The Body on the Shore

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

  The Albanian policeman led Gillard further up to the very apex of the hill, and the grandest mausoleum of them all. This was a rococo Catholic edifice, each memorial slab adorned with weeping cherubs and grieving angels, each gilded in gold and silver. But above it was a jet-black basalt carving, 15 feet high, growing from the roof of the mausoleum. From the back it could simply have been an enormous squat angel, but from the front the figure was much clearer: the triple-headed eagle, wings outspread. At this early hour its shadow fell long and dark over many of the surrounding graves. Chiselled into its breast was the single word: Dragusha.

  ‘This is the empire of blood,’ Tokaj said, spreading his hands. ‘Built on violence, extended through marriage, cemented by corruption and bulwarked by fear.’

  Gillard walked around the corner. There was a new grave within the Dragusha complex, still buried under fresh flowers, the notes and the labels neither smeared by rain nor yellowed by sun and time. He moved a vase of sunflowers so that he could see clearly the headstone, fresh and new.

  Pjetër Dragusha.

  1990–2018

  The photograph embossed into the stone was one Gillard recognised. It was one half of a picture of Peter Young and Laura Diaz standing side by side that he had seen on the widow’s sideboard. She had been carefully excised from the picture, just as she had been excised from his life.

  Gillard added his flowers to those already on the grave. The card he had written on one bunch read: ‘On behalf of your grieving widow, Laura, and your children.’ On the other he had written simply: ‘We never give up. We will catch them.’ He signed it on behalf of Surrey Police.

  ‘Do you have any idea who actually killed him?’ Tokaj asked.

  ‘We’ve been through a long list of suspects. One of the strongest remaining theories is that Jetmire Kogan, or perhaps I might venture, Jetmire Kreshnik, killed him and was in turn executed himself.’ What he didn’t say was that it wasn’t clear how Jetmire could have done this. He was pretty sure there were no males on the bus. ‘Perhaps the Dragusha have their own idea who fired the gun?’

  ‘Maybe they do, or maybe they don’t care so long as they can keep killing Kreshniki,’ Tokaj responded.

  ‘I’d like to ask them,’ Gillard said.

  ‘Well, if that is your wish you may even be able to meet the Butcher himself.’

  Friday

  Tarduz prison squats on the side of an ancient mountain in the east of the country, a thirteenth-century Islamic fortress famed for its deep dungeons and the bitter cold that killed so many imprisoned there. Tokaj drove the aged Renault up a steep mountain road in its shadow, towards a tennis court-sized crimson flag bearing in black the Albanian double-headed eagle. Only on the final turn did any element of modernity intrude: the mobile phone mast on the highest tower, the thick coils of razor wire glittering like knives along the battlements, the security Portakabins outside the main doors.

  A bitter breeze blew as they emerged from the car, scattering last year’s leaves and flurries of litter, while the flag above snapped and roared in the wind. Uniformed guards stamped backwards and forwards within granite alcoves while Gillard’s papers were exhaustively checked by bundled bureaucrats within wooden kiosks which boasted their own braziers and aluminium chimneys. Tokaj translated the various questions and finally they were shown through to a cavernous hall, which might once have been the stables of a mighty cavalry regiment. Blackened torch holders still clung to the walls more emphatically than the strip lights which replaced them. A female guard of Soviet appearance, with hewn cheekbones and wearing a greatcoat, arrived with a clipboard, torch and, ominously, a single surgical glove. She guided Gillard to yet another wooden shed. Once inside, and under her basilisk gaze, he was ordered to undress, each hesitation on his part met with the reply: ‘Continue.’ The final indignity, committed brutally with one cold finger within the glove, was the only thing that brought a smile to her face, though not to his. She ticked a box on a clipboard and left Gillard to regain his indignity.

  Five minutes later, after Tokaj had emerged from the same shed, they were led through a long stone corridor, along which dozens of rusting iron doors glowered under the dim wattage of bilious rectangular strip lights. Finally they emerged into a courtyard containing a kitchen garden, and thence followed more medieval byways along the inside of a battlement, finally descending a flight of broad stone stairs. There the female guard, now in grey kidskin gloves, pressed a bell. After three or four minutes the door opened and she spoke with apparent submissiveness to an unseen man. Gillard and Tokaj were ushered into an antechamber where two more guards, with Albanian flag epaulettes on their greatcoats, led them through a sliding steel gate where two large unsmiling men in medical coats stood to meet them. One of the medics explained something in Albanian. ‘We are now going to the recuperation lounge for the prison hospital,’ Tokaj translated. ‘He says we are not to tire out the prisoner.’

