by Nick Louth
‘Do you recognise him?’ Levin asked.
‘I’m not sure.’ One of Volkov’s security men had a slight resemblance, the guy with the ponytail. But the hair was completely different. ‘So what is the current status of the investigation by the Dutch police?’
‘Buried, is the best description. Dead and buried.’ Levin looked up. ‘But not for the Ghost. For him, I’m unfinished business, Mr Gillard. I am in fear for my life.’
Chapter Twelve
Daniel Levin took several minutes to prepare himself for the short trip back to his car. Gillard looked through the details of the journalist’s statement and saw that the desk sergeant hadn’t made a note of his address or contact details. ‘Where are you staying, Mr Levin?’
‘Not at home,’ he replied. ‘My wife and children are abroad. I dare not go back to my London home. I have friends who help me. Part of the Russian diaspora.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘I am reluctant to endanger them, so quite often I sleep in my van.’
‘That can’t do your back any good.’
Levin shrugged. ‘The vehicle is adapted for my disability. It allows me to be in a different place every night.’
Gillard nodded, and looked down. ‘Can you at least give me a phone number or an email address? We want to help protect you.’
Levin gave a bitter laugh. ‘You can’t protect me. My death certificate is written, but not yet delivered. If I have anything more to say I will let you know.’
* * *
Once Levin had gone, Gillard checked his watch. He had less than ninety minutes before the flight to Switzerland. As he hurried to his car, he rang the Khazi, hoping that somebody would be in the mobile incident room. DI Claire Mulholland picked up. He summarised what he had heard from Levin. ‘He’s convinced it’s some Kremlin-directed assassin called the Ghost, who doesn’t leave fingerprints or footprints.’
‘But if this Ghost is a real person, as Levin says, it still doesn’t explain how he can get in, kill Volkov and Talin and get out again without leaving any forensic evidence apart from bullets and cartridge cases.’
‘No, it doesn’t. I’ve asked Redhill to scan the drawing, so you should get a copy by email soon. I have to confess though, the security guy the drawing resembles, the one with the ponytail, was outside the library throughout the shooting.’ Gillard sighed, and checked his watch. ‘So still no footprints?’
‘No. We found one cartridge case actually on the fossil, a good five feet in from the edge. That makes it look like the assailant was actually standing on the rock.’
‘Ejected cases can travel quite a few feet, even from a pistol. That’s what Neville Tufton said,’ Gillard said.
‘Yes, and that’s probably what happened, because we couldn’t find any footprints on the fossil, and if there were any, we certainly would have found them.’
‘The Ghost supposedly threw Levin out of a third-floor window in Amsterdam.’
‘Poor guy!’
‘He lived, but is severely disabled. If you’d heard him tell the story you wouldn’t doubt it. Someone has put the fear of God into him.’ Gillard got to the car, got in and started the engine. ‘I’ve got to go now.’
‘Good luck in Geneva,’ Claire said, then added, ‘One last thing: Delahaye has finished the post-mortems of the three dead. Reports to follow, but the headline is what you’d expect: deaths caused by bullet wounds, loss of blood, trauma and shock. We’ve got five bullets retrieved from the corpses, sent off to Neville Tufton for analysis.’
‘Thank you, Claire.’ He realised that however much progress was made in unearthing the histories of those who died, without real forensic progress it was simply circumstantial. Someone had been in that library and fired roughly four dozen shots, without leaving any evidence of who they were. It just didn’t make sense.
‘One other thing you should know, Craig. Someone tried to break into the Khazi,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure when it was, but there’s been an attempt to lever off the ventilator cover. I only noticed it this afternoon. There were some wooden chips on the carpet, and when I went up to the roof, I could see damage from where a crowbar had been jammed in.’
This wouldn’t be the first time. Gillard remembered the Khazi’s generator being stolen overnight during a murder case five years ago. It was eventually found in a caravan park and scrap metal yard near Reading. ‘What’s the CCTV coverage like?’ he asked.
