by Tim Stevens
The trap, if it was one, puzzled him. It made sense that she should lead him into the lion’s den, but she’d been alone at the flat – what if he’d attacked her? The risk seemed reckless. He needed to ask Vale a few questions, but didn’t dare compose a text message while he was walking in case she made a sudden move and, distracted, he lost her.
Uphill again, through restaurant crowds thronging the pavements and blasts of music as bars swallowed and disgorged their patrons. Just beyond a Turkish bistro she stopped. Without a backward glance she opened a door and went through. Instead of approaching the door, Purkiss stood on the other side of the road and peered at the number of the building. It was a narrow three-storey affair with something he couldn’t read stencilled on a glass panel in the door. The phone he’d bought was 3G enabled. He called up a search engine and entered “Living Tallinn”. There it was, the address matching. When he clicked on the newspaper’s website he got an error message. There were no other matches for the name.
He walked to a corner so that he could keep the door in view, punched buttons. When Vale answered Purkiss said, ‘Ever heard of a female Service agent called Elle Klavan?’ He spelled it and described her.
‘Doesn’t ring any bells. I’ll do some checking.’
Purkiss brought him up to date. ‘Also, Living Tallinn. It’s almost certainly bogus, a front. Maybe one of your contacts knows something about it.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Go back to Seppo’s flat and search it properly.’
Getting back in would be more difficult, as he couldn’t try the trick of pushing all the buzzers in the block again. On the way back up the hill he spotted something that would fit his purpose: a skip outside a shop. In the skip he found a dilapidated chest of drawers which he hefted with some awkwardness. He attracted a few curious looks on his way back to the flat, but no opposition.
Twenty minutes passed until the door buzzed open and a couple stepped out, dressed for a night on the town. The man held the door open automatically. Purkiss smiled his thanks and hauled the chest into the lobby. He thought: taking advantage of simple human courtesy. What a life we lead.
He worked quickly and methodically, starting with the living room and dining area – the stain on the carpet was damp, he noted – and moving on to the bedrooms. Two of them, men’s clothes of different sizes in each. Vale hadn’t mentioned anything about Seppo’s having a flatmate, but perhaps he hadn’t known.
In Seppo’s room – Purkiss deduced it was his from the size of the clothes in the cupboard, Vale having described Seppo as a small man – he noticed the slightest protrusion of the lower of two drawers in the bedside table when he closed it. He lifted the drawer off its rollers and pulled it out. Taped to the back was a memory stick. He pocketed it and replaced the drawer.
The drawers in the other room, the mattress, yielded nothing. He peered behind the row of paperbacks on the room’s only shelf, then glanced at the books themselves. Estonian titles, some of them translations of popular novels by British and American authors. He turned away before a delayed realisation caused his head to snap round again.
Wedged in between two doorstop novels, its spine furrowed through repeated use, was a paperback he recognised.
He pulled it down. Reflections on the Revolution in France. The same edition. He riffled the pages against his thumb and checked inside the covers. There were no identifying marks, but it was the one.
Fallon’s totem.
Purkiss sagged on the bed, gripping the book in both hands, staring at the cover. The memories were rising.
Claire, in a montage of images and smells and tactile traces, vivid as phantom limbs. Looking back over her shoulder at him while she dressed, grey eyes mischievous and smile gently mocking. Walking towards him in the rain in her turtleneck and the boots he’d bought her which were ruined on the first day she’d worn them. Pressing her small head with its short blonde hair scented with her lemongrass shampoo back against his face on the balcony of the Marseilles flat, his arms around her from behind as they stood and drew on the heady tang of the sea. Arching her back beneath him as he pressed his mouth against the hot musk of her neck.
Dropping sack-like to the carpet, eyes suffused and starred crimson, tongue like lolling liver, neck efficiently dislocated.
Claire, dear sweet Jesus. Claire.
He turned the book over and found that his nails had driven deep crescents into the cover.
