by BRM Stewart
‘You don’t say,’ said Davey’s computer.
I stayed for a couple of hours, and then Davey had to be toileted and given his medication, so I left them to it.
As I walked the long walk back towards town – it was a warm afternoon, patchy cloud, a slight breeze – I realised that I couldn’t just get out just like that, but I couldn’t stay. They wouldn’t let me just walk away, so I had to do something cleverer. I needed someone cleverer, someone who understood the financial web that Sandy had trapped me in. Then I could maybe plan how to get out of this.
Or maybe I couldn’t really ever get out, not taking the things that mattered to me.
*
The following day I phoned Sandy and met him in an up-market, middle-class bar down the road from B&D for a late afternoon drink. We sat amongst stainless steel and glass and drank expensive lager.
‘So all of my whole life has been a sham,’ I said.
He pursed his lips. ‘You want to do this?’ When I nodded, he went on: ‘OK. Yeah, your original wee shop was a money-laundering operation. Ken was fuckin’ amazed when you made money. So he let it run, still laundering money but also making money. Win-win. And your name was handy for some documentation on other businesses round the place. Most of them are real, but a lot don’t actually exist. Money gets moved round, guys get paid. Drugs get smoked, prostitutes get shagged, loans get repaid, kneecaps get broken.’ He shrugged. ‘But you kept away from that, Martin. You got your money – a fuckin’ heap of money – but you didn’t get your hands dirty.’
‘And B&D?’
‘Started the same way: ran at a terrifying loss for years, which was good. Then it picked up a bit with your drunken Internet ideas, and then Colin appeared and got us on the yellow brick road.’
‘Who does he work with?’
Sandy gave a sigh. ‘I’ve no fuckin’ idea, Martin. When we first interviewed him he told us about the possibilities. Then he found the contacts and set it all up. He runs it, and the money comes rolling in. Meanwhile, we’re still officially operating B&D as a tax write-off.’
I shook my head in disbelief.
‘We don’t hurt anyone through B&D, Martin. Insurance companies and banks take the hit, we take the money. You just need to help manage the legitimate side of the business, keep it all running, let Colin do his stuff with his network.’
There was nothing I could think of that would get me out of this, but I knew I had to, somehow, some day. I had the resolve, and I just needed to find the means.
*
I had agreed to meet Elizabeth in a café off Byres Road. She was meeting an agent for coffee and a snack, but had said I could join them if I wasn’t doing anything else in particular. I went along because it was one of the rare chances I had to talk to my wife.
I looked in the window as I came to the door of the café, and did a double-take: Elizabeth was sitting talking to Fiona. I went into the café, and it wasn’t Fiona, but – almost as bizarre – it was the young woman from Kelvingrove Museum that I had previously mistaken for Fiona. I said hi to them both, checked that they were OK, and got myself a latte. Then I joined them at the small table, juggling their cups to make space.
‘Helen, this is my husband Martin. Martin, this is Helen.’
‘Hi,’ I said and reached for her hand.
She was laughing a musical laugh, with her pretty face lit up. ‘We’ve met,’ she said.
I interrupted her as she looked like she was about to tell the story: ‘That’s right – Kelvingrove Museum, last year. So, you’re an agent – Elizabeth trying to sign you up for her website?’
Helen barely paused before skipping the events at the museum. ‘That’s right. We’ve a very small client base, just a little esoteric group of authors. We’re looking at ways to get new writers published.’
I looked at her over the rim of my coffee cup, and she looked back, and we exchanged smiles.
‘I understand you had the original idea for Elizabeth’s venture,’ she said.
I demurred. ‘Easy to have ideas, especially after a night on the booze when your critical faculties are switched off, but it took a single-minded lady to pull it off.’
‘Must have been a lot of work.’
‘Dedication,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Like Martin says, I had to be single-minded.’
