Walk in Silence (eBook)

J. G. Sinclair (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2017 | 1. Auflage
304 Seiten
Faber & Faber (Verlag)
978-0-571-32665-5 (ISBN)

Infos

Keira Lynch may be a lawyer, but that doesn't mean she plays by the rules. She has been summoned to give evidence against an Albanian hit man. She was there the night he murdered the mother of a five-year-old boy. She remembers it well - it was the same night he put three bullets in her chest and left her for dead. But there are powerful people who want the hit man back on the streets. When they kidnap the boy, she is given a choice: commit perjury, blow the trial and allow the killer to walk or give evidence, convict him and watch the child die. Keira must make a decision. This time, does she have to cross a line to win?

J. G. Sinclair was born in Glasgow, Scotland. He is the author of the novels Seventy Times Seven and Blood Whispers. As the actor John Gordon Sinclair, his first film won him a BAFTA nomination for Most Promising Newcomer to a Leading Film Role, and his first outing in London's West End won him an Olivier Award for Best Actor. He lives in Surrey with his wife and their two children.

Autor

John Gordon Sinclair was born in Glasgow, Scotland. He is the author of the novels Seventy Times Seven and Blood Whispers. As an actor, he has been nominated for a BAFTA for Best Newcomer to a Leading Film Role and his first outing in London's West End won him a Best Actor Olivier award. He lives in Surrey with his wife and their two children.

Textauszug

Two

Keira Lynch pulled herself onto the edge of the swimming pool and drew a large bath towel over her shoulders. She’d lost count of how many lengths she’d swum, but she was out of breath so figured she’d either done more than usual or she wasn’t as fit as she’d thought. The view from the Hotel Shkop’s poolside deck stretched out across the deep blue Adriatic, revealing the curve of the earth. The early morning sun was showing just above the horizon, but she could already feel its warmth on her face.

Keira had arrived in Durrës late the night before. Her room – a superior double with a balcony overlooking the sea – was fresh, modern and a third of the price of anything in mainland Europe. Except for the occasional glow emanating from ships passing far out to sea it had been too dark to see much beyond the lights of the poolside area below. The light breeze had carried with it an aroma of fried fish, garlic and spices. She could hear the waves lapping along the distant shoreline and a gabble of voices drifting up from a promenade that separated the hotel from the beach. After emptying the minibar of four cold beers and smoking a couple of roll-ups on the balcony, she’d gone back inside, lain down on the bed and tried to sleep. The New York Times listed Albania as one of the top four holiday destinations in the world but Keira wasn’t there on holiday.

‘Lady, your visitor has arrived. You would like him out here or are you come in?’

An older guy wearing the Hotel Shkop’s light cream and brown staff uniform was standing over her, checking out the scars on her wrist and the small circular areas of raised tissue on her shoulder and side.

The guy didn’t seem too fussed that she’d caught him staring.

‘They’re bullet wounds,’ said Keira.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Everyone in Albania has gun. We have lot of holes in us here. I have a cousin they call the Sieve.’

‘Where are yours?’

‘Not me. I’m not having any, but my son he was in the army, the stabilisation force in Bosnia. NATO. He got shot.’

‘Did he survive?’

‘Sure he’s okay. Got hit in the leg and gives him small limp. He’s in the Policia now. Was tired fighting everyone else’s battles. You married?’

‘No.’

‘If you want to meet him you let me know. He’s handsome boy.’

‘As good-looking as his dad?’

The old guy smiled. ‘When they made me they used up all the handsome. My son only got what was left. You are pretty, like a true Zana. I think you’d get on. How long are you stay, I’ll bring you photograph.’

‘I’m fine thanks. I’m only here for a few days. What’s a Zana?’

‘It is the Mountain Fairy. But you don’t come across that many with bullet wounds. You don’t look like the type of woman who gets herself shot, what is happened?’

‘Does anyone look like the type to get themselves shot?’

‘Sure. I know plenty that would be better off with a bullet in the head. One day you will tell me the story, yes? Maybe you’re the crazy woman. Is that why people shoot you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘My name is Xhon. Is pronounced like your John but spelt with an X. Every time you say it, it comes with a kiss.’

He’d obviously used the line plenty times before, but Keira smiled like it was still fresh.

‘What would you like I say to your guest, Zana?’

‘I’ll come inside.’

She pointed at her clothes on a nearby lounger. ‘I’ll dress and come inside, yes?’

John-with-a-kiss shook his head like he didn’t understand, smiled and left.

*

Keira appeared at the far end of the hotel lobby wearing faded, skinny jeans cut just above the ankles, a loose crocheted, cream top and a pair of scuffed Gommino loafers in black patent. She felt good after her swim.

