Digital Circumstances

by BRM Stewart

  We made it to the car-park at the airport where Aurel had first picked me up, and she simply left the car keys above the visor. A couple of the Romany kids who were begging saw us arrive, and I’m sure one of them clocked what Charlene had done with the car keys. She pulled a holdall from the boot and we walked quickly over to the terminal.

  We were very early for the flight to Schiphol of course, but they let us check in. Then we went through passport control and security, and managed to find a corner in the departure lounge. We looked at our watches: three hours to kill. I found I was shaking, staring out through the big windows to the aircraft, clasping my hands together, my mouth dry, my brain pulling away from the inside of my skull with dehydration. Charlene sat back and pulled out her phone, her little fingers flying over the screen, then pausing, then flying some more.

  ‘Someone will meet us at Edinburgh,’ she said, ‘take us to Glasgow.’

  ‘What was that you threw away when we stopped?’ I asked.

  She ignored the question.

  ‘You were prepared – you thought something like this might happen.’

  She put her phone away and settled down in the seat, pulling her baseball cap over her eyes. Then she kicked the holdall over to me. ‘There’s a man’s sweatshirt in there and a baseball cap. Take them to the toilet, ditch your jacket, and come back wearing them. It’s not much of a disguise, but it might help.’

  I did as I was told. The sweater was grey, the cap black, no logo on either. I was as anonymous as I could be. She looked me up and down, and said: ‘It’ll have to do. Now, get me an Americano, no milk.’

  I got one for myself, though I really felt that this was a good time to have an alcoholic drink, a strong one. We sat drinking coffee, carefully watching everyone who moved around, everyone who came anywhere near us. I don’t know what we thought we would do if something happened. Time dragged on.

  Finally they announced the gate and the flight was ready to board. We both went to the toilet, and then boarded, and waited till everyone came on to the very busy plane, watching the faces from our seat over the wings.

  The first officer introduced himself and the pilot over the intercom, the cabin crew gave us the safety briefing in English and Dutch as we taxied, and we were away.

  I was by the window, looking down at the narrow fields, the clusters of houses, the dense forests. I breathed freely for the first time since entering that room, my heart rate slowing.

  ‘Last night,’ I whispered, ‘the translator came to see me, brought a young woman – a girl.’ I wanted to tell someone this, and Charlene was going to be the only person I ever confessed it to. ‘Very young, skinny – pretty. They got me drunk, took me up to my room. I think I shagged the girl – or she shagged me.’

  Charlene looked at me, a look that said: ‘So?’

  ‘Why do you think they did that?’

  ‘Did you leave any DNA?’

  ‘Loads. Well, you know... Why?’

  She appeared to think about my situation. ‘Maybe they were planning on setting you up. No chance you were photographed?’

  I remembered the flashes of light – yes, a camera with a flash, Coralia with a camera. Oh fuck. ‘I think they did. But why would they do that? Blackmail? You had already wrecked my relationship.’

  She had the decency to look just a bit apologetic about that.

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Just keep watching your favourite porn sites. You might be a star.’ At that she settled down to sleep.

  I tried to sleep too, but every time I got close to it my mind leapt into action with half-remembered events from the night before… on top of Rodica, my hands reaching for Coralia… and then Coralia lying tied up and covered in blood. Who had tortured and raped her? Why? Poor bitch.

  Our airline lunch arrived: another cheeseburger, and weak coffee. I ate glumly and looked out as we came to the clouds of central Europe. Later we circled Amsterdam and I watched the lines of wind turbines standing in the water as we waited to land, traffic running across the dams. Nearly home, I thought. Nearly home. But what was there for me?

  A young man picked us up at Edinburgh airport, and took us through to Glasgow on the busy M8. He didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge us. He dropped Charlene at the front of Central Station, and took me out to the west end, to the street outside my flat – all of that without any instructions or directions.

  The flat was silent and empty. Helen wasn’t there.

