The Body on the Shore

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

  As they walked out, Tokaj said: ‘I didn’t actually ring him. That was the speaking clock. I didn’t want to take the chance of him saying no.’

  ‘That’s very naughty,’ Gillard said. ‘The poor woman will probably get into trouble.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s not her fault but theirs. It’s what happens when you think football is more important than your job.’

  * * *

  Later that evening the two detectives sat in their hotel room eating a takeaway pizza. Under Gillard’s expert manipulation, the satnav device revealed the details of Meadows’s journey on his first and last fateful day in Albania. There were two locations of interest. One, as Gillard had anticipated, was in Fier and the other in Shkoder. The phone, too, yielded secrets. The call log showed Meadows had indeed rung the mysterious number in his notebook, the same mobile phone number on which Zerina Moretti had left a message. Geoff had called it on half a dozen occasions, the first call being at 2 p.m. on the day he died, less than half an hour after the satnav recorded the start of his second journey from Fier to Shkoder. It did sound like this was the crucial number gleaned from the meeting in Fier.

  With no better way of doing it, Gillard simply emailed from Meadows’s phone to his own every piece of potentially useful data. That included every non-police number called, the last three days of his email inbox and sent box, plus copying every outgoing and incoming text and their times. It was fiddly, and took nearly an hour.

  ‘You know, Besin, we have a machine in Surrey called the Accesso Kiosk. You just stick the SIM card in and it retrieves not only the metadata, but most of the actual data sent or received. Wish we had one here.’

  Tokaj smiled and took another bite of his pizza. ‘First thing tomorrow we should go back to Fier.’

  ‘But we still don’t have the exact address,’ Gillard responded.

  ‘Maybe not, but Meadows called four phone numbers before that first journey to Fier was complete, and not afterwards,’ Tokaj said. ‘So whoever he met in Fier should correspond to one of those.’

  Gillard shrugged. ‘We still don’t know who we’re trying to meet or why. If it’s a long-standing contact of Geoff’s, they may not even want to speak to us. They may be too afraid.’

  Tokaj grinned, helping himself to the last slice of pizza. ‘Or too dead.’

  * * *

  Sunday morning dawned with the sound of church bells. Gillard showered and prepared himself for the drive back to the home turf of the Dragusha. While shaving, a phrase kept circling in his head. I have nothing to fear but Fier itself. He thought of Geoff, and his family. His reverie was broken by an exclamation from the bedroom. He guessed that what he was hearing was Albanian swearing.

  He popped his head through from the bathroom: ‘Banged your head?’

  ‘No.’ Tokaj put down the phone. ‘I don’t believe this. Vjosa Dragusha had a stroke on the night after we visited, then his kidneys failed on Friday. The Butcher of Fier is dead.’

  ‘So that’s the secret that Mr Zok and his crew have been sitting on for the last couple of days,’ Gillard said. ‘No wonder we can’t get anything done.’

  ‘The funeral will be tomorrow. In Fier.’

  ‘Monday? So soon?’

  ‘Yes, this is the Albanian way.’

  ‘The Angel of Death will be there?’

  ‘Of course. Everybody will be there: the entire family, those who do business with them, those who work for them, and those who wish to show respect. Which is all of the above. You will never have seen anything like this.’

  ‘It’s a great opportunity. I need to speak to him. I need to question him.’

  Tokaj stared at Gillard as if the British detective seemed incapable of learning. ‘I know we have other reasons to go to Fier. But from this event, Craig, I would stay away, honestly. You would not be welcome. There will be those who blame you for his death, even though he was dying anyway. They will remember your face, believe me.’

  By mid-morning they were in Fier. Following the satnav they parked in the same road where Geoff Meadows had parked three days earlier. They had expected a residential street, but in fact it was adjacent to a high wall on one side and a park on the other. The trees were bare, and patches of snow obscured much of the ground. No doubt in summer it was a beautiful place to spend time. At the centre of the park was a circular wooden café. Gillard approached. There were half a dozen people inside, well wrapped up and enjoying the benefits of two big portable heaters. Outside, stacks of chairs and tables leaned against a wall, awaiting warmer days.