‘Not bad. The Khazi itself is out of view but there is a camera which covers the path leading across the side of the hall. At the moment we’ve still got a uniform on the door of the library, and a patrol car twenty-four seven at the entrance to keep the press away. I really don’t want to have to ask for yet another uniform to stand outside the Khazi getting wet and cold.’
‘All right. We don’t need a fresh body, just reallocate a nightshift detective from Mount Browne to Westgrave Hall. Whoever it is can work from the Khazi. We might even pick up some fresh leads. Who would that be tonight?’
‘Hoskins,’ Claire replied with a laugh.
Gillard chuckled too. ‘It will do him good to be out of his comfort zone. Set him some tasks to stop him falling asleep.’
* * *
By seven p.m on that Boxing Day evening, Claire Mulholland was sitting with an untidy pile of witness statements in the splendour of the Fitzroy Room, at the desk made famous by Dr Samuel Johnson. She and a team of uniformed officers led by Sergeant Vince Babbage had pieced together as best they could what had been seen and when, around the time that the shooting began two days before. The final detailed statements, from the housekeeper Mrs Bell, the cook Tatiana and the two Bangladeshi kitchen porters, had now been taken. Like any jigsaw, there were pieces missing; particularly any contribution from Yelena Yalinsky, former wife of the dead oligarch, and their son Oleg, but it was already clear that the fundamentals of the mystery remained intact: how could someone in the library have gunned down Volkov, Talin and Bryn Howell and escaped the building without being seen?
As she flicked through, making notes on the most significant contributions, Claire was aware of the approach of the substantial figure of Babbage, followed at some distance by an elderly woman in a grey cardigan, a mauve gilet and dowdy mid-calf skirt.
‘Sorry to disturb, ma’am. This lady has apparently been waiting to speak to you for several hours.’
‘Is she a witness?’
The expression on Babbage’s face was nuanced scepticism. ‘Not exactly. She apparently phoned in something suspicious earlier but hasn’t heard anything back.’
Claire nodded and beckoned her to come forward and sit opposite her.
‘I do apologise if you’ve been kept waiting. This is a very complex logistical inquiry.’
‘My name is Mary Hill.’ She then trotted out her address, telephone number and the incident number she had been given over the phone. Claire had a quick flick through her index of evidence and could find no mention of the woman.
‘You say you’ve given a statement?’
‘Twice now, actually. One’s expectations of the police have naturally enough sagged over the years, but I have to say I am appalled at the slipshod fashion in which this inquiry seems to be run. Every year the precept for Surrey Police seems to go up and up, and we get less and less for it.’
Claire propped her head up on her hand. She knew Mary’s type of old. ‘Perhaps we can home in on what it is you actually witnessed.’
‘Certainly. At exactly 6:37 a.m. this morning, I was walking with Oswald along the public footpath on the north side of Westgrave Lake when I saw someone in a rowing boat—’
‘And Oswald is?’
‘My spaniel.’
‘Wasn’t it dark? Sunrise isn’t until eight o’clock.’
‘Yes. Oswald has a red glow collar, and I have an LED pen light so I can see where he’s done his business.’
‘Can I ask how you came to be there at such a time on Boxing Day morning? I understood the footpaths were closed for maintenance.’ T
his is what Wolf had mentioned, when Gillard had asked about the chance of journalists getting into the estate.
A touch of steel tightened the woman’s face. ‘Detective inspector, there is no legal right to close a public footpath without county council approval. Even for a diversion, due notice and proper signage must be used, after having gone through the appropriate process. Mr Volkov and his gangland cronies have in recent years attempted to interfere with the centuries-old right of access, have padlocked gates and looped razor wire between the trees—’
Claire held up her hands in surrender. ‘So you saw someone on the lake. Can I ask how you manage to see them, given that it was dark?’
‘Well, those bloody arc lights are still on, so it wasn’t hard to see the silhouette. But I also saw a light from a torch. Quite a powerful one, and a fishing rod. It was about a hundred yards away, close to the southern shore.’
‘So was this just a fisherman?’