  I grabbed a lager from the fridge and switched on the TV in the lounge. Nothing on the news channels about murders in Romania, not yet.

  I texted Helen. No reply. I called her several times; after a few rings it went to voicemail, every time. So it wasn’t switched off: she was declining my calls.

  Then I looked around the flat. Her toiletries were missing from the bathroom, along with some of her stuff from beside the bed and the drawers there. Her half of the wardrobe looked a little sparse. And one of the suitcases was gone from the hall cupboard.

  I sat on the bed with my beer. Surely to god she didn’t know about last night. Please, no.

  *

  Bianca sipped her gin and tonic, and frowned as Gheorghe blew cigarette smoke across the table towards her. ‘You don’t think that you were excessive?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘She was a very beautiful young woman. I needed to see what was there, needed to enjoy her.’ He gave another shrug. ‘It was messy but worth it.’

  ‘And Martin McGregor?’

  ‘We’ll see. I have the photographs and the mobile number.

  She sipped her drink. ‘Poor Tudor.’

  He ground out his cigarette. ‘The man was an idiot. Trying to protect her like that.’

  ‘I’m not sure this was sensible. It is a big story – the newspapers will enjoy it, the police will be forced to investigate. You could have taken her somewhere, disposed of the body.’

  He waved her objections aside. ‘The police will be busy, but they will find nothing – except Martin McGregor.’ He lit another cigarette and checked his watch.

  Bianca had been shaking her head. Now she raised an eyebrow. ‘The prostitute Rodica?’

  He nodded and blew more smoke across to her. ‘All being taken care of.’

  She nodded and gave a sigh. ‘Let’s hope we can now get on with the main business.’

  ‘Charlene beautiful too,’ he murmured. ‘Very sexy.’

  Her eyes narrowed, warning him, and he shrugged again.

  Chapter 22

  May - Glasgow

  After a day recovering from Romania, I texted Helen and begged her to meet me. I couldn’t just let her go like that: apart from Fiona, Helen was the best thing about my life and I needed her more than ever right now. She texted back, and said she’d meet me the next day, but not in the flat. It didn’t sound promising: if she’d wanted to meet straight away, that would have been better, but this sounded like she was in no rush. Still, I dared to hope.

  I went down to St Vincent Street and met with Sandy, and we sat in one of the offices and I told him everything that happened in Romania. Everything. He didn’t flicker at any of it, not the murders, not my night with Rodica – ‘Sounds like you were drugged and raped,’ he said drily, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘It was all bloody terrifying,’ I said. ‘I still don’t know whether they’ll come over here to get me, for whatever reason. Someone ran after me as I got away – no idea who he was.’

  ‘You finished the job?’

  ‘Yes – as far as I know. Gheorghe and Bianca have all they need for their online work – they can do it. I assume they have other connections with organised crime over there. So, on the face of it, they’ve no beef with me – us.’

  He shrugged, and sipped his coffee. I noticed a tremor in his fingers.

  ‘Why do you think they murdered Coralia and Tudor?’

  He paused before replying. ‘The translator was probably always going to be got rid of – depending on whether they had an
y other way of making sure she kept quiet. Tudor was maybe just in the wrong place at the wrong time – maybe he disturbed them torturing her. Maybe…’ He sipped more coffee. ‘Lots of maybes, Martin. Hard to tell with so many bad bastards around – no code of ethics.’

  I let the irony of that remark slip by.

  ‘Nah, no point speculating, Martin. Now, do you want to spend your life worrying about who’s behind you? No. So fuckin’ forget it. Just get on with things as normal. We’ll talk next week about what we agreed.’

  ‘Who is the blonde girl, Sandy? Charlene. Who the fuck is she?’

  He shrugged and sipped, looking away across the room. ‘Don’t worry about her, Martin. She’s not for you to worry about.’

  As I walked down into the city centre, I wondered what the hell that last statement meant.

  *

  I met Helen in Starbuck’s on Buchanan Street. She was late, and I thought she’d reconsidered meeting me. I’d bought her a latte, and I sat watching it cool down as I sipped at mine.

