Cold Kill

by Rennie Airth

  ‘This is disgraceful.’ She kept repeating the word. ‘Absolutely disgraceful. Are you implying that you don’t believe Miss Banks? Are you suggesting that she made all this up?’

  Actually the inspector – MacStupified by this time – hadn’t implied anything so far as Addy could tell. He’d hardly got a word in. Molly had done the talking for both of them.

  ‘I want to know if anyone is looking for this creature,’ she had said. Tall, golden-haired, just dazzling as she towered over the poor guy. ‘I want to know if she, he or it is still out there molesting other young women. I want the name of your superior.’

  Jesus! It was like watching a shredder in action. Addy was beginning to think she’d misjudged Molly. The woman had balls. The younger cop had enjoyed it, too. He had stood next to Addy, grinning and sending her the occasional wink. Across the room, Sarah and Bill had stood listening, wide-eyed. This was better than cabaret.

  Finally, the inspector had managed to speak, something about them needing a statement from Addy and maybe she could come round to the station tomorrow morning and …

  That was when Molly took off.

  Levitation! Addy could have sworn she actually rose off the floor. Several inches.

  ‘Round to the station? Round to the station? Miss Banks will do no such thing. She’s coming home with me – now. If you want to speak to her again, you can call at my house tomorrow. Is that clear?’

  Must have been. Nobody said a word. Nobody even breathed. Except Sarah, who said in this little voice that she and her husband would be only too happy to put Addy up for the night if that was more convenient. Molly had turned to her.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ she had said in a totally different voice. ‘I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done, but Rose is my dearest friend and I wouldn’t dream of letting anyone else take care of Addy.’

  So that was settled, and Sarah had gone upstairs to collect a few things for Addy while Molly gave the cops her address and phone number, and since no one was stopping her any longer, Addy had got up from the sofa and walked around a bit and found that, bruises apart, she was OK. The working parts were still working; normal service was resumed.

  They were just leaving when Molly said, ‘Wait! I almost forgot. What if Rose calls from Paris?’

  ‘She’s got my cell number,’ Addy had said. ‘I can’t call her because she’s lost her phone. She told me in her letter.’

  Molly thought for a moment. ‘I’ll leave a message for her here. If she returns later tonight she’ll wonder where you are.’ She wrote a note on the pad next to Rose’s house phone and then stuck it up on the mantelpiece above the fire. ‘She can’t miss that.’ Addy read the note. It said: Rose, I’ve got Addy staying with me. Please get in touch with us as soon as you can. Molly.

  And then at last they were away, in Molly’s car, and Addy was telling her story all over again because Molly simply couldn’t believe it.

  ‘A man dressed in an Arab woman’s clothes?’

  ‘I think it was a man. He was so strong. Gee, I don’t know …’ Addy was tired of telling the story over and over.

  ‘Was he looking for something in the house?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe … something, or someone.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  They hadn’t far to go – Molly explained that Rose lived in Knightsbridge, while her own house was close by, in Chelsea – but the state of the snow-choked roads and the clogging traffic kept progress to a crawl.

  ‘Here we are,’ Molly said, pulling into the kerb. They had finally made it. ‘Carlyle Square.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Addy laughed. ‘I had a boyfriend. His name was Carlyle – Bradford Carlyle.’ She just loved the way life did that to you – suddenly caught hold of your sleeve and said, hey … remember?

  ‘Was he nice?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  And thinking of Brad reminded her of Mike. He had her number, and he’d promised to call. Well, at least she’d have something to tell him – the best story in town.

  No sooner were they in the house than Molly started acting like a mother hen.

  ‘I’ll show you to your room. I’m sure you want to go to bed.’

  ‘It’s only eight, Molly.’

  ‘I think I’d better call my doctor.’

  ‘I already saw a medic. He said I was fine.’

  ‘But I’m sure you ought to rest. Addy, you’ve had a shock. You may think you feel all right—’

  Addy grinned. ‘Listen, if you really want to know how I feel, I’ll tell you. I’m starving.’

