Conviction

by Denise Mina

  I looked up and found Fin weeping into his hands.

  ‘Hey, Fin, hey. Stop.’

  He couldn’t stop though. ‘I don’t want to do this any more,’ he whimpered. ‘I want to go home.’

  I felt the same. We didn’t know what we were doing. What if that happened to the girls or Estelle or Hamish?

  So we sat there, avoiding one another’s eye, grieving the lost glory that was Julia, guilty and frightened and miserable.

  The train started with a jolt, pulling slowly out of Venice, across the lagoon and into a bank of thick fog.

  42

  THOSE OF YOU WHO followed the podcast at the time or heard it later will have been waiting for this chapter. I’m sorry if this spoils it for you.

  The podcast episode, ‘We Got Drunk with a Hired Assassin’, won a number of awards and broke records for downloads. People thought it was funny and strange and touching and it was easily the most popular episode but that is not what happened. We didn’t get drunk with a funny man who told wild stories–at least, that’s not all that happened. I’ve put the text of the episode in italics below. You can skip it if you’d rather not have the memory spoiled.

  The real meaning of stories depends on where they’re told, when and to whom. The podcast episode was of a drunk with a deep voice and a strange accent telling mad stories. But context alters meaning. This is the context.

  We were in shock, wondering what the hell to do. It had been fun but frightening so far, we were reckless with our own safety, but now the podcast was leading to the deaths of the people we were interviewing. We weren’t ready for that.

  At this point I thought there were two possibilities: either Gretchen Teigler had ordered Julia’s death to frighten us off or Julia knew something else and she’d been killed to stop her telling us. But no one could know we would go back and find her so it couldn’t have been a warning. What stayed with me was the level of violence. Julia had been stabbed so many times. It was vicious. It was emotional. True-crime podcasts will tell you: that’s personal. Her eyes were left open; a box was carelessly dropped on the trail of blood she made getting to Violetta’s photograph. But what really bothered me, because I was imagining that Julia’s last moments were happening to me, was this: the photograph was not held flattened to her heart. She wasn’t embracing the picture of Violetta. It was facing outwards, like a final statement to the world, a summation of her life: this was all she loved.

  I looked out of the train window. We were slowly crossing the lagoon through thick and swirling fog. Lorries and cars on the road looked faded and ghostly.

  We were staring into one another’s wet, frightened faces. Fin was still weeping. It reminded me of the trust exercise in couples therapy, when the couples counsellor got Hamish and me to sit knee to knee and make eye contact for what felt like seven hours, during which all I could think was ‘I hate you’.

  Fin and I took our phones out and tried playing with them for comfort, but there was no reception and Wi-Fi was ‘currently unavailable’. I scrolled through photos of the girls to calm myself down but stumbled across a selfie of Estelle and me, hugging each other at a spring concert in the park. Our cheeks were tight and we were laughing. The pretty Victorian bandstand was in the background. I put the phone away.

  There were signs for a buffet car through the carriage doors. I dried my face and went to buy a drink.

  Out of the automatic door, past a big wheelchair-friendly toilet, I found myself in a buffet car of red and white plastic, quite new. Tall standing tables were dotted around the carriage. A breakfast bar with seats faced a wide window. Fin came up behind me and stood at my side.

  A small Italian man behind the bar called to me, ‘Buona sera, signora. Cosa vorresti?’

  My Italian is bad. I was embarrassed about it as I tried to order two small bottles of white wine, one for me and one for Fin, but the man serving me said no. Two small bottles were more expensive than a normal-sized bottle of wine. I don’t think I agreed but everything was a bit hazy, I was upset and covering up bad Italian.

  The man opened a full bottle of wine, put it on the bar with a single plastic cup on top and asked Fin what he wanted.

  Fin wanted a vodka but, again, the man advised him in very quick drawling Italian that this was not cost-effective. Fin didn’t understand what he was saying so he nodded, moved his hands around, and the man somehow took this as a request for a half-bottle of vodka.

  It was very expensive.

