“We think he was who his passport and driving licence said he was. He’d definitely tracked his son to the UK. There’s been no trace of him.”
“Son’s name?”
“Gennady.”
It rang no bells.
“It’s thought Gennady was involved with trafficking women. You must be able to find out more from Dima.”
The call ended and Roman sighed. She was a moron. What was he supposed to do? Did she actually think Dima would talk to him about Sheripov junior or senior? Though Roman now had an idea why both father and son were dead. Fucking Dima and Cash.
Roman picked up his car keys. Only seven miles to Arkady’s but it would likely take him forty minutes to get there. Plenty of time to figure out multiple variations of what the discovery of Artur Sheripov’s body meant for him and most likely for Zain. Unless he was on the wrong track and something had gone wrong with Foley after he left the party. Shit. It was like juggling with fire and he could never stop or he’d burst into flames.
While he was driving, he called Viro, because at least he could close off one possibility.
“Hi,” Viro sounded half asleep.
“All well?” Roman asked.
“You mean did he come? Did I come? Did he leave with a smile on his face? Did my wonderful acting skills convince him I was a green boy? Yes, yes, yes and not sure—but maybe I was so good he didn’t care. You owe me.”
“I’ll ping you the money, okay?”
“Fine.”
“When did you leave? Before or after him?”
“At the same time. I persuaded him he’d had enough. I’m getting too old for that shit.”
Roman laughed. Viro was in his early twenties.
“Glen’s quite sweet. Bought me breakfast and asked to see me again. That isn’t going to happen. Not unless you pay. I’m guessing you don’t want him to pay me.”
“If I did pay?”
Viro sighed. “Fine. I’d do it. He’s all right but he’s the sort to tell me he loves me and offer to put me up in a flat on the basis of one fuck. He almost did this morning, but I told him I had a stomach upset and rushed off. I don’t need that sort of problem. And I don’t mean the stomach upset.”
Roman swallowed hard. “Okay. I’m driving but I’ll see to the money when I’ve parked.”
So whatever Arkady wanted, it was unlikely to be connected to Foley. And Foley wouldn’t be asking Viro to move in. He was married with two teenage kids. Though it was possible the guy would offer to provide Viro with somewhere to live. Shit. There was such a thing as a plan going too well, though he couldn’t help wondering if he’d let Zain go through with it, if Zain would have been happy to be offered a place to live in exchange for sex.
Is that what you really think?
Once Roman had found a space for his car in a street not even vaguely close to Arkady’s house, he transferred the money to Viro, then set up his phone to record at the touch of a button. A risk but he had a feeling his time was running out.
Dima opened the door to his father’s house with a sullen look on his face. Hopefully because his father was angry with him and not with Roman. Not hard to miss that his pupils were huge.
“Been icing a cake?” Roman asked.
Dima dragged his sleeve across his face, though there’d been no white powder there, then scowled at Roman. “He’s in the living room.”
Roman walked down the hall and into the airy room at the rear to find Arkady pacing and Dima’s creepy shadow sitting on the couch. Cash never looked quite right. As if there was something permanently on his mind, nothing pleasant.
“Dima, get in here and shut the door.”
Dima slammed it and stamped to Roman’s side. Like a little kid. He’d been spoiled by Arkady, given everything he’d ever wanted, taken what he should never have touched. But he didn’t have, nor did he deserve his father’s respect.
Arkady came to a halt in front of him and Dima. “Dima and Cash fucked up.”
“How were we—?”
“Shut up, Dima,” his father snapped in English. “Not another word from you. The pair of you left man’s wallet in Roman’s car and I don’t want to hear Sheripov must have hidden it under seat and you didn’t think to look. You don’t think it odd he had no wallet? You weren’t fucking thinking at all. Only about tipping rubbish in Roman’s car. Idiot.”
Dima crossed his arms. Roman could see his fingers twitching against his shirt. Cash didn’t move. His big dark eyes were expressionless.