I looked at Elizabeth, and thought about what she’d said. Yes, ‘single-minded’ covered it. The business was what mattered to her. I looked at her with her strong face, the brown hair, the dark suit. And at Helen: short black hair, a black jumper, black trousers. Her eyes sparkled, her face was smiling and alive with joy. Just exactly like Fiona had been, that first night at the party, and at the museum. Even Sam had had something of the look, but not the nature. My heart took a lurch, and I realised Helen was looking at me as Elizabeth spoke to her; I looked back. And she quickly looked away, back to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth’s mobile rang and she checked the display: ‘Have to get this – sorry.’ She had it to her ear as she stood up – ‘Hi Camilla. No, not busy at all. How are things with you?’ Her half of the conversation faded as she went outside.
Helen and I looked at each other, and then we both laughed.
‘You didn’t tell your wife about fainting at the museum.’
‘No.’
‘Why not? I take it you’re OK now.’ She reached out and touched the back of my hand, and I turned my fingers to touch fingertip to fingertip, and we both withdrew, and drank our coffee. ‘Does that happen a lot?’
I could see Elizabeth pacing up and down outside the big window, on her mobile.
‘Just the once.’ I thought for a moment, and she waited, knowing I was making an important decision. ‘I had been at a funeral.’
‘Oh dear. Someone close?’
‘Someone I knew well, but really didn’t like. He was killed in a car crash. But a very close friend of mine was very badly injured in the crash – he’s permanently disabled, in a wheelchair; brain damaged.’ I coughed away what was almost a sob, blinked away tears; Davey and Jane were being so positive now, so optimistic, I had no business being maudlin. Helen’s fingertips reached, but pulled back. ‘So, that day I had been really very drunk, on a bit of a bender I suppose: no sleep, no food.’
‘Understandable.’
‘I was still drunk and really hungover, really tired, when I went into the museum.’
‘No wonder you fainted.’
‘Well, there was more to it than that.’
Outside, Elizabeth had finished her call – but she was dialling another number. She looked through the window at me as she raised the phone to her ear, and I could see her beginning to talk excitedly.
‘You looked like someone I used to know.’
‘Ah.’
‘My first wife – Fiona.’ Something made me want to just tell her everything, made me want to trust her. ‘I met Fiona at a party when I was seventeen, and – eh, well, she was the first girl I slept with. But we lost contact after that night – I tried to find her. And one day, a few years later, I walked into Kelvingrove Museum, and there she was.’
‘That’s lovely.’ She was using both hands to hold her coffee mug – no fingertips now.
‘She got pregnant and we got married. And we were so happy, and she lost the baby, and another two, and she got quite ill but we didn’t know why, and then she went for tests and they found she had very advanced cancer, and they operated on her, but she died. They couldn’t do anything.’ My voice faded away as I spoke the last words.
I couldn’t see Helen any more, couldn’t even see her as Fiona. There was a mist around me, and an echoing voice. But, for the first time, I didn’t break down talking about it.
‘You OK, Martin?’
And I was back in the room, Elizabeth sitting down. ‘Great news – Camilla is on board, and it looks like Mairi is interested now too. So, Helen, how about you – interested in joining us in the world of e-publishing for your authors?’
Hel
en was looking at me, and I was looking back at her. Her eyes shone, and I felt a strange sensation in me. Then she turned to Elizabeth. ‘Sounds like there is huge potential there. I’m interested.’
*
I was surfing the Internet one evening, when I came across a relatively new website called Friends Reunited, which seemingly existed for old school-friends to link up and establish that they had nothing in common any more. I browsed my school, looking at some of the people who had left at the end of fourth year, remembering them – including a couple of girls whom I had lusted after from a distance: now divorced with children, one looking attractive still and working as a secretary, the other bloated and run-down and currently unemployed. I read the details, and the comments, with mixed feelings and some perverse satisfaction at times.
I clicked on to the year after me, the people from my year who had stayed on for sixth year – the relatively successful and the highly successful. There was Andrew Russell. The photograph showed how he had improved with age: his hair properly styled, no longer the unruly mass of curls; a bright, confident smile rather than the downcast hesitant, fearful expression. He’d got his first class honours from Glasgow University, and his accountancy qualification, and now had his own business, working as an independent financial adviser.