  Neither of us was thinking clearly. Somehow, Fin also ended up with an egg sandwich and a gigantic bag of crisps called ‘Paprika Xtreme’. These would feature later in our adventure, in quite an unexpected way.

  Back at our seats, we settled in at the table and began to drink. At first the alcohol soothed and warmed and calmed. It was medicinal. Had we been anywhere else we could have left it there and walked away but we were stuck on a slow train to Milan. It was going to take ten hours and a change at Milan to get to Lyon and we seemed to be stopping at every train station on the way. This is why we continued to drink after the alcohol had done all the good it possibly could.

  You may have noticed but there hasn’t been much sleeping in this story so far. We had been grabbing a few hours here and there, on planes and in airport lounges, we were running on adrenaline. Fin was terribly underweight and I didn’t drink much anyway. Then the heating in the carriage was turned up. I shut my eyes for what I thought was a blink and crashed.

  I heard talking very near to me and the sound of Fin laughing. I vaguely wondered what was going on, I wanted very much to know, but I couldn’t wake up. I was out for nearly an hour. We were pulling out of Vicenza Station when I woke up with a sticky mouth and swollen eyes.

  I was very surprised by what I saw.

  Across from me, next to Fin, sat the man from Saint-Martin, the man we saw with Dauphine Loire. He and Fin were smiling, craning forward, listening with rapt attention to a figure seated right next to me.

  Fin’s half-bottle of vodka was lying empty on the table. They had almost finished another half-bottle. The wine was finished, as was the egg sandwich, but its scent lingered. I lunged forward, trying to shake myself awake and they all turned to me and cheered.

  I rubbed my eyes. They were all quite drunk but Fin was utterly meroculous.

  ‘Good morning, princess!’ said the big man next to me. ‘A toast! To the princess!’

  I didn’t like the way he hissed ‘princess’.

  I looked at him. He was ruddy and wearing an old-fashioned brown suit with big shoulder pads and greasy lapels. He smelled of cigarettes and vodka and rose water and stale sweat. Were the two men together? They looked alike. But I was drunk and half asleep and couldn’t work out what was going on.

  Fin introduced me to the man sitting next to me: this is Demy. Demy this is…

  I said my name was Anna. I wasn’t making a point about my identity. I was so sleepy and groggy that I forgot who I was supposed to be just then.

  Demy turned to me and shook my hand. He held it slightly too tight. His hands were like spades and his many rings dug into me. His knuckles were scarred. His hands reminded me of the calloused hand on my neck back in the kitchen when I was Sophie. Was this the man who tried to kill me? I searched his face but it wasn’t him. He watched me with rheumy eyes, the whites tinged yellow. His mouth was smiling.

  He lifted his glass to me. ‘A toast!’

  Fin explained that Demy had come over to join him after I fell asleep. He was sitting over there when we came in, remember? Fin pointed back to the seat where the shy businessman had been. I shook my head but Fin didn’t notice. What I meant was that no one had been sitting there when we came in. Someone got on after us and sat down where we couldn’t see him. But Fin was drunk. He had forgotten this completely.

  So, continued Fin, after I fell asleep Demy came over for a chat and drink and then, when the train stopped at Padua, this guy got on! He was pointing to the man next to him. I didn’t think
Fin recognised him.

  ‘Hey!’ said the man. ‘I am Zviad!’ His English was good. ‘I’m so sorry. We ate your sandwich but don’t worry. I get more vodka!’

  This elicited a cheer from Demy.

  ‘Do you know who he is?’ I asked Fin, pointing at Zviad.

  They looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘He’s the man who’s been following us!’

  ‘Hey,’ said Zviad, who was very ruddy and broad and spoke with an unexpectedly soft voice, ‘Mrs Bukaran, may I say: it is my honour. You are a famous lady.’ He flattened a hand to his chest and bowed as much as the table would let him.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Albanian.’

  I looked at the man next to me. ‘Both of you?’

  ‘No!’ said Demy with mock offence. ‘I’m Georgian.’

  That got a big laugh. For the rest of the journey, whenever there was a pause or the mood dipped, someone would repeat the punchline and everyone would laugh. This went on until the garrotting in the toilet.