“Found by honest guy at car wash. This…Zain.”
Cash sprang to his feet. “Zain?”
Roman’s stomach dropped. Cash knew Zain?
“Do you know him?” Dima asked.
“I know a Zain. Where he from?”
“Syria,” Dima said before Roman could lie. If he had, he’d have fucked up because he’d just remembered he’d told Dima at the party.
“Maybe you do know him.” Dima laughed. “What are the chances this is the guy you’ve been looking for all this time? Show Roman his picture.”
Shit.
“Don’t have with me. Why didn’t you tell me you’d met a Syrian called Zain?” Cash was scowling.
Dima shrugged “I didn’t think it could be the guy you were looking for.”
“You know how long I look. What family name?” Cash asked.
Arkady glanced at Roman.
He shook his head. Until he knew the consequences for Zain, he’d say nothing, but his anxiety level was climbing.
“Where he live?” Cash asked.
Why was this turning into something about Zain instead of Sheripov? “Why look at me?” Roman asked. “I have no idea. The guy won’t say anything.”
Arkady gave a mocking laugh. “Without threat or bribe he says nothing about finding a dead man’s wallet in your car? Is he saint? He could have kept wallet. Taken all money. He didn’t. But once he knows Sheripov murdered, what you think he’s going to do?”
“Zain I know would not take money,” Cash said.
The Zain Roman knew had been happy to take it for sex. Now I’m lying to myself. Zain hadn’t been happy and Zain could have taken money from the wallet and hadn’t. Shit.
Arkady huffed. “Maybe he see more money in future for keeping quiet.”
“Maybe he’s just an honest guy.” Roman clenched his fist inside his pocket.
“Who’d go to police if he hear Sheripov dead,” Arkady snapped.
Maybe he would.
“Musa say he walk out of job.” Arkady pinned Roman with his gaze. “Take paperwork with him. Why?”
Careful. “Zain mentioned to me that Musa was trying to shake him down for money from the wallet.”
Roman left it at that. The more he said, the more complicated things became, the more likely he’d get caught in a lie.
“You ask him to party for Foley,” Arkady said. “You took pictures.”
“Let me see,” Cash asked.
“I don’t have any of Zain. He turned out to be…not a good fit. Not into chemsex. He wouldn’t take anything, not even a line of coke.”
Dima laughed and Arkady rounded on him. “You think it funny? I already like this Zain more than you because he has some sense in his head.”
Roman stood silent as Arkady tore into Dima about his cocaine use. Threatening, then cajoling until Dima finally nodded, his head down. All an act and Roman thought Arkady knew it.
Arkady turned to Roman. “So who made out with Foley?”
“One of the guys I’d had as backup took over. Foley was with him all night and for breakfast this morning and asked to see him again. You wanted Foley happy. He’s happy. I’ll email you the photos.”
“Something right at least,” Arkady said. “But this Zain a problem. He move out of lodging.”
Roman made sure he looked surprised. “Really? Out of his job and his place?” Fuck. Had Arkady been one step behind him? Maybe behind Musa’s attack on Zain? And then there was Cash. Chills rippled
down Roman’s spine.
“Why?” Arkady asked.
How much do you know? Roman shook his head. “With no job he can’t pay rent. Maybe a friend offered him a place to stay.”
“I cannot have Sheripov’s death connected to you.” Arkady stared at Roman. “Because that leads to me.”
“I’ve never met him. I know nothing about him.” And what about him being connected to your son?
“It was your car.” Dima snorted.
Fuckhead. “I was with Helen the night you had my car.”
“Still your car.” Dima gave him a half smile.
“Shut your mouth,” his father barked. “You better have been careful not to be seen. No link to you or Cash from Sheripov body. You endanger everything. My business as well as yours.”
Oh God. “What did you do to Sheripov and why?” Roman hoped his phone was getting all this.
“Knife,” Cash said. “I took his heart.”
