They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

41 28 July 2007 — Roel Albazi

At 6.30 a.m., Roel Albazi drove his ageing black Range Rover, which was on cloned plates, out of the small parking area beneath the apartment building. He drove carefully, although he had a false driving licence corresponding to the registered keeper of this car, well aware that he had been on the local police radar for some while. He had recently been interviewed under caution in connection with loan sharking, during which he had been asked about his association with Joe Karter and Skender Sharka. He had successfully — at least so he thought — convinced the police that he did not do business with either and had no idea of their whereabouts.

Tall Joe sat behind him and Skender Sharka’s huge bulk filled the front passenger seat, his knees pressing against the glove locker. Inside the locker was Albazi’s Glock 17, its magazine filled with seventeen 9mm soft-nose bullets.

He hoped he wasn’t going to have to use it, but he was so angry this morning that he was fully prepared to. Against Nicos, against Tall Joe’s pilot friend, and against that bitch Sandy Grace, if it came to it.

All three of them in the car were in a bad mood, not helped by an Albanian folk song blasting at them in all directions from the massive speakers, a woman’s voice wailing a lament accompanied by hard twangs from guitar strings.

As they drove up the ramp, Sharka leaned forward, reaching for the sound system’s volume control.

‘Don’t fucking touch it!’ Albazi said.

‘It’s hurting my ears, boss.’

Waiting for the garage doors to rise, Albazi held two clenched fists in the air. ‘This is my music, OK? This gives me strength! This gives me what I need to think, understand?’

‘OK, boss, OK!’

‘I don’t think you two understand shit,’ Albazi said, accelerating up the ramp and out into the early morning light, turning right, following the arrow of the satnav, which had Biggin Hill Airport as its destination. ‘This is my music, OK? This is my soul!’

He drove in silence for several minutes, all three of them in the vehicle nursing god-awful hangovers, which Tall Joe’s fried breakfast for the three of them, half an hour ago, accompanied by some very strong coffee, had done just a little to alleviate.

‘What I’m not understanding, boss,’ Sharka said, ‘is your plan.’

‘The plan is to get my client’s money back. Any part of that you don’t understand?’ Albazi fired.

‘Quite a lot.’

‘You’re not understanding my plan?’ Albazi challenged.

‘That’s right, boss.’

‘Maybe that’s because I don’t have a fucking plan, all right? I just know the bitch and the Greek are going to be at Biggin Hill for a 10 a.m. flight and we are going to be two miles from it, on the only road they can take there, by 8 a.m. At some point, Sandy Grace and I are going to be having a quiet little chat, during which I’m going to tell her that the Border Force officers here and in Valencia will be very interested in knowing that she travels under two different names, and the best way to stop that happening will be to pony up the money she owes Song Wu.’

Opposite Shoreham Harbour, Albazi turned left into Boundary Road, which was residential for a quarter of a mile and then was lined on both sides with shops. Heading up a gradient, towards a level crossing, the light turned from green to amber.

‘Shit!’ He floored the accelerator and the Range Rover powered forwards, bumping over the rail tracks just at the light turned red. Albazi, feeling in a reckless mood, kept the accelerator floored, the speedometer crossing 70mph. It was a 30mph limit but at this hour he was sure there wouldn’t be any police around.

They were approaching the junction with the Old Shoreham Road, the traffic lights there green also.

80mph.

He was a good two hundred yards from the lights, when they turned amber. He kept going.

‘Boss!’ yelled Sharka, alarmed.

Ignoring him, Albazi crossed the line to enter the junction on red, and shot safely over to the other side.

‘We got plenty of time to make it to the airport, boss,’ Sharka said. ‘Our ETA right now is 7.25.’

But Albazi barely heard him. He was focused on his rear-view mirror. On the blue flashing lights that had suddenly appeared in it.