by RJ Bailey
And Jess? What about her? Where was she in this turf war? The thought of her being mixed up in this made me furious, and I raised my voice a little more than was prudent. ‘And you don’t do anything? Even though you know who runs the drugs gangs? What kind of police force do you have here?’
He looked irritated at that. ‘The Narcotics Suppression Bureau do a good job. We arrest men like Moorby. You know him?’ I shook my head and it hurt. ‘Jonathon Moorby. Big drug lord in the UK. We arrested him here. We arrest Russian, Thai, Vietnamese, Burmese. We put farangs in jail as a warning to others. Ten, twenty years. And then the next lot of dealers come. You know why?’ He didn’t wait for a reply this time. ‘Because your children come here and expect drugs. Come to Thailand, get high, dance. It is supply and demand. And where there is easy money, you get war. We have war now. Thanks to your husband.’
‘ ’Ex-husband. You’ll arrest him?’
‘For being blown up? Is that a crime? Not even here. We’ll arrest him when we catch him red-handed.’ He hesitated. ‘Sorry. That sounded like a sick joke.’
‘Will they be able to fix his hand?’
‘Doctors say maybe, yes.’
‘And Nate?’ I asked again.
‘We shall see.’
‘I have to find my daughter. Jess. She’ll be alone. Somewhere on the island.’
‘You have to make a formal statement before you can go anywhere. Police. NSB.’
‘So, can you pick her up and bring her here?’
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know,’ I snapped. ‘Matt knows. And I need to know she’s safe from . . . from this shit.’
‘I see. I can make a telephone call to his police guard. See if he can speak. But he might be in the operating theatre.’
‘If you could, please, I’d be grateful.’
He didn’t move. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Five Families plus corrupt police. That made six mafia clans on the islands.
‘Very grateful.’ I reached off the bed to my bag, found my purse and, once my head had stopped doing its merry-go-round number, pulled out a hundred US. ‘I’m sure those trunk calls are expensive.’
‘I think you have the wrong idea about the Royal Thai Police,’ he said, waving the money away. ‘I am just trying to decide whether I believe your story.’
‘Look in the bag.’ I couldn’t risk that journey over the side of the bed again. The room was still spinning.
He did so, and found the pictures of Jess, Jess with me, Jess with me and Matt, and the ones Jess had sent from Bali to her friends, the set that had been dredged from the internet for me. His expression softened. ‘Very well. I’ll see what we can do.’
He left the room. I don’t know how long he was gone, but I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the thump coming from behind the dressing on my forehead, and that little hammer in my temple.
I snapped my eyes open when he returned. He looked grave. ‘I have some bad news. About your friend.’
‘Segal?’
A nod. ‘I’m afraid he died on the operating table.’
I slumped back and closed my eyes. More collateral damage. I doubt you could call Nate Segal an innocent bystander. Anyone who had been in Mossad was hardly that. But it was my fault that he had died.
‘And something else.’
I sat up again.
‘I spoke to your husband just before he was put under. Your daughter is not on Koh Samui.’
That was good, at least she wasn’t caught in drug-war crossfire. But, of course, it was bad because I was in the wrong place. ‘What? Then where the fuck is she?’ I saw the look of distaste on his face at my profanity and naked anger. I had lost face. ‘I’m sorry. Where is she?’
‘At the International School in Bangkok. She boards there.’
I felt a wave of relief. Matt had done something sensible for once. Parked her out of harm’s way.
‘I put in a call to the school,’ the captain continued. ‘And I spoke to the headmistress.’
‘She’s OK?’
‘Jess was picked up by a friend of her father’s earlier today. He had a letter of authority.’
There is something called a ketamine hole, or K-hole; a pit of horror and despair that opens up and swallows the unfortunate drug-dabbler when they overindulge. It is a cruel, frightening and dark place, and comes with a side order of out-of-body experiences and hallucinations, and something much like that gaped beneath as I processed his words. ‘Friend of her father’s’, my arse. I knew who had Jess.
Bojan.
