The Body on the Shore

by The Body on the Shore (retail) (epub)

  ‘What is the guy’s name that we are meeting?’

  ‘My contact couldn’t tell me. He will probably be a kryetar, a mid-level boss. It was the best I could do.’

  ‘I’m in your hands, Besin,’ Gillard said. He felt his frustrations grow as it became clearer that the relationship between the police and organized crime in Albania was as awkward as that between brothers in a broken family.

  By noon they were approaching Fier, a busy city choked with traffic. The Albanian detective drove them to the southern suburbs. They slid past a series of tired grey blocks of flats, similar to those built all over Britain in the 1960s, their slab concrete dark with water stains. Here the balconies were stacked with firewood, and tattered awnings projected out over the sunward side. Washing lines dangled between adjacent windows, and headscarved women called down to children playing beneath. The land between the blocks was litter-strewn waste ground, dotted with abandoned cars, fridges and builders’ rubble, through which gangs of ragged kids roamed. Despite this evidence of poverty and neglect, most of the cars that Gillard saw being driven were new, top-of-the-range models: BMWs, Range Rovers, Porsches and, overwhelmingly, Mercedes. He didn’t want to fall into the prejudice that Greycoates had shown, but equally it didn’t seem possible that the average Albanian could afford the average Albanian car. He’d read the National Crime Agency reports: Albania was the destination for thousands of Europe’s prestige cars, stolen to order in highly sophisticated operations and shipped out in containers. As he had often explained to victims of car theft across Surrey, your stolen Jag, Merc or BMW is, as likely as not, heading for a small mountainous country of which most of us know nothing.

  As they moved further into the estate, there were two or three car wash joints, with black four-wheel drives and luxury saloons being given very careful pressure-washer treatment by groups of fit-looking young men in tracksuits. These youths all sported identical number two shaven hairstyles, and seemed immune to the bitter cold. One young man was on his hands and knees, under the watchful eye of a big man in a dark suit. Amid a sea of litter and broken glass, he was vacuuming out with forensic care the inside of an almost-new black Porsche Cayenne. Funny how some types of cleanliness matter and some don’t, Gillard thought.

  One tough-looking youth eyed them as they approached, his hand absentmindedly straying to an ominous bulge at the back of his waistband.

  ‘One of the lads there is packing a handgun,’ Gillard said.

  Tokaj nodded as they cruised slowly past him. ‘It’s normal. All these people are Dragusha, and most are armed. Don’t worry, we are expected.’

  Towards the end of the street they passed what looked like scrap yards, fenced in with vertical planks, old bedsprings and sheet metal. Mildewed caravans, roving dogs and ragged children brought to mind the worst of the traveller sites Gillard had seen. But what he had not seen before was a wizened old lady in a headscarf shepherding a gaggle of turkeys with a stick. Finally, at the end of a long, straight, unpaved road they arrived at a two-storey industrial building. It was painted entirely black, including the window panes, as if it was some Mancunian nightclub. As the car pulled up, two large leather-jacketed figures in sunglasses detached themselves from the shadows and strode over to the driver’s side where they barked some kind of instruction. Tokaj obligingly lowered the window, showed them his police card and spoke to them briefly. ‘We go in now,’ he said to Gillard.

  As one of the toughs turned to direct them, Gillard noticed an intricate circular razor cut in the hair on the back of his head. It was the triple- headed eagle of the Dragusha clan, beautifully rendered.

  The two cops emerged from the car and were escorted into the building. Faint red bulbs lit their path into its stygian depths. They were shown to a table in a large but deserted bar. There were plastic flowers in a vase on the table. One of their escorts brought over a clear bottle with some liquid inside and two shot glasses. ‘Raki,’ he said to Gillard with a grin.

  Looking around, Gillard reckoned that this was indeed some kind of nightclub. There was lighting equipment and a false ceiling, and a stage at the far end with a steel pole in it. He could guess the kind of entertainment that might be offered here. His own flesh and that of Tokaj had taken on a lobster sunburn hue under the lighting.

