He held his hand out.
Keira ignored him and flicked again. ‘Have you ever seen me throw a knife?’
‘I can’t say I have, but I’ve never seen you take a shit either, and right now each proposition seems as preposterous as the other. Have you broken into my house to show me your skills as a circus act?’
‘Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I’ll have a whisky.’
‘I didn’t ask if you wanted one, I asked if you’d already had some,’ said Sellar retrieving the wine bottle from the table and pouring himself a large glass. ‘It was a comment on your questionable mental state.’
Sellar leant back against the counter and took a slug, trying to look casual and making it clear that he wasn’t about to offer Keira anything.
‘You remember a few months ago you were attacked in here?’
‘I remember it perfectly well. What is this, a re-enactment?’
‘You told the police at the time you fought the attackers off . . . heroically. Nothing taken.’
Sellar was staring at Keira, his expression serious now. ‘What the fuck does that have to do with anything?’
‘You lied. Something was taken.’
Sellar took another drink of wine and said, ‘If you don’t stop spinning that knife I’ll come over there and stick it in your throat.’
‘You fold too easily under pressure, Patrick,’ replied Keira. ‘Maybe you should take up stripping.’
‘Yes, well it’s not every day someone breaks into your home and starts vandalising your property. It’s an upsetting experience. More so, I’d say, the second time around. If I did happen to defend myself, it would be a perfectly reasonable response. Since the last break-in I’ve had security cameras installed; no doubt they’d show you, someone, the perpetrator sneaking in through the garage. “The lights were out; I had no idea what was going on. I was so frightened, especially in light of what happened a few months ago. They came at me with a knife, a struggle ensued, blah, blah, blah.” Honestly, Miss Lynch, I thought you were smarter than this. I get the feeling you’ve not really thought this through. You’re going to be charged with contempt, possibly even perjury, your actions so far may lead to a killer walking free, you’ve broken into my home and – at the very least – appear to be threatening me, with all your “Have you ever seen me throw a knife?” and “I’m talking about your trial” shit. Where is this all leading? From every angle you come at this story there’s a big neon sign hanging above it saying “you’re fucked” in capital letters.’
‘A blood sample.’
‘A what?’
‘A blood sample.’
‘Now you’re just saying random words. Is it a game? Say the first thing that comes into your addled, alcohol-fuelled brain.’
‘The people who broke in the last time didn’t steal anything, but they took a blood sample.’
That got Sellar back up off of the counter, standing upright – his body language at odds with the front he was trying to put on.
‘“A blood sample.” What in the good gods’ name are you talking about?’
‘They told me.’
‘Who told you?’
‘The guys that broke in.’
‘Friends of yours?’
‘No.’
‘Clients?’
‘Possibly. They also told me your heroic efforts to fight them off consisted of you squealing like a stuck pig. It’s been bugging me, why you’ve been so quick to let this case against E Zeze drop. I think even if I hadn’t disappeared you would have found a way for it to take a tumble. You’d been given the nod by someone that E Zeze had to walk.’
‘Your face looks like it has taken another beating since the last time I saw you, Miss Lynch – it’s hard to believe that was only a few days ago – but it’s obvious that the effects of the beating have damaged your mental capacity. Judging from your actions this evening I would surmise that the damage runs deeper than just bruising. Why don’t I fix you a drink after all and – while you sit enjoying it – I’ll call a doctor and we can get you attended to?’
