by Tim Adler
"This policeman is one of them. He was the one who told them you had to be watched. He said you knew where the data was."
"Kate, I'm telling you," said Priest.
"Where did you hide the data, Kate?"
"Don't listen to him. He's lying."
"Unless you give them what they want, they'll kill us both."
Priest raised his voice. "Don't do it, Kate."
"For God's sake, just give them what they want," said her husband. Paul started to cry. Part of her wanted to comfort him, another part was appalled by his weakness. "Priest said you'd copied the data. Please, Kate, just give it to them. I'm begging you."
Priest, however, just glowered at the floor. The thugs had already given him a real working over. Kate suspected the dried blood on the floor was his. There was also the faintest absurdity in all this, as if they were acting out an airport thriller, the kind you'd find in a departure lounge.
Mr Punch, who had been standing by the workbench, plugged an old-fashioned-looking power drill into a socket and tested the trigger. Its sharp whine filled the basement before snapping off suddenly. Paul began moaning and Kate's heart dropped into her stomach. They all knew what was about to happen. Nonononono her mind implored, and Paul rocked his chair as Mr Punch trod softly towards him. He was even smiling faintly. It was unbearable, and Kate shut her eyes as the high-pitched whine changed to a dull grinding sound as it bit into something hard – the bone of her husband's kneecap.
Priest's scream was so loud that it penetrated the brickwork.
The power drill snapped off, leaving a burnt smell in the air. When Kate opened her eyes Priest was sobbing and he had vomited over himself. Mr Punch, though, stepped back as if admiring his own handiwork. You will pay for this. I don't know how, but there is natural justice in the world, there has to be, Kate thought. There was such a thing as karma, and you did reap what you sowed. Teardrop barked one word and Mr Punch revved the trigger again. This time he stood over Paul. Priest's shoulders were still heaving. The smell of vomit and fear in the room was nauseating.
Kate spoke quickly. "Even if you had the data, who's to say that another copy wasn't made? You'll never be satisfied. And you said yourself we know too much. You'll just get rid of us anyway."
"Please. Let them both go. I'll carry on working for you," Paul pleaded. "She's done nothing to harm you. She's an innocent." He turned to her. "I'm begging you. Just give them what they want."
Priest looked at her balefully. "Don't do it, Kate."
"She can go, but not him," Teardrop said.
"For God's sake, Kate, save yourself," Paul spat out.
May God forgive me for what I'm about to do, she thought, unbuttoning her trousers and pushing her fingers up as far as they would go. It was dry and uncomfortable to get at the memory card, but finally a relief to get it out; she had pushed it so deep inside. The others watched as she twisted around – Mr Punch looked disgusted – until she held up the balloon. She worked her fingers into the balloon's mouth and extracted the memory card.
Paul shook his head trying to get free, and Teardrop stepped smartly forward and cut through the duct tape with his clasp knife. Kate could hardly believe it: they really were keeping their side of the bargain. Paul muttered something in Albanian, and Teardrop crouched down to cut his legs loose. Finally Paul stood up, stretched and turned towards her while the thugs kept their distance. Kate had the odd sensation that he was now the one in charge. She heard footsteps coming downstairs but she just stood there mesmerised, not understanding the change that had just happened. And then she got it.
Paul was the one in charge.
He had been the one in charge all along.
She had misunderstood everything. Paul had had never been taken prisoner. He had never jumped from that balcony, he had never even been pushed. He had faked his own death because he knew that Europol were onto him. Like a photograph emerging in a developing tray, he was finally exposed.
"You see?" said Priest.
Paul took the memory card from her and held it to his nose. "I'd forgotten what you smelled like," he said, inhaling deeply.
Kate couldn't think of what to say. The final veil had been ripped away.
Paul continued. "I thought our whole operation was blown – just burn down the servers, I told them – then I thought, no, Kate's cleverer than that, she'll figure out the one place where I kept a copy. And I was right. I know you better than you know yourself."