PART THREE
‘Endure and persist. This pain will turn to good by and by’
THIRTY-FOUR
‘She tried to tear his hand off, apparently,’ said Freddie as she eased the cork out of a bottle of wine. She and Nina were in the kitchen of Freddie’s place in North London, the bi-fold doors pulled open even though there was an autumnal chill in the air and the leaves on the trees were brittle and quivering, ready for the fall.
‘Isn’t it a little early for that?’ Nina asked as Freddie moved over to the central island, dragging her boot slightly along the slate floor. It was four in the afternoon. Nina had left the newspaper early – she had been writing a feature on why women should adopt men’s multi-watch habit. It made her want to pluck her eyes out. She would have come anyway once Freddie had told her Sam was home. But the added incentive of passing over the puff piece to someone else gave her extra wings.
‘I need this,’ Freddie said as she put her lips to the glass.
‘Anyway, you were saying. Sam attacked Matt?’
Freddie nodded while she swallowed. ‘Snuck out the hospital, took a cab to the one where he had been treated, jumped on his bed and tried to pull off the hand they had just sewn back on. Broke his nose as well.’
‘Jesus,’ said Nina.
‘At least he was in hospital where they could fix it.’
‘Is that meant to be funny?’ Nina asked.
‘None of this is funny. I wish it was.’
‘I wish it were.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Sorry. And then what?’
Freddie poured out a generous measure of wine and slid the glass to Nina, who, despite her earlier protestations, took a sip. ‘And then they arrested her for assault. But even they realised that she was not a well woman. She was put in a secure wing of the hospital, pending psychiatric reports.’
Now Nina took a larger mouthful of wine. ‘Oh, sweet Lord. It gets better. So how did you get her home?’
‘Letter from a private doctor saying she will receive treatment. I sent Tom out to fetch her.’
‘Tom?’ Nina said witheringly. ‘I thought she and Tom had parted. After the rape business.’
‘Well, we don’t know that Leka was telling the truth about that, do we? For some reason, Sam chose to believe the word of an Albanian people-trafficker over her friend. Look, it needed to be a familiar face and . . .’
‘Ach, I would have gone,’ said Nina, her Scottish accent suddenly stronger.
‘And I would have gone but for this boot. But, sadly, even in this day and age, I think it had to be a man. They have more authority out there. Yes, yes, I know it sucks, but this wasn’t the time to take a feminist stand. He did well to get her out.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Tom? He’s staying in a Premier Inn. We’re still not sure whether Leka, or the wife, are out to get him.’
‘I thought you had taken care of that?’
Freddie shrugged. ‘Fuck knows. Unlike Sam, I don’t buy anything Leka says.’
Nina worked on the wine some more. ‘She’s not been well for a while, has she? Sam, I mean.’
Freddie gave a thin smile at the understatement. It was wiped off by the dash of vitriol that followed.
‘But still you let her run off to Albania, Bali, God knows where . . .’
That stung. ‘Hold on. Nobody lets Sam do anything. My role was to act as wing woman, to have her back . . .�
� Freddie stopped. While she was with her in Albania and France, Freddie had felt she had a degree of control. That what they were doing at least had a certain logic. And justification. Doubts about Sam only crept in when she told her what she had done to Aja. And how she had treated Nate Segal when he was on her side. But by that point, Freddie was powerless to help. Finding Matt and still losing Jess had been the final crack in Sam’s mental firewall.
Certainly, the woman she had picked up at the airport was a husk of the old Sam. She had suffered some sort of mental implosion. Tom had got the full story from a police captain in Koh Samui. Bojan, or his representative, had picked up Jess from her school and disappeared. A police alert was put out once it became clear it was a kidnap, but to no avail.
Sam’s breakdown was probably triggered by this realisation: if Sam had left well alone, Jess would still be fine. She only came on Bojan’s radar when she hired Oktane to intimidate Leka. It was Sam’s actions that had led Bojan to Jess. She could blame Matt all she wanted, but the truth was that stubborn, impetuous Sam had pushed the dominos that resulted in Bojan having Jess.
