‘You would struggle without Skender?’

  Albazi shrugged. ‘I take care of him, I don’t think he’s going to be leaving me anytime soon.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, with the trace of a smile that made her look colder, not warmer. ‘He’s not leaving you?’

  ‘No.’ Albazi felt his Adam’s apple rise. His mouth felt dry, his stomach was churning. He felt queasy and needed a drink of water. But to ask for anything would be weakness. Loss of face.

  ‘So, Mr Albazi, you had surveillance on Sandra Grace for several days, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Skender kept watch on her. And two other people I use when I need them.’

  ‘A watch twenty-four-seven?’

  ‘I didn’t feel that was necessary.’

  Her eyebrows raised into two small, dark arcs. ‘You did not? You did not feel it was necessary to put twenty-four-hour surveillance on someone who owed me one hundred and fifty thousand pounds? Was that to save you the expense of paying Mr Skender and other people more than you needed?’

  ‘No, we were attracting too much attention from some of the Graces’ neighbours. A lady who lives in the house directly opposite is the local neighbourhood busybody and she marched up to Joe Karter, banged on the window, told him she had taken down the registration and demanded to know what he was doing. He told her he was a location scout for a movie company. After that, he moved further up the street.’ Albazi shrugged. The look she was giving him was really frightening him. Acidic bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it back down. His insides felt like they were in a blender. ‘I have no reason to believe Sandy Grace is a flight risk.’

  ‘You look very nervous, Mr Albazi. Is there something you are failing to tell me?’

  ‘No – I’m aware that it is not good, but we are on it – on all three of our defaulters.’

  ‘I think you are better off without Skender,’ she said. ‘It might concentrate your mind if you are not delegating to your flunkeys.’

  ‘He’s a good man – Joe too – they both are,’ Albazi replied, but his voice tailed off even before he had finished the sentence. He was distracted suddenly by one of his three phones ringing. Apologetically, he pulled it from his pocket and looked at the display. It was a number he did not recognize. Looking back up at Song Wu, he said, ‘This is the number Sandy Grace has. It could be her calling me.’

  ‘You’d better answer it.’

  He stood up and turned away from her, tapping the phone and putting it to his ear. ‘Hello?’ he said. But there was no sound from the other end. Conscious of Song Wu watching him, he said again, ‘Hello? Who is this? Hello? Hello?’ After several more seconds of silence, he hit the red button and turned back to her with a shrug. As he sat back down he said, ‘Whoever it was must have been in a bad reception area. Hopefully they’ll—’

  His voice froze in his gullet as he perched back on the edge of the chair and saw the three ivory photograph frames on Song Wu’s desk, which had all been facing away from him. All three now faced him.

  One was a bearded, very old and contented-looking man in a floppy hat, with a fishing rod in one hand and a cigarette in the other, on a riverbank.

  Another was of a couple in their sixties standing behind a higgledy-piggledy stall stacked with drab jumpers and sweatshirts. It was in a street outside a shop that had a display of lurid phone covers and advertised, in Albanian, mobile-phone repairs – all makes. The man, tubby and sad-faced, had a mop of grey hair, wore a black top and baggy jeans. The woman, of similar build, and dressed in shapeless clothes, was holding up a garment for a customer.

  The third contained a photograph of a handsome, dark-haired woman in her late thirties. She stood in front of an ornamental pond with spouting fountains, her arms around an almost impossibly cute little girl of about three, with long dark hair.

  Albazi was transfixed by them. The old man was his grand-father. The couple behind the clothes stall were his mother and father. The woman with the little girl, in front of the ornamental pond, was his sister and her daughter – his niece.

  ‘Next time you come to see me, you come with two hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds. You will come to me in exactly forty-eight hours, with the cash, a money-order, a letter of credit, whatever. My car will collect you. Are you very clear of the consequences if you don’t? Which one of these three photographs will not be here on your next visit?’

  For some moments, Albazi barely heard her.

