They Thought I Was Dead, page 10
‘And?’ I asked.
‘And now I’m here. Just as bad as all the shitbags I locked up, but a lot smarter and a lot richer than most. And while some are still in jail, I’m here, talking to a most beautiful woman, and I mean this, a truly beautiful woman.’
‘Really?’ I said, with a smile. ‘I thought you were talking to me?’
He gave me a strange look. He was humouring me, but there was a flash of something dark behind his smile, and in his eyes. As if he was someone who did not like being interrupted or wasn’t very good at taking a joke.
He went on. ‘A beautiful but a very troubled woman. You need help, don’t you – and I’m not talking about counselling. You are in a lot of trouble, I think. I’m only telling you all my background because I can see you are really facing some trauma now.’
I stared back at him for a long while, my mind whirring, my emotions in shreds. ‘What exactly do you know about me?’ I asked.
He gave a shrug. ‘I didn’t do any research, Sandy, if that’s what you are thinking. I can see it in your eyes.’
‘See what?’
‘Fear.’
Of course, he didn’t know it then, nor did I. But one day the fear would be in his eyes.
28
22 July 2007 – Looking back
‘Fear?’ I replied.
‘If you spend six years as an interrogator in my country, where perhaps the police aren’t quite so concerned with being as gentle with suspects as they are here, you learn to read fear in someone’s face. Not nerves, not worry, fear. Real, raw fear. Understand me? It’s what I see in your face.’
Somewhere near where I was sitting, but it might have been a hundred miles away, I heard the rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat of the roulette ball, then silence. My throat felt tight, my mouth dry. At that moment our cocktails arrived, in proper Martini glasses I was pleased to note. Both contained a large green olive on a stick. And as all proper Martinis should be, the glasses were filled right to the very brim, the drink almost slopping over the top.
Nicos raised his and we touched glasses with a distinct, classy crystal chingggg. I took a sip. It was dry, cold as ice, and almost instantly it made me feel happier and more confident, as this drink always did. And it made me like Nicos even more. But at the same time, I was a little wary. He seemed almost too good to be true and one lesson I’d learned in my life so far was to trust your instincts – if something seems too good to be true, it probably isn’t true.
‘That fear you see is a monster called Albazi who is after me over a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-pound gambling debt that I’ve managed to rack up. There. I’ve said it. I’ve not told a soul this, you understand. And I’m not really sure why I’ve just told you.’
Could he be working for Albazi? Or was I just completely paranoid, given the shit I was in?
‘I think you’re a hard lady, right?’
No one had ever called me that before, and I wasn’t immediately sure how to take it. Compliment or criticism? But the way he was looking at me made me smile. ‘Maybe.’ Then, what the hell, I don’t know where it came from, but something popped in my head. I took another sip, a bigger one this time, then held my glass out towards him, like I was challenging him to a duel, and said, ‘You are right, I’m hard. I drink cocktails made from the tears of my past lovers.’
He studied me in silence for some moments, as if absorbing this very seriously. Then he studied his glass, slowly twirling it around by the stem. ‘I never realized before, the reason Martinis are so potent. Now I’m educated, thank you.’
He smiled. We touched glasses again, then he looked at me carefully, as if I was a page of a newspaper he was reading and, finally, said, ‘So, Sandy, what are we going to do with you?’
It’s strange how you get feelings about people, but in that simple line, I knew, for sure, he was on my side and had nothing to do with Albazi – he wouldn’t even know the Albanian existed. It felt so good to say my problem out loud to someone who didn’t know me, someone who wouldn’t judge me, someone who had been through some deep trauma themselves. A weight was lifting from my shoulders, and I was feeling a little safer.
I looked at my glass and there was barely enough of the clear liquid nectar left to cover the olive. Had I drunk the whole thing already?
It had gone to my head. And in a very nice way. I drained my glass. Emboldened, the alcohol doing most of the talking, I replied, ‘The first thing we are going to do with me is teach me how to be hard to find. Unless you have a problem with that?’
‘You want to be hard to find?’
I nodded.
‘You want to disappear?’
‘Perhaps. How would I start?’
‘You start with your digital footprint. May I see your phone?’
‘Well, there’s two actually, the second one I only got this week.’
I pulled them from my handbag and handed them to him. The second phone was my secret phone, the one I’d bought to see me through my leaving Roy. I called it phone B. I hadn’t wanted Roy seeing any messages from Albazi and phone B was just for my eyes.
Nicos asked me to enter my PINs for him. I did so. For some moments he concentrated on the first phone in silence, bringing up what looked like a variety of menus. Then he pulled out his own phone, laid them side by side, and concentrated fiercely. I heard the occasional beeps. He repeated this process with the second phone. Finally, he handed the phones back.
‘What were you looking for? A bug?’
‘I’ll explain.’
29
22 July 2007 – Looking back
Nicos did explain. If someone wanted to follow you or just find you, there were several ways they could download tracking software onto your phone. The most sophisticated ones would send back to your stalker your exact location to within a few feet.