  Returning to the car, Gillard worked his phone, looking again through each of the emails that he had copied from Meadows’s phone. Several were to Albanian police contacts, some of whom Tokaj knew of. One was to the same orphanage in Shkoder they had already visited. But none of these referred to a visit in Fier, nor directly to any presumed location of Zerina Moretti or the children. Tokaj meanwhile rang each of the numbers that Meadows had called on the last morning of his life. He left messages on two of the numbers and got answered on two. One of those turned out to be a garage and the other an elderly man who seemed to be hard of hearing. He had not heard of Geoff Meadows, and seemed alarmed when Tokaj identified himself as being from the police.

  ‘We are getting nowhere,’ Tokaj said.

  ‘I just wonder,’ Gillard said. Working his phone, he found on Google a photograph of Geoff Meadows from a news item about his death. ‘Come with me.’ He walked back into the café and up to the slender middle-aged woman serving at the counter. Tokaj translated Gillard’s question: ‘Do you work here every day?’ She nodded. ‘Did you see this man in here last Thursday?’ She looked at the photograph and smiled. ‘Ah! Anglisht.’ Even Gillard could understand that: English. The woman said that the Englishman had sat with one of her regular customers, a middle-aged local lady. He had left a large tip, which still apparently made the waitress smile.

  Gillard could feel the excitement bubbling up inside him. He flicked through his phone until he found a picture of Zerina Moretti. ‘Was it her?’

  The waitress looked for a long time, inclining her head left and right as if to indicate doubt. ‘Maybe, maybe not,’ was Tokaj’s translated answer.

  ‘Were there children with her?’

  ‘She says no.’

  Further questioning of the waitress, and the purchase of some pastries, produced more information. The woman whom Meadows had met had come in once or twice a month since the waitress had started working there six months ago. Gillard left her with his phone number in case the woman should come in again, and deposited an obscenely large tip, prompting a gasp from the waitress. He promised her twice that amount if she rang him when the woman arrived. She beamed like it was Christmas.

  When they were outside Tokaj said: ‘Craig, that was a mistake. That tip was too big. It may not be so much in Britain but it is a month’s money here. For certain, she will be too excited to keep her mouth closed. If the woman does come in, this waitress will think she has won the lottery. I wouldn’t be surprised if she does a little jig.’

  Craig acknowledged his error. If someone with the experience of Geoff Meadows, someone who spoke the language, had come unstuck here in Albania, it was no surprise that he was having difficulties.

  Chapter 28

  Monday

  It was snowing the morning that they buried the Butcher of Fier. The ceremony was taking place at the Catholic cathedral in the centre of the city, but as Tokaj had predicted, the police had been warned to stay away. So Gillard and Tokaj were parked on the road opposite the cemetery where so many Dragusha were already interred, awaiting the arrival of the cortège.

  At 11.22 a.m. they spotted a black Mercedes saloon leading a procession of dark vehicles along the slushy main road from the centre of Fier. On its radiator grille was a black-framed portrait of the Butcher, and from its rear window fluttered a triangular pennant bearing the Dragusha insignia. As the car drew level, the two policemen were eyed suspiciously by
the four shaven-headed men inside. This car was merely the first in an endless procession of black, highly polished vehicles, each carrying four or five intimidating-looking men, many of them wearing sunglasses. Some of the cars had full-size Dragusha flags tucked into their bonnets, others had smaller pennants or flags stuck against the windows. The eleventh was a hearse, laden with flowers, and with a large, black-framed portrait of Vjosa Dragusha along the side. Another three hearses were behind it, the middle one bearing the coffin of the head of the family. For half an hour cars passed, each of them full of the foot soldiers of surely one of the largest crime organizations in Europe. Gillard stopped counting at 89 vehicles, but still they kept coming.

  ‘Where will they all park?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘They’ll just take over the street,’ Tokaj said. ‘No one will complain, I can assure you. They will probably use the south gate where there is more space.’

  The cortège passed the main gates of the graveyard and continued down the road south of it. Towards the tail end, there were buses, draped in flags from the windows. Most of the red velvet curtains inside were drawn but, where Gillard could see inside, he spotted the first female faces. There were three more buses, several people carriers, taxis and a collection of older vehicles, not all of them black. Gillard roughly calculated that there must be 1,200 to 1,500 people who had come to pay their respects. This wasn’t a family, it was an army. When the final vehicle had passed, Tokaj looked at his passenger and asked: ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘I certainly am.’