  ‘You mean – oh, God, what a fool I am. Of course, you haven’t eaten. Look, I’ll just show you to your room …’

  And so Molly had taken her upstairs, and as soon as Addy was alone she had rushed to a mirror. She hadn’t wanted to mention it, but the thought had been bothering her. How did she look? Because the chances were she’d be seeing Mike tomorrow or the next day, and what if she had a black eye or something worse? But the news was good … or reasonably so. There was the beginning of a bruise down the centre of her forehead where the edge of the door had caught her, but a little face powder would take care of that. Next she lifted her T-shirt and checked her stomach and found there was an angry red mark where the bitch/bastard had hit her. Unsightly to say the least, but then she didn’t imagine they’d be getting to that sort of area right away, if ever. He was kind of old, after all, or she was kind of young, or something. But even if he hadn’t come on to her exactly, he was interested. She could tell.

  Addy washed her hands and face and then went downstairs, pausing to admire a modern chandelier that hung from the ceiling like a spray of jewels in the entrance hall, a foretaste of things to come perhaps, because it was plain just from the glimpse she stole of the sitting room that Molly had taste, even if it wasn’t Rose’s. It was richer, more opulent, but the rugs and paintings were great and she was warmed by the sight of the Christmas tree in the corner hung with tinsel and coloured lights. (Why hadn’t Rose had a tree?) Addy was a sucker for Christmas.

  She found Molly in the basement kitchen fixing supper, and as Addy came down she heard her speaking on her phone.

  ‘Yes … here … tomorrow, then …’

  She smiled when she saw Addy, who pointed at the phone.

  ‘Rose?’ she asked.

  Molly shook her head. She switched off.

  ‘I just wish she’d call one of us,’ Addy said. ‘Where the hell is she?’

  ‘Paris, I imagine.’ Molly put her head on one side as if she was expecting Addy to say something.

  Addy shrugged. ‘Even if Rose has lost hers, they’ve got phones in Paris. You’d think she’d want to check that I got in all right.’

  She was starting to get a funny feeling … about Rose. About her not being home and not calling. Something wasn’t right. She watched as Molly laid out their supper on the kitchen table: cold chicken and ham, salad, cheese, a bottle of wine. Addy was famished.

  They sat down and Molly served her and then poured them each a glass of wine. She had shed her fur coat, revealing the nifty black outfit she had on underneath, a cashmere sweater with matching trousers, and for decoration a thin gold chain and pendant that picked out the colour of her hair and sort of carried it down in a single shining thread. Addy had always preferred dark hair – her own black curls suited her fine, though she wished sometimes that she’d gotten Rose’s looks along with them – but she was thinking that blonde had its points, blonde was more glamorous in a way, when Molly dropped her bombshell.

  She had leaned over the table, wine glass in hand, and said, ‘All right, Addy. Spill it. Just who is this man?’

  ‘Huh—?’ Addy stopped chewing. ‘What man?’

  ‘Rose’s man, of course. Who is he?’

  And that was when Addy’s jaw had hit the table. ‘Rose? A man? Are you sure?’ And Molly admitted she’d been hoping to pump her for information.


  ‘He lives in Paris, I think,’ she said now, ‘somewhere in Europe, anyway.’

  ‘But how do you know?’ Addy was dumbstruck.

  ‘Intuition.’ Molly giggled. ‘No, more than that. Deduction.’

  ‘Deduction?’

  ‘All those trips Rose keeps making.’

  ‘What trips?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know about them? I thought Rose told you everything.’ Molly shook her head, baffled.

  Addy was silent. She felt terrible. Like someone had cut a piece out of her. How could Rose do that? Not talk to her, tell her things?

  Molly refilled their glasses. She’d stayed silent, too, though a couple of times she’d seemed to be on the point of speaking, but then changed her mind.

  ‘Tell me about them,’ Addy said. ‘These trips.’

  ‘They started a few months ago. Rose went to Paris twice, I remember, then to Amsterdam, and other places, too. Every few weeks she was off somewhere, visiting friends, she said.’ Molly paused. ‘That’s what she told me, anyway. I didn’t ask. It was as if … I don’t know … as if she was afraid I might try and go with her.’ Molly stared into her wine.

