Unusually, Caramarin was first into the bathroom so he showered and shaved. But still felt like shite. He hated the feelings from coming down from a coke high. It never got any easier. Narcisa was first girl down. She wore her dressing gown over her nightie.
"Where were you last night?" she demanded.
"Sorting out some stuff," he thought about the traumatised girl in the Budapest’s club. A life for a life. "If you knew, you'd be proud of me."
"Somehow, I doubt that," said Narcisa. Her dark brown eyes looked tired. Maybe Caramarin wasn't the only one who had a restless night. "I've been thinking last night. About us."
"Oh, yeah?" said Caramarin warily. Never a good sign when a girl wants to talk relationships.
"Yes. I haven't got time now, but we'll speak tonight."
"If I've upset you, then I'm sorry," said Caramarin. He spread his hands wide and plastered what he hoped was a winning smile onto his face.
Narcisa smiled at him, a ray of sunshine among the clouds.
"I'm sorry. I've been out of sorts the last few days myself. But you've been behaving oddly recently, haven't you?" Narcisa thought for a moment. "If you can, come and see me at lunch time. We do need to talk," she said.
"Not sure I can make lunch today but, yeah, we'll catch up later." Caramarin switched the kettle on.
She stretched up, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips. Her brown eyes looked into his as if searching his soul for answers. Her body pressed tight against his, the swell of her breasts and stomach against his chest and abdomen.
After Narcisa left for work, he ran upstairs and looked through her room. Hating himself all the while for trampling on her trust. He found a small digital camera with a scratch on its screen which looked like it came from her pawnbrokers, and then shoved it deep into his pocket.
* * *
Later, Caramarin stood on the opposite side of the road to the North Manchester Mosque. The dead weight of his CZ-75 pistol felt like it was pulling him down to the ground. Once again, he almost wished he smoked; he would have been less obvious that way. Just a man killing time before the service started.
The mosque itself stood Woodlands Road. It was a large, red brick building with a green dome on the roof. Whoever had built had made an attempt to give it the desert architecture so beloved of Muslim designers. However, its fake desert architecture looked alien in this cold city of permanent rain and gloom. To Caramarin's eye, it looked more than half like a warehouse.
Men from all over the Islamic world walked towards the mosque. Caramarin watched men from Indonesia, India, the Middle East, Turkey and Africa join together in one faith. A few Africans stood talking French outside the doors. Even saw a couple of self-conscious white converts, one in Islamic clothing. And a coat.
Some of the men looked at Caramarin leaning against a doorway over the road. His olive keffiyeh scarf was wrapped around his lower face and over his shaved head. They didn't approach him, probably thought he was some jihadi barred from attending prayers. Or a member of the secret police pretending to be a jihadi to trap the unwary.
Caramarin waited. His mood as low as the dark grey clouds which seemed to lower only metres above the buildings. The rain had eased off but it had turned colder. Caramarin glanced up the street. There was still no sign of Gjergji Shkurti. Stanga had told him the Albanian usually drove to services with his driver staying in the car. The men on the street were hurrying now, anxious to perform their ritual washing on time. He watched a grandfather with a red-dyed beard dragging two reluctant boys along.
Still no sight of the Albanian. A handful of young men all with full beards and wearing combat jackets, desperate to look tough, turned the corner and pushed their way inside. Obviously wanting outsiders to think they'd just come straight from a terrorist training camp in some war torn country. Instead of from the local I.T. College. Caramarin smiled to himself. Closest they'd ever been to killing any Western soldiers was on the X-Box.
The sidewalk was definitely thinning out now. No question about it. Caramarin looked up and down the street. Glancing at his watch, the noon services would start in a couple of minutes. He'd give it until then to abort the mission. Shkurti must have been called away on business today. His lucky day if he had.
Did he really want to do this act? Yeah, he'd killed before, too many times. But he was no hit-man. From Ewelina's trawl through the internet, Shkurti might be a bad lad. Yet the same could be said of Caramarin himself. Also, Shkurti had never done him any harm.
