Free Blood Whispers by John Gordon Sinclair

have a few million lek invested in your pension by now.’
    Engjell smiled enigmatically, but still remained silent.
    Abazi was wearing dark jeans with black leather Converse All Stars and a black fitted T-shirt. A gold-plated tag showing a wolf baring its teeth hung around his neck as a reminder of his days in the Frenkies: the Serbian special forces. Apart from being unshaven, everything looked clean and sharp: he was in good shape. His bare arms were lean and well defined with a tattoo of the same snarling wolf as his tag showing just beneath the sleeve of his right arm. His cheekbones were set high on his face and there was a thin scar running along the side of his left temple where a bullet had once grazed his skull. An inch further to the right and his life would have been over. It allowed him to use his favourite line when anyone asked how he’d got it: ‘I was an inch from eternity, but didn’t like the view, so I turned and came back.’
    ‘What happened to Besnik?’ asked Abazi, crossing to sit on the sofa opposite.
    ‘Who’s Besnik?’
    ‘Your driver.’
    Engjell thought for a moment. ‘He talked to me.’
    ‘He “talked” to you . . . so what?’
    ‘I asked for a driver that would keep his mouth shut. Besnik just kept talking.’
    ‘So what did you do, put a bullet through his head and dump the body on the side of the road?’
    Engjell wondered if Abazi was asking a serious question and answered as if he was, ‘There was a moment when I considered doing that.’
    ‘Where is he now?’
    ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘You don’t know what happened to him?’
    ‘I do know what happened to him, but I don’t know where he is now.’
    ‘Jesus Christ, Engjell, it’s three o’clock in the morning, help me out here. What the fuck happened to Besnik?’
    Engjell E Zeze gave Abazi a curious look, as if he couldn’t see why he was getting upset. ‘He pulled over for some food and left the key in the ignition, so I took the car.’
    ‘And left him behind?’
    ‘I told you, he was talking . . . and the car smelled of cigarettes. I asked for someone who wouldn’t speak and didn’t smoke. I got a talking chimney. I figure if I don’t get him out of the car, I will end up killing him and that I don’t do unless someone is paying me.’
    Abazi shook his head – which Engjell didn’t like either.
    Accepting that he wasn’t going to get any further, Abazi changed the subject.
    ‘Are you travelling light?’
    Engjell knew he was referring to the holdall full of heroin the uniformed Marine had handed to him as he’d left the plane.
    ‘It’s in the boot of the car.’
    ‘D’you need anything else?’
    ‘Have you found the whore?’
    ‘Not yet, but they’ve just appointed her a lawyer, so any minute now. I’ll give you the lawyer’s home address before you leave.’
    ‘You can tell me now.’
    ‘I’ll write it down for you in a minute.’
    ‘I don’t want you to write it down. If you tell me now, I’ll remember.’
    Abazi shrugged, ‘Okay. Her name is Keira Lynch. She lives at 490 Glasgow Harbour Terrace, in flat 70.’
    ‘And her date of birth?’
    ‘Her what?’
    ‘Date of birth,’ repeated Engjell. ‘Do you know her date of birth?’
    ‘Why? You want to send her a birthday card?’
    Engjell wasn’t enjoying Abazi’s tone so decided to take him on.
    ‘What d’you mean?’
    ‘I told you her address, and now you want her date of birth?’
    ‘Yes . . . her date of birth. But why would I send the lawyer a birthday card? I don’t know her.’
    Abazi was starting to get exasperated. ‘Shit, you are one tricky little fucker, Engjell. It’s just a joke, you know: I’m not trying to mess with you.’
    ‘Why am I a “tricky fucker”, because you decided to use an inappropriate tone with me when I ask for a date of birth. It’s you who is being tricky.’
    Abazi could see where this was going. If it was anyone other than E Zeze he would drag them down to the garage and