?’
Kate got up from behind the desk and made her way over to the kettle sitting on top of the small fridge in the corner.
‘No, I’m good,’ replied Keira.
‘How’d it go?’
‘Adjourned until tomorrow morning.’
‘What’ll they do when you don’t show up?’
‘Issue an arrest warrant, charge me with contempt, who knows. Hopefully I’ll be back in a few days and get everything sorted out then. Did you hear from Lule?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I really need to talk to her.’
‘I got the number she called from last night. It came up on the office phone system. I’ve tried it a few times, but no one’s picking up. D’you want me to try calling it just now?’
‘Yeah.’
Kate leant across and picked the receiver up from the desk.
She pressed redial and waited. ‘It’s gone to voicemail; d’you want to leave a message?’
Keira took the phone from Kate.
‘Lule, it’s Keira Lynch. Something has come up and I have to fly to New York tonight, but as soon as I get back, we’re going to get everything sorted out – I promise. In the meantime, I need a passport photograph of you. Talk to Kate here in the office and sort that out, but I need it quickly. Also, can you be at Bar Fiktiv tomorrow lunchtime. It’s on Rruga Taulantia in Durrës. When you get this message call to confirm. If I don’t hear back I’ll keep trying you on this number, but – if you can – be at Bar Fiktiv, between 1 p.m. and 2 p.m. There’ll be a delivery for you.’ Keira dropped the handset back onto the cradle. ‘Let’s hope she picks up the message.’
‘The cop guy, Pavli, has phoned about twenty times. He wants you to contact him as soon as possible. Says it’s urgent. Something to do with Lule, but he didn’t say what.’
‘I’ll call him when I get to the airport.’
‘Your flight bag’s in the boot of the car.’
‘Did you get everything out of the safe?’
‘There was a brown envelope with an out-of-date airline ticket to Niagara and some photos inside, a USB stick and a small sample bottle of what looked like treacle. If that’s what you mean by everything, then yes: it’s in my bag. Sorry, I wasn’t being nosy, but the envelope wasn’t sealed, I was just checking what was in there.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘The two guys in the photos have got the dodgiest eighties mullets I’ve ever seen. The taller one was your double. Same eyes. Was he your dad?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’
‘I only met him once. Couple of days later he was dead.’
‘In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve never been with a guy.’
Keira threw her a look, ‘What’s your point?’
‘You’re beautiful and funny and smart. You should be in a relationship.’
‘If I was with a guy would that make me more beautiful, funnier and smarter?’
‘Course not. I’m just saying, you should be having a bit of fun. Give Pavli a try. Is he interested?’
‘Who knows.’
‘He’s a guy – of course he’s interested. Maybe the wh
ole dad-leaving-you thing is why you don’t like men.’
‘I do like men.’
‘But you don’t trust them.’
‘Even men don’t trust men.’
Twenty-six
‘I could sort out the boy’s passport in a few hours, Keira darlin’, but you’ll be gone by then. And obviously there’s nothing I can do about the girl’s until you get me a photograph. Once I’ve got that, it’s easy.’
‘Even though they’re Albanian passports?’
‘Anything you want. Syrian, Turkish, Afghan, American – whatever . . . although you probably wouldn’t want an American passport these days.’
Keira was sitting at the kitchen table in the Holy Man’s house in an affluent neighbourhood of Glasgow.
‘I need them to be good,’ continued Keira.
‘Doll, I use this guy myself. I cannae go anywhere outside the UK travelling as Jim McMaster without getting pulled over by Customs and a couple of fingers stuck up my arse. But I still manage a wee holiday every year as Mister David Robert Jones and nobody bats an eyelid.’
‘You travel the world using Bowie’s name?’
‘God rest his soul. Ziggy fuckin’ Stardust even owns a wee property on Antigua for when things go tits up. Straight on a plane, boom I’m sunning my wrinkly old cheeks in the Caribbean. You could show these things in a gallery. These’ur nae just passports, they’re works of fuckin’ art.’
‘How will I get them?’
‘When you get to New York call Kate and tell her the address; I’ll get them couriered out to you or anywhere you want. If you need them to go to Albania, that’s fine. I’ll send them express. And thanks again.’
‘For what?’
‘Looking after my girl.’
‘I’m not looking after her, she’s looking after me.’
‘I’m serious. She’s changed. Even just in the last few weeks I’ve seen her confidence grow. She’s like a different person.’
Walk in Silence Page 17