Took it? What the hell did that mean? Roman didn’t want to ask. He hoped Cash’s imperfect English meant he’d used the wrong word.
Arkady glanced at Cash but reserved his glare for Dima.
“We weren’t seen,” Dima said in a sullen voice. “We met him at Faversham. Quiet place. We wrapped him up, drove him back and dumped him. We didn’t pull in on the motorway. We aren’t stupid.”
That was a matter of opinion. “Where’s the knife?” Roman asked.
“In the Thames,” Dima said.
“That’s fine. Unless someone saw you throw it in, it probably won’t be found.”
“It could be found?” Dima gaped at him.
“It’s possible. Whereabouts did you throw it in?”
“Off London Bridge,” Cash answered. “Southwark side. They can’t find knife in river.”
Roman shrugged. “When there was a terrorist attack a couple of years back, marine police divers found a phone the guy had tossed into the water. They can get fingerprints off a knife if they do find it. I assume you both used gloves.”
Of course they didn’t. Roman had to hold in his delight at Dima’s pale face. Cash looked unperturbed. Arkady was swearing. Chances of finding the knife were very small but it felt good to see Dima squirm.
Arkady cuffed Dima around the head. “You better pray no one saw either of you.”
“Who was this guy?” Roman asked. “Why did you have to kill him?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Arkady said. “Their business, not ours, though now it’s our business too. Fix this. Find Zain. Fix him.”
Oh God. “I don’t do that sort of fixing.” Roman’s heart hammered.
“Find him and tell my stupid son where he is.”
“How am I supposed to find him?” Roman put as much indignation into his voice as he could. “He could be anywhere in the city. I assume Musa doesn’t have any details about him.”
“He took his records. Musa don’t know his surname. He’s trouble, this boy. I don’t care how you do it, what it cost. Just find him. No loose ends. You need help, then get Dima and Cash to work with you. Find him and make sure he says nothing. Ever.”
Over my dead body. Except he really hoped it wasn’t.
“And what if he’s already told someone else?” Roman said. “And that someone told—”
Arkady slammed his fist on the work surface. “Sort it out.”
Roman left with a sinking feeling in his stomach. Arkady had crossed a line and it didn’t matter that Roman was not going to allow Zain to be killed, the line had still been crossed.
He’d just reached his car when his phone rang. Cash. Roman could count on the fingers of one hand how many times the guy had called him in two years.
“Yes?” Roman asked.
“I want help find Zain.”
“It might not be the guy you know.”
“But might be. Sounds like my Zain.”
Roman bristled at word my.
“I came here looking for him. Everything I do, I do to find him. If it is…” Cash paused. “I don’t want him hurt.”
Really? That was interesting. “How do you know him?”
“My best friend in Syria. Only the war could separate us. I had picture with me but I don’t want to show in front of Dima. I’ll send to you.”
Cash ended the call. Roman gave a heavy sigh. He’d need to watch his back. Trouble was coming.
No, he was wrong. It was already here.
Zain hadn’t imagined the hotel would let him have a room this early in the day, but he hoped there’d be a place where he could leave his bags, otherwise he’d just have to sit and wait until a room had been cleaned. The way he felt—aching, shaky and nervous, having to sit and do nothing seemed perfect, but the guy on the desk must have seen the way he looked, the bruises and scratches on his face, and felt sorry for him, because he’d said Zain could check in straight away. Paying for two nights took a chunk out of his bank account but he really didn’t feel as if he had much choice.
The moment Zain opened the door and saw the double bed, his remaining strength drained out of his toes. He put his bags down, staggered the few steps to the bed, pulled off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and crawled under the covers. A short rest and he’d feel better. At least the beating stopped him thinking about the ache in his arse.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and set an alarm just in case. He wanted to go to the NHNN that afternoon. He didn’t like to let anyone down. It wasn’t as if it was hard work. All he had to do was sit by patients’ beds for three hours and chat, read, play games or go and buy things they needed. They were so much worse off than him.
