Caramarin stretched out in the now cold bed. Shit, it was much later than he thought. Switching the phone on, he saw he'd missed a few calls. Pressing redial he spoke to Mihai Pojer.
"I'm to meet you tonight at Subrata Mohanraj's office," Pojer said. Short and simple.
"Tonight?" said Caramarin. "Thought Ozgan wanted me to raid the place tomorrow. When the man's at the Mosque."
"Ozgan's brought the plans forward. Doesn't like the idea of these records out of his sight a single day longer."
"Understandable."
"By the way, Caramarin, perhaps I shouldn't tell you this but Ozgan was coming to Manchester this weekend anyway."
That took him by surprise. "Why?"
"He's been invited to Subrata Mohanraj's wedding at the Lombardia Hotel this Friday night. That's why he wanted you to find Engin Hasanov for him. Ozgan wants to give this Mohanraj the Picasso as a present."
Some of the clouds cleared from his mind. It was starting to make a little sense now. Caramarin knew valuable paintings were often used as high value currency as they were smaller and easier to transport than mountains of cash.
"So what's he going to do with his nephew now? Forgive and forget? Must've put him to some trouble when he ran off with it."
"Nephew?" laughed Pojer. "That's a joke. Hasanov is Ozgan's lover. Thought you'd have picked up on that, man. Now he's back in Ozgan's good books, it's me who’s got to watch my back."
"Do you speak English? Is that why you're helping me?" Caramarin asked abruptly.
"A little – enough to get by," said Pojer. "Not a lot."
Maybe it was the weed still in his system but Caramarin was starting to get a bad feeling about this. If it wasn't for the threats against Valeriya and her family back in Odessa he would give this outing a miss. His skin goose-bumped. He ran a hand through his dark hair.
"I'll see you later," he finished at last.
Quickly, Caramarin showered and dressed. He walked through the drizzle to Narcisa's pawn brokers. She was busy with customers so he waited, looked at the wide-screen televisions. The manager, a slim, young man who took a great deal of time over his appearance was checking the tills. He had gelled hair, designer stubble, capped teeth and narrow glasses. The manager scowled at Caramarin, recognising him from the earlier CCTV footage. But the man didn't have the balls to approach him.
"You shouldn't have come, Nicu," Narcisa said.
"If that bastard says anything, tell me. I'll see how long it takes him to pull his head out of his arse."
Narcisa giggled. "That's not the answer. But I'd quite like to see that."
"I know. Look, if you can get me some more cash, I'll be grateful. But don't worry if you can't. And don't worry if I'm not back tonight, I've got a few things on. But I'll make it up to you."
Narcisa nodded but her face was sad underneath her smile, her dark eyes wet.
"I hope you make it, Nicu."
"So do I."
The manager was tapping his watch. Narcisa stretched up and kissed Caramarin.
"Goodbye," she said.
* * *
Late evening found Caramarin outside the business centre on King Street. His baseball cap was low and his keffiyeh scarf covered his lower face. He'd bought a hi-viz jacket, a pair of latex gloves and a padded envelope stuffed with a newspaper, upon which he'd written Subrata Mohanraj's office address. The envelope was tucked up his jacket against the sleet.
His breath plumed up in the cold air as he watched the traffic outside. Trying to be less obviously watching Caramarin walked round the block a few times. All senses on full alert. A young woman in a miniskirt stood smoking outside – was she an undercover cop? – but a man in a skinny t-shirt to show off his tattoos picked her up.
No one else stood loitering outside; no parked cars with hard looking men sitting in them. There was nothing outside to raise the alarm but Caramarin had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach about this. Especially as he couldn't raise Mihai Pojer's cell even after several tries.
What the hell. There was nothing to be gained by waiting any longer. Caramarin grasped the padded envelope and ran up the stairs to the reception lobby. Crossing to the desk, the envelope held before him like a shield, he found only one girl behind the desk. This evening's security guard, a scrawny youngster with the bloodshot eyes of the true stoner stood fiddling with his cell. Caramarin scrawled an illegible signature in the visitor's register. The girl said something to him.
"Yes, okay," he muttered, then hurried away from the desk before she could say anything else and waited for the lift. Maybe he hadn't got it quite right as the security guard followed him over and took the lift up to the third with him. Caramarin ducked into the gents and waited long enough for the guard to get bored and leave. Listening intently he never heard the guard speaking on his cell. Stepping out the gents, Caramarin turned left and walked along the corridor to Subrata Mohanraj's office.
The outer door stood slightly ajar. No lights shone through the frosted glass of the inner door. Caramarin paused outside, listening hard, but heard nothing. Slipping on his latex gloves he gently pushed open the outer door near the hinges to prevent any creaks. Stepping inside, he passed the Barcelona chairs and low table with the magazines in the waiting area.
Then Caramarin crouched low below the glass panel and slowly turned the handle. The inner door was also unlocked. His body quivering with nervous tension, his breathing ragged, Caramarin pushed the second door open.
The smell hit him first. The coppery metallic stench of blood. Unmistakeable. No other smell quite like it. In the dim light filtering in from the windows, he saw a man's shape behind one of the desks. Caramarin closed the door behind him. His hand groped for the light switch.
Then, standing in the corner he saw another man. A man leaning against the wall watching him. A gleam of metal flickered in the half light. His battle hardened reflexes took over. Instantly, Caramarin hurled himself at the waiting man.
He smashed into a coat stand. A woman's long overcoat and scarf wrapped itself around him as the stand fell over. The crash sounded very loud, shattering the office's silence. Caramarin picked himself up, kicking away the wreckage. He gave a nervous laugh.
Caramarin switched on the light. In its glow, he saw six desks, all with flat screen monitors on them. But what he looked at first was the man behind the desk. It was Mihai Pojer staring up at the ceiling. Very, very dead.
Pojer’s throat had been cut from ear to ear and the wound gaped wide, an obscene chasm in the man's neck. Caramarin saw the open tubes of the man's windpipe and gullet. Blood covered the corpse, the desk and the floor beneath. More blood sprayed over the carpet and up the walls. Looking down, the knife handle stuck out of the man's chest between his open leather jacket.
Caramarin stepped to the desk, careful not to tread in any of the puddled blood. Carefully he dipped a finger into the gore. Still wet. The man could only have been killed very recently. Within the hour, certainly no longer than that.
Lifting his hand, Caramarin saluted the corpse of the old fighter. The man wasn't a friend, no way, but he had come to respect Pojer. The man deserved a better end than being butchered like a pig. He closed Pojer's eyes.
What was that? Caramarin ran to the office's window. Blue lights bounced off the building opposite, reflecting in its darkened windows. Two squad cars outside. Fuck-shit. Another set up. Timur Ozgan had done it again. Too late Caramarin remembered the bloody red ruin of a chopped up woman in a warehouse back in Odessa.
So it wasn't like Timur Ozgan didn't have form for a stunt like this. Caramarin knew there was something wrong about a man speaking no English being asked to get hold of documents. He should have gone with his gut instincts.