  Finally they were led into a modern-looking apartment with a roaring fire in a grate, a large TV, a leather-covered three-piece suite and a picture window with views stretching miles into the valleys.

  ‘Very nice too,’ said Gillard.

  On a wing chair in front of the fire, between a wheezing oxygen machine and a portable drip stand sat a bull-chested slab of a man dressed in prison fatigues. He had Slavic features, steel-grey hair and pale, deep-set eyes. In his glowering presence everyone in the room seemed somehow smaller and less substantial.

  ‘My name is Craig Gillard, I am a detective chief inspector in Surrey Police—’

  The man interrupted him, growling something from beneath his oxygen mask.

  ‘He says he knows who you are,’ Tokaj said.

  The man hauled himself to his feet and stepped forward, a meaty paw extended. The IV lines tautened and the oxygen tube stretched until he pulled the mask from his face. ‘I am Vjosa,’ he rasped in guttural English. He swallowed Gillard’s right hand in his own and shook it with surprising vigour. ‘You look who kill my son?’

  ‘Yes, but I hope you might be able to help me.’ He explained about the murder of Jetmire Kogan on a beach in Lincolnshire, and how the police thought this was linked to the feud between the Dragusha and the Kreshniki.

  He hadn’t finished when Vjosa began to laugh, a deep belly laugh that soon dissolved into a bout of coughing that required him to sit and take a deep draught of oxygen from the mask. Eventually he quietened, and his pale eyes narrowed.

  ‘There is no feud between Dragusha and Kreshniki. Because there are no Kreshniki.’ He turned his baleful stare upon Tokaj and ordered: ‘Explain him.’

  Tokaj replied in Albanian, and then turned to Gillard. ‘I told him that I already explained to you about the erasure of the Kreshniki crime family and the loss of their businesses to Mr Vjosa Dragusha and his family.’

  ‘So you had nothing to do with the killing of Mr Kogan?’ Gillard asked.

  Tokaj translated, and the crime boss merely shook his head as he was dragged into another bout of coughing. Eventually it subsided. ‘You work for me? You find killer, you are my friend. You are friend of all Dragusha.’ He took a deep suck of oxygen. ‘You get nosy, you ask too many questions about my business, then I am not your friend.’ The eyes locked on to Gillard’s. ‘Not friend to you, not friend to your wife Samantha, not friend to her parents.’ He broke off as if concentrating. ‘In Kes-wick in Lake District, with nice dog, Boris. You understand?’

  Gillard’s throat dried up. This dying man, barely able to breathe, had the nerve to casually threaten his family and the power to know he would get away with it. Anger flared in the detective’s heart, stronger now than fear. For a moment he didn’t trust himself to speak, but an important question still needed to be asked.

  ‘Have you or your family had anything to do with the threats made against Dag and Sophie Lund, and their two young children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Really? Your personal emblem was sprayed onto their home, and a ma
n who appears to be your son Nikolai broke into their home.’

  The big man’s face darkened behind the oxygen mask, from pink to purple, and his eyes narrowed. He tore the mask off and leapt to his feet, shouting. The IV machine was jerked from its moorings and tipped onto the floor where it emitted an electronic shriek. One medic steadied the prisoner while the other turned to Gillard and said in English. ‘Go, quickly.’

  The crime boss’s mottled, porcine face had threads of drool dripping from his thick dark lips. He said something slowly and emphatically in Albanian, and then suffered another bout of coughing. Tokaj, who had shrunk into the corner, guided Gillard out, translating the Butcher’s words as he left. ‘He said “If you haven’t learnt to be afraid, we do free lessons for beginners.”’

  * * *

  They drove back in silence on roads slick with sleet, flecks peppering the windscreen, accompanied by the rhythmic lament of the wipers. At Tokaj’s house, Gillard was fed a hearty home-made soup, full of chunks of lamb and root vegetables. Leila seemed to pick up the gloomy atmosphere and quickly withdrew, leaving the two detectives, the remains of a bottle of wine and two glasses of raki between them.