‘You thought about sectioning her?’ asked Nina.
‘If she was violent or a danger to herself, the doctor said the police could give her a Section 136, which would restrict her to a place of safety, like here, until a mental assessment is carried out. As it is, he thought, you know, time is the great healer. Maybe we wouldn’t need a Section 136, or a 135, which is more drac-whatsit, apparently. Draconian?’ Nina nodded. ‘He reckoned we should wait and see. Although, I don’t think the doc quite grasped what was likely to happen to Jess.’
‘And what do you think will happen?’ Nina asked.
‘I think Bojan is the kind of guy who will let us know exactly what happens to her.’ She shivered at the thought and crossed the room to close the bi-folds, even though it wasn’t the breeze causing the chill. ‘He is a right cunt. The worst.’
‘I’m sure. But I meant with Sam.’
‘Oh. As I said, she’s sedated and sleeping. Christ, I think she would prefer to stay like that. Otherwise she’ll have to face up to what’s happened.’ What might have happened and what probably will happen.
‘Shit.’
Freddie topped up the glasses. ‘Never mind shit, Nina. We have to do something.’
‘Like what?’
‘I was hoping you’d have some ideas.’
‘Me? You’re the action woman.’
‘And you’re the shit-hot investigative journalist.’
‘Not any longer. Wristwatches, puppies and celebs, me. I think I’ve forgotten everything I knew.’
‘Learn again,’ snapped Freddie.
‘What about all your contacts in the bodyguarding business? I thought you had the SAS on speed dial.’
Freddie ignored the jibe. ‘I spoke to the Colonel. The Israeli who died in the explosion was the son of a close friend. I don’t think he feels like sending any more sacrificial lambs.’
Even though Sam couldn’t have known about the drug feuds or the bomb in the bike, the Colonel still blamed her erratic behaviour for Nate Segal’s death. It was hard to argue with his assessment.
‘He won’t help at all?’ asked Nina.
‘He said something like: If Bojan has the girl it is game over. Close the file and move on.’
‘He sounds like a nice bloke.’
‘He has, or had, a soft spot for Sam. But that only goes so far. There’s been a lot of fallout. Some of the things she’s done . . .’ Freddie shook her head slowly. ‘I know she’s been under a lot of pressure. Christ, it doesn’t bear thinking about. We’d all buckle, I reckon. But Jesus, there’s buckling and there’s buckling.’
Nina, as always, cut to the chase. ‘You think she’s lost it?’
Freddie gave a shrug that might have been a yes.
‘So what can we do?’
The answer was croaky and slow. ‘F . . . O . . . T . . . B.’
They both turned. Sam was in the kitchen doorway, leaning her weight against the frame, hair tousled, wearing a long T-shirt but otherwise naked. Her eyes were straining to find focus.
‘Fucksake, Sam, you’re meant to be resting,’ said Freddie, crossing to her.
‘Hello, Sam,’ said Nina in a does-she-take-sugar voice. ‘How are you?’
Sam’s answer was almost a snarl. ‘How the fuck do you think I am, Nina?’
‘Sit down, Sam,’ said Freddie.
She didn’t move, just mumbled four letters to herself once more. ‘F-O-T-B.’
Freddie tried to take Sam’s arm, but she shrugged her off and swayed further into the kitchen, taking small, fast steps until she could support herself on the central island. ‘F . . . O . . . T . . . B. What does it mean?’ she asked nobody in particular.
‘I don’t know,’ said Nina.
‘Neither do I,’ snapped Sam. ‘But it’s something Bojan said to me in Bali. FOTB. At the time, I didn’t ask what it meant. Just assumed it was like BDM and S, or whatever it is.’
‘BDSM,’ said Freddie.
‘Yes. So I thought it was an acro-whatsit, like that. You know, fucking, oral . . . dunno. But what if it’s not? What if it’s something to do with where Jess is?’ She banged the table in frustration and tears started to film her eyes.
Nina looked at Freddie. ‘Any thoughts?’