Daud Pasha was smaller than Keira had imagined. She’d only heard his voice over the phone, but had it in her head that he was a big guy. His tawny Mediterranean skin, shaded by a few days growth of dark stubble, did nothing to soften the angular features of his face and shallow, lazy eyes. When he stood to greet her he brought with him an unpleasant waft of stale tobacco and sweat. The suit draped over his bony shoulders looked like it didn’t belong to him.

Keira extended her hand to greet him. ‘Mister Pasha? Unë quhem Keira.’

‘D’you speak Albanian?’

‘Just a few guidebook phrases. “My name is,” and “Can I have another beer?” What else d’you need?’

‘You are not . . . how in my head I see you. Much prettier . . . and in great shape.’

‘You’re not what I imagined either,’ replied Keira, ‘If you want to sue your tailor I know some people could help you out.’

‘You don’t like my suit?’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I’m saying it could probably fit you better. Did you borrow it from your big brother especially for today’s meeting?’

‘Why are you mentioning my suit?’

‘The same reason you’re mentioning my appearance.’

Daud Pasha gave her a thin smile and changed the subject. ‘You want breakfast?’

‘I’ve already eaten,’ replied Keira, ‘But if you want something I’m happy to take a seat.’

‘No, I’m thinking we go. It is a long drive.’

‘I have a hire car. I thought I could follow you.’

‘It is better we go together. The driving in Albania is a little crazy. Also we can talk on the way.’

‘Okay.’

‘We discuss on phone the money. You can bring this with you?’

‘In my country you don’t usually pay until the job is done.’

Daud Pasha’s shoulders drooped and he clicked his teeth like some cheap villain in a cowboy movie. He looked around, slowly surveying the scene, then delivered his bit-part line. ‘We ain’t in your country.’

Keira had sat in too many interview rooms with guys far tougher than Daud Pasha to react with anything other than complacency. ‘You’ve adopted other countries’ customs like saying “ain’t” instead of “are not”. You sure you don’t want to give the “I’ll pay you when the job’s done” custom a try too?’

‘Lady, I’m not go anywhere without first I have some money. Is like a deposit. If you are not happy, at the end then I give you it back. I explain already, this is the finder’s fee.’

‘What if you’ve found the wrong boy?’

‘Is not the wrong boy. You will see this.’

‘I can give you half of it now and the rest when we get back. Is that okay?’

Daud Pasha stared at the floor, shrugged and said, ‘Maybe . . . I think this is okay,’ in a way that suggested it wasn’t. ‘When we confirm it’s the boy you will give me the rest, yes?’

‘If we’re certain it’s the right boy.’

‘I’m not ask you to come all this way if there is mistake.’

Pasha stayed where he was, waiting for her to hand over half the money before he’d lift his skinny frame up out of the chair.

Keira took a folded envelope full of euros from her pocket and passed it to him. She’d been expecting to pay something today, but not just moments after they’d met. Pasha took the folded bills from the envelope and started to count. When he’d finished he made another clicking noise with his tongue – like it would have to do – then placed the cash in an inside jacket pocket.

As she followed him through the hotel’s deserted lobby towards the exit, Keira had already made her mind up she didn’t like him.

Across the street from the hotel sat a Mercedes 420se W126 in black with an overweight guy in the driver seat, window down, drawing on a cigarette. As Daud and Keira climbed into the back he pinched the lit end between his stubby fingers before pocketing what was left and starting the engine.

‘This is Fat-Joe Jesus. His name is Fatjo. In Albanian, this means “our fortune”, like, “our good luck”, but he has no luck at all so we say, Fatjo i cili nuk është me fat.’

Hearing his name, Fatjo caught Keira in the rear-view mirror and nodded before pushing the gearshift into drive and pulling away from the kerb.

‘It means “Fatjo who is not lucky”. So we call him just Fat-Joe Jesus.’

‘Must have taken a while to think that up. The Fat-Joe bit I get, but why “Jesus”?’

Daud Pasha didn’t answer. He was staring out the window, not paying attention. ‘You have flown over from England?’

‘Scotland. I travelled from Glasgow.’

‘This is where you live?’

‘Yes.’

Fat-Joe Jesus glanced over his shoulder and spoke for the first time. ‘Mogwai.’

Keira nodded. ‘Yes, home of Mogwai.’

‘You like?’

‘I love.’

‘Favourite album?’

‘Young Team.’

‘Track?’

‘“Mogwai Fear...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 4.7.2017
• Verlagsort: London
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Krimi / Thriller
• Schlagworte: aa dhand • di marnie rome • Ian Rankin • joseph knox • Rebus • sarah hilary • streets of darkness
• ISBN-10: 0-571-32665-X / 057132665X
• ISBN-13: 978-0-571-32665-5 / 9780571326655