As I wondered whether Albazi had downloaded something like this onto my personal phone, Nicos told me the Greek police, in their endless war on drug traffickers, had developed some effective blocking software, and that’s what he had installed on my phone. He couldn’t guarantee it would be one hundred per cent effective, but he did think it would at least make me harder to find.
I told him I had a bit of a problem with that, in case it made it harder for him to find me. I instantly regretted it, because it came out all wrong. But he seemed fine with it. He just grinned and said, ‘The day I cannot find you, Sandy, is the day you’ll know you are truly safe.’
That was the first time I kissed him. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic kiss of all time. I just leaned across – almost falling off the stool in the process – and gave him a quick peck of gratitude on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
He barely reacted. After I’d sat back down he fixed a stare on me. ‘So let’s talk about this Albazi. When most people want to be hard to find, it is because they are having an affair, but this is not your reason.’
‘You really are – were – a detective, weren’t you? Just like my husband,’ I said.
His face unreadable, his eyes still fixed on mine, he retorted, ‘I hope not. If I was your husband, I wouldn’t want to ever let you out of my sight. There isn’t anything I would want to look at more than you.’
It was about the cheesiest chat-up line I’d ever heard. But he said it with such charm it felt like a warm tornado was swirling through my insides. This was getting dangerous. I desperately tried to think of something clever to say in reply, something meaningful, something polite but distancing, but my brain didn’t want to deliver. Instead I said a rather vacuous, ‘Thank you, that’s nice.’
‘Nice,’ he said, in blank echo. The way he said it was like he had tossed a coin into the air and would only decide after it had landed whether it was heads or tails – and what either would mean.
‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Are you married?’ And I found myself nervous as I awaited the answer.
‘I was.’
‘You’re divorced?’ I tried not to let the relief show in my voice.
‘Eleni died,’ he said flatly.
It was strange but something bothered me that he’d used her name. It implied the wounds were still raw, that he was still hurting. But it did make me realize, for the first time, that he was vulnerable. He took another sip of his drink then stared down at his glass.
I sat in silence for a brief while, thinking how to respond. Finally I ventured, ‘I’m sorry. Was it recent?’
‘Eight years ago.’
‘Do you have kids?’
‘I did,’ he said and stared back into his wide-rimmed glass. He looked mournful now.
‘You did? What happened to them?’
‘Twin boys. They were two years old. They died with their mother in a car crash.’
‘God, I’m sorry – I didn’t – didn’t mean – to—’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘It was a long time ago, life moves on, because it has to. I erased it. I swept it away, into a compartment of my mind, locked it and threw away the key.’ He shrugged.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, aware it sounded lame. ‘What happened – the crash – how did that happen?’
‘I’ll tell you some day, maybe, but not now. I want you to tell me more about you. And I will of course know if you are telling the truth or not.’ He smiled but it suddenly had more the coldness of a professional rather than the warmth of a friend.
‘Of course you will, you’re an interrogator.’
‘You know the reason people lie? It’s when they are afraid. Did your husband tell you that?’ He smiled again. This time there was a tad more warmth.
‘No, but it makes sense.’
‘Sure it does. We are programmed by our genes to do whatever it takes to survive. That’s why truth is the first casualty of every war. And we are all guilty of something.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘So we are all liars?’ I replied.
‘That would depend how you define truth.’
‘Answering a question with a question again,’ I chided.
‘If that’s your only problem with me, I’ll take it,’ he said and then grinned.
I suddenly looked at my watch and it was almost 5 p.m. But I didn’t want to get off that bar stool. I didn’t want the afternoon to end. I had been steadily munching on the endless bowls of nuts, olives and spicy crackers the barman put down, trying to curb my hunger, and now I was trying to figure out how three totally amazing hours had passed.
Safe. He made me feel safe, the way that Roy had made me feel safe, too. At this moment Nicos made me feel more wanted and more alive than I could ever remember. Had it been like that in the early days with Roy? Maybe a little, but we had both been so young then. Barely more than kids. Nicos was a man who seemed both physically and mentally strong. He was so not my type, yet the moment I stepped out of the casino, and into the heat of the late afternoon sunshine, all I could think was that I wanted to see him again soon. Desperately soon.
We’d arranged to meet here tomorrow at the same time. But it was not soon enough.
As I walked towards home, my phone pinged with an incoming message. I pulled it out of my handbag with a smile, expecting it to be from Nicos. But my smile evaporated. It was from Roel Albazi.
30
22 July 2007 – Looking back
Hi Sandy, told my boss about your inheritance. She’s pleased to hear that, but she really needs a firm date for the loan repayment. She wants it within four days. You OK with that? She wouldn’t be happy with a late payment, if you understand. Can you confirm and I’ll let her know.
If you do have a problem getting the money through in that period, then a letter from the lawyer for the executors confirming the funds are coming, and stating when, might buy you some time – but not much.