  ‘I’m shocked that he was able to find out so much about my family,’ Gillard said.

  ‘The Dragusha have money. They can get anything done. That is what you have to understand.’

  Gillard’s phone rang. It was Geoff Meadows. After a brief greeting Meadows said: ‘I’m in Vlorë, just off the ferry from Italy, but a day and a half behind Zerina Moretti. She left her Hyundai in the ferry terminal car park at Brindisi, and boarded as a foot passenger with two children who, according to the passports presented, were her own. I don’t have time or the contacts to try to find out whether she hired a car here or not.’

  ‘Okay. We’ve got the details of her bank cards from the Italian police. If she has hired a car it should flag up at the credit card-issuing bank in Italy, but it may take a day or two to show.’

  ‘That’s too slow,’ Meadows said. ‘From what I remember there is no ANPR system in Albania, so even if we get the registration number we’d be struggling. Besides, someone may have come and given her a lift.’

  ‘Any idea where she might be heading?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘Well, I tried to squeeze every bit of information out of Sophie Lund that I could about the aunt’s background. She claims to have grown up in the Accursed Mountains in the far north, which is a day-long drive from here. Mrs Lund can’t remember if any town or village was ever mentioned. It would help if we had the aunt’s maiden name, which locals might remember. Without some kind of pointers we are going to be stuck. She could be staying in any kind of rural dwelling, and the area involved is enormous – hundreds of square miles of snow-covered mountains and barely passable roads.’

  ‘Look,’ said Gillard. ‘I’ll see if I can persuade the Albanian police to get to work on this, even though Mount Browne hasn’t yet managed to file a European Arrest Warrant.’

  ‘Well, that wouldn’t be much help here anyway. Although Albania has an extradition treaty with the UK, they are not signatories to the European Arrest Warrant,’ Meadows said. ‘In the meantime I’m going to tap my own sources. I’ve hired a car and I’ll be up in Shkoder for a couple of days, which is the nearest big city to the mountains. I’ll let you know if I make any progress.’

  ‘Okay,’ Gillard said. ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘Speak soon,’ Meadows said and hung up.

  He was wrong. They would never speak again.

  Chapter 25

  Late that evening Gillard sat in the tiny attic bedroom of Tokaj’s home, watching the snow settling gradually in the garden. Something about his experience in the prison at Tarduz had made him miss his wife very much. They hadn’t yet been married for a year, but their bond was deep. He didn’t want to terrify her by mentioning the threats that the Butcher of Fier had made, but he realized he could hardly avoid the subject either. He rang her, and spent the first few minutes telling her how much she meant to him.

  ‘That’s very sweet, Craig,’ Sam responded warily. ‘Has something happened? Are you okay?’

  Only a year, and he realized how well she could read him. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘So have you found the missing kids? The TV news said they were in Italy.’

  ‘They were, but now we think they’re here in Albania.’

  ‘Albania? Oh my God, their mother must be desperately worried.’

  ‘I’m sure she is,’ Gillard responded. ‘And she doesn’t know the half of it. I have to say that we are getting into some very deep water here, with a very nasty organized crime syndicate.’

  ‘Oh, Craig. I knew something was up the moment I heard your voice. Please, please look after yourself.’

  ‘I will. I’m big enough and ugly enough to take care of myself. But I’d just like you to take some basic precautions too.’

  ‘Craig, what are you telling me?’

  ‘I can’t go into details, but I think it might be a good idea if you took a few days away, perhaps with your parents.’

  She laughed. ‘They wouldn’t want to go. The weather is crap here. Besides, I’m not even sure I could get the time off at such short notice.’

  ‘I don’t know, a city break somewhere? It’s just an idea. I’m going to get some of the uniforms to swing by every day or two, just to check you’re okay.’

  ‘Now you’re really scaring me, Craig. Trust me with the truth, okay?’

  So he did. He told her about his meeting with the Butcher of Fier, and the mention of Sam and her parents, even the dog. Full credit to Sam, she’d worked around the police for long enough to keep her cool. There was no panicked shrieking, just a sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line.

  ‘But the guy, the one who made the threat, is in jail?’ she asked, in a small voice. She was grasping at straws.