‘The blood sample that was taken from you is being analysed in a lab right now. When the results come back I’m fairly certain the DNA will match the sample taken from the child that Kaltrina Dervishi was carrying in her belly when she was murdered. Fisnik Abazi knew you would be prosecuting the case against him. He knew you were a frequent visitor to the girls he had working for him. The young, vulnerable females trafficked here for the personal gratification of guys that don’t give a shit by guys that don’t give a shit. You – in your position as upholder of the law – are charged to protect those people, these girls, you slimy fuck. Abazi took some of your sperm from a condom and used it to impregnate Kaltrina Dervishi with the intention to blackmail you when the time came for him to stand trial. I don’t know if it’s Engjell E Zeze’s hand on the tiller, or Verbër Vedon’s, but it doesn’t matter, they’re all members of the same crime organisation – the Clan. This is how they work. I have it on good authority from one of Kaltrina Dervishi’s friends – a girl who used to work alongside her, a girl who’s willing to testify in court that you were a frequent visitor to one of the houses Abazi ran as a brothel. Abazi was Johnnie Big Balls over here, Verbër Vedon was the man in Albania and Engjell E Zeze was the go-to guy if anyone stepped out of line. Two of them are dead and now, no matter what happens to the third . . . you are fucked because, unfortunately for all of you, I do give a shit.’
Patrick Sellar was visibly rattled, but he still tried to come back at Keira. It wasn’t surprising – he was a first-rate prosecutor – and she was expecting it, but he’d blown it even before he’d started. ‘You’re smiling, Patrick,’ continued Keira. ‘My grandmother could predict which boxer was going to lose the fight. It was always the one smiling at the weigh-in.’
‘Listen to yourself, Miss Lynch. Listen to the woman whose father was a terrorist, whose uncle was a hit man, who counts criminals as friends and employs their junkie daughters. It’s too steep a climb out of the cesspit for you to get anywhere near the moral high ground. The traces of heroin found in your flat suggest a closer connection to the criminal underclass than is considered acceptable. Your office has been searched and evidence removed that will no doubt corroborate a lot of what I’ve been saying. Who knows what else we will uncover. Your assertions that I am culpable or guilty of any of the things your ludicrous rantings suggest will be dismissed as delusional: the product of a clearly unstable person’s warped mind. I think, my dear, that it is you who are – as you so eloquently put it – fucked.’
Before his little speech had come to an end Sellar had managed to down the rest of his glass of wine and was heading back to the table for a refill. Keira spun the knife again, but before it had completed a full revolution Sellar made a grab for it. His fingers clutched the handle as he tried to snatch it up from the table but Keira – anticipating the move – slammed the palm of her right hand down on the flat of the blade, trapping Sellar’s fingers.
‘I’ve already asked you nicely. Now I’m telling you. Give me the fucking knife,’ hissed Sellar. He tightened his grip and attempted to pull the knife free, but Keira pushed down harder. He moved his face close until she could smell the alcohol on his breath and said, ‘Let it fucking go.’
Keira felt the razor-sharp edge of the blade catch and start to slice into the soft flesh below her knuckles. A small pool of blood started to form between her fingers, but Keira kept her hand where it was.
Noticing the blood, Sellar smiled and tried to draw the blade again.
Without flinching, Keira thumped the fist of her left hand down as hard as she could near the hilt and heard the crack of bones.
Sellar yelped and pulled away, clutching his hand to his chest, overplaying how painful it was. Keira snatched the knife from the table and watched him backing away, arms raised in surrender. That’s when she caught him glancing up to the
corner of the room, angling himself so that the pinhole security camera could get a better shot of the look of fear on his face.
Keira rose from the chair, knife in hand and started towards the advocate. When she was less than a metre away she sidestepped and slotted it back into the brushed-aluminium knife block sitting on the worktop behind, then turned and smiled up at the camera as she made for the door.
‘You’ve picked a fight with the wrong man, Lynch,’ called Patrick Sellar to Keira’s back as she walked down the hallway to the front door, right hand hanging loosely by her side, letting the blood drip freely over his carpet.
‘I didn’t pick a fight with anyone, Sellar . . . you did.’
Keira didn’t bother looking round as she delivered her exit line, she would see plenty of Patrick Sellar when he came to stand trial. ‘You can’t use any of the evidence collected from my office, by the way. Every single shred of it is protected by lawyer–client privilege. I’m sure it wouldn’t bother a master criminal like yourself . . . but you’d be breaking the law.’
