Walk in Silence

by J. G. Sinclair

  ‘Kate’s the same person she’s always been, you’ve just never seen it before.’

  ‘I’m trying to pay you a compliment here for fuck sake.’

  ‘Well, don’t. It’s Kate that’s done all the hard work; pay her the compliment. All I did was hold her hand once in a while . . . you should try it.’

  ‘See if a guy talked to me the way you do I’d knock his teeth out.’

  The Holy Man’s wife popped her head around the door.

  ‘Hi, Keira.’

  ‘Hey, Gillian, how’s it going?’

  ‘Good, all good. Jim, there’s a guy parked across the road. Been there for a while now: keeps looking over at the house.’

  ‘Aye, he’s an acquaintance of Keira’s,’ replied Jim. ‘I’m gonnae drop Keira at the airport, then if he’s still hangin about I’ll have a word with him. No worries, Gill.’

  ‘Where’s Kate?’ asked Gillian.

  ‘Upstairs getting changed.’

  ‘Is she staying for dinner?’

  ‘No just you and me, doll,’ replied the Holy Man. ‘I’ll pick up a takeaway on my way back. Where did you park the people carrier?’

  ‘The garage.’

  ‘Cool.’

  ‘D’you want me to bring it around the front?’ asked Gillian.

  ‘No, I’ll get it. No worries, doll.’ The Holy Man eased back from the table and stood up. ‘Ye ready?’

  Keira stood as well. ‘All set.’

  ‘What’s going on in New York?’ asked the Holy Man.

  ‘None of your business,’ replied Keira.

  ‘You’re asking for it, doll, I promise you. You’re fucking asking for it.’

  *

  The expression on Esad Seseri’s face didn’t change when Keira Lynch waved across the street to him as she climbed into the passenger seat of the people carrier. Esad started the engine of the Mercedes and pulled in behind as it drove off. After ten minutes it was clear that the lawyer was heading for the airport, just as she’d told him. Esad turned on the radio, lit a cigarette and settled in for the ride. The brief was to keep an eye on her during the trial; make sure she was doing as Mister Vedon had told her. No one had called back yet, to tell him what to do if she got on the plane.

  Flying off to New York wasn’t part of the script.

  Twenty-five minutes later he turned off the M8 and circled down to the roundabout leading into Glasgow International. The airport was busy. A queue of cars had formed waiting to pull into bays at the drop-off point. Esad switched lanes and drove into the short-stay car park, then quickly made his way towards the terminal. He made the end of the walkway just in time to see Keira – still in her red dress – disappear inside. Esad held back, waiting to see if she would re-emerge. When he was satisfied that she wasn’t coming out again he crossed the slip road and entered the terminal building and headed for departures.

  The only plane leaving for New York that night was a British Airways flight. A few passengers were in line to check in and none of them was Keira Lynch. Esad pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket and made his way over to the desk, running so that he arrived out of breath.

  He cut in front of a passenger hauling a bag onto the conveyor belt. The check-in clerk shot him a look.

  ‘Please, I am so sorry. My fare, she has left this wallet in my taxi.’

  Esad made a big deal of reading the name inside. ‘Keira Lynch. Is all her money, I think. She is flying to New York. Has she checked in already or am I in time to catch her?’

  The clerk looked down at her screen then back at Esad, uncertain whether to confirm the passenger’s name on the list.

  Esad caught the look of uncertainty. ‘Please, I run after her?’

  The clerk looked him up and down then said, ‘If you’re quick, she might not have gone through security yet.’

  ‘I am go catch her, if not I can come back here and you can get it to her on the plane?’

  ‘We’re not allowed to do that, but if you come back and see me I’ll sort something out.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Esad over his shoulder as he ran towards the escalator and up to the first floor.

  He arrived at the security gate just in time to see Keira leave the line and enter one of the full-body scanners.

  Esad thumbed a number into his phone and wrote a text message.

  Lawyer checked in. 20:30 flight GLA–JFK. What now?

  The response was immediate.