  But she appeared, her face expressionless.

  She squeezed in beside me at the bench in the window, and we said hi, and looked out at the street busy with shoppers, the guy busking on electric guitar, young folk in red tops, with clipboards and cheery smiles, trying to get people’s attention to talk about something important.

  We didn’t kiss or touch in any way, but I wanted to hold her – and it hit me how much I’d missed her, how much I wanted her. We acted like we were strangers, meeting for the first time, but with no interest in each other.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘At your mum’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve taken a lot of your stuff out of the flat.’

  ‘I’ll get the rest this weekend when I’ve time.’

  My heart dropped. ‘Helen, please. That photograph wasn’t what it seemed – she just fell across me on the boat. She set it up.’

  ‘Where were you going?’

  ‘It was a business thing – there was this guy we needed to talk to, about computers.’

  ‘Was that the guy who got shot?’

  I gulped. ‘Yes – but that was nothing to do with us. Me.’

  She drank her coffee. ‘You’re a crap liar, Martin. That’s one of the things I always loved about you.’

  ‘Look, I had nothing to do with that guy getting shot – you must believe me.’ I kept my voice low, but some people looked round, fascinated. ‘And the blonde girl and me are nothing. I love you, Helen.’ And my voice choked and I had to stop.

  She looked at me over the rim of the big cup, her eyes cold, giving nothing away.

  ‘Please, Helen. Whatever you think I did, please let it go. You’re the only one I want.’

  ‘So you’ve never been unfaithful to me.’

  I felt cold inside. No no no… ‘No,’ I said, with all the sincerity I could muster, watching her pull out her smartphone and unlock it. Then she flipped through some screens, and held up the phone for me to look at.

  It was a picture of me lying on the bed in the hotel in Romania, with a skinny naked body over me, her head level with my groin.

  No no no…

  Then a swipe of Helen’s thumb and there was a picture of Rodica astride me, her head back in posed ecstasy.

  ‘That’s not what it looks like,’ I croaked. But of course it was.

  ‘Game set and match,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll get the rest of my things this weekend.’ She put the phone away. She stood up without another word and walked out, bumping into people as she went. I saw her walk away up Buchanan Street, head high, no backward glance. She disappeared amongst the crowds.

  I finished my coffee and covered my face with my hands. I was alone now, really alone. And scared.

  *

  I took the next few days off work. I met Andrew, and he told me we were well down the road of shifting things. In fact, I could probably go any time I liked, and I thought of doing just that. ‘No,’ I said to him: ‘Give it a few more days.’ Meanwhile, I transferred money around accounts, and out to Gibraltar, and wondered whether Sandy would honour his near-promise to let me go.

  I phoned Amanda Pitt. ‘Give me a few more days,’ I said. ‘New stuff has come up. I’ll meet you on Saturday – I’ll phone.’ I needed her off my back.

  ‘OK,’ she simply said.

  There was nothing in the papers about any murders in Romania, and nothing online.

  The flat was empty – Helen gone, Fiona gone, Sam gone – even Elizabeth’s presence would have been welcome. At night I would see shadows as I imagined someone was following me home, and I would look out of the lounge curtain, conjuring wild nightmares about a man standing smoking under a streetlight, talking into a mobile phone, looking up at my window.

  Then one evening I got to my front door and there was someone behind me. ‘Mr McGregor?’ he asked, in a heavily accented voice.

  I was too slow to deny it, and he took that as a yes – like he didn’t already know who I was.

  ‘Please. I need to speak with you.’ And he showed me his ID. ‘I am Inspector de Politie in General Directorate.’ Then, unnecessarily, he added: ‘In Romania.’ I stood transfixed, my key in the door, the door ajar. ‘Please, I need to speak with you.’