And most importantly did he want to take on the Albanians? Even in the hard man world of organised crime, the Albanians were people to be feared. Since the fall of communism, there had been a revival of their strict Kanun code. A medieval code covering every aspect of daily life. According to the code, as laid down by a powerful chieftain called Leke Dukagjin centuries ago, the most important aspect is honour. If a member of their family is murdered then it becomes the sworn duty of every male member of that clan to avenge the blood debt by killing a member of the murderer's clan.
So, mess with one, you took them all on. And Albanians all had an immediate family of brothers, fathers, sons, uncles; then an extended family of cousins, second cousins, half-brothers, step-brothers, in-laws and out-laws.
As well as that, an entire clan linked by unknown relationships forged by blood and adversity. And even beyond that clan kinship, more men linked by ties of patronage and honour. And all of them united by a medieval mountain-man's willingness to avenge any slight in a blood feud that could last for centuries. So, the question was, did he really want to take on Shkurti's clan?
Deep in thought, Caramarin almost missed a white Mercedes E220 saloon pulling up outside the main doors. Shaken by his inattention – his old instructor in sniper training school would have given him the rough side of his tongue for that – Caramarin recognised Shkurti as he stepped out of the back, together with another man. Time slowed down for Caramarin. Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket he felt the bulk of his CZ-75 semi-automatic, the cross-hatchings on its grip. He half drew it from his pocket, the end of its grip pulling free.
The other man, without a doubt Gjergji Shkurti's minder, alerted by some sixth sense turned towards Caramarin. Probably worried by a scruffy man over the road, a man he'd never seen here before, the man's head masked in a keffiyeh scarf. Maybe trouble? Whatever, it was not a good sight on the nearly empty street. The man started to move between Caramarin and his target, putting his huge bulk between them.
A moment of clarity streaked through Caramarin's mind. He should have thought of this before. If he hadn't been so coked up would have realised. He was the cut-out. Any flak coming down from Shkurti's death, Stanga would deny any involvement. Other than a visit to his club – and there were dozens of eastern Europeans watching the strippers on any night – there was nothing linking Caramarin with Stanga. And the mobster had even told him he was expendable.
With sudden clarity he bet there was evidence lying about tying him in with another mobster somewhere else in the city. Let them fight off the Albanians instead. Stanga might even get rid of two enemies for the price of one lone hit-man.
Caramarin dropped the pistol back in his pocket. He shook his head, turned on his heel and walked away. Shkurti's minder stood with crossed arms by the Merc and watched Caramarin disappear. Out of sight, Caramarin ran through a car park belonging to a block of flats, vaulted a low fence, and onto Woodland Street.
Now he had proof it was a set-up he wasn't expected to survive. The street was empty. No sign of Tibor Budescu or his BMW. Nothing. Caramarin swore, but he hadn't expected anything else. Only question now – what was he going to do about it?
No time to waste. Probably Stanga thought he was just some dumb moron who would doom an Albanian gang head in return for saving that traumatised girl. And if he was set up to fail with this hit, then there was no way Stanga would hand over that woman. So, if he wanted her, he would just have to take her.
Caramarin hailed a passing minicab. With difficulty and by pointing to his guidebook he managed to make the driver understand him. One foreigner speaking to another. The man tried to take the long way round, but one look at Caramarin's battered face as he tapped the driver on the shoulder and the man changed his mind.
Caramarin threw another purple twenty at the man and jumped out. He stood in front of Stanga's nightclub, dug out the digital camera and fired off several shots of the club and the nearby street sign.
The metal doors were shut with the neon lights out and grey. Caramarin jogged round to the side, his hand clenched around the pistol's grip. Parked in front of the side door was Budescu's BMW. Also, next to it, a fairly new bright red Subaru. He photographed them both, capturing their licence plates. Caramarin hammered on the fire door, pausing only to let the echoes die down so he could listen. There was no response.
So he banged on the door fit to wake the dead.