Now it was personal. Now it was time for himself alone. The sensible thing would be to run. Get out of this waterlogged, god-forsaken city before the cops picked him up. Before they had chance to circulate his mug shot or put a stop notice on the airports or ferry terminals. Get back as fast as he could to Odessa. With his tail between his legs.
But that was short term thinking only. Timur Ozgan had made not so subtle threats against his girlfriend, Valeriya, and her son back in Odessa. No, he couldn't have the gang boss taking out his anger on them. He would have to deal with Ozgan. The man had set him up twice, once in Odessa and again in Manchester. There was no way could he let that go. And Caramarin preferred to do it here and now while the gang boss was protected by only Mehmet and not in the Black Sea city with his whole mob behind him.
But how? Caramarin remembered the dead thug Pojer telling him that Ozgan would be attending a wedding tonight at the Lombardia Hotel. It was all he had to go on so it would have to do. He saw a bus lumbering into town so jumped on board. His fingers shook and he fumbled with his change. The driver took no notice – this man had seen enough wasted junkies on his bus before now.
Back in Manchester, Caramarin wanted to be off the streets and out of sight as much as possible. So he sat with his back to the window in a cafe near the Lombardia Hotel and racked his brains. He thought and tried out several plans but discarded them all. At last a germ of an idea came to him. Not great but it was all he could think of. He stood and walked around the back of the Lombardia Hotel.
From over the road he watched the rear service entrance for a short while. He figured that a large function like Subrata Mohanraj's wedding would need to take on extra temporary staff. No way could the regular crew cope with the extra work. He tail gated a couple of chattering young women who wouldn't have noticed an elephant following them into the hotel.
No way the back of the hotel matched the front. It was like it belonged to two different establishments. Caramarin guessed no guests had ever been back here. He followed the girls as they walked down a short corridor lined with bins and containers for dirty clothing and linen. Notices covered the walls. A damp ammonia smell of floors too frequently washed. He followed the girls up a flight of stairs and into a common area. Doors with the universal male and female symbols led to changing rooms.
In the centre of the area, a hard faced woman in a tailored grey suit stood by a table. A name badge identified her as 'Eva Konieczna'. She was clutching a clipboard as if her life depended on it. Or her whole future career at any rate. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and frowned at the assembled group. Everyone was much younger than Caramarin except for one grey faced man in his fifties who had the look of an alcoholic who couldn't wait to jump off the wagon.
The woman gobbed off in English. Caramarin was pleased he wasn't the only one who looked confused. There were a few glances and a couple translated in Polish or Lithuanian to their friends. The woman looked at Caramarin.
"Bulgarian?" she asked.
"No, Romanian," he said.
He understood enough when she muttered "Fuck's sake." The woman dragged over a plumpish girl with dark brown hair and stood her next to Caramarin.
"This is Firuta," Eva Konieczna told him. "You can work with her tonight." He quickly shook hands with Firuta.
The girl's English was excellent. She translated as quickly as possible for him.
The woman asked his name. Unfortunately she held the clipboard to her scraggy chest so he couldn't see any of the names written on it.
"Eugen Maiorescu." Where did that come from? The name of his old gang boss in Odessa? "The Agency only called me an hour or so ago. Said you were short staffed tonight." The woman nodded once.
"The Agency have checked you're allowed to work? You've got an NI number, work permit, food hygiene cert?" No idea what the first thing was but he nodded anyway as Firuta translated. She ticked something on her clipboard.
"Worked in catering before? Done silver service?"
"Yes," lied Caramarin. "I've done silver service before." He'd dined in enough good restaurants back in Odessa to watch the waiters. It couldn't be too hard to dish out potatoes or vegetables without messing up.
The woman nodded. Short rapid jerks of her head. "Right. I'll be speaking to the Agency tomorrow. I'm not happy with this. Not your fault, but I need staff who can at least fucking speak basic fucking English."
And that was his employment checks all complete.
The harassed looking supervisor ran through their duties. Some were behind the bar others waiting on. On the table next to the woman were lines of gold coloured name badges. Caramarin looked confused.
"You can be Robert tonight, okay?" the woman told him. Even after everyone had taken a badge, there were still a few left over. No wonder the woman didn't make too much fuss. She just wanted enough hands on board and wasn't too choosy where they came from. Caramarin scrawled his name and entry time onto the signing on sheets.
