“It’s not about what you were doing last night.” Olezka’s voice rumbled.
Keal’s eyebrows raised. Had the mafia boss finally lost the plot?
Olezka had been running the large and dangerous organisation for over thirty years. Keal had worked closely alongside him for a long time. He respected Olezka. In many ways, Olezka had become like a father figure to him. That’s why the men called him Dedushka Olezka — Grandfather Olezka. Maybe the pressure had finally caught up with him. It was bound to happen at some point.
Behind Olezka, another man walked into the room. Before he had even emerged from the shadows of the corridor, Keal recognised him. Borya. Like Keal himself, Borya was high up in Olezka’s organisation. Keal and Borya had joined at about the same time and were like brothers in command. Keal felt himself exhale with relief. If anyone could help Olezka see reason, it would be Borya.
“What’s going on?” Borya asked, his grey-blue eyes noticing Keal’s blood-splattered body.
“Borya,” Keal said, “Dedushka Olezka has made a mistake —”
Keal was silenced by a flick of the leader’s palm.
“Borya,” Olezka said, his voice a rumble. “This man, who we’ve both known for many years. This man, who I have brought into our family. He has stolen from us.”
“Dedushka Olezka, no way.” Keal was shocked, his voice raised. “I haven’t stolen anything. What am I supposed to have stolen?”
“Who’s job is it to collect the shipments from the shop in Kreuzberg?” Olezka asked. “One of the most trusted jobs in the entire organisation. Who’s job is it?”
Keal swallowed and felt the muscles in his shoulders begin to strain.
“That’s my job Dedushka Olezka. I have done that for over a year. Every week without fail.”
“Yes, you have,” Olezka said, nodding slowly. “But you see, that’s the problem. I spoke with our friends in Lima. Last month they sent forty-five packages.”
Keal nodded. His thick tongue licked his crusted lips.
“But we only have a record of receiving twenty-nine. So, I’ll ask you again.” Olezka drew the gun from his waistband and stepped across to Keal. “Is there something you want to tell me?” He placed the gun against the top of Keal’s knee. Keal knew that from there, the bullet would pass behind his kneecap and shred every crucial part of his lower leg. It was a threat he’d used himself on multiple occasions.
“I… I…” Keal stuttered, his eyes looking wildly around the room. “I took all the packages that were there. I wouldn’t steal. Never.”
Borya watched the man’s panic. He said nothing.
“I have —”
Keal’s words were cut short by the faint thump of a silenced gunshot.
12
“Are you Leo Keane?”
Leo heard the question before he’d even opened the door. He saw the faint outline of a person through the frosted glass although he couldn’t make out their features.
When he heard his name, Leo paused. His anxiety fluttered. His chest became tighter, and his breathing short.
How did this person know who he was? How had they found his address?
“I’m sorry to intrude,” came the male voice again. A soft, well-spoken voice. “I urgently need to speak with you.”
Leo shut his eyes, inhaled deeply, then coughed. His anxiety subsided with the influx of oxygen. During some periods of his life — such as after Mya’s disappearance — his anxiety rendered him incapable of even leaving the house. But during other times, such as the last few months — other than the occasional surge — it seemed to have left him alone.
Letting the anxiety drift, Leo opened the door.
“Are you Leo Keane?” the man asked again. He was a short, mousy man, probably no older than Leo. He wore a baggy jumper which might have been in service since the Second World War.
“Yes,” Leo replied, trying to hide the shakiness from his voice.
“I’m… I’m sorry to accost you like this,” the man said meekly. “I need to speak with you as a matter of urgency. It concerns my brother. He’s missing and… I… I...”
Ten minutes later, Leo and Allissa sat opposite the man as he introduced himself as Charles Rolleston.
“I’m… I’m… sorry to, you know, take your time up like this,” Charles said, warming his hands on the mug of black coffee. “I wouldn’t if it wasn’t urgent. I just…”
“It’s alright,” Allissa said, “you just need to tell us what’s happened, then we’ll see if we can help.”
Charles took what they all hoped would be a restorative sip of coffee and grimaced at the heat and bitter taste.
“It’s my brother Minty.” The words came out like a torrent. “He lives in Berlin. He’s a fashion designer. He has a little shop there. Sells strange clothes to rich people,” — Charles looked at the hoodies Leo and Allissa wore — “nothing you or I would wear, I think.”
Allissa had pulled on a large hoodie and rolled up the sleeves. Leo glanced at her and suspected it might have once belonged to him.
Allissa encouraged Charles with a nod.
“Well, then, at 4 am on Sunday morning,” Charles continued, “he tried to call me. I was asleep at the time, so he left a message.” Charles dug through a pocket and pulled out a smartphone. He pressed the screen a few times and laid it on the coffee table.
“Charlie, it’s me,” came a voice from the phone. The brothers had the same upper-class English drawl. “Listen, I’m so sorry about this. It’s... it’s... things really aren’t good.” The voice got louder, competing with a rumble on the line. “I just want you to know that things aren’t always as they seem to be, and not to lose faith in me.” Then the rumble grew until it was nothing more than distortion. If Minty had said anything more, Leo couldn’t make it out. After a final crackle, the phone went dead.
Charles blinked. Jewels formed in his long, dark lashes.
“The police say he jumped in front of a train.” Charles’ prominent Adam’s apple bobbed in his thin neck.
“Take your time,” Allissa said, “there’s no rush. We’re here