"Why not just steal our wedding photo back? You knew where it was."
"Because I wanted you to bring it. I wanted you here. I need you. With me."
With that, she spat in his face. Everything she had suffered, everything she had been through in her personal crucifixion, was all his fault. Paul flinched but did his best to behave as if nothing had happened.
"You disgust me," Kate said.
"Do you know what the new currency is, Kate, more valuable than dollars or gold? It's data. Personal details are the new oil, and you've just handed me a gusher. Of course, the English operation is over, but you've given me something even better, my darling. Really, I should be thanking you."
Kate said numbly, "The man who died, the one in the street, who was that?"
Paul looked meaningfully at Priest. "A rat. One of his informants. I gave him a choice – either he jumps or we take care of his family. He did the right thing."
"I don't understand. I saw you jump from that balcony."
"No, the man you saw was the informant. We pushed him off the balcony below. It was easy for me to cross over to the next patio."
"Exit, stage left," muttered Priest.
"So you killed another innocent." Kate looked at Mr Punch. "He murdered a man who was trying to save me."
Paul grasped her shoulders and she closed her eyes, like a suicide. "Do you think I wanted any of this?" her husband said. "I was happy in London. We were happy in London. When my uncle died, I had to come home and take over. This isn't something you can walk away from."
Priest started to laugh. "Jesus wept," he said.
"I still don't understand. Whose ashes did I bring back home?"
"Just some old fireplace ashes mixed with earth."
"What happens now? Are you going to get rid of us too?"
"That's your choice," Paul said quietly. "I don't want that to happen."
Suddenly Kate went for him, shoving him in the chest. Every molecule of him revolted her. The idea of being with Paul a moment longer made her want to vomit. "Get away from me. You're not my husband, you're not the man I married, I hate you." Paul just stood there taking it as she beat her hands on his chest. "You're not even Paul Julia are you? Your real name is Zogaj."
The final piece of jigsaw had clicked into place.
"Oh no, child," said a voice behind her. "I am Zogaj."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Paul's aunt, the one whose husband had died, stood at the bottom of the stairs. She was leaning heavily on a stick and she surveyed the basement with a flinty, imperious look. The old woman regarded Kate with contempt.
Zogaj spoke.
"You despise us. You think you're better than we are because you never got your hands dirty. You've no idea how hard our life was here. People would pay good money for a little escape – alcohol, a woman – nothing has changed. Our family still offers the same thing. Our people have always been smugglers, his father and his father before him. We used to smuggle over the mountains. Today it's by car and boat."
"This isn't something innocent: you destroy people's lives," Kate said. "Those girls you take from Vietnam, you ruin them so they can't go home. What happens when they get pregnant? You just throw them away."
"Don't be so naive. Do you really think that the girls' families don't know why their daughters come here? The girls send money home. For many of these families, it's the only money they ever see. The fathers, the mothers … they know. Otherwise it's starvation."
"The girl I saved from the cannabis far
m, she said you'd advertised a job in Tirana. Then you kidnapped her. She was locked up in a flat for days, handcuffed to a radiator, before you shipped her out. How do you sleep at night, knowing these girls are raped? And the cannabis you grow, you get people hooked."
"We're just providing a service. If we didn't do it, somebody else would."
"What's my husband got to do with this?"
"Child, Zogaj isn't a name, it's a title, like leader. It's passed on from generation to generation. Eventually Paul will inherit it."
"Like capo dei capi: the godfather," muttered Priest.
"Why not one of your own sons? I saw them at the funeral. What do you need my husband for?"
"What, him?" she said dismissively. Teardrop just stood there looking gormless. Of course. Teardrop was Paul's cousin, the one he'd told her so much about, the one he'd grown up with. "He was always a fool. No, Paul was the one with the brains. My husband said so. That's why we sent him to England. My husband was clear that he should inherit the family business when I die."
