‘Yeah. About half an hour ago I came downstairs and the bar was locked up—’
‘Yes, we had to go out,’ Marek says, interrupting me. ‘I did not wish to wake you.’ He says this almost as if it was a matter of duty rather than just being nice.
‘No, that’s fine. But when I came down I found a note by the door. I think it’d been posted through the letterbox. It was addressed to “Daniel”.’
Marek stops what he’s doing, and I see Andrej’s eyes light up momentarily – a momentary slip of the guard – before he retains his usual stoic look. They both look at each other briefly, not speaking a word but at the same time saying a thousand.
‘This note,’ Marek says. ‘What did it say?’
I take the note out of my pocket and hand it to him. He takes it out of the envelope, spends a few seconds reading it and then hands it to Andrej.
They exchange a few words in Slovak, then Andrej speaks.
‘Do you have any idea who sent this?’
‘No, not a clue. No-one who knows my real name even knows I’m here. Except . . .’ Marek’s eyes meet mine. I can see they’ve already both taken the same leap of logic as I have. ‘Not that I’m saying anything like that, of course,’ I explain, back-pedalling. ‘Just that someone’s obviously either followed me here somehow or someone here has found out my real name.’
‘We did not speak to anyone,’ Andrej says. ‘Not about who you really are. Not to anybody we cannot trust with our lives.’ I’m not quite sure what he means by this, or how he knows he can trust anyone, or who he’s told, but I’m in no position to question him right now. I’m just hoping they haven’t told anyone who doesn’t strictly need to know, because knowing who I can trust is my biggest problem right now. For a brief moment, I wish I hadn’t told them anything. I wish I’d denied everything, claimed the passport was false. But then how would I have denied the news reports and press coverage?
Andrej exchanges a glance with Marek. ‘We will deal with this.’
I stand for a moment, unsure what to say. ‘What do you mean, you’ll deal with it? How?’ I fail to see how they’d be able to do anything, not to mention why I should trust them. Unless, of course, it’s because they know something that I don’t. That’s a thought that both scares me and reassures me at the same time.
‘Do not worry,’ he replies. ‘If somebody wanted to hurt you, they would not do it by writing a letter.’
I can’t believe how casual he’s being about this. Then again, it’s not his life and his existence on the line. ‘It’s a warning,’ I say. ‘It clearly says so in the note.’
‘People who mean business do not send warnings. They do not mess about with words and letters. Do not worry,’ he repeats.
He sounds convincing, and he’s doing his best to put me at ease, but I would be foolish if I said I wasn’t still panicking. Andrej knows far more about the sorts of people who send threats than I do.
‘So, what, you just want me to ignore it? I’m not being funny, but someone’s already killed my wife and chased me halfway across Europe. How am I meant to feel safe when they know I’m here?’ I purposely don’t mention Jess.
‘Bradley, trust us,’ Andrej says, placing his hand on my shoulder. He gives me the impression of being more than one step ahead. I nod. ‘Now, we have some deliveries for you. To make up for the incident yesterday.’
I can’t argue with that. But it still doesn’t shake the feeling that my journey could very soon be at its end and that it won’t be long before I’m face to face with the person who killed Lisa and Jess, and who’s going to try to kill me. ‘Sure. That’s fine,’ I say. ‘But there’s something I want you to do for me first.’
58
It was an odd request, particularly as I didn’t want to tell them why I’d requested it, but fortunately for me Andrej acquiesced. Less than half an hour later, he was back at the bar, handing me a brand-new dictaphone.
Ever since this whole journey started, all I’ve wanted is the truth. All I’ve wanted is to know who killed Lisa and Jess, and why. I want to know why this mystery person has such an enormous grudge against me that they’re willing to murder two people and completely ruin my life just to get to me. They’re the sorts of answers I can’t go without.
Not only do I not know this truth, but no-one else does, either, except the killer. I can’t guarantee – not by a long shot – that I’m going to come out of this alive, so I need to know that my version of the truth is going to go out. I need to know that my story will be told, because I certainly can’t guarantee that it’ll ever be told by me.
The dictaphone’s a fancy sort, with a dual-recording mode. In short, it means the device will record both onto the device itself as well as onto a removable memory card. Once I’ve recorded my message, I’m going to leave the memory card with Marek and Andrej, keeping the dictaphone itself with me. Should anything happen to me, my hope is that someone will find the dictaphone. If it’s the killer who finds it, at least I know that Marek and Andrej will have a copy. It feels bizarre trusting them with something so important, seeing as I barely know them, but who else do I have? There isn’t anyone.
Having set the dictaphone up and inserted two batteries and the memory card, I set it to record. I haven’t really planned what I’m going to say, but I think this is something that’s best if it comes from the heart.