  Gillard had borrowed a dark tie from Tokaj. Both policeman, now formally dressed in black, with heavy overcoats, crossed over to the far side of the road, where a gaggle of pedestrian mourners were walking along to the south gate. These people were generally middle-aged or elderly, less well-dressed and less affluent than those who had passed in the vehicles. As Tokaj had explained, every business owner, every neighbour, anyone who paid dues to the Dragusha was expected to be there.

  As they arrived at the south gate, they saw a very large crowd, umbrellas braced against the snow and wind, queuing to be let in. Beefy-looking men in overcoats, their shoulders dusted with snowflakes, were checking clipboards and directing entry with the same kind of speed and efficiency that could be expected at an open-air rock concert. Many of them had walkie-talkies, while a more elite group of sunglassed heavies inside the gates had earpieces.

  ‘They’re taking no chances,’ Tokaj said. ‘I’d thought we might be able to mingle with the crowd, but it’s clear this event has been planned for a long time, and is being carefully supervised.’

  Policed to keep out the police, Gillard thought. ‘What about going back to the main entrance?’ he asked.

  ‘No, they will have that covered.’

  As they watched, the crowd parted for a group of pallbearers, all at least six feet tall, bearing an enormous white casket draped in the black, red and gold flag of the Dragusha. Mounted on top of the coffin was a golden figurine, fully 18 inches high and three feet across, depicting the clan’s triple-headed eagle. It was surrounded by wreaths of red and yellow roses, and dark tulips. No expense had been spared. A group of black-clad women trailed behind, wailing and crying. The double gates of the cemetery were swung fully open and, on the broad shoulders of eight big men, the coffin began to ascend the steps which led up to the crown of the hill. So steep did these steps become that the pallbearers struggled to keep the giant coffin stable and the wreaths of roses had to be removed from the coffin top.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ Tokaj said.

  They skirted the crowd, moving further along the fat end of the teardrop-shaped cemetery. They arrived at the far west end, where an elderly woman in a narrow wooden kiosk, surrounded by flowers and wreaths for sale, kept watch over a pedestrian gate. The ornate iron gate was locked, and almost as high as the ten-foot stone walls that girded the graveyard.

  Tokaj had a word with the woman, and after two minutes’ conversation produced something from the inside of his coat pocket and passed it through the window to her. She shuffled out, bent and bowlegged, and pulled her grey knitted shawl tightly around her head and body. She produced a key and unlocked the padlock which held the gate, and ushered them in. The door was closed and padlocked behind them.

  ‘How much did that cost?’ Gillard asked.

  ‘Not much to you or me. But a week’s pay to her. It is enough.’

  ‘I hope she’s going to let us out if we need to escape in a hurry. I don’t think I could squeeze underneath.’

  Tokaj smiled enigmatically. Ahead of them was a steep and overgrown path climbing through an older and congested part of the graveyard, where headstones had begun to tilt and the moss and lichen had begun to reclaim the memories of man for nature. They moved gradually up the slope, past tall and untrimmed cypress trees, whose branches were now beginning to gather snow. A crowd had begun to assemble around the Dragusha mausoleum at the apex of the hill. The two policemen stayed 30 yards back and watched as families, with black-clad children in tow, joined the throng. A lot of the younger mourners had their smartphones out, either for selfies or to video the growing congregation. There was one gaggle of primary-school-age children where two little girls had Dragusha-patterned helium balloons, emblazoned with the triple eagle. A girl of perhaps 16 stood nearby, with her dark hair carefully plaited, wearing a severe dark dress and a woollen shawl, as if she was preparing to be a grandmother. Holding her hand was a boy, half her age, neatly suited and hugging a large teddy bear. He had a Dragusha symbol razor-cut into his severely shaven hair. Poor kid, Gillard thought, already on the mafia ladder.