The smile was gone from Sellar’s face as he grabbed a cleaver from the knife block and chased after Keira, screaming her name. ‘Lynch!’
As he blundered into the darkened hallway, he stopped dead.
The front door was wide open, but there was no sign of Keira Lynch.
Standing in her place framed in the doorway was the figure of a man silhouetted against the streetlight.
‘Where the fuck d’ye think you’re goin’, pal?’ asked the Holy Man.
Thirty-seven
Boats lay where they’d settled, keels stuck, bows pointing inland waiting for the turn of the tide to free them from the silt bed and pull them round to face back out to sea. A flock of gulls – their dark shapes silhouetted against the bright-blue afternoon sky – squawked and swooped their way across Urr Water to the far shore.
Kippford had one road that ran the length of the village. On the near side sat the Anchor, a pub in the middle of a row of low-rise houses, and on the opposite side a metre-high sea wall ran adjacent to a wide estuary that narrowed as it disappeared into the hills to the north.
Keira liked the Anchor; the interior was unpretentious and she knew the staff by name. In the winter a large open fire warmed the small bar area and in the summer patrons sat at the weathered wooden tables outside and watched the ebb and flow of tidal waters. There was something in the familiarity that made her feel safe.
It was warm enough to sit outside.
A wasp buzzed around the wooden table then flew into a spider’s web strung between the bough of a potted bay tree and the rim of the pot. The harder it struggled the more the wasp became entangled. Keira watched the spider charge across the thin, silvery strands, numb its prey, then retreat into hiding while it waited for the wasp to die. When it was all over Keira shifted her attention back to the guy sitting thirty metres along to her right on the sea wall.
She felt uneasy: something about his presence was eating away at that feeling of safety.
The tide was out, giving Loran and Ermir the length of the beach to run their races. They’d been scrambling over the pebble shore for nearly an hour now, pulling at each other as they raced towards Lule, who was waiting to scoop the winner in her arms and throw him high in the air with a wild whoop.
In all that time the guy on the wall hadn’t taken his eyes off them.
Keira had noticed the car when it first drove in from the top of the village. It made its way slowly past the pub and disappeared left at the end of the road, following Jubilee Path – a steep incline that snaked into the hillside past her mother’s house. A few minutes later – possibly after discovering the road was a dead end – the car re-emerged. It parked in a bay at the end of the village set next to a concrete slipway that led down into the water.
Keira had made an exaggerated play of rolling a cigarette, but kept her focus on the guy as he’d walked past on the other side of the road. There was something about the way he was dressed, the way he was moving, that made Keira wary. The walking stick he was using made a hollow tap with every step and did nothing to help his slight limp. He wore a baseball cap pulled low and a pair of dark shades to hide his eyes. His beard, full and greying, concealed the rest of his face.
Twice – before he’d made it halfway along the road – the guy had checked over his shoulder as if expecting someone to come at him from behind.
After Patrick Sellar’s ‘dramatic resignation’ another prosecutor was appointed and a new date set for Engjell E Zeze’s trial. The story had attracted so much media attention that DSI Gary Hammond had warned Keira to be extra vigilant, but this guy didn’t look like a journalist: he looked more dangerous than that.
The table was a mess of plates and glasses left over from lunch. Keira found herself instinctively scanning the debris for a suitable weapon. The waitress, Lindsey, appeared over her shoulder to deliver another beer and was starting to lift the plates when the guy climbed down from his perch on top of the wall and crossed the road, heading towards the pub. As he drew nearer Keira asked Lindsey for the bill – peering past her to get a good look at the guy’s face, but he cut in along the alleyway and disappeared into the pub through a side door.
Keira was on her feet and over at the sea wall before Lindsey had finished clearing. She called down to Lule, who was standing twenty metres or so along the beach. Lule looked up and waved, then – seeing the expression on Keira’s face, mouthed back, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Take the boys back to the house.’