I hope that happens very soon, Kate thought bitterly. Zogaj nodded, as if the exchange had exhausted her, and turned to go back upstairs. Mr Punch took her arm, guiding her up the stairwell. "I don't need your help," the old woman snapped, but her progress was painfully slow. Her breathing was bad, and for a moment Kate wondered if she was going to topple backwards. The four of them stood watching her arthritic progress upstairs. Only Priest did not bother to turn round.
"So what happens now?" Kate challenged Paul.
"We'll take you to a room where you can rest. Then we can talk some more."
"What's there to talk about? You've shown me who you really are. I hate you." Kate turned to Priest. "Can you walk? Here, let me help you."
Teardrop finished cutting Priest loose and stood back. Priest, however, just sat there. Sweat covered his face, as if he couldn't face the pain of standing up. He grunted with effort when Kate helped lift him, and he hobbled only a couple of steps with her support before shaking his head. "John, come on. Not far to go now. You can do this," she said, and together they limped towards the basement steps. "Where do you want us to go?" Kate asked. Teardrop jerked his head upwards.
Their attic bedroom was in the eaves of the house. Two metal single beds flanked a dressing table below a small window. The room was fearfully cold, and the window sill was black with rotted wood, as damp black as a coal seam. Kate touched the wood where it had rotted and brushed a weird butterfly growth with her fingers. Any thoughts of escape went out of her head when she looked out the window: it was a sheer, four-storey drop down the side of the building. Poda's car was still parked in the alley outside the main entrance, though. Suddenly the black 4x4 roared up and stopped outside the gate. Kate watched fascinated as a young woman she immediately recognised as Phuong got out. She'd had her hair cut differently, in a Japanese schoolgirl bob as sharply diagonal as a raven's wing. Dressed in a fake fur coat, she looked painfully young: a child who'd sat at her mother's dressing table and used her makeup. Paul escorted his aunt outside, helping her up into the passenger seat. God rot you both, Kate thought, as Paul stood in the alley watching the car leave.
"They've brought Phuong here," Kate said, turning from the window.
"She's a long way from home."
"What will they do to her?"
"Whatever it is, it won't be good," Priest said. "They think she betrayed them." He was stretched out on the bed and winced as he spoke.
"There's still a chance you could get away. I'm done for. Nobody knows we're here. Paul doesn't want to kill you, he wants to make you his queen."
"That policeman I told you about, he was the one who betrayed me. They're all in this together. Every last one of them."
"I did tell you."
"What's the expression, 'I was blind but now I can see'?" She patted his mattress. "What about you? Is there anything I can do to help? You should be in hospital, not here."
"I could use a drink, a double whiskey." He started laughing but grimaced as the pain got to be too much.
Kate banged on the door for attention and listened; the rest of the house seemed to be deserted. Had they left the two of them alone? She rattled the dressing-table drawers open, searching for anything they might use. And there, miracle of miracles, was a traveller's sewing kit, the kind given away in hotel bathrooms.
"What are you going to do? Stitch some sheets together?" Priest asked when she held up the sewing kit triumphantly.
"Try and fix your leg," she said, sitting down at the foot of the bed. "This is going to hurt, I'm afraid."
Kate helped Priest unbuckle his jeans, pulling them down to his calves. There was a nasty deep hole in the side of his knee about the width of a pencil. The blood, though, had dried, which was something. If only she had some water, she could at least clean the wound out.
"I'll tell Paul I will do whatever he wants, but he must let you go," Kate said, licking the thread and passing it through the eye of the needle.
"He won't go for it. I'm a policeman, not a civilian."
"You're going to need to bite on something. This is going to hurt."
Priest took hold of the filthy stiff curtain, stuffing the end into his mouth. His ridged skin turned white between her fingers. Blood popped on the needle as she passed it through. The cloth muffled his yell as she crudely stitched the hole together. "There. It'll hold," Kate said, surveying her rough handiwork. Priest tried to smile. What the man needed was painkillers, Kate thought indignantly. She got up and banged on the door again. Slowly, a plan began percolating in her mind.
