Dark Oceans

by Mark Macrossan

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘As I said, I am a private investigator. I’ve been doing some work for a Mayfair gallery owner called Richard Runion. Do you know him?’

  Jon shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘He was recently sold two forgeries, held out to be Spanish paintings, sixteenth century, and the guy who forged them is connected to a real bunch of nightmares.’

  ‘Nightmares?’

  ‘Nasty guys. Play real dirty. Part of a Russian mafia group with a fondness for grey suits.’

  ‘Grey suits?’

  ‘Or ex-Russian actually, they go by a couple of names: Draylskaya Bratva is one. Black Star is another. Run by a guy called Dominique Drayle. French, or at least originally. Has cells all over the place but his right-hand man, his ‘brigadier’ is right here in London. Called “Irwin”. He has been known to use the surname “Long” but everyone just refers to him by his first name.’

  Irwin. Where had he heard that name before? And then he remembered. It was the name he’d heard Nevers mutter when he passed him in the street that day.

  ‘Following me so far?’

  ‘Complicated cases are what I do.’

  ‘You won’t want to do this one. Drayle has other operatives here too. One’s even a cop.’

  ‘A cop?

  ‘Mm-hm. But Irwin, as I say, is in charge in London. And he appears to have a close connection to a solicitor called Paul Brilling who I―’

  ‘Paul Brilling?’

  ‘… Who I believe you do know.’

  ‘Brilling’s my solicitor.’

  ‘Yes. And your ex-wife’s also, am I right? But what you may not know, is that he’s Martin Nevers’ solicitor as well.’

  ‘Nevers.’

  ‘Yes, which was how I obtained a copy of his will.’

  ‘So you’re checking out Brilling because of… what… some connection to this Russian group―’

  ‘To Irwin and, through him, to Drayle, that’s right.’

  ‘So what are you saying, these are the people that are after me? Why?’

  ‘You’re jumping too far ahead. This is where things get a little… knotty.’

  ‘Knotty?’

  She paused and sipped her coffee. All Jon could do was watch. And wait.

  ‘I went to your chambers to check you out. To see if you were involved with these people. To see if it was more than a coincidence that you and Nevers were using the same solicitor. Both of you had left your wills with him. And the will, Nevers’ will, it was a bit of a test I suppose. I thought you’d at least read it when I gave you the chance. But you really didn’t, did you.’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘My God. You barristers are so… by the book.’

  ‘So why did you make such a fuss over the will, pretending to be angry that I might have looked through it?’

  ‘It was part of the test.’

  ‘Right. And I’m guessing I passed, yeah? So what’s this knotty bit you were talking about?’

  ‘Martin Nevers’ will… that you didn’t read… bequeaths a substantial portion of his estate to two beneficiaries in particular. You and your sister.’

  ‘Well it can’t be me. I keep telling you I don’t have a sister.’

  ‘You are named in the will. As his son.’

  ‘Exactly. I’m not his son, so…’

  Emerald produced the same copy of the will that she’d brought to Jon’s chambers that day and pushed it across the table at him. He picked it up and, this time, read quickly through it.

  ‘You will see that it refers to his son, Jonathon Marriner. London barrister―’

  ‘“…a barrister practising in London”,’ Jon reads, ‘“who is, in all likelihood, currently, as at the date of this will, unaware of the identity of his biological father”.’ He stares at the words on the document. ‘This is impossible.’

  ‘It also, as I say, mentions a daughter… you will see he uses the words “my daughter, being Jonathon’s sister” or something like that… but doesn’t actually name her. I’m a little confused, I have to say, as to why she is not more fully identified. Although there does seem to be some suggestion―’

  ‘This is astonishing. This is… And there’s no doubt, is there, that this