I deleted the message.
Mistake.
Moments later another text came through from him, and this one really chilled me.
Don’t play games, Sandy. I might be Mr Nice Guy and on your side but my boss isn’t, trust me. When I send you a message, I don’t expect you to delete it, I expect the courtesy of a reply. My boss doesn’t play games with people who don’t pay what they owe. You’ve already seen evidence of that. I’m doing my best to protect you, but default and it will be out of my hands, and you don’t want that, believe me.
Shit. Albazi could see what I was doing on my phone? A bug? How else could he know I’d deleted the message, unless he was close by, watching me?
I was walking along New Church Road, a wide street, one block north of the sea, a mostly residential area of large Edwardian houses, many converted into medical practices, a few high-rent low-rise blocks of flats, a church, and light traffic even though it was now rush hour.
I stopped and looked around but there was no one nearby. A youth struggling with a skateboard on the other side, and an old, blue-rinsed lady, dressed for the Arctic, seemingly oblivious to the temperature being over 30 degrees, walking a trio of Pekineses on leashes, a good hundred yards behind me, making me cross that she would walk her dogs in this heat.
So Albazi had installed something on my phone. If I’d not met my new friend Nicos, I’d not have known someone could even do this.
And despite the heat of the day, I felt a sudden, wintry chill of fear.
I decided it would be smarter to reply than not. To perhaps buy some time.
Message received and understood. All good.
As soon as I had sent it, despite Albazi’s instructions, I deleted the message thread. Not that Roy would have seen it, even on my usual phone. I can’t remember the last time he looked at it. He had no reason to because he trusted me. But, being paranoid, I’d changed my PIN on that one also, without telling him. Something else I’m not proud of . . .
31
22 July 2007 – Looking back
Maybe the guilt should have stopped me lying, sitting opposite my husband, when he asked me how my day was. I told him I’d gone for a glorious walk along the seafront this afternoon. Probably over-egged it a bit by waxing lyrical about how beautiful the shore looked with the tide out.
All the time I couldn’t stop thinking about Albazi. About how he knew I had deleted his text. Hopefully Nicos could look at my phones again tomorrow and see if he could find something else, something he had missed.
Except, now, I’m starting to doubt Nicos, big time. Have I been a total fool? Is Nicos working for Albazi – and instead of removing a bug or something that Albazi’s put on my phone, has he installed something else? Just schmoozing me to fool me?
And succeeding?
I barely heard Roy talking about his day, about how he’d been in court, in the witness box for most of the day being cross-examined by – in his words – a complete bastard of a barrister called Richard Pedley.
All I could think was that another Valium pill would help with my troubles. I am worried sick.
As Roy stops eating, to check an incoming text – he’s the on-call SIO tonight – I sneak a look at my phone B, which I always keep on silent in the house, hoping that maybe there is a text from Nicos that might reassure me. But there isn’t.
How do I tell Roy that I owe £150,000 to a Brighton hoodlum he’s planning to arrest? It’s just not an option.
What I don’t yet have is a robust plan. My mind feels like one of those IKEA flatpacks you open up, and the contents lie in all kinds of different pieces that you have to somehow assemble to get your finished kitchen cabinet, or whatever it is. The cabinet is my plan, but I don’t know what my plan really is, any more than I know what the cabinet should look like.
Here are the absolutes of what I do know at this stage, and in no particular order:
One: I am pregnant.
Two: I cannot let Roy know what I’ve got myself into.
Three: I have a very short window of time to pay Mr Albazi.
Four: I have almost £30K left, in a rucksack, in the spare room.
Should I take it all to the casino and go shit or bust? It’s big stake money. If I got lucky, it would solve one of my problems. Well, two actually. I could pay back Albazi and I’d have enough to start a new life.
I look at Roy, sitting opposite me at the table in our modern and minimalist kitchen, which I designed and am proud of. And I love the view of our garden behind him – all my ideas, which Roy also liked – but, to be honest, I don’t think furniture and interior – or exterior – decor are his thing. He’d have been happy if I’d told him I wanted a rustic farmhouse kitchen, or an industrial look, or one that was bright purple. I’m not even sure he would have noticed if he’d come home tonight and the kitchen was completely different.
He’d probably do the same as he always did, which was to walk through the door, kiss me and ask me how my day had been, then tap the goldfish bowl, say hello to Marlon and drop in a couple of pinches of food. He’d remove his jacket and tie, pour each of us a drink – no alcohol for him if he was on duty – sit at the table, scan through the Argus newspaper, followed by the website for updates, and maybe ask if I could turn the volume of the television down. And then he’d realize, finally, the kitchen was different but only by going to find something that’s not in the place he was expecting.
To be fair, he does pull his weight about the house and he does his equal share of the meals, something microwavable from the freezer or a salad that he would be unable to overcook or grill or fry to a cinder. And he’s very good with eggs. The best egg scrambler in the world and he has mastered the perfect poached egg. That I shall miss along with everything else.