  ‘Technically, yes. He’s dying of lung cancer, but is not dead yet. So he is a patient in the prison hospital, but I think he has everything he needs to continue running his illicit businesses. When you’re as powerful as him, in jail, out of jail, it makes no difference. He’s too sick to come and go as he pleases anyway, but he has every other freedom. Look, don’t tell your mother…’

  Sam laughed. ‘Well, obviously. She would have hysterics.’

  ‘If you have any worries, ring Claire. She’s got the clout she needs.’ As he hung up he had a horrible premonition. Something was about to go very wrong. He could hear Tokaj snoring in the other room. Like the slow, deliberate sawing of wood.

  Saturday

  Craig was awakened by the deafening ring of Tokaj’s landline from the other room. It was still dark, just after three in the morning. His heart was already beating hard when the Albanian policeman rapped twice on his door and came in with a grim expression on his face. ‘You need to get up,’ he said. ‘I have some bad news.’ Tokaj was already wearing a shirt and trousers, rapidly buttoning them up as he talked

  ‘What happened?’ Gillard asked, throwing off the covers. Please don’t let it be Sam, he thought. Please, not Sam.

  ‘There has been an accident involving your colleague Mr Meadows. We should go.’

  ‘Oh Christ. Is he okay?’

  Tokaj shook his head. ‘From what I heard, I would expect the worst. It looks to have been a head-on collision with a truck on the main road between Berat and Fier.’

  That was several hours away to the south. Gillard persuaded the Albanian cop, whose breath still smelt of raki, to let him drive the first stint. The old Renault wasn’t a four-wheel-drive but had snow tyres, which proved essential in making their way onto the main road. Tokaj gave directions, but spent most of the time on the phone to headquarters, while Gillard squinted through the driving snow and the wailing wipers to pick out a path in the beam of the headlights.

  After a 20-minute call, Tokaj hung up and turned to the British detective, who was waiting in a line of cars to pass a snowbound lorry. ‘The car fe
ll down an embankment and almost slid into a reservoir. They can now confirm your colleague was found dead inside the vehicle,’ Tokaj said. ‘I’m sorry, Craig. I know that you knew him well.’

  ‘I did. And his wife, Maddy, and their three grown-up kids. He was one of the good ones. Smart, fearless when necessary, but also cautious. A very good brain, and lots and lots of experience. Experience we need.’

  ‘Only God knows why these things happen,’ Tokaj said.

  ‘I only hope we can put it down to God,’ Gillard said, wrestling with a wheel to get traction on a particularly slippery slope. He had no idea if these roads were gritted. He had only seen one snowplough, half off the road in a particularly deep drift, its crew standing around a glowing brazier in their high-vis jackets, toasting with raised plastic cups every vehicle that passed.

  It took three hours of careful driving to reach the site of the crash. Gillard was surprised that this particular piece of road had been where Meadows met his end. It was a relatively modern carriageway, a fast sweeping curve with good visibility. On the generous hard shoulder, which overlooked an enormous U-shaped reservoir, there were three police vehicles, a recovery truck and a badly damaged fuel tanker.

  Tokaj got out and went to speak to one of the officers. Gillard, scarecrow-like in borrowed woolly hat and wellingtons, was introduced to them, and then ignored. Seeing how badly stoved-in the front of the lorry was, it looked to Gillard to have been a high-speed impact. Meadows’s car was on its roof, a hundred yards down the slope towards the water, and from the path carved through the snow seemed to have made most of that journey upside down. His stomach turned over when he contemplated what Meadows would have felt in those last few desperate moments. The British detective felt for his torch and made his way down carefully through partially flattened weeds, mud and slush to Meadows’s vehicle, a Citroën C4. The roof had been squashed on one side and the windscreen smashed. The driver-side door was gone, presumably cut away some time earlier to get him out. Snow had already begun to accumulate on the underside of the roof, stained pink from the blood it had absorbed. Gillard squatted and shone the torch around the crumpled interior. The remnants of the airbag, cut to allow the body to be removed, hung down like a shroud and the seat, upside down and above him, was ripped. On it there was hair and blood and burn marks, the latter presumably from the emergency service’s cutting equipment. But it was the other side of the car that interested him. In the passenger-side window, on the lowest part, there was a neat, round hole with a margin of impact frosting around it.