  ‘Now we wait,’ Tokaj said, sinking his first raki.

  * * *

  It was an hour later and the raki was almost gone when Gillard began to lose patience.

  ‘I think we’ve been stood up,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I think it’s time to leave.’

  There had been no activity in the building, and only the distant booming sound of rock music from a vehicle outside to break the monotony.

  ‘I don’t know if we can go yet,’ Tokaj said.

  ‘We need their permission to leave?’ Gillard asked. It was 1.15 p.m.

  ‘Having asked for an audience, it would be an insult, and if you want their cooperation you had better not insult them. Trust me on this.’

  ‘Besin, you have to understand that I have two murders to solve and only a limited time here. I need to show that I am making some progress.’

  The Albanian detective hauled himself to his feet. ‘Have it your way,’ he said with a shrug.

  Gillard felt his way out of the darkened bar into the afternoon sunshine. The two sunglassed henchmen they had seen earlier were leaning proprietorially against Tokaj’s car, their arms folded. As the British detective marched towards them, Tokaj called out something in Albanian, which even to Gillard’s untrained ear had a pleading intonation. He got a fierce barked response from one of the men, while the other flipped up the flap of his jacket pocket and rested his fingers on the clearly visible butt of a pistol. ‘They say we have to stay,’ Tokaj said.

  The stand-off was broken by the ringing of Gillard’s phone. The display showed that it was Mulholland.

  ‘Hi, Claire, how are you doing? Better than I am, I hope.’

  ‘Maybe. We’ve had the results of the DNA analysis for Jetmire Kogan. He’s the older brother of David and Amber, not their father.’

  ‘Pretty much as we expected,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I’ve won my own bet too.’

  ‘Ah, is this the hunch you wouldn’t tell me about?’

  ‘Yes. Peter Young has disappeared.’

  ‘But he’s dead and buried!’

  ‘Dead, yes, but no longer buried. The grave is empty.’

  Chapter 23

  Gillard turned away from the two henchmen and steadied himself against the wall of the nightclub. ‘What are you telling me? Wasn’t he buried just three days ago?’

  ‘Yes, and sometime last night he was dug up from his grave. The coffin is missing.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘You’d better, because he has definitely left Surrey. In fact, as far as I can work out Peter is on his way to you.’ She gave a small laugh.

  Gillard eyed the two Albanians who were staring at him, then walked a few paces away to be doubly sure he could not be overheard. He couldn’t guarantee they didn’t understand English. ‘I really don’t get this, Claire.’

  ‘You may recall that I told you Peter’s widow requested an open coffin. That’s a fair amount of extra work for the funeral home people, with embalming and so forth. That got me thinking, so I went along to see the process, which was fascinating.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Claire, I still don’t see where all this is leading. Why would anybody want to steal Peter Young’s body?’

  ‘I spent a long time with Laura Diaz, Peter’s widow. Both Gabby Underwood and myself felt that she was under some kind of extra pressure, something in addition to the grief she was feeling. We were also pretty sure that she knew something about Peter’s background that she wouldn’t tell us. My guess is that he is part of an important Albanian family.’

  ‘A crime family?’

  ‘That would be my guess. Anyway, the reason I had to keep all this to myself is because I
have rather broken the rules and permitted a small indignity to take place with Peter Young’s body.’

  ‘I can see you’re enjoying this, but go on.’

  ‘When the funeral home technicians briefly stepped out of the room, I took the opportunity to secrete a smartphone into the crotch of his trousers. That phone is linked to mine with an app originally designed to track cheating spouses. But the upshot is that his GPS location is copied to me, and I can see him on a Google map. Peter Young was flown out of Gatwick first thing this morning and arrived in Tirana around ten, local time. Judging by the speed, he was then taken in a vehicle on the highway heading south from Tirana. I’ve texted you the latest coordinates from an hour ago, before the signal went dead.’