Mr Punch answered her angry banging. "Tell my husband I need to see him," she said. Mr Punch turned and called down the stairwell. If Teardrop was driving Zogaj home, that meant there were only two of them in the house plus Poda, who she guessed wouldn't give them any trouble. She recognised her husband's heavy tread as he came upstairs.
"You wanted to see me," he said.
"We need painkillers and water," Kate said. "This man should be in hospital."
"If I do that for you, I want you to do something for me. I want you to come downstairs and eat. There's things we need to talk about."
"All right," Kate said grudgingly. "Priest needs food as well."
It was absurd. Did he really think they were going to sit down together and pretend nothing had happened? Never underestimate how men are led around by their cocks, or what they will do for the comfort of a soft, warm pussy, a girlfriend had once told her. How right she was.
Paul nodded and went back downstairs.
It was Mr Punch who gave her the painkillers, watching Kate with cold, unfeeling eyes. He also held out a floaty chiffon dress for her to put on, the kind you might wear on a summer evening. Kate shut the door in his face. Did this dress belong to one of Paul's whores, she wondered, pulling it over her head. Priest watched her from the bed. "Thank you for doing that," he said. This time she went over to him and took hold of his large brown hand, turning it over to admire its pinkness. "We're going to get out of here, just you see," Kate said. Their eyes met, and this time she kissed him on the mouth. Mr Punch banged on the door again. "Hurry up," he called.
Going downstairs, Kate scoped out the house properly for the first time, scanning for any means of escape. The first-floor corridor, lit with electric candles in wall sconces, had bedrooms running off it, and there were more fake suits of armour. The whole place was decorated in mock Tudor, with wooden shields and fake paintings that were really just photographs of old masters.
Paul was downstairs in the kitchen making supper. She recognised what Paul was making as he dipped poultry into flour, then egg, and finally breadcrumbs. It was one of their favourites, breaded chicken escalopes. "Do you want a drink?" Paul said. Kate nodded, and her husband poured her a glass of red wine, which she greedily sipped, noticing the knife on the chopping board. "I don't think so," Paul said. He took the knife and speared the escalope before dropping it in sizzling oil.
"Y
ou think I'm a monster, don't you?" he said. "Do you think I wanted any of this? The family isn't something you walk away from. In Albanian, they call us the Octopus. Once they've got their tentacles around you, there's no escape."
"There's always a door," Kate said with a shrug. All the while she was looking for a weapon, anything she might use. The kitchen must be full of them. Careful, she thought, you mustn't let Paul know what you're thinking.
"I never thought I would become Zogaj. I assumed my cousin would take over. Of course, I knew what the family business was, but I always thought I could walk away."
"When did you first discover what your family did?"
"I must have been about five years old. It's one of my earliest memories. I was in a car with my father. There was a woman in the passenger seat I'd never met before. My father was Zogaj then, you see. Not that I knew anything about it." Paul had stopped even glancing at her now, as if she was a coat left over the back of a chair. "I remember driving into the Block – back in those days it was the enclave of Party officials, ordinary people weren't allowed in – and then walking with this woman up to the front of an apartment building. We were walking back to the car and I was seeing food in shop windows I'd never seen before. One thing I remember in particular was the wind stirring rabbit fur outside a butcher's shop – it's funny the things you remember – when suddenly there was screaming behind us. The woman from the car was running down the street. She was completely naked. I had never seen a naked woman before. An army major with his tunic undone was chasing her, waving a gun. There was shouting, and my father tried to intervene. They scuffled and then there was a pop, more like a cap gun. Next thing I knew, dad was on the pavement making a ghastly wheezing sound. The major had shot him. Dad told me to take a notebook out of his pocket and give it to my uncle – he would know what to do with it. Only later did I understand that it was a list of Party officials who used his services. More names and addresses, you see."
If this was designed to elicit her sympathy, he wasn't going to get off that easily. "So your father was a pimp as well," Kate said coldly. "What about the girl who died, the one in the Savile Hotel? The police think you murdered her."