  ‘And you never did?’

  Molly shook her head.

  Addy drank some of her wine. Her appetite had disappeared.

  ‘But if she was seeing someone, why wouldn’t she tell you?’ Or me.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Molly shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m just imagining it.’

  Addy didn’t think so. It tied in with this feeling she had that something was wrong.

  ‘Or maybe there’s some reason she doesn’t want to tell us, maybe there’s something about the person … if it’s a man, I mean.’ Molly looked miserable.

  ‘You mean, like he’s married?’

  Molly was silent.

  ‘Something else?’

  Molly finished her wine. ‘Addy, all I know is that Rose has been acting strangely. It’s not just the trips. It’s something about her. I know she’s not happy. You saw her in New York.’

  ‘Yeah, but’ – Addy was remembering the scene in the hotel room – ‘she was still hooked on Uncle Matt, at least that’s what I thought.’

  ‘You didn’t feel …?’ Molly looked at her. ‘Oh, God, I don’t know … you didn’t think she might have been feeling guilty about something?’

  ‘Guilty?’

  Molly bit her lip. It was clear she didn’t want to go on.

  ‘You mean, like she’d betrayed him – Uncle Matt, I mean – with some other guy?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Molly came to life with an angry shake of the head. ‘That would be stupid. Rose was bound to meet someone eventually. No, I just wondered whether she had got involved with the wrong person. Or if she had done something – oh, Addy, I shouldn’t be saying these things—’ She broke off.

  Addy waited. But Molly wouldn’t go on. She looked wretched.

  ‘What?’ Addy urged her. ‘Say it. If she had done something?’

  ‘She was ashamed of.’ Molly had turned pale.

  Addy felt ill. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Molly looked terrible too, white-faced and close to tears. What the hell were they doing, talking this way about Rose? She wanted to shout, bang the table, say it wasn’t true. But she knew, she just knew something was wrong. Rose had never behaved this way before. She had always told Addy everything. So what had happened to make her change? Why was she keeping secrets?

  And then Addy remembered.

  ‘No, wait! She’s going to tell me about it.’

  ‘What?’ Molly’s face lit up.

  ‘That’s what she said in her letter to me.’ Addy could remember it word for word. ‘She was leaving for Paris and she’d tell me about it when we met. “Tell you all about that.” It’s what she wrote.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful.’ Molly’s face cleared in a moment. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Oh, God, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. I shouldn’t have said what I said.’

  Addy reached over the table and took her hand, squeezed it. Molly was OK. A little over the top maybe, always coming on too strong, for Addy’s taste at least. But she was Rose’s friend and that was all that mattered. Together they’d sort this thing out.

  She smothered a huge yawn. What a day! Suddenly she couldn’t handle it any longer. She was beat. Exhausted.

  Molly had spotted it. ‘Bed for you,’ she said firmly, making Addy smile because it reminded her of what Rose used to say to her when she was a child.

  Ten minutes later she was tucked up in bed and Molly at the door was saying, ‘Now if there’s anything you need?’ Back to being a mother hen, and Addy was shaking her head, no, and when the light went out she knew she’d be asleep in seconds.

  Only she wasn’t. She was still thinking about that time in New York, in Rose’s hotel room, that stuff about Uncle Matt’s photo and how Rose had stared at it and the line of poetry she had quoted. How did it go? Something … something … ‘desolate and sick of an old passion … ’ And it was true, thinking back now, the scene wasn’t that easy to read. What had Rose meant exactly? Addy would have to ask her, was going to ask her just as soon as they got together, because enough of this shit, not telling people things, let’s get it all out where people can see it …

  And there was something else, some other thing that had happened between them in New York, something else Rose had said. What was it now? Addy was trying to remember, to dredge it up, and she almost had it … almost … almost …

  TWELVE

  Name: Grigor Grigorevich Klepkin. Codename: Gogol. Occupation: assassin.

  Was there someone in Moscow with a sense of humour? Charon had often wondered. Either that, or a grudge. Some guy who had failed Russian Lit. back in high school and finally got his revenge?