  Fin explained that Zviad got on and, well, you know…

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fin, ‘obviously, his intention towards you was not honourable.’

  ‘Orders,’ shrugged Zviad apologetically.

  ‘But I was already drinking here with my friend Demy.’

  Fin and Zviad looked at me. Their eyebrows rose. Was Demy Zviad’s boss? He didn’t seem to be. He was scarred. He was forty. He looked like the Russian gangsters who sat outside Russian cafes in Swiss Cottage in London, tableloads of men in cheap suits, smoking and drinking coffee. He was Georgian which would make him vory, a criminal mafia that stretches back generations, has its own brutal culture and dress. I could see that Zviad knew exactly what Demy was. He wouldn’t cause us any trouble while Demy was with us. Even the gutter has a pecking order.

  Fin had not noticed that Demy was a gangster. Fin thought Demy was a charismatic passer-by, a protective witness, keeping us safe from Zviad.

  ‘You take orders?’ Demy asked Zviad. ‘From who?’

  Zviad looked ashamed. ‘Employer.’

  Demy smirked and narrowed his eyes. ‘Nice to have a job.’

  Zviad blushed to the roots of his hair. I didn’t know what was going on. Some gangster shit anyway.

  ‘Another story!’ Demy announced, slapping the table. ‘More drink!’

  When all glasses were full, Demy took a deep breath and began, ‘Once upon a time–’

  ‘Can I tape this?’ Drunkenly, Fin held out his phone and the mic with two hands.

  Demy looked at them. His eyes clouded. He blinked. He was drinking more than the others but was still by far the most coherent. He shrugged and pouted, ‘Sure.’

  Fin turned the recorder on and sat it on the table. This is where the podcast episode started:

  ‘There was once this man, let us call him Demy. Ha ha ha ha!’

  Fin and Zviad laughed at the cue.

  ‘This man Demy grew up in a small town. There was nothing there. Everyone was very poor BUT because everyone was poor no one really knew they had nothing. Hey, I have a stick, you have two sticks, you feel rich, right? It’s relative. Nothing but dirt floors, skinny little kids, hungry half the time, running around, no one looking after them.’

  The description was grim but Demy was telling it fondly, half smiling, his voice extra deep because his chin was on his chest.

  ‘The kids in the village they were all together.’ He drew a wide circle on the table. ‘Yeah? Look after each other. But two boys were special close friends. Demy and Yergey. Same age. Both had no fathers. One dead, one in prison. Yergey is a crazy man. He will do anything, very impulsive. But Demy, he is more thoughtful, a serious person. Not alike at all.

  ‘So these boys grow up, close, close, close. They grow up and they go to the city to find their fate. Sleep on the streets together, get drunk together, do… things. Anyway. They get jobs. Like you, Zviad. In time Demy works for one boss, Yergey same boss but different city. They don’t see each other for a long time. Really a long time.’

  Demy’s voice was velvet soft, his eyes milky. He was reliving it.

  ‘Then one day to Demy comes an order. Someone is stealing our money, someone close, and we know it is one of two men. Needs to be taken care of. So Demy goes to the address and waits, watches, sees the two men he must kill coming out of a bar. Demy rolls down the window on his car and calls to them to come. One of them is Yergey.’

  Fin was very affected by that and Zviad’s hand rose to his mouth. Demy paused, so overwhelmed with emotion that he struggled to get the words out, but it was a drunk’s sadness, fleeting and shallow. I felt he had told this story many times before and knew it worked.

  ‘So these two men get in Demy’s car. Yergey in the front. He’s so pleased to see Demy. The old friends are catching up–hey, what you been doing, where have you been? They get a bottle out. They smoke and drink in the car and have a good time. Finally, Yergey says, “Why are you here, Demy?”

  ‘Demy says, “You know why I’m here.”’

  He poured a drink and swallowed it.

  ‘“You know why I’m here, Yergey.”

  ‘And so now Yergey does know why. They both know why.

  ‘So, Demy turns round and he shoots the other guy in the head, POP. Dead man in the car. Do you know what Yergey says?