  Song Wu’s message could not be clearer. In the Albanian community, there was a culture of retribution being carried out against innocent members of the target’s family, back home in their country.

  His insides in turmoil, Albazi barely made it back out through the double doors and down to the lower level. There was no Mercedes like the one that brought him here. Only the security guard, who pressed the button to raise the shuttered gate.

  He just got up the steep concrete ramp before he sank to his knees and threw up on the pavement.

  23

  22 July 2007 – Roel Albazi

  Without turning round to look back, Albazi staggered to his feet and, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, hurried away through rain that was falling steadily. When Song Wu gave a deadline, she meant it, precisely. No leeway.

  Another twenty-four hours or so and, between them, Tall Joe and Skender Sharka would have collected from two of the defaulters, Alan Mitten and Robert Rhys. Both men had told Albazi they were sure they would be paying up, either the entire debt or a large instalment, and their instincts were rarely wrong. When you threaten to break a man’s bones or kill his children, he finds the money and pays up pretty quickly.

  But Song Wu had wanted to see him today and when she wanted to see him, Albazi knew, there was no option to delay for twenty-four hours. She told you the time and you were there.

  Sandy Grace was going to have to come up with the money. It would be nice to put additional pressure on her by threatening to go to the local paper, the Argus, and let them know that a detective’s wife had run up gambling debts of £150,000. But there was one problem with that – Song Wu’s moneylending business wasn’t licensed and the publicity could be very bad for her. If the news reached the Gambling Commission, and it would, she would almost certainly lose her licences to operate her casinos.

  Meantime, he had a very big problem on his hands. To safeguard his family back in Albania, he needed to appease Song Wu and quickly. She wanted £235,000 in cash in forty-eight hours. He could come up with it, but using a dangerous strategy.

  He kept a cash float in the secure safe in his office of half a million pounds of Song Wu’s money, for loans to gamblers like Sandy Grace. It was audited once a month by one of the Song Wu corporation accountants, who came to his office and checked the cash against the loans. The most recent audit had taken place less than a week ago. He could hand over that £235,000 by giving her back some of her own money without her realizing. That would buy him three weeks to get all the cash. More than enough time.

  He climbed into the rear of a taxi at the rank, gave the driver his address and relaxed back in his seat, feeling a lot better at that thought. Pulling out his phone, he called Sharka’s number, wanting an update on progress, and also to discuss another loan applicant whom Sharka was checking out. After several rings it went to voicemail, which was unusual – normally Sharka answered instantly. ‘Hey, man,’ Albazi said. ‘Call me.’

  Fifteen minutes later, as the taxi crawled along in a long queue at temporary roadworks, heading towards Shoreham Harbour, Sharka had still not returned his call, or even, at least, texted to explain why not. He hit Sharka’s number again and again got his voicemail after several rings. This time his message was less friendly. ‘Hey, Skender, what the hell? Call me right away, it’s urgent, man.’

  24

  22 July 2007 – Roel Albazi

  Normally the drive from the centre of Brighton to the small five-storey building in Shoreham, where he owned his pizza restaurant as well as, five floors above, his penthouse office and apartment suite, took around twenty minutes, and a little longer in the rush hour. But it was only midday and he’d been in the taxi for over twenty-five minutes, and they’d not yet made it past Hove Lagoon, the children’s playground with two boating ponds and a cafe.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said to the driver. ‘We haven’t moved in five minutes – what the hell?’

  Two exasperated hands rose in the air in front of him. ‘Roadworks!’

  The wipers kept up a steady, rhythmic clunk-clunk, and droplets of water blurred the views from the side windows.

  ‘Shall we cut inland?’

  ‘I was there earlier. Roadworks also – we’ll be moving again in a minute.’

  Albazi looked at his phone. No message from Sharka. He called his number again, and once more got his voicemail. He left an even angrier message, then sat back and reflected on those photographs of his family on Song Wu’s desk. With anyone else it might have been an idle threat, but not with her. In the years of taking her handsome payments, he’d seen enough to know that just as her organization was an efficient money-making machine, it was an equally efficient killing machine.