He held off calling Vale, because although the shaking in his hands had stopped he wasn’t sure his voice would be as steady. Also, he needed some time to process the new information. Suddenly nothing made sense.
He used the time to work through the rest of the flat. The bathroom contained nothing of note. Last of all he went into the kitchen. Having checked the cupboards and the fridge, he opened the freezer.
*
The Jacobin leaned close to the monitor, trying to identify what was different. Purkiss had disappeared from view several minutes earlier, doubtless to search the rest of the flat, but when he returned there was a change in his posture, in his facial expression. A tightening, something suggestive of a coiled whip. Had he found something the Jacobin had missed?
He disappeared again in the direction of the kitchen and emerged in due course, his face betraying nothing. Purkiss had his phone in his hand and was thumbing a number in when he stopped, looked slowly around the room, at one point staring directly at the camera before his eyes roved away. Then he went out into the entrance passage, closing the door behind him.
Clearly he’d considered that the room might be wired. It didn’t matter, because when the Jacobin opened the other window and saw the slow movement of the icon across the screen, it became clear that Purkiss had taken the bait.
Nine
‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Tell me about it.’
He was on his way down the hill again, glad to be outside. Purkiss had seen death before, but the sight had unnerved him, coming as it had after his memories of Claire: the small frame cramped sideways on its bed of frozen goods, the face twisted up at an unnatural angle so that it seemed to peer at him through cracked eyes. He had hauled Seppo out, noting the absence of lividity and of ice formation as he turned him over. Less than six hours, he estimated. There was no wallet or phone. Purkiss hoisted him back into the freezer, closed the lid.
Vale said: ‘Why would Fallon leave his book in Seppo’s flat after killing him?’
‘He didn’t. I mean, he lives there too. That was his room I found the book in. The clothes in the cupboard are his size. Seppo and Fallon were sharing that flat.’
The silence grew. ‘John, this has got me. I’ll need to think about it.’ The rustle, as always, of cigarette paper. ‘I do have something for you, though. Elle Klavan. She’s an active agent.’
‘Doing what?’
‘I haven’t got that sort of information yet. All I have is confirmation that she’s with Little Sister, as in not ‘ex’. I can make discreet enquiries at the Embassy over there.’
‘That’s useful.’ Most SIS personnel operated out of the embassies or consulates in the host country. He was walking fast to burn off adrenaline. ‘What do you want me to do with the body?’
‘Leave it. It’ll keep for a few days.’
It made sense. Tipping off the police now could be awkward, especially as Purkiss’s DNA was all over the flat.
‘Also,’ said Purkiss, ‘there’s video surveillance in the flat.’ He’d spotted the tiny lens at the back of the fireplace just before leaving, hadn’t seen it the first time he’d searched the place because he hadn’t been looking for it. ‘I’m assuming Fallon set it up to see who came looking for Seppo.’
He told Vale he’d call back later. After reaching the Old Town square, he spent a few minutes in the side streets, trying to find the internet café he’d spotted on his way earlier. Inside it smelled of coffee and tourists. When a machine was free he sat and slotte
d the memory stick into one of the ports. The box that came up told him the entire stick was password protected.
Purkiss bought a paper cup of coffee the size of a small bucket and left the warmth of the café. He phoned Abby.
‘How soon can you get here?’
‘There’s a six a.m. flight, so, eleven tomorrow morning your time? I’ve already booked it.’
He shook his head. ‘What if I hadn’t needed you to come?’
‘You always need me. Anyway, I’d have put the cancellation fee on expenses.’ Her voice dropped a notch. ‘Anything the matter, boss? You sound… I don’t know.’
‘I’m all right.’ He checked his watch. Ten forty-five. ‘Could you do something else for me?’
She called back within the hour. He’d wandered about the town, frustration gnawing at him, unease flickering on the periphery of his sensory fields. The face staring at him turned out to be somebody trying to read a restaurant menu near his head. The man who stumbled spraying red onto the cobbles hadn’t been stabbed, but had simply spilled a bottle of red wine after a glass too many. When the phone vibrated he tensed.
