They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

23 22 July 2007 — Roel Albazi

Without turning round to look back, Albazi staggered to his feet and, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief, hurried away through rain that was falling steadily. When Song Wu gave a deadline, she meant it, precisely. No leeway.

Another twenty-four hours or so and, between them, Tall Joe and Skender Sharka would have collected from two of the defaulters, Alan Mitten and Robert Rhys. Both men had told Albazi they were sure they would be paying up, either the entire debt or a large instalment, and their instincts were rarely wrong. When you threaten to break a man’s bones or kill his children, he finds the money and pays up pretty quickly.

But Song Wu had wanted to see him today and when she wanted to see him, Albazi knew, there was no option to delay for twenty-four hours. She told you the time and you were there.

Sandy Grace was going to have to come up with the money. It would be nice to put additional pressure on her by threatening to go to the local paper, the Argus, and let them know that a detective’s wife had run up gambling debts of £150,000. But there was one problem with that — Song Wu’s moneylending business wasn’t licensed and the publicity could be very bad for her. If the news reached the Gambling Commission, and it would, she would almost certainly lose her licences to operate her casinos.

Meantime, he had a very big problem on his hands. To safeguard his family back in Albania, he needed to appease Song Wu and quickly. She wanted £235,000 in cash in forty-eight hours. He could come up with it, but using a dangerous strategy.

He kept a cash float in the secure safe in his office of half a million pounds of Song Wu’s money, for loans to gamblers like Sandy Grace. It was audited once a month by one of the Song Wu corporation accountants, who came to his office and checked the cash against the loans. The most recent audit had taken place less than a week ago. He could hand over that £235,000 by giving her back some of her own money without her realizing. That would buy him three weeks to get all the cash. More than enough time.

He climbed into the rear of a taxi at the rank, gave the driver his address and relaxed back in his seat, feeling a lot better at that thought. Pulling out his phone, he called Sharka’s number, wanting an update on progress, and also to discuss another loan applicant whom Sharka was checking out. After several rings it went to voicemail, which was unusual — normally Sharka answered instantly. ‘Hey, man,’ Albazi said. ‘Call me.’

Fifteen minutes later, as the taxi crawled along in a long queue at temporary roadworks, heading towards Shoreham Harbour, Sharka had still not returned his call, or even, at least, texted to explain why not. He hit Sharka’s number again and again got his voicemail after several rings. This time his message was less friendly. ‘Hey, Skender, what the hell? Call me right away, it’s urgent, man.’