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I wordlessly handed him my mobile through the gap in the window then as he checked that I hadn’t contacted anyone I pulled open the double doors to reveal a stained mattress covered with a filthy blanket and takeaway wrappers. “Oh, very classy,” I said, fighting the urge to retch at the foisty miasma of BO, stale cigarette smoke and rotten food, and climbed in.
“Haven’t had too many complaints off the ladies, if you know what I mean,” Ciaran leered. “Now get over here nice and slow so I can cuff you.” He squeezed his bulky shoulders through the space between the front seats and held out a pair of police-issue rigid handcuffs.
I did as I was told. “Now turn round and put your hands behind your back,” he commanded, and unwittingly gave me the opportunity to conduct my first test.
“Only if you want me dead before we get to wherever we’re going,” I said incredulously.
“You what?” Ciaran sneered. “This isn’t exactly something that’s open to negotiation.” But despite his bullishness I saw him pause and knew I’d already sown the first seeds of doubt in his thick skull.
“As everyone in the world – except you, clearly – knows I’m severely asthmatic, you complete fuckwit; the last time I had a major attack I ended up in intensive care in a controlled coma,” I said. “Therefore I’m going to need to keep hold of this -” I showed him my inhaler “- so I can use it the second I show any sign of an attack, and that’s going to prove rather bloody problematic if you’re driving and my hands are behind my back, isn’t it? So unless you think a five-foot nothing woman in handcuffs is somehow going to overpower you, I highly recommend you do the one tiny little thing that’s going to guarantee that you deliver me alive.”
Ciaran glared at me with pure, undiluted hatred, but he didn’t respond or move as I maintained eye contact. I’d definitely won something, but I wondered what it might cost me.
Finally he blinked first and gave a hiss of frustration. “Ah, whatever, yeah?”
The victory was insignificant in itself – I certainly wasn’t lying about being unable to tackle the man, even without cuffs on – but it had proved that no matter how strict his orders from his master might have been, the man was still malleable.
“Right. Now you lie yourself down there and just count yourself lucky I’m on my best behaviour right now.” Ciaran commanded and nodded at the rank, stained mattress. “So, we’re about to go for a little drive. Might take us a wee while seeing as we’ll be takin’ the scenic route whilst your welcome party is getting sorted, so if I were you I’d get myself nice and comfy. Oh, and if you try anything stupid on the way I can assure you nothin’ will give me more pleasure than calling ahead to let them know that faggot of a boyfriend of yours needs to say goodbye a wee bit earlier than we’d planned.”
Ciaran paused to wink at me and I shuddered. Despite the panic that continued to swell in my chest I forced myself to keep calm so that I could focus on picking up whatever I could from what he’d just told me; I already knew that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life, especially if it placed him a little nearer to the centre of the story. Right now I guessed he’d be desperate to drop in whatever clues he could without landing himself in the shit for revealing his boss’s plans.
He’d said Goodbye. That word was important. Not in isolation maybe, but when it was combined with the other details I’d pulled together, a nebulous scenario began to form. There was a possibility that I was being taken to watch Finn’s murder, but if I was right about who was the organ-grinder, that didn’t sit right; death would be far too banal and quick, and who would want that when there was so much creativity to be found in extended suffering?
There was also the family link; Blaine Albermarle had built an entire business around taking people and hiding them away – she'd done it with Finn, with Henry’s mother, with the countless victims of trafficking that had been uncovered as part of the investigation into her crimes – surely it made sense that the next twisted generation would follow in her cursed footsteps...
Time was running out and I couldn’t afford to work out the details. I only had one weapon at my disposal now, so it was a good job I was bloody skilled in its use. I rolled onto my side, made myself as comfortable as I possibly could, and readied myself to have a pleasant little psychic chat.
I opened with a casual, “So, how good is your Romanian? Or is it Albanian? Fluent, or just tourist level?”
“What the fuck are you on about?” Ciaran demanded
Oh, there it was. Nothing at the first country, but I’d spotted that slightest twitch of his mouth at the mention of the second and I knew I’d scored another decent hit. Albania it was. Time to keep firing.
“Oh, I’m sorry if that question was a little too complex for you,” I apologised. “Please, let me try and simplify it. For example, can you say ‘Right mate, if you don’t pay up in three days I’m going to break your kneecaps with a sledgehammer,’ in Albanian, or are you still at more of a ‘Excuse me but where is the post office?’ kind of level?”
Ciaran bit. “No, you stupid cow. What I meant is, what the hell are you doin’, bangin’ on about Albania?”
“Well, that has to be where he’s built his little den, isn’t he?” I said. “Michael Albermarle, I mean. Your boss...”
“Whoa, he’s my what, now?” Ciaran interrupted and instantly confirmed that I’d been correct about who was running this shitshow, although it was hardly a comfort.
“You know, your gaffer. The Head Honcho. He Who Must Be Obeyed?” I clarified.
The man gave a snort of disgust. “Yeah yeah, I know what a fuckin’ boss is, you dumb cow What I mean is, he’s not my boss, is he?”
“My apologies once again. So, what is the nature of your relationship, exactly?”
“You callin’ me a fag or somethin’?” Ciaran asked, disgust dripping from every word. “We’re not in a ‘relationship’ - not everyone’s a bender like your fella.”
“Give me strength,” I said under my breath. “Okay, once more for the terminally stupid: what’s the working relationship between you and Michael Albermarle?”
“We’re business partners,” Ciaran stated. “And obviously I’m his enforcer, aren’t I?”
“Oh yes, that’s totally obvious,” I said, and he turned and narrowed his eyes at me to see if I was taking the piss. “Well I can only hope he’s paying you at least the minimum wage,” I continued. "Goodness, that boy must be virtually penniless by now, especially with Mummy in jail, a massive lawyer’s fee and all of the Albermarle assets frozen harder than a penguin’s arse.
I suppose Albania makes perfect sense under the circumstances, especially on a tight budget. I mean, I’m assuming that’s where your rusting pile-of-shit Glock was from? They’re practically a mandatory souvenir if you’re visiting certain parts of Tirana, from what I’ve heard. The way you’re swinging it around I’m amazed you haven’t shot your own balls off already, by the way. Too small a target, I suppose,” I mused.
“Fuck you! How the hell did you even know about -” Ciaran began, then checked himself. Too late. Another shot on target, and the more I got right, the louder his ‘tells’ were becoming. I kept going.