I sat back and stared at the photograph. Sandy had told me I’d need a clever accountant. Would an old school-friend, a fellow geek and loner like me and Davey, be interested in helping me? How much could I tell him?
I sat looking at the screen, playing out all the possible scenarios in my head.
Chapter 21
May - Ploesti
I woke up at six in the morning, face down on the bed, a hammering in my head like the worst hangover I’d had in my life. In fact it was like all the hangovers I’d ever had in my life, all together at once.
I tried to sit up, but flopped back down – then had to make a run for the toilet to be sick. When I was sure there was no more to come, I went back to sit on the bed, then slowly keeled over onto my side, closing my eyes gratefully, the last thought in my head wondering just how much I’d had to drink last night.
The alarm on my phone woke me half an hour later and I sat bolt upright. I didn’t feel too bad suddenly; I tentatively stood up, and then went through to shower, and got dressed.
Gradually things seeped back into my mind as I surveyed the hotel room: a mess of tissues, and two used condoms. That was when the headache came back, and more of the memories. I closed my eyes and let the pictures flash around: Rodica naked, over me and on me and under me, Coralia whispering in my ear, stroking me, Rodica’s wet mouth on me, her moans and cries, flashes of bright light. Unzipping Coralia’s jacket, counting the line of beauty spots along the inner curve of her left breast with my finger till she pushed me away and zipped herself up again, turning me back towards Rodica. My laptop! But it was there – thank god.
Jesus. What had I done?
I remembered Charlene’s talk of an early exit from Romania on this afternoon’s plane – I could get away from this nightmare, today. I packed my suitcase and stuck my passport in my jacket pocket. I took the case down to reception, and spent ages explaining that I wasn’t checking out, but that a friend might come to collect it later. I had a slow breakfast, with lots of their strong acrid coffee, the parrot in its cage staring pityingly at me. Still the memories came, and the headache deepened.
Oh shit, what had I done, what had I done? Helen… I groaned aloud, and people at the other tables looked round.
Aurel was there at eight thirty as planned, and his whole demeanour was the same as ever; it looked like he had nothing to do with last night. We walked out to another sunny day with me carrying my rucksack, and drove the short distance to the building where we had been working.
‘You enjoy your visit, Martin.’
‘It’s been very interesting.’
‘You go to Pussycat Club?’ He grinned.
‘No – no, I didn’t.’
‘Many nice girls in Romania. You young handsome man – many girls would want to be with you.’
‘Aye, right.’
We reached the car park at the back of the building, and saw that the fire door was propped open, with its USA notice, which saved us going round to the front.
I followed Aurel up the narrow staircase, along the linoleumed corridor smelling of cheap disinfectant that reminded me of the hospitals I hated, and up to the office we had been using. No one was about, the building was silent except for distant echoing footsteps – someone running, slowly and heavily, the footsteps growing fainter.
I paused at the door as Aurel tried it: it was locked. He knocked, and pressed his ear to it. He frowned. ‘I get a key. Wait here, Martin.’
It took him fully ten minutes, and then he was unlocking the door and I followed him in. The room was almost dark, the blinds down, and there was a smell I couldn’t place. Once my eyes got used to the darkness, I saw it, and Aurel did at the same time – I heard his gasp. We both leaned forward to check that we were seeing correctly, and then we recoiled in horror and stood up. I could feel the image burning into my mind as I stared.
There was a naked body stretched across a desk – Coralia. Her wrists and ankles were tied round the legs of the desk, wide tape across her mouth. Her face was frozen in terror. There were knife wounds in her stomach and chest: she was covered in blood, and it had run from her over the desk and formed small puddles on the carpet; a large, bloody kitchen knife lay there. I saw blood and fluids around her pubic hair, the line of beauty spots on her left breast – and had a flashback to last night, unzipping her jacket. And there was the jacket, and her trousers and underwear, on the floor – she hadn’t gone home to change after she’d left my hotel with Rodica.