When he next opened his eyes, it was because of his alarm. He’d been asleep for three hours. Shit. Half the day was gone. One hour before he was due at the hospital. It was only a few stops on the tube from Paddington to Russell Square. He levered himself upright and everything still hurt. Not that he’d expected a miraculous cure but he’d hoped to feel a little better. Still, he was only battered and bruised. Nothing damaged beyond repair. He had a sudden thought about his family and his heart clamped in pain worse than any physical ache.
He had a quick shower, then picked up his hospital volunteer ID lanyard and headed out. One of the things medical schools liked applicants to have done was work experience to demonstrate their motivation to be a doctor. Zain hadn’t put in his university statement about helping his father patch up people in Aleppo, but this time he would.
He hadn’t volunteered at the NHNN because he thought it would look good, he’d wanted to have experience of working in a hospital in the UK, but he’d been volunteering when he’d last applied and it hadn’t made any difference to their decision. Nor had mentioning his previous jobs, washing dishes, handing out leaflets and working in a bar, which he guessed showed he could get on with the general public, but not that he’d make a good doctor.
The NHNN was a specialist hospital handling the diagnosis, treatment and care of people with conditions that affected the brain and spinal cord together with the peripheral nervous system and muscles. Patients might have brain injuries, brain tumours or have suffered strokes, amongst other things. The idea of having volunteers attached to the wards was that patients could have an easier time if they kept their minds active. Some patients had very few if any visitors.
Zain arrived on time and was greeted several times on his way to his assigned ward. It made him happy that people were pleased to see him. This was somewhere he belonged—for three hours a week anyway. It wasn’t a lot of time to give up when patients had a long journey ahead of them.
Some were relentlessly upbeat and others had settled in a pit of despair. Among the latter was his first call, Edward. But how could he blame Edward for being grumpy when he was unlikely to survive beyond the month. Inoperable brain tumours were cruel. Edward had been a good-looking forty-year-old a year ago—Zain had been shown a picture by his husband. Now he was bloated, hairless and despondent and the husband came less and less frequently, so Edward said.
“Like him?” Edward slurred.
“Yes, but I feel I shouldn’t. He’s trouble and I can’t afford to get into trouble.”
“Trouble makes him…more interesting.”
Zain laughed. “True.”
Edward managed a chuckle, which warmed Zain’s heart. “Tell me more.”
Zain made a slight detour on the way back to the hotel, bought a portion of chips and ate them as he walked. Tomorrow he needed to find a job and a place to live. Not needed to. Had to. The place to live first and he’d lie about having a job. He’d use his savings for a deposit and rent. Once he was in his room, he’d have a long hot shower because there was no bath, curl up in bed, watch TV, and pretend the last few days hadn’t happened.
He unlocked the hotel room door, pushed it open and gaped when he saw Roman lying on his bed.
“Did you install a tracking device up my arse?” Zain asked.
Roman laughed and pushed to his feet. “How are you feeling?”
“Worried. Microchip under my skin, then?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me I left a trail of breadcrumbs. That would have been very clumsy.”
Zain forced himself not to back off when Roman walked over to him.
“I followed you this morning,” Roman said. “I’d come to see if you were okay and saw you getting into a car. Once I knew you were in a hotel, I thought you’d be fine but…”
“But what?” Zain’s back hit the wall.
Roman stood right in front of him. Zain could smell his shower gel. Something hot, spicy. Why do I want him so much?
“You’re in danger.”
His heart thumped. “Why? No way could Musa know where I am.”
“Artur Sheripov. The owner of that wallet.”
“He knows? I don’t—”
“He’s been found dead.”
Zain understood the consequences in an instant. Bile surged up his throat, he lurched for the bathroom, slammed the door and heaved over the toilet until he was empty.
Well, buying chips had been a waste of money. Fuck. He swilled out his mouth, cleaned his teeth and took a deep, juddering breath before he opened the door. Roman was still there. Zain slumped onto the bed.
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