  Visit secretary. Find out WTF is going on.

  Esad decided to head straight over to the secretary’s apartment. That’s where the lawyer and she had ended up the night before. Maybe he’d break in and be sitting waiting for her when she got back: give her a fright. Sit quietly in the dark, let her get in and settled then say something casual, like, ‘Nice place. If you tell me everything I need to know, I won’t mess it up . . . get blood everywhere.’

  Yeah . . . ‘get blood everywhere’ was good. Let her know he was relaxed, but not to be fucked with. Let her know he wasn’t going to take any of the sort of shit the lawyer had given him outside her office. Standing there mouthing off to him and thinking she was smart. The only reason he hadn’t smacked the bitch in the face was because of Mister Vedon. He’d been told to observe but not engage. Nothing physical as far as the lawyer was concerned. But Mister Vedon hadn’t said anything to that effect about the secretary. She didn’t have any such protection placed on her. She was a looker too: they both were. Esad started to imagine going back to the apartment and finding the two of them together in bed. He walks in and surprises them and everything is cool. They’d be like. ‘We were just saying it would be great to have some cock.’

  Esad grinned as he slid his ticket in the pay machine to validate it. He was still grinning as he rounded the corner and crossed out from under the canopy into the open air, heading towards the parking bay where he’d left the Mercedes. He stopped grinning when he realised that the car wasn’t there. Esad took a moment to look around the other bays. Maybe he had come to the wrong part of the car park. Confused, he walked over and stood in the empty bay. No, this was definitely where he’d left it.

  The rain had turned heavy. Large droplets bounced off the tarmac. The sound of an engine on the far side of the parking area caught Esad’s attention: a car, headlights on full beam pointing straight at him. The car started forward, slowly at first, then gaining momentum until it was hurtling through the rain towards him. Esad tried to shield his eyes from the glare of the headlamps, at the same time slipping his hand inside his jacket and rolling his fingers around the grip of his battlefield-green Glock 19.

  The car was less than ten metres away.

  Just as he was about to draw his weapon and open fire the car changed direction and drove up to the exit barrier. As it passed, Esad saw an old man at the wheel with a white barrier ticket pressed between his lips. Peering through the rain, into the darkness again, Esad could just make out the silhouette of another vehicle parked behind the bay the old man had just pulled out of. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his Mercedes.

  With the Glock hanging by his side, Esad made his way through the rain. As he drew nearer he realised he was right: it was his car, but couldn’t figure how it had moved from one side of the car park to the other. Esad slowed his approach. From where he was standing the car appeared to be empty, but his time in the army had taught him to be cautious. Having walked around the whole vehicle and checked underneath for any signs that the car had been tampered with, Esad tried the handle on the driver’s side; the door opened. He was relieved to climb in out of the rain, but still puzzled as to what the hell was going on.

  A glint of something metal caught the corner of his eye. On the passenger seat next to him sat a Mass card for the dead on top of which lay a small crucifix. On the front of the card was an image of Christ on the cross. On the flipside was printed the words ‘The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass will be offered up to include the repose of the soul of ——’ with a space left blank. Bes
ide it – scribbled in pen – someone had written ‘Your name here’.

  A movement outside made Esad turn, but there was no time to draw the Glock and fire. The front end of a dark-coloured people carrier rammed into the side of the Mercedes. The window exploded, sending shards of glass flying through the air as the driver’s door caved inwards. Esad’s legs and hips were shunted to the left while the upper half of his torso jackknifed towards the crush of twisted metal that used to be the door. His head smacked off the top of the crumpled door frame with a dull thud, smearing the leading edge with blood. The crucifix Esad had been holding spun through the air, appearing to hover in front of his eyes momentarily before it disappeared into the darkness.

  *

  Everything was pissing Milot Gjokaj off today.

  Staring up at the arrivals board then back at his watch told him nothing he didn’t already know. The flight from Glasgow should have arrived by midnight, but had been delayed for eleven hours by ‘technical issues’. It was now gone 10.30 a.m. and the bags had only just arrived in the reclaim hall.