  Because other than Gogol there had also been Pushkin. And Tolstoy. And Chekhov. Killers all, if you believed their files, and although Pushkin and Tolstoy were no longer with us – both had gone to that great collective in the sky – at least the other two were still on the books. Nominally at any rate, though Charon had his doubts.

  Gogol was cracking up. ‘Touch me again and I’ll kill you.’

  Scary stuff, except the guy doing the threatening was backed up against the wall so hard you might have thought he was trying to make a hole in it. Of course, he still had his knife. But what was a knife to Charon?

  ‘Put that thing away,’ he said coldly.

  Gogol rubbed his neck.

  ‘Don’t ever come near me with a knife in your hand.’

  ‘How was I to know?’ The hand with the knife waved back and forth. It wasn’t threatening any longer, just making a point. (Puns yet. Charon chided himself. Really, he must try to take this seriously.) ‘We had an appointment.’

  ‘And you kept it. The knife …’

  Gogol lowered his hand. The blade retracted with a faint click.

  ‘In your pocket.’

  Gogol obeyed.

  ‘Report.’

  It sounded great – all this military-martinet-cracking-the-whip routine – but in truth Charon was having a hard time keeping a straight face. It just wasn’t his style. He much preferred the gentle approach. Walk softly and carry a big stick, in the immortal words of Teddy R, though with hands like Charon’s, who needed a stick? But Gogol presented a problem. He was coming apart. The twitching cheek, the eyes that wouldn’t hold still. And the fear: Charon could smell it. He wondered if he was making a mistake keeping him aboard. Surely the man was tired of life.

  Mind you, he’d always known this might happen. Grigor Grigorevich Klepkin. It was years since their paths had first crossed, fortunately not fatally, since both were engaged in the same line of work, and Charon had taken the trouble to acquire a file on the Russian agent which had proved unusually enlightening. For a start there was the drinking problem – the file had much to say about that – and although Gogol had licked it, hadn’t touched a drop in years by all accounts, everyone knew about alcoholics. And th
en there was the other thing … Grigor’s little weakness. No, not booze, the other … well, every pig to his own trough, Charon had thought, but all the same it did seem to him – how should one put it – a little extreme? He had never understood why the Russians had kept him operational. A rotten apple was a rotten apple, after all.

  But when opportunity had knocked and Charon realized that a prize lay waiting for the man who had the nerve to seize it, he’d discovered it was none other than this flawed fruit he would have to deal with. He remembered the setting well: a smoke-filled tavern in the Cypriot port of Limassol, the shock on Grigor’s face when he realized who it was who’d just sat down at the table opposite him, bottle of raki in hand; the conversation that followed which had gone on late into the night.

  The irony now was at the time Charon had had little hope that his companion of the evening would agree to his proposal and had a back-up plan ready should he refuse, one that would have involved an even earlier termination of Grigor Grigorevich’s earthly existence. If he couldn’t see reason, he would have to pay for it. There was more than one way to skin a cat. To his surprise, though, the other had agreed to join in the plan, and meeting the Russian’s bleary gaze in the uncertain light of the seedy bar, Charon had read the despair in his eyes and seen him for what he was: a man at the end of his tether, one in search of a lifeline perhaps.

  It was only by chance that the Russian was still breathing, still staying a step or two ahead of his pursuers. Aware of the change in their fortunes, he had reached Zurich on the same day as Charon. What they discovered there was what Charon had half suspected after his experience in Paris, and Gogol had taken it badly. Left to himself he might have self-destructed. It was Charon who had steadied him. Charon who had pointed out that the disaster was not final and planned their next moves. Charon who had given the orders.

  Was giving them still.

  ‘Report,’ he said.

  Gogol licked his lips. The dim light of the car park lent his cheeks an ashen tinge: a corpse in the making.

  ‘The girl is here. I spoke to her.’

  ‘You what—?’

  The Russian flinched. ‘I had to be sure. You don’t understand – it’s not easy keeping a watch on that place. The lights were on. I knew someone had arrived. I didn’t know who.’