‘We’re in luck. All the flats in the block are owned by the same landlord.’ She gave a name and address. ‘It’s walking distance from where you are.’
‘I don’t suppose you found out if he’s at home this evening, did you?’
She paused. ‘No, but I –’
‘Only joking. Great work, Abby.’
Over the chain stretched taut across the crack of the door the man’s eyes were black and baleful. He was old, a dressing gown open over a grubby vest.
‘Mr Väljas?’
The man’s face clenched. Purkiss thought it was because he’d spoken Russian.
‘Apologies for disturbing you so late.’
The man muttered something.
‘Sorry, I have no Estonian.’
In Russian the old man said, ‘It’s nearly midnight.’
‘Sorry again. I have a question about one of your tenants.’
‘Who are you?’
He held up his open passport. ‘My name’s Hughes. I’m a debt collector.’
‘English?’ The man’s tone softened, though he made no move to lift the chain.
‘Yes. The tenant’s Jaak Seppo. He owes tens of thousands in unpaid rent back in London. I traced him here but he’s not at home. You’re listed online as the landlord.’
The fury was back in the eyes. Purkiss realised it wasn’t directed at him. The door closed, reopened with the chain off. Inside it stank of sweat and onions and fried meat.
The man was shaking his head. ‘I knew he was up to no bloody good.’
‘He’s behind on the rent with you?’
‘No. He’s always been regular. Been there –’ He screwed up his face. ‘Three years? No trouble at all. Then, one day, I find he’s got someone else living there. A man. Not homosexual stuff, the guy’s got his own room. I tell Seppo I think he’s taken in a lodger. Subletting. He says no, the man’s his friend, staying a few months.’
Purkiss let some of his eagerness show through. His pulse was hammering. ‘Did you meet this other man?’
‘Sure. Pleasant enough fellow. Name of –’ He broke off, suspicious. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because Seppo had an associate in London, who was also involved in fleecing the landlords.’
‘Son of a bitch.’ An elderly woman appeared halfway down the stairs. He barked at her and she fled. He picked his way across the cluttered living room to a sideboard, rummaged in a drawer, found a notepad. ‘Julian Fisher.’
It meant nothing. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Forties. Average in everything. Friendly smile.’
‘Like that?’ Purkiss had downloaded the photo of Fallon to his new phone. The man peered at it.
‘That’s him, yeah.’
‘How long has he been staying in the flat?’
The man turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘Three, four months. Haven’t seen either of them for about a fortnight. Lots of properties to keep an eye on.’
‘And you said it was okay for this Fisher to stay?’
‘Wasn’t thrilled about it, but I’m a nice guy, and Seppo’s been a good tenant over the years. You should see some of the arseholes I get. I asked his friend a bit about himself, what he did and so on. He was quite forthcoming. He’s working his way around the Baltics, doing small jobs to pay his way while he travels. Seems a bit old to be doing that sort of thing, but hey, live and let live.’
‘Did he say what work he was doing now?’
‘Bartender at Paradiis. You know it? Shithole of a nightclub out east. Always in the news. Drug raids, stabbings, you name it. He’d stick out like a sore thumb there.’
Purkiss didn’t think so. Fallon’s unremarkable appearance meant he could adapt himself uncannily to any environment. He nodded.
‘Mr Väljas, you’ve been a great help. Thanks.’
‘You catch these guys, you cut their balls off for me, okay?’
Out east meant a couple of kilometres outside the Old Town. He flagged down a taxi, sat in the back and willed himself to relax without letting the fatigue overwhelm him. The driver navigated crowds of young whooping party animals. At one point Purkiss recognised the main road where the pursuit earlier had started and ended.
The entrance to the club was unprepossessing. A small pink neon sign flashed the name, Paradiis, over a blue martini glass. From across the street Purkiss could see a dark archway with steps leading up under an awning and two bouncers in the shadows at the top. People were streaming up there but there was no queue. It was too early for that, just after midnight. He walked up the steps. The door opened in a blast of bass-driven noise.