  ‘That was an absolutely brilliant piece of intuition, Claire. Were you tempted to ring the phone?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes, that might have been hilarious. But I’ve taken enough liberties as it is. I just thought that as we were having such trouble working out who he really was, the easiest way to be sure is to see who claims him as their own. So on that score I now pass the baton to you, Craig.’

  ‘I have my own troubles at this end,’ Gillard said. ‘I arranged to see a member of the Dragusha clan, but nobody of any significance has turned up and we are basically being kept here at their pleasure. I’ve never experienced anything like it.’ He ended the call and checked his watch.

  Tokaj came up to him. ‘You’re looking worried,’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’

  That was the moment when Gillard realized that he might not be able to fully trust his Albanian liaison officer. ‘It was a lead we were working on that just led to a dead end.’

  Tokaj shrugged. ‘In Albania that is the fate of most leads.’

  They were kept kicking their heels for another three hours until finally, in the cold February dusk, they saw a pair of headlamps in the distance coming towards them at sufficient speed to create a dust trail. The two henchmen turned to watch and their bearing stiffened, proof that they were finally about to meet their contact. A black Mercedes-Benz S-Class coasted to a halt and three men emerged. Two were stone-jawed henchmen, fresh from Hollywood central casting, with the same uniform of black leather jacket, dark trousers, cropped dark hair, sunglasses and white Nike trainers. The third was more slightly built, bespectacled and neatly bearded. He was formally dressed in a black trench coat, black tie and white shirt. His shoes were highly polished. He could have been an after-dinner speaker for some provincial British dinner club.

  ‘Gentlemen, I apologize for keeping you waiting,’ the man said in American- accented English. ‘You can call me Qendrim.’

  Tokaj introduced Gillard, and there followed a short conversation in Albanian.

  ‘I told him that you have some questions about a matter in Britain. He says he will help if he can. We are to go with him.’ Tokaj and Gillard were ushered into the rear of the car, while Qendrim took the front passenger seat. The driver had the same triple-eagle design shaved into his suede-like hair at the back. The two toughs followed in another car, which had been parked around the corner. Black and highly polished, of course.

  Once the car pulled away and there was a rumble of noise inside, Tokaj inclined his head towards Gillard’s. ‘This man is quite senior,’ he whispered. ‘We have done well. He is the numbers man, connected by marriage to the upper levels of the Dragusha clan.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Gillard responded. He had thought carefully about what to ask, and then leaned forward between the two front seats. ‘Qendrim, I’m not here to interfere in your business operations,’ he said. ‘But I have some questions about two murders in the UK. If you can shed any light on these I will be grateful.’

  Qendrim turned in his seat as the car increased speed and left the squalid estate behind. ‘In Albania we don’t like questions. But you are from abroad and you are our guest, so we will indulge you. What are these murders?’

  ‘Last month a young architect of Albanian origin called Peter Young, originally Pjetër Ardian Cela, was shot dead in his office. Just a few days later, on a beach 200 miles away, a second body was found. Jetmire Kogan, who was also Albanian, was executed at point-blank range, and had a brand on his neck that matched your own Dragusha emblem. That same coat of arms was found on what you would call “a monkey” at a place called Colsham Manor, about 30 miles from where the architect was murdered, and where two Albanian orphans were later abducted. We also found near Colsham Manor hollow-point ammunition that matched that used to kill Peter Young.’

  Gillard waited for a response, but there was none forthcoming. Qendrim directed the driver and they took a turning onto another road going through the suburbs of Fier.

  ‘Qendrim, if your family is not involved, then you should know that your family’s coat of arms is being used by someone else.’

  ‘So what is your question?’

  ‘Was your family involved in the murders of Peter Young or Jetmire Kogan?’

  ‘I do not recognise these names,’ Qendrim said, reaching into the glove compartment. Gillard felt Tokaj stiffen in the seat next to him, but when Qendrim turned back to them he had in his hand a bag of boiled sweets, not a gun.

  ‘Have one,’ Qendrim said, helping himself to a sweet, which he rattled around in his mouth. The cloying scent of artificial lemon filled the car.