  ‘Yergey says, “Demy. I am glad it is you.”

  ‘That is the sort of man he is. He knows it has to happen and he finds something to be glad about.

  ‘Demy is moved by that. So, they roll the dead guy out of the car, just straight out to the ditch by the road.’

  Demy made a rolling motion with his hands, a smile playing on his face. I knew then that this was not a story but a memory and I wondered why he was telling us it.

  ‘So they sit and talk. They tell the stories of their times in the village, when they fished and played and climbed walls and went to school hungry. And when they left together, how they came to the city and became important men.

  ‘They go for one final drink together. Well, a few drinks actually. REALLY a few,’ he tittered. ‘They drink and Yergey tells the real story of all the crazy robberies he did and all his wild days, stealing from bosses, sex with the big boss’s wife even! Crazy stuff–it’s a confession, final confession.

  ‘Demy tells Yergey about his killings, sad things he did, bad things, all his things that he had done.

  ‘So, at the end of the night they are back in the car and Yergey says, “OK. Now it is time. Now you kill me.”

  ‘But Demy says, “Yergey. I can’t do it.”

  ‘Yergey says, “You must. This is how it is. You must kill me or they will kill you.”

  ‘But Demy can’t kill his friend. He tries but he can’t. He cries. He says, “If I kill you, what am I? I’m an animal.”

  ‘He tells Yergey that he cannot kill him but he must disappear completely. Demy makes him go.

  ‘Yergey disappears. Demy tells his boss that he killed him and put the body in the river. But no body is found. Time goes on and still, no body. They become suspicious. Soon no one believes he did kill Yergey. But Demy saved his childhood friend. He made that choice. Yergey disappears. For a while.

  ‘But Yergey is crazy and it’s a crazy time. Civil war, new regime, crackdown, anti-commerce, all these things and the big boss, he knows something is not right. He has the police in his pocket. He tells them–go find Yergey.

  ‘You know how the police found him? They wrote to his mother and told her that he had won a prize draw. Top prize: a fucking iPad. He comes home to get the new iPad and pthhht!’

  Fin and Zviad laughed. You can hear them laughing at Yergey’s foolishness on the recording. They both laugh as if they wouldn’t be fooled by a cheap trick like that. But they were being fooled by a cheap trick.

  I laughed too. It was hard not to but I was watching, surprised that I was laughing, and I saw that Demy�
��s face was laughing but his eyes weren’t. They were assessing the relative threat of the men in front of him. Zviad chortled away, his muscles rippling. He leaned over the table and Demy sat forward, glanced into the inside of Zviad’s jacket. I saw Demy spot the knife. I saw Demy blink and go back to laughing and telling the story.

  ‘So: the police arrest Yergey when he comes for his iPad. Yergey is an idiot. He’s saying, OK, take me in, but make sure Mama gets that iPad!

  ‘The police tell him, we will let you go, Yergey, OK? We don’t want you, we want bigger fish. They tell him his friend Demy has been murdered by the boss for not killing Yergey. The boss cut Demy’s balls off. The boss boiled Demy alive.

  ‘Yergey is devastated. He didn’t know even Demy was dead. He doesn’t care what happens to him, Yergey just wants to bring the boss down. So, he tells the police everything Demy was ordered to do by the boss. Who he was sent to kill, which ones he did, which ones he didn’t. He tells them everything because he is a good friend and he wants revenge on the boss for killing Demy.

  ‘But Demy is not dead.

  ‘The police were working for the boss. They tricked Yergey to give evidence against him and now Demy is arrested. All because he loved his friend. The police released Yergey. They sentenced him to live with what he had done.’

  He poured another drink.

  Fin asked, ‘What happened to Demy?’

  Demy looked up. ‘He was arrested for all those murders. All cases closed! Good for the cops, good for the boss. Demy was sent to prison and was killed on his second day.’

  The men around the table looked confounded.

  Demy yelled, ‘Oh! You thought Demy was me? It’s a common name, Demy! You thought it was me, that guy?’

  Fin and Zviad laughed, raucous with relief and said it was brilliant. They did think it was him! Ha! What a trick! Ha!