The bouncers were mirror-eyed walls of meat in tight, shiny black suits. They stared at Purkiss’s rumpled jacket and shirt and chinos, and motioned for him to step aside. They frisked him, one taking the upper body and one the legs. He was a little rough round the edges after the chase earlier, so he supposed he looked as if he might cause trouble. The torso man found his wallet, held it up as if it were a weapon. Purkiss didn’t want to draw attention by making a fuss. He made a show of sighing in resignation, peeled off a couple of notes. The bouncer grinned goldly and clapped him on the shoulder, jarring Purkiss’s own teeth.
Inside it was the worst kind of place, the music so loud that the bass set up a vibration in the outer pinna of the ear rather than just the eardrum. It was industrial electronica and triggered a mild clench of nausea in Purkiss, whose musical tastes ran more to the classical. The air conditioning was fighting a losing battle against the humidity of sweaty flesh. On each of four podia spaced throughout the floor area a woman gyrated, clad in a bikini and what looked like a Second World War gas mask.
Purkiss chiselled his way through the layers of dancers towards the bar counter. He signalled the nearest bartender with a hundred-kroner note held up between two fingers. The man, shaven-headed and burly as the bouncers, his leather vest revealing a phantasmagoria of tattoos on his arms, leaned across, his ear close.
In Russian Purkiss shouted, ‘I’m looking for this man.’ He held up his phone with the picture of Fallon together with the caption he’d added: Julian Fisher.
The man was straightening, shaking his head almost as soon as he had glanced at the picture. Then he frowned at it again. Beckoning Purkiss closer he yelled, ‘Englishman. He didn’t turn up for his shifts last week, so everyone’s assumed he’s moved on.’
‘How long was he working here?’
The man shrugged. ‘Couple of months? Lyuba will know. I’ll get her.’
He plucked the note from Purkiss’s fingers without looking at it and moved down the bar and tapped the shoulder of one of the other bar staff, bending to her ear. She stared at Purkiss, a compact woman with short punky hair and similarly bared and tattooed arms. Lyuba: a Russian name. Only briefly taking her eyes off him, she finished serving her order and made her way down the cou
nter. Purkiss produced another banknote between his knuckles and showed her the photo. She glanced at it, then back into his eyes. Up close her face was hard and angled and seamed. She was perhaps thirty but looked five years older.
‘You know him?’
She put her lips to his ear, but the music changed to something even more frenetic. He shook his head. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, ‘This way,’ and jerked her head. He followed her further down the bar, where she lifted a hatch, let him through and took him down a corridor to where the noise was merely intrusive. Arms folded, she faced him.
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend of Julian’s from England. I can’t find him.’
‘He was here since February. Then last week – poof.’ She splayed her hands. There was naked hostility in her glare. In a moment Purkiss got it.
‘You were seeing each other?’
‘The famous English chivalry. One minute he’s all over me, talking about getting a place together. The next he’s saying he needs to move on. He’s not ready to settle down. It’s not me, it’s him.’ She delivered the last in a wincingly accurate parody of a well-spoken Englishman’s Russian. Her mouth twisted in bitterness. Suddenly her eyes were calculating. ‘And you can tell your whoreson friend, if you find him, that I haven’t forgotten the money he owes me, nor have those friends of mine he met.’
‘How much?’
‘Six thousand krooni.’ About four hundred pounds, Purkiss estimated. ‘He was always short.’
‘Perhaps we can help each other find him.’
She studied his eyes, said, ‘I have to get back to work. My shift ends at one o’clock. Will you wait?’
‘Yes.’
She hadn’t taken the note he’d been holding. He made his way back into the heat and noise of the dance floor. At the bar he bought a bottle of water and a Diet Coke, after which he wormed his way over to one of the walls and leaned against it, wincing at the stickiness that tugged at the back of his jacket. Lyuba reappeared behind the bar. She and her fellow bartenders swarmed back and forth, keeping up with the demand. Purkiss checked his watch. Twelve thirty-five.