Freddie reluctantly shook her head.
There was just a trace of triumph in Nina’s voice when she spoke. ‘Then it’s a good job I have.’
The Anthony Quayle book was not going well. In fact, Adam had to be honest, it wasn’t going at all. He hated the term ‘writer’s block’. He wasn’t blocked, he was stymied. Distracted. He could write the Quayle book. The problem was he didn’t want to.
Every time he sat down and typed the word Albania, he thought about driving down the mountain with those two women, and the piece he wrote that was spiked. He could see the shattered bodies on the roadside, smell the coppery blood as it seeped into the gravel, and the acrid stench of discharged weapons.
That was the story he should write, not the adventures of a Hollywood actor that barely anyone under the age of forty remembered. And if they did, it was for Zorba the fuckin’ Greek, which starred Anthony Quinn.
Who were those women? Were they really bodyguards? How did they know each other? Army medics, they had said. They certainly knew their weapons. And what an intriguing relationship. The blonde, Sam, apparently made most of the decisions, while Freddie was the tougher cookie, he thought. With Sam, though, there was something else, a recklessness underneath her cool, clinical exterior. Like she had nothing to lose. Not exactly a death wish, but brittleness of spirit. Freddie didn’t have that. But there was a bond between them he couldn’t help but admire. Like they would go to the ends of the earth for each other. Rural Albania, for instance.
He looked at the screen again. Chapter Ten. There was no Chapter Ten. But there ought to be. Time was ticking by. He had been given a three-month sabbatical from the paper to complete the book. Would there be a job for him when he returned?
Commercialisation was the word now. What it meant was advertorials. There used to be a firewall, as solid as medieval battlements, between the editorial and advertising departments. But that was scaled and breached, and now the flag of the advertising bods flew from the top of the castle keep.
Actually, not even advertising. Synergetic revenue opportunities. Editorial, apart from the hard news, was increasingly predicated on finding a way to drive readers to the website and getting them clicking like demented lab rats hoping for a lick of cocaine. There was a band he remembered called Pop Will Eat Itself. It described perfectly what the print media was doing.
Adam glanced down at The Times crossword next to the keyboard, still mostly white spaces. No, he had to resist. That was just another procrastination. He stared over the computer, out of the window at Kath, who was clearing leaves from the garden. She was raking them into a pile and would then suck them up with o
ne of those giant ridiculous leaf blower/vacs, deafening birds for miles around. That would be the signal for him to make coffee and seek silence elsewhere.
Kath sensed someone looking at her, turned and waved to him. He raised a hand back. Why was she greeting him as if they hadn’t spoken but ten minutes previously?
He was puzzled by many aspects of Kath of late. On his return from Albania, she was incredibly attentive and thoughtful. Nothing was too much trouble for the Hero of Tirana, as she mockingly called him – Tirana being the only town or city over there she could name. She could even say the word Albania without spitting it. And Roza was never mentioned.
Now, though, he felt as if Kath’s attention was elsewhere. He often caught her staring over a mug of tea as it cooled, as if she had forgotten she was meant to drink it. Wistful was the word. He supposed that he did the same thing when he mused about Sam and Freddie. She often said something like, ‘Penny for your thoughts’, and he realised he had been back in that Dacia plunging down a mountainside.
The memory was simultaneously terrifying and electrifying. It made his current life seem pale and enervated in comparison.
But what would cause Kath to be quite so detached? She hadn’t been caught in a gunfight between professional bodyguards and Albanian gangsters. It was probably something to do with Conor. Kath had discovered a packet of white powder in his trousers and he had claimed it was crushed aspirin before snatching it off her. They all do drugs, he had told her. We did drugs. Yes, but what they have out there are Frankenstein drugs, she had said. Well, there was certainly more choice.
But what if it wasn’t Conor causing her distraction?
He let out a long, weary breath just as his phone rang and he picked it up without checking the caller ID. ‘Hello?’
He half-expected to be asked whether he’d had an accident that wasn’t his fault. ‘Adam?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Nina.’