My eyes followed the pool of blood and saw the other body, sprawled on its back on the floor by another desk: I recognised the distinguished greying hair and the slim face – Tudor. He was naked from the waist down, and his jacket and shirt were open. And then I saw the gun in his hand, and the small hole in one temple, and the blood and bone and brains leaking from a massive hole in the other.
What had happened here? I stood looking, trying to imagine a scenario – Tudor tying her up and raping her, murdering her then, overcome with grief, killing himself.
I shook my head. Bollocks. Tudor had been a quiet man, a gentleman. I’d never noticed him show any interest in Coralia over the past few days. Gheorghe, on the other hand…
Aurel was half leaning on a desk, the knuckles of his right hand jammed in his mouth, tears running down his cheeks, staring at Coralia’s body. I was standing breathing very deeply, and then suddenly the smell of blood gripped my throat and stomach and made me feel dizzy and sick, the noise of my own blood roared in my ears, the hangover slammed back into me, the overpowering fear and revulsion grabbed me and shook me. Aurel slumped a little lower, closing his eyes and putting his hands to his face.
Dazed, and still not sure if I was going to be sick, I was aware of my mobile ringing, and I answered it, turning away from the scene as I imagined Coralia’s dead eyes were appealing to me for mercy.
Charlene’s voice: ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in their office – it’s… it’s… there’s been – ‘
‘Get out of there now. I’m out on the road, in a blue car.’ Her voice grew even firmer, calm but urgent. ‘Get out of there now, Martin.’
‘Something’s happened,’ I said. ‘It’s awful…’
‘Get out. Now.’
I fumbled to put my phone away. ‘Aurel…’ I began, and then I simply turned and went out, down the stairs, along the corridor, not running in case that attracted anyone’s attention, but walking very quickly. There was no one on reception. I went outside and slipped on my sunglasses, shouldering my rucksack. Across the road, at the kerb, was a blue Logan, engine running, the small driver with a baseball cap and huge shades, but unmistakably Charlene. I dodged a couple of cars as I sprinted
across to her. She slipped the clutch as I climbed in, pulling the door closed as we moved off. I saw another man emerge from the building, running towards us, shouting something; he wore a brown leather jacket, but I made out nothing else – then we were round the corner and away,
‘How are you?’ she asked.
I looked at her profile. ‘Two of them are dead, the others aren’t around.’ My breathing was still rapid, my heart racing. ‘Coralia – the translator – and Tudor. Murdered.’ The scene came back to me, and the smell, and I fought down the rising bile.
At the next junction she turned the car round a line of shops and following a sign for Bucharest, driving fast, cutting up two other cars and a tram.
‘My case is at the hotel,’ I said. ‘I left it at reception.’
‘We haven’t time to go back for your luggage – we have to get to the airport, get checked in, through security. Got your passport with you?’
‘Yes. What do you think has happened?’
She took a deep breath. ‘The translator obviously knew everything that was going on, and maybe they decided they couldn’t trust her to keep silent.’
I swallowed. ‘Oh God. What about Tudor?’
She gave a shrug. ‘Maybe he tried to protect her, or maybe he was having second thoughts about the project. Doesn’t matter.’
‘Aurel is still back there.’
‘Good luck to him.’
I watched her drive over the railways, out of the city, and then we were on the main road, following that ribbon of houses behind fences that stretched all the way to Bucharest.
‘So Gheorghe and Bianca are really running the show.’
‘I told you he is a serious player.’ She overtook traffic smoothly – not being stupid now, but getting us far away from the scene as quickly as possible.
We were silent for a time, and then I said: ‘So you really were here to rescue me.’
‘So it would seem.’
‘Thank you.’ It was hard to say those words.
‘We still have to get out of this country.’
We reached one of the rare open stretches, with a field on our right and bizarre masts that might have been just radio relay masts or might have been some relic from the cold war. She pulled the car into the side, switching on the hazard lights, and reached down to pick up a small package in a plastic carrier bag from the footwell. I watched her get out of the car and tuck the bag into the wilderness on the other side of the fence. Then she got back in the car, and we pulled into the traffic.
