Turning her head slightly, she heard water rippling and tiny waves splashing. Through the shadows of the trees she noticed a shape, hunched over, walking beneath the branches towards her. It looked like a caricature of the hunchback of Notre-Dame. It was a man, carrying something on his shoulder.
She lay deathly still as he dumped the bundle on the ground beside her. The plastic split.
And then she screamed.
Kosovo, 1999
The captain was driving too fast while talking frantically into a bulky mobile phone.
Deep in his broken heart the boy knew he was being brought back to the clinic. The road led to Pristina and he wasn’t stupid. Sinking into the hot upholstery of the seat, he watched the countryside disappearing in a blur until they entered the battered city. The captain parked the jeep at the clinic door.
‘Out.’
He was shoved down the corridor and through the door at the end. The doctor stood there holding a file with a sheaf of papers sticking out.
‘Good work. This candidate is ideal.’
The captain said, ‘I want more for this one.’
‘No way.’
The boy shuffled from one foot to the other, the leather of his sandals causing a blister to pop up on his heel. He wetted his finger and, bending down, rubbed it like his mama had shown him.
‘Stop that,’ the doctor said, pointing with a bony finger.
Skulking into the corner, the boy buried his hands into his jeans pocket, and there, he felt the canvas badge. Rubbing the stitched name, he didn’t feel so alone. He had a friend.
The captain said, ‘You told me his blood is a perfect match. No impurities. Not like some of the others. So it’s double for this one or I’ll drop him at a whorehouse.’
The boy watched as the doctor opened a drawer. Taking out a wallet, he counted the money as a fly buzzed, trapped in the plastic covering of the fluorescent light.
‘Take it and go,’ the doctor said.
Folding the notes, the captain pushed them into the top pocket of his camouflage shirt without counting.
The boy felt a shove on his shoulder as he was prodded towards the doctor. He smelled the man’s clammy body but he felt no fear. He had already endured the torture of watching his family massacred. What could be worse?
The door banged shut as the captain exited.
He was alone with the white-coated man.
His chin was tipped upward.
He gagged from the odour of dry fish coming from the doctor’s mouth.
‘Time to get you ready. Come, boy.’
Shoulders drooping, the boy followed him to another room.
The sign on the door said: TEATRI.
Day Seven
Sunday 17 May 2015
Sixty-Seven
Lottie listened at the bottom of the stairs. Silence. All asleep. She pulled the door closed quietly behind her.
She’d warned Katie not to let Milot out of her sight, to stay with him at all times, even inside the house. The back garden was a no-go area for today. She had been thinking of calling her mother to come over for the day, but decided they would be all right.
Boyd looked fresher than she’d seen him in days.
Throwing her bag at her feet in his freshly hoovered car, she sat in and said, ‘You’re looking sprightly.’
‘And how are you, beautiful lady, on this fine dark morning?’
‘It’s three fifty-five and I’ve hardly slept a wink, so can you quell the sunshine for an hour? I’m so tired I feel my bones are about to concertina into each other and I’ll collapse like a puppet. Drive the car, and shut up.’
‘Your wish is my—’
‘Boyd!’
‘Okay, okay.’
Resting her head into the upholstery, she stared straight ahead as the yellow hue of the street lamps gave way to the white glare from the motorway lights. For some reason she wanted to shout at Boyd, to bang her fists against his chest and tell him… tell him what? That she really did like him? That he was making a big mistake rekindling his relationship with Jackie? Bottom line, she didn’t want to see him get hurt.
She chanced a glance. He was concentrating on driving. She bit her lip to keep herself from saying something stupid.
‘What’s the matter?’ Boyd turned to her.
‘Watch the road.’
He hunched his shoulders and, setting his mouth in a serious line, increased his speed to slightly above the legal limit.
Turning her head to the window, she closed her eyes.
‘Wake me when we get to the airport,’ she mumbled.
‘I’ll wake you when we get to Malaga.’
* * *
Frank Phillips owned many properties in the Costa del Sol, but had opted to live in a brand-new complex on Malaga’s beachfront.
With Boyd by her side, Lottie entered the grey-stone building, smelling the newness, drinking in the view, appreciating the cool after the pulsating early-morning sun. They took the lift up to the sixth floor and stepped out to a massive hallway, the wall mirroring their reflections. She turned away from the offending glass only to find she was looking at herself again. One wall slipped away silently to the right and a man came out to usher them inside. He looked to be around seven foot tall, but she estimated he was probably about six ten.
‘Mr Phillips will see you shortly.’ As quickly as he had appeared, the giant vanished.
‘It’s like the bloody Wizard of Oz,’ Boyd muttered.
‘Shh,’ Lottie whispered. But she had to agree with him as she surveyed the room. Everything was emerald green. The sparkling marble tiles, the columns supporting the ceiling, the couch with its three-foot cushions. The paintings, all by renowned Irish artist Jack Henry.
‘They look like originals.’ Millions of euros’ worth of artwork. Sweet Jesus!
‘Yes, they are originals.’
Wheeling around, Lottie recognised Frank Phillips immediately. The long black hair, the nose, even the eyes. Maeve was the image of her father. But Frank was all of five foot, with skin so tanned he looked like a wooden whiskey keg.
He ambled towards them, tightening the belt of his trousers.
‘Sit down,’ he said expansively. His starched white shirt crinkled over a protruding belly. He directed them to three chairs strategically placed in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, the Mediterranean providing the backdrop. ‘Tea, anyone?’
He didn’t wait for a response. The tall man appeared at his side. Little and large.
‘Manuel, tea for three. Now, Detective Inspector – or should I call you Mrs Parker? – you’re here in an unofficial capacity, I believe.’
‘Inspector will be just fine.’ She noticed that Phillips was ignoring Boyd and focusing his attention on her.
‘My wife, Tracy, chose the life of an alcoholic. If you can even call it a life. My daughter feels some sort of duty to her. When she’s eighteen, I intend to bring her over here. Show her all she’ll inherit and maybe then she might leave her good-for-nothing mother in the gutter where she belongs and come live with me. What teenager wouldn’t?’
‘One with decent morals?’ Boyd piped up. Lottie tried to nudge him with her elbow but his chair was strategically placed too far away.
‘Morals fly out the window in the face of wealth,’ Phillips said. ‘My Maeve can have everything she ever dreamed of here. And more.’
‘Except maybe freedom?’ Boyd again.