Lule knew from the tone of Keira’s voice not to ask any questions.
When Keira turned back, the guy was sitting at her table. He waited until Keira had taken her seat again before saying anything.
‘You drinking the same beer as me?’
Keira looked at the pint sitting untouched on the table in front of her and replied, ‘Looks like it.’
‘What’s this stuff called?’
‘What did you ask for at the bar?’
‘A beer.’
‘It’s called Criffel. Brewed locally.’
‘D’you like it?’
‘I only drink it when I’m here. Normally I’d go for a cold lager.’
‘Me too. I think I like it. I’ll tell you after I’ve had another three.’
‘Don’t bother. I’m not that interested,’ replied Keira.
‘You’re Keira Lynch, right?’
‘Says who?’
‘The guy at the bar – the owner.’
‘Well then, it must be true.’
‘When you say you only drink it when you’re here, does that mean you’re not a local?’
‘You’ve the makings of a detective there.’
Now the small talk was out of the way, Keira wondered how long it would be before the real questions started.
‘The girl on the beach: she a friend of yours?’
This guy wasn’t wasting any time.
‘Not really.’ As soon as the words were out Keira wished she’d said ‘no’.
‘Oh, sorry, I thought I saw you talking to her when I came out of the pub.’
‘Yeah, well,’ was all Keira could think to say in reply.
‘Is she their mother?’
‘Whose mother?’
‘The boys’.’
‘No.’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’
‘I was watching them running up and down the beach there,’ said the guy.
‘Yeah, I was watching you watching,’ said Keira.
‘Just wondering if they were brothers. Got the same colouring, but they look different.’
‘Are you a journalist?’
‘Fuck no. Is that why you’re being so cagey?’
‘Cagey?’
‘Guarded, then.’
‘Mister, I’ve no idea who you are and you’ve no idea what I’ve been through in the last wee while. None of it good. You could be a journalist, CIA, an Albanian hit man, all sorts of wild and w
hacky things. Section 1 of the Prevention of Crime Act 1953 prohibits the possession in any public place of an offensive weapon without lawful authority or excuse.’
‘Is that word for word?’
‘That’s exactly what it says. If I called the cops they’d have you for that swordstick you’re carrying. That’s if the cops could find you. It’s my guess if a squad car appeared at the top of the road you’d be gone before it had even reached the pub. Do you have the authority or excuse?’
‘No I don’t.’
‘I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t want to know, so why don’t you just sit there and enjoy your Criffel and I’ll do the same, then we can both go our separate ways.’
‘What are you, a psychic? A detective?’
‘A lawyer.’
‘Conveyancing? Corporate? What sort of lawyer?’
‘Criminal. So I can smell a cell warrior fresh from the ding-wing at a hundred paces.’
‘This cane sword is an antique, over a hundred years old. If the cops appeared at the top of the village I’d keep my arse parked right where it was. I’d be up on a bum beef. Antiques like this are exempt.’
The guy paused to sup some of his beer, before continuing, ‘You probably knew that. I was only going to say that seeing the boys running up and down like that brought back some memories.’
Keira was giving him the stare now, but it wasn’t working.
‘Two boys running along a beach in Northern Ireland,’ he continued. ‘Racing each other just like those two today, only difference being, the boys on that beach were brothers. Racing each other to see who could reach their da first. The older boy letting the wee one win: that’s how close they were, you know; they cared a lot about each other, those two. I’d go so far as to say they loved each other . . .’
‘Do me a favour, mister,’ interrupted Keira, her tone hardening. ‘Go back to your news desk, or your crime boss, your sergeant or whoever it is sets your watch ticking in the morning and tell them you couldn’t find me. Please. All I want is to be left alone.’
‘Have you ever heard of Cushendun?’
Walk in Silence Page 26