  From their vantage point behind an obelisk the two detectives had a partial view of the mausoleum, and could see a bishop standing above the crowd with a gold-embroidered mitre and a full, dark beard. His billowing white robes were held in place by a gold and purple chasuble, and he held in his hand an enormous bible, its gilt-edged pages fluttering in the breeze. He began to address the crowd over a public address system. The tannoy echoed around the gravestones, and though Gillard could understand not a word, the emphatic proclamations and the responses from the crowd made it feel more like a 1930s political rally than a eulogy.

  Creeping forward, he hoped to spot Nikolai Dragusha, the most murderous of the Butcher’s sons. Where better to find the Angel of Death than at the burial of a mass murderer? With all eyes now on the bishop, Gillard and Tokaj were able to gradually ease their way through the crowd. They passed one of the earpieced henchmen without incident while he was photographing the casket on a smartphone. Gillard could now see clearly to where the priest was directing his impassioned and fiery speech. To his left, staring down, were three or four men that he recognised from the wake last week. One of them, wearing small round sunglasses, his wavy hair anointed with snowflakes, was Nikolai. The British detective was now within three rows of the front of the crowd. The only way to get a better view was to climb on the plinth of a neighbouring monument. But to do so would risk attracting attention. While he considered this, he sensed in his peripheral vision that he was being scrutinized. A man to his left was whispering in the ear of one of the security guards and pointing in his direction. Gillard had hoped to get close enough to Nikolai Dragusha to ask him some questions once the formalities had finished, but this was now looking to be a very high-risk enterprise.

  The bishop was clearly rounding off his eulogy, and must have called on the congregation to pray, because every head dipped. As the ecclesiastical voice softened, intoning requests for a blessed passage into the afterlife, the snow began in earnest. Big fat flakes fell in hair and eyelashes as the deep grinding sound of the opening of the mausoleum began, picked up by the priest’s microphone and magnified to a thunderous roar across the snowscape. Gillard picked his moment to move onto the adjacent plinth, out of sight of the two men who had been looking at him. It also gave him a tremendous view of the casket, lying on an ornate metal trestle, and the two men hard at work on metal
handles, winding open the slabs that covered the maw of the tomb. Half a dozen coffins were visible, stacked either side of a dark sepulchre and a wooden ladder, carefully manoeuvred by the pallbearers so they could get inside to receive the body of the Butcher.

  What evil lies in that pit, Gillard thought. I hope he goes straight to hell.

  At that moment the prayer finished. The Angel of Death, standing opposite Gillard, raised his gilded, snow-dusted head and locked eyes with him. Nikolai Dragusha had a pale, feminine face and almost colourless eyes, but his crimson rosebud of a mouth was twisted, as if unsure whether to express pain or pleasure. Gillard could see why Amber Lund thought she was looking at an angel. Recognition bloomed in Nikolai, a slight, cruel smile and a single raised eyebrow.

  Gillard realized his predicament. At least 200 armed gangsters surrounded him. He had nothing to defend himself with.

  Nikolai turned his head to talk to an associate, but kept his gaze sideways on Gillard.

  What happened in the next two seconds would be burned into Gillard’s memory for the rest of his life.

  There was a ‘pop’ sound like a bottle top being removed from a beer, and Nikolai’s coat, jacket and chest erupted, gore flying in all directions. A gasp from the crowd was cut by a second identical sound, then a ricochet of metal on stone. The Angel of Death twisted and fell, tumbling onto his father’s coffin and then into the open mausoleum. The bishop, his vestments spattered with blood, wailed into his microphone, a bellowing ululation that seemed to tear open the sky. The crowd panicked, pushing back from the open grave. Gillard dived down behind the granite crucifix of the grave where he stood, and realizing that he too was peppered with blood. He couldn’t see Tokaj, but he could see some of the Dragusha security detail, guns drawn, looking wildly for suitable targets, then pointing away down the hill to the entrance they had entered by.

  Gunshots rang out, which seemed to Gillard excuse enough to dive for cover, then crawl away from trouble down the narrow gap between these elaborate tombs, towards the cemetery’s main entrance. He had barely a chance to process what he had just seen, but he was now clear that the Angel of Death had been shot, and by a silenced weapon. Only the ricochet had given it away. First Peter Young, now Nikolai Dragusha. Perhaps the Kreshniki were not as dead as they had assumed.