  The traffic finally inched forward and they began picking up pace as they passed a green temporary traffic light then travelled along a single-file, coned lane. The solitary landmark chimney of Shoreham power station slid past to their left, then warehouses along the wharf, the refiner, a berthed dredger.

  A few minutes later, as they approached Shoreham High Street, the traffic came to an abrupt halt again. A police car on blue lights, siren screaming, shot past then stopped a short distance in front of them, blue lights still flashing.

  Albazi could see through the windscreen that vehicles ahead were starting to turn around. A police officer with a white cap approached a van that was in front of them. Moments later, the van began turning round. Then the officer reached his taxi.

  The driver lowered the window and the officer said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, the road is closed due to an incident and is likely to be closed for some while.’

  ‘My passenger’s got to get to Shoreham High Street, what do you suggest?’ the driver asked.

  ‘It’s only a quarter of a mile,’ the police officer said, shooting Albazi a glance. ‘To be honest, he’d be quicker to walk. The whole of Shoreham is at a standstill.’

  ‘What’s actually happened, officer?’ the driver asked.

  ‘An incident – that’s all the information I have at this moment,’ he replied.

  ‘I’ll walk,’ Albazi said. It would take him less than ten minutes to get to his office, although he’d be drenched by the time he got there. He paid the driver, climbed out and strode off quickly, turning his collar up and bowing his head against the hardening rain, a nagging feeling in his gut that something was wrong.

  He passed the clubhouse of the Sussex Yacht Club, and a recently finished block of flats on the harbourfront. Vehicle after vehicle was turning round, and nothing was coming from the opposite direction. A few hundred yards ahead he could now see a blaze of flashing blue lights, and two marked police cars angled across the two-lane road, blocking it completely. Behind them was a line of blue-and-white tape. Maybe a car crash?

  He tried Sharka again – and still got his voicemail. ‘Hey, man,’ Albazi said. ‘What the hell’s going on? Call me back!’

  A young, uniformed police officer was standing in front of the tape, holding a clipboard. As Albazi approached her, he saw debris all over the pavement and road a couple of hundred yards further on – almost directly in front of his pizza restaurant. It was mostly furniture, he realized. It looked at first glance as if a removals lorry had overturned. Filing cabinets, some of their drawers open, files spewed out and getting sodden on the wet tarmac; two sofas, a swivel chair, a shattered desk – his desk, he realized with dawning horror. His bed, his clothes, his paintings, sculptures, books, computer, phones, fridge, drinks cabinet, the bottles lying all around, many broken. His prized cigar humidor, with over four hundred Cuban cigars, many spilled out and being ruined by the rain. Sparkling shards of glass everywhere.

  He stood for a moment, in numb disbelief at what he was seeing. Had Sharka gone mental? Was this his doing – some kind of a protest? He looked up and could see the wide window of this side of his office was mostly gone.

  Bewildered, he said to the officer, ‘Those are my things. I need to go through.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘I can’t allow that.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ He pointed along the road, then up at the top floor of the building. ‘That’s my office, these are all my things.’

  She had the decency to look shocked. ‘Have you annoyed your landlord or something, sir? Or is it a domestic dispute?’

  ‘I own the building, that’s where I live and work. I don’t know what’s happened, I need to go through.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m not authorized to let anyone through.’

  ‘You’ve got to let me – I—’

  He was interrupted by the sound of a large vehicle behind him; at the same time, his phone pinged with a message.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait, sir – unless there’s a way you can get in at the rear of the building? I’m afraid you can’t come through here.’

  He turned to see a low-loader truck halt at the tape.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir. It’s likely to be some while.’

  ‘You are joking?’

  The main entrance to the building was at the side, but he needed to go through the cordon to access it. He glanced down at his phone and saw the message.

  Next time you disappoint me, it won’t just be furniture.