‘Not a legitimate one. All the angling licences were rescinded in June 2014, shortly after the Moscow takeover, and before they built that atrociously tasteless fountain in the middle. Besides, no fishing was taking place. I just saw a pair of binoculars, and a torch being shone into the water.’
She had Claire’s interest now. ‘Across the water, or into it?’
‘Into it, for part of the time. I was at least a hundred yards away on the north shore. But I think you would agree it’s pretty odd to go out in a boat at that time on Boxing Day morning.’
And it’s pretty odd to walk your dog at that time too. Claire decided to keep that thought to herself.
‘Can you describe this person?’
‘Big, broad shoulders, though I thought I saw a ponytail. Of course, these days that doesn’t mean anything, does it? Men wear hair like girls and vice versa.’
‘Height?’
‘No idea of the height as he was sitting, but wearing a woolly hat and scarf as well as a bulky coat. He kept leaning over the back of the boat, sticking his torch into the water.’
‘As if he was looking for something?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long did you watch for?’
‘Maybe five minutes. It was a bit cold to hang about.’
‘And did he see you?’
‘I don’t think so. I hid behind a tree and muffled the dog’s snout with my hand.’
Claire sat back and rolled a pen between her fingers. ‘I see.’
‘You know, when I heard about the killings, I thought good riddance, frankly.’
‘I understand that Mr Volkov was not at all popular in the village.’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’ She began to document some of the affronts she and her husband had suffered, but Claire raised her hand. ‘Can I just ask you how regularly you visit the grounds around Westgrave Hall?’
‘I have walked my dogs there every day for twenty-six years, except for a short period when Volkov first blocked the paths in 2017.’
‘How did you get in if, as you say, Volkov draped barbed wire everywhere?’
‘My father escaped from a German POW camp in 1944,’ she said, light glinting from her spectacles. ‘I know how to use wire cutters and then tape where the cut has been made.’
‘And is that why you go so early in the day? To avoid being caught?’
‘Precisely. In actual fact, these days I have a bit of an understanding with that funny little man Wolf. He’s got cameras near to the house, and a pack of dobermans kennelled behind the stables would you believe, so I don’t go there. But he doesn’t seem to mind me using the public bridleways, or going through Westgrave Woods.’
Claire stroked her chin thoughtfully. ‘Have you been into the library to see the fossil?’
‘Yes. Overrated, frankly. If you want to see some real bones, I could take you to the ossuary.’
‘The what?’
‘The ossuary. It’s a crypt beneath the Westgrave family chapel, going back to the Crusades. There are plague victims in there too. I’d love to go back to the chapel. I’m the verger, and the chapel is in my bailiwick, though I haven’t been able to go inside for years now, because they keep it locked. I’m hoping that if Volkov and his lot go, I might be able to get back in. I’d happily give you a tour if you can arrange access with Wolf.’
‘I’d certainly be interested in that, thank you. Perhaps tomorrow, if you’re available?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. I’ll ring you when I have a time.’ Hill nodded, turned away and walked out.
Claire couldn’t imagine quite what somebody would be looking for in Westgrave Lake before dawn on Boxing Day morning. Perhaps there was some kind of unusual wildlife, and despite Mary Hill’s protestations to the contrary, Claire felt it would probably be fishing. She made a mental note to ask Wolf. If Volkov had stocked the lake with some kind of exotic species, that could easily explain a little bit of poaching.
But the ponytail was intriguing. What might the bodyguard have been doing on the lake on Boxing Day morning?
* * *
The easyJet flight to Geneva left on time, and Gillard had only just made it. He was travelling light, carry-on luggage with just a change of clothes, two digital recorders and plenty of spare batteries. He was in the middle seat, squashed between a male ski fanatic from Worthing who regaled him with stories of the black runs that he had conquered around the world, and an elderly woman who was going out to see her daughter for the New Year. Given that it was Boxing Day, he wasn’t surprised to see no one else on the flight wearing a suit. He’d chosen his newest, a nicely tailored charcoal grey with a silk tie. Sam had pouted when she saw her husband getting dressed, knowing that he was planning to interview one of the world’s wealthiest women at Geneva’s luxury Mandarin Oriental hotel instead of spending any of Christmas with her.