In the sweat smelling gents changing room there were piles of uniform clothing. He chose a very oversized black shirt and one of the hotel's pink ties. He dived into one of the cubicles, got changed and then under the baggy shirt, he concealed the CZ-75 semi-automatic and hunting knife. Looking in the mirror, their bulges couldn't be seen.
Finally he knotted his tie, pinned on Robert's name badge and smoothed down his hair. Very professional looking. Slick. Except for his face. Caramarin re-entered the changing room and bundled his jacket and jeans into a locker.
Eva Konieczna pushed Caramarin over to Firuta. "Don't let me down, er... Eugen," she told him.
Caramarin followed Firuta and some others over to the kitchen's service area. Rows of stainless steel shelving stood between the waiters and kitchens. A few linen covered trolleys also stood nearby. Behind the shelves, chefs and kitchen porters worked like demons stoking the fires of hell to maximum temperature.
Despite the noise and clutter by the grills and stoves, no-one got in the way of anyone else. The chef's staff knew their jobs and worked efficiently. The hot earthy smells of India hit Caramarin. Similar but so much better than the takeaway food he'd shared with the girls and Artur. His stomach rumbled. With the excitement, he'd forgotten he was starving.
"I've not done an Indian reception before," Firuta confided.
"Don't worry. We'll get through it," smiled Caramarin. But he just hoped he'd get through the next hour or so without ending up on a mortuary slab in a Manchester hospital. As he watched, platters of samosas, bhajis and spring rolls appeared on the stainless steel shelves. They were in business.
"Follow me with those," Firuta said. She pushed her way through a swing door. Caramarin one step behind.
He stopped. An explosion of colour and lights hit him. No, not an explosion. An H-Bomb of colour blew him away. He was stunned, overwhelmed. His mission forgotten. If anyone socked him on the jaw now, he wouldn't have noticed until he hit the floor.
The wedding's chosen theme was red, gold and ivory with crystals covering everything. At the centre of the top table were two marble coloured thrones. The bride and groom were about the most beautiful couple he'd ever seen. They looked like supermodels.
The groom had a straight nose, a neatly trimmed beard that must've taken an age to cut. He wore a red turban with a little peacock fan sticking up from the top, then flowing down his back. Also a long, ivory jacket richly embroidered with swirls and lines of crystals in a tadpole paisley pattern. The man looked like a Persian prince. God knows how much his outfit cost – more than some Indian villages earned in a year he guessed.
But the bride. Apart from the time he'd driven Miss Ukraine, she was the most beautiful woman in creation. Far beyond his earthly lustful thoughts. The girl must've lightened her skin tone somehow as she was the palest woman in the room, even lighter than the handful of bare shouldered orange tanned Anglo women there.
She had dark, sensuous eyes, full red lips and a soft, loving expression. Her beauty was heightened by that glow that all new brides have. She wore a dark red bustier top, absolutely covered in diamanté crystals and sequins. Over that, a gold sash, also blinged to the max with crystals. She wore an ancient looking gold and ruby pendant on her forehead teamed with a matching necklace and earrings. Intricate henna tattoos covered the backs of her hands.
Next to the bride and groom on the top table; almost as equally beautifully dressed, were their parents and families. The bride's family all stuck to the red and gold theme but one or two on the groom's side struck out for independence by wearing dark blue or turquoise.
Caramarin wasn't the only one who was impressed with the exotic sight. The waiter following him bumped into him knocking him back to reality. Caramarin's platter of samosas slid. He levelled it just in time to stop them falling to the floor.
Below the top table were twenty or so round tables with the rest of the beautifully dressed guests sitting around them. On the far wall, opposite the top table was a waterfall of lights, creating a shining illusion cascading down the wall in ripples and swirls. Together with the chandeliers brilliance reflected off the guests' jewellery and crystal covered outfits.
He'd never seen anything so ostentatious or gaudy yet so perfectly beautiful. He just couldn't take it all in with one look. Only then did he notice gentle Indian music playing in the background.
"Follow me and just say 'vegetable samosa?' Got it?" Firuta whispered. Caramarin nodded as he practised his phrase under his breath. He followed her up to the top table. Starting with the bride and groom he then worked his way along the row after Firuta. The guests' perfumes mixed with the spicy cuisine to overfill his nose as much as their costumes overwhelmed his vision.
As he served, he glanced among the other round tables for Timur Ozgan. In amongst the gorgeous costumes, there were a few Europeans in sober grey business suits. But he couldn't see Ozgan anywhere. An older Indian man with a red dyed beard turned and spoke to him.
Caramarin froze. What the fuck?