  Gillard tried variations on the same questions for the next ten minutes as the car was driven sedately through the town. As they approached a roundabout, the traffic already circulating gave way to let them on, and a few minutes later the driver exchanged greetings with a traffic policeman who gave them priority at a junction. Ten minutes later they pulled up outside a hotel in the centre of town. Black cars and people carriers were already parked two deep outside, and on the pavement dozens of fit, sharply dressed men with Dragusha haircuts, sunglasses, black suits and ties acted as doormen, parking valets and security guards. The only women, also in black, were handling large wreaths. Two of the doormen walked out to their car and escorted them to the hotel.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ Gillard asked Tokaj. ‘This looks like a wake. Why have we been brought here?’

  ‘I think he’s trying to make a point,’ the Albanian policeman replied. They were shepherded into a crowded ground-floor restaurant, where more than a hundred men of all ages were seated at six long tables, filled with food and drink. There was a separate salon to one side where a group of about 20 women were taking their places at an oval table.

  Though the meal was clearly underway, Qendrim found places for the two policemen near the top table. Waitresses were summoned, and extra plates of salad, meat, fish and bread were brought to them. Qendrim made some kind of introduction of his police guests to those on either side, and Gillard found himself shaking hands right across the table, as well as with those on either side. No one spoke any English, though one man, whom Tokaj described as a senior local police officer, spoke some Italian which Gillard could vaguely understand.

  ‘Il fratello morto è vissuto a Londra,’ the officer said. ‘The brother who died lived in London. Povero Pjetër,’ the officer added.

  Gillard turned to Tokaj. ‘ Pjetër, that’s Peter Young’s original name.

  The Albanian policeman nodded. ‘He also said that he was a good boy, never in any trouble, unlike some of his brothers.’

  Gillard finally realized. ‘We’re at Peter Young’s wake,’ he said. ‘They stole his body from his grieving widow to bring it home.’

  ‘Albanian blood is thick,’ Tokaj answered.

  ‘They have the nerve to bring us here to participate.’ Gillard shook his head in incredulity. ‘These guys really think they can do anything, don’t they?’

  Tokaj gave him a knowing smile. ‘They can, and they do.’

  The cogs were turning inside Craig Gillard’s brain. If Peter Young was Pjetër Dragusha, then his murder was almost certainly intended as a blow against the Albanian mafia, not a crime by them. The only alternative explanat
ion, that he had in some way crossed his own family and been rubbed out by them, didn’t square with the Dragusha going to so much trouble to retrieve his body.

  Either way, Peter had clearly known for a number of years that he was on the death list. Povero Pjetër, poor Peter. Abroad, unprotected, the black sheep of the Dragusha clan. Claire Mulholland had been spot on when she reckoned that Laura Diaz knew that her husband was living on borrowed time.

  But who would have the nerve to kill a member of the Dragusha? A carefully planned professional hit with hollow-point bullets surely signified some other mafia gang. If so, then the Lund children and Jetmire Kogan might also be members of that rival clan, and like Peter Young, the soft unprotected underbelly. If this was indeed a bitter historic feud, it seemed clear that instead of targeting the mafia bosses, the victims were those most defenceless in each of the warring families.

  Finally, with a glass of raki in his hand, Gillard looked to the top table, where the 16 most senior Dragusha men were seated. ‘Who are they?’ he asked Tokaj.

  Gillard was shushed as a burly moustachioed man at the top table rose to speak. The detective considered trying to take photographs with his phone, but realized that this might enrage the attendees, even though some were themselves taking pictures. It is one thing for family to take a picture, quite another for a police officer from another country, here on official business.

  The man gave a short speech, with pauses during which heads nodded among the assembled throng. Glasses of raki were raised and they all stood to toast those at the top table. Tokaj warned Gillard not to clink glasses with his neighbours, as that was not appropriate at a funeral. Taller than most of those around him, the British detective now had an unrestricted view of the top table.