  I let him follow me up to the flat, switched on the lights, and made him a cup of tea. I had a can of lager. I sat opposite him in the lounge. He was a tall, big man, wearing a brown leather jacket and jeans. His hair was very short, the same length as the stubble on his chin. He had a black leather document wallet with him, which he unzipped and laid flat on my coffee table.

  ‘My name is Adrian Stancu.’

  I slumped back on the sofa. I was very depressed, and very tired. There was no doubt what he was here for, but I had to put up some kind of pretence. ‘Pleased to meet you. How can I help?’

  ‘You were in Romania some days ago.’ I nodded. ‘You came back to UK on Monday 23rd.’ I nodded again. ‘You were also booked on flight on Tuesday 24th.’

  ‘Yes I was.’ He was waiting patiently for me to explain. ‘I wasn’t sure when I’d have the job finished, so I made two reservations.’

  ‘Very expensive.’

  ‘The client was paying.’ And I now saw that I’d opened up the next line of questioning.

  ‘Who was your client? What was the nature of your job in Romania?’ His tone was calm, polite.

  Oh hell, I didn’t have a story ready. I hadn’t expected to be quizzed on this, especially not by a Romanian policeman. I had to give an answer, something believable, something quite near to the truth. ‘I work for a computer company here in Glasgow. We were helping a Romanian client set up security for their system. I’m afraid I can’t say too much – client confidentiality.’

  ‘Of course. What was the name of the company?’

  I swallowed some lager, my head aching now, my heart thumping, my hand trembling. ‘Eh – I can’t remember for certain.’ I had to make one up. ‘I think it was ‘Bucharest Software Solutions’.’ Brilliant, I thought. He’ll know this is a lie, and he knows this whole thing is dodgy anyway. My last pretence of denial evaporated.

  He reached over to the document wallet on the table and lifted out an A4 photograph: Gheorghe’s face, round and bald, humourless. ‘Is this the man you dealt with?’

  I knew my expression had already registered that I knew Gheorghe, so I nodded. ‘Yes – Gheorghe. He was in charge.’

  Another photograph: Tudor’s face, tanned and handsome, greying hair and a confident smile. There was a numbness creeping up from my toes. ‘This man?’

  ‘Tudor – I worked with him operationally, developing the systems. Excuse me.’ I went to the toilet for a pee, but at one point thought I was in danger of throwing up. I controlled it, and came back to the lounge with another lager. I’m stuffed, I thought: no way out of this. He’s going to take me away.

  And a photograph of Coralia’s face, the olive skin and lips
perfectly rendered. ‘This woman?’

  ‘Coralia – she was the translator. They understood English very well but preferred to speak in Romanian, and she translated for me.’ OK, that was it, I thought, but another photograph floated onto the table to join the others: Rodica, looking calm and innocent. My heart dropped, and I felt myself beginning to panic. But I controlled it, and frowned. ‘No, she wasn’t someone I dealt with.’

  ‘But you meet her.’

  I frowned again and shook my head. ‘No. Don’t think so.’

  ‘Coralia and she come to your hotel, and stay. They go up to your room, leave early in morning.’ Every time he referred to someone his finger prodded the appropriate photograph. ‘The hotel ordered a taxi for them in the morning. She work as escort girl, in sex club, and sometimes in pornographic movies. You have sex with her.’

  I closed my eyes, not sure whether his last statement was a question or an assertion.

  The Romanian policeman sat back in his seat, his tea untouched on the table beside the collection of photographs. ‘What happened on Monday morning, the day you left Romania, after these women leave your hotel?’

  ‘I – eh – ‘ Think, man, think! ‘I was picked up as usual and taken to the building where we had been working. The job had finished the day before – I met the girls in the hotel bar that evening. I got a bit drunk, and I’m not sure exactly what happened that night. I didn’t pay for sex – I had no idea she was a…’

  ‘A prostitute. You are married?’

  ‘No. My relationship was – eh - so… Anyway, the plan was for us just to have a social chat and then I would get off to the airport. But when we got to the building, no one was around. The door of our office was locked. So I got them to call me a taxi and went to the airport.’