  He stared at the message in rising fury, as another police officer untied one end of the tape from around a lamp post to allow the vehicle through. Albazi seized his chance and, ignoring the shouts of the officer with the clipboard, ran through the opened cordon, breaking into a sprint, dodging around the debris of his office and home, ignoring more shouts, and into the side alley, where the main entrance door to all the parts of the building above the pizza parlour was sited. It was ajar.

  He went straight in, past the creakily slow old lift, and began racing up the flights of the fire escape stairs. As he neared the top he heard a loud bang, followed by another, then another. BLAM-BLAM-BLAM.

  He hesitated but it didn’t sound like gunshots.

  BLAM-BLAM-BLAM again.

  He took the final flight silently, on tiptoe. As he reached the top he saw a tall police officer and a shorter, burly one, standing outside his closed front door, trying to break it open with their yellow metal battering ram.

  ‘Officers!’ he called out. ‘Stop, this is my place!’

  They both turned to face him. He held up a small bunch of keys. ‘I think you’ll find it easier to use these,’ he said.

  The tall officer, who was perspiring, said, ‘I dunno what your door’s made of, but it would keep a tank out.’

  ‘It would,’ agreed Albazi, as he turned the key in the first of the three locks. ‘It would stop a seventeen-pound tank shell.’

  ‘Get many of those fired at you, do you, sir?’ asked the burly one, her face red from the exertion in the stuffy hallway.

  ‘I have a debt collection business,’ Albazi replied, turning the second key. ‘Not everyone likes me.’

  ‘A pissed-off customer is it, do you think?’ the tall one asked. ‘Broken in and thrown all your stuff out?’

  ‘No one breaks in here,’ he said, as he turned the final key. Then, holding his breath, scared of what he might find, he stepped into his normally beautiful hallway. Immediately he heard the sound of running water. Then he realized the deep pile carpet was sodden. There were shadows on the walls where some of his paintings had hung, now lying on the road.

  ‘Skender!’ he shouted out. ‘Skender!’

  ‘Someone in here, sir?’ the tall officer asked. ‘But the door was locked, surely?’

  ‘They all lock automatically when the door is shut,’ Albazi replied tersely. Water was pouring out from under the bathroom door. He strode up to it and flung it open. The room was empty, but all the taps of the washbasin, bath and the shower were turned on to their max. Water was pouring over the top of the huge double-tub and the copper washbasin. Splashing across the floor to reach them, almost in tears, he turned off the taps.

  ‘Got a spiteful girlfriend or something?’ the burly one asked. Her colleague had stepped away and was walking into another room.

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ Albazi said. ‘I—’

  There was a shout from the other officer. ‘In here!’

  Albazi, followed by the other officer, hurried along the hallway and into the scene of devastation that had, just a few hours ago, been his immaculate, beautiful office. Blood red paint had been sprayed randomly over his carpet and up the walls. For some moments he was so incensed that he completely failed to notice the motionless, naked figure of Skender Sharka, lying where his bookshelves had been just a few hours earlier.

  His huge, muscular body lay sprawled out at an odd angle, as if he was trying to swim the crawl along the floor and had frozen in mid-stroke as his arms hit the wall.

  25

  22 July 2007 – Roel Albazi

  ‘No!’ Albazi screamed. ‘No, no, NO!’ He ran towards the motionless figure. ‘Skender, Skender!’ He turned to the two officers, nearly hysterical. ‘That’s my friend! My employee!’

  Then, to his joy, as he knelt, he saw movement. Sharka, the palms of both his hands flat against the wall, turned his head and made a sound that was part moan, part grunt. It came from deep in his throat. He made it again, more urgently. Then again and shook his shoulders, turning his head towards Albazi.

  ‘You OK? You OK, Skender? What’s happened?’

  Sharka made the same sound again. It was as if he was trying desperately to speak but could not get any words out. Had he had a brain bleed, Albazi wondered? Had he been hit on the head and was delirious, or was he on some drug? Although he doubted that, Sharka never drank and never took drugs.