Geneva Airport was busy with skiers clutching huge bags of equipment and carrying plastic ski boots. Gillard managed to snare a taxi, whose meter gobbled up his euros at a breathtaking rate even while they were queueing to leave the pickup zone. The cost of getting to the hotel was enough to repay the debts of a small African country.
Gillard walked into the imposing lobby of the hotel and scanned the huge opulent lounge. Ms Yalinsky had said she would be waiting here. In his peripheral vision he noticed a large smartly dressed man scrutinising him. He had a neat beard that did not quite disguise the tell-tale spiral wire coming from his ear and into his shirt collar. Gillard turned to him as he approached. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Gillard, the lady is waiting.’ He carefully checked Gillard’s identity and led him to a lift.
They emerged on a silent floor, thickly carpeted and lined with expensive panelling. The detective was led to an anonymous and unnumbered door. The security man tapped lightly, and the door was opened from the inside by another bodyguard. The suite was huge and had a ten-yard long balcony giving a view over the river. Yelena was sitting on a sofa near a roaring fake-log fireplace. She looked up at Gillard’s approach. ‘Good to see you again,’ she said, offering him an adjacent chair. ‘I’m so sorry I had to rush off before.’
Gillard sat. There were two other men on an adjacent settee. They were older and had the self-confident glaze of lawyers or accountants.
‘I’m glad I was able to catch you, Ms Yalinsky. We have one or two areas on your witness statement that we need to clear up.’
‘Okay, then ask away.’
Gillard carefully set up the digital recorder and got out his notebook, setting them on the coffee table but out of reach of the lawyers. ‘You said that you never saw who it was firing?’
‘That’s right. I heard several shots, and Maxim said I should rush to the panic room and he would follow me.’
Gillard looked puzzled. ‘Previously you said that Volkov had pushed you back into the panic room and would follow.’
‘Actually, I don’t think I said that.’ The look she gave him made it clear that she knew he didn’t have any record of what she had said before. ‘It was Maxim who told m
e to get in the panic room. Both he and Sasha were going to join me. To be honest I don’t think it matters.’
‘Everything matters. We need to try and build up a second-by-second picture of what happened in those crucial ninety seconds between the start of the firing and its cessation.’
‘I was in the panic room for almost all that time,’ she said.
‘Do you know how to use a gun?’ Gillard asked.
‘Yes. A rifle, because I’ve been a hunter in the past. It’s a tradition in my country. I have been taught how to use a handgun, though I have had no practice. I rely on my bodyguards to protect me.’
‘You don’t possess a handgun?’
‘I’m sure there is one somewhere in my home, back in Nur-Sultan. But in Europe, no. It’s not legal to have an unlicensed weapon, is it?’
‘No, in Britain at least it’s not.’
‘Have you found a gun that you cannot account for?’ She smiled at him.
‘I’m not able to share that information with you at this stage.’ Gillard knew that she wouldn’t be fooled by this evasive and bureaucratic answer. He still felt he wasn’t getting the truth.
‘I’m not a suspect, am I?’
‘Not necessarily. But I think that seeing as you are the only witness to any part of the shooting, the only survivor, you can’t be surprised that we are extremely careful to check everything that you tell us.’
One of the grey-haired men on the sofa opposite raised his hand. ‘Ms Yalinsky is very happy to co-operate, but you must understand that if you make any accusation of her complicity, things may get a little more difficult for you.’
‘Are you threatening me, Mr…’
‘Crowley. Gregory Crowley. I’m a partner at Harries Chase Kilmore.’ Gillard had vaguely heard of the London legal firm, one of the so-called magic circle. ‘I’m merely pointing out the reality of the situation. Ms Yalinsky has kindly made herself available to you at short notice in order to aid the inquiry. She didn’t have to do that.’