  He’d received a call at 1 a.m. from the guy that was supposed to be covering this gig telling him he had to take over and to be at the airport for 8 a.m. The traffic from Manhattan out to JFK had been terrible and it was going to be even worse travelling back into town at this time of day. He’d also parked in the short-stay car park, so the flight delay was going to cost the best part of fifty bucks just for parking. Add to that the fifteen-dollar breakfast that tasted so bad he wished he’d eaten the twenty-dollar bill he’d used to pay for it instead.

  Milot was on the verge of throwing something when the lawyer woman appeared on the other side of the glass security doors. Because she wasn’t carrying any luggage she was one of the first ones through. Milot had studied the photograph of her so many times he didn’t need to look again. She was wearing the red dress, just like he’d been told, and there was bruising all down one side of her face. Once she’d cleared the security gates Milot watched the lawyer lady head straight for the restrooms over by the ATM.

  Keeping one eye on the restroom door, Milot moved towards the ATM to cash up his wallet, pressed his card into the slot and punched in his PIN code. As he stood waiting for the money to appear two females came out the toilet. An older woman in conversation with a younger one, the younger one wearing jeans and a jacket: dragging a large heavy case behind her. When Milot’s cash arrived he slipped it into his wallet and pulled out his phone. He dialled in a number then after a few rings said in Albanian, ‘Hey it’s Milot. I’m still at JFK. Shitload of traffic on the way here and the fucking flight was delayed even more. The lawyer has arrived, she’s just taking a piss. Call me back if you want me to follow her, see where she’s headed. Only problem is I’m on my own, so I’d have to leave my ride here and follow her in a cab, get someone to pick it up later. Cost a fucking kidney to leave it at the airport, so I’d rather not, but let me know.’

  A mother and daughter were the next ones into the toilet. No one else had come out. After ten more minutes had passed Milot was getting impatient. The mother and daughter were in and out along with maybe four more females, but no sign yet of the lawyer in the red dress. Milot looked at the sign above the entrance wondering if maybe there was a shower or something in there.

  An old woman was heading into the restroom. ‘Excuse me lady,’ said Milot. ‘My girlfriend went in a while ago. Said she was feeling sick after the flight: she hasn’t come out. Would you mind just checking on her, make sure she’s okay. Her face is all beat up on one side. She’s wearing a red dress.’

  ‘Sure,’ replied the old woman.

  ‘Thank you.’

  A few minutes later the old lady reappeared. ‘There’s no one in there, sir.’

  ‘No one wearing a red dress?’ asked Milot.

  ‘No one at all,’ replied the old woman. ‘Restroom’s empty.’

  ‘She tell you to say that?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My fucking girlfriend! She tell you to say the fucking toilet is empty?’

  The old woman started backing away. ‘No one told me nothing. There’s nobody in there, mister.’

  Twenty-seven

  ‘I have no option but to postpone the trial, Patrick. I can’t let it run indefinitely, though, you know that. The whole bloody thing could collapse.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘The rumour is, she boarded a plane bound for New York last night.’

  ‘It’s not a rumour, George; I have a friend who works for the intelligence services at Glasgow International. He confirmed to me that she was on the plane and that she disembarked at JFK.’

  Advocate Depute Patrick Sellar and Judge George Granville were sitting in the judge’s chambers just off the main courtroom, Granville cradling a large glass of Glenfiddich.

  ‘D’you want one?’ he asked, nodding towards the bottle.

  ‘Too early for me, George. I’ll need to keep my head together until I can figure out what to do.’

  ‘I’ve granted a warrant for her arrest. As soon as she steps off that plane on the way back, they’ll grab her. What the hell is she up to?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. The trial couldn’t have got off to a worse start. There’s more than enough evidence to convict E Zeze, but without that bitch standing up and corroborating it, his defence team could tear the case to shreds. This type of behaviour just confirms what I’ve always felt about Keira Lynch . . . she’s unstable. Very suspect family history . . . daughter of a republican terrorist, no less. What does that tell you?’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’

  ‘I have my sources. I hesitate to mention it because it seems so trivial, but my guess is this whole charade is a personal slight against me. Some comments I made to the press around the time the circumstances of this case were coming to light were misinterpreted and it appeared as if I was attacking her. Traces of heroin were found in her apartment at the time the murders took place. I was asked a straightforward question by a journalist – “If the drugs were found to belong to Keira Lynch would she be struck off?” To which I gave a straightforward answer, and these were my exact words: “Heroin was indeed found, and if it was proven that the drug belonged to Miss Lynch then she would face disciplinary charges, but at this stage in the investigation it is far too early to draw those kinds of conclusions.” Of course, that appeared as the headline Drug lawyer could face charges. And I was credited in the ensuing article as having given an interview to the effect that she was a dealer. I don’t think she has forgiven me for that and this is her slightly twisted way of exacting revenge.’

  ‘Patrick, Miss Lynch is a very good if somewhat unconventional lawyer. I know she doesn’t always toe the line and she’s had her run-ins with the Law Society, but surely she wouldn’t jeopardise her entire career over a personal spat with yourself. It must be in her interests to see this E Zeze character put away, surely?’

  ‘Nothing would surprise me any more. I visited her new offices last week . . .’

  ‘She’s no longer with McKay and Co.?’

  ‘No, she’s set up on her own. Opened an office in Carlton Place.’

  George Granville raised an eyebrow. ‘Carlton Place?’

  ‘Exactly. She hasn’t been able to practise for the last three or four months, and she was never a partner at John McKay’s outfit, but she can still afford to set up shop in Carlton Place . . . on her own? I visited the premises last week looking to run through the prosecution’s line of attack and make sure she was up to speed with what areas of her evidence I would be focusing on et cetera, and I met her new secretary. I thought she seemed familiar, and I was racking my brains to think who she reminded me of. Then yesterday I saw her in the corridor alongside Ms Lynch and it came to me. I’ll give you a hundred if you can guess who it is.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  ‘You’re more likely to know the girl’s father, actually.’

  ‘One of us?’

 
‘Other side of the fence.’

  ‘A criminal’s daughter?’

  ‘Not just any old criminal. Jim McMaster. Lynch’s new sidekick is Kate McMaster, the daughter of the infamous Holy Man. I’m guessing she wants to become a lawyer.’

  ‘Maybe her father’s looking for ways to cut down on his legal bills? Interesting choice, employing the daughter of that nasty wee bastard. Sailing a bit close to the wind, is our Miss Lynch. I can think of a number of situations where this relationship might be deemed to compromise the integrity of her office.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘She’s leaving herself vulnerable to criticism and questions over her impartiality. As a casual observer I’d counsel against it – a dangerous liaison. If the papers got hold of that information it could be all over for Miss Lynch. It’s dog-eat-dog out there, Patrick. They’d tear her to shreds.’

  ‘It is a dog-eat-dog world indeed, George,’ replied Sellar, agreeing with the old judge, ‘and Keira Lynch is the bitch.’

  When Judge George Granville smiled at the ‘bitch’ line, Sellar knew he’d done enough. All he had to do now was plant the story with a suitably dodgy journalist and Keira Lynch would be the main focus of the press should the trial flounder and fail.

  Everything was set up.

  *

  As Lule eased onto the bar stool she caught her own reflection in the mirror behind the bar and for a brief instant wondered who the girl staring back at her was. With her make-up done and the short black asymmetric bob she hardly recognised herself.

  The girl doing her hair at the salon had tried to talk her out of cutting it too short. She’d also tried to convince Lule to keep it the same colour, but had reluctantly given in. When it was finished the girl had commented, ‘Your boyfriend gonna think he’s dating someone else.’ Lule had replied, ‘Wait till he finds out it’s me that’s dating someone else.’

  Lule had used some of the money Keira had given her to buy some new clothes and thrown the old ones in an alleyway dumpster. Everything had changed for the girl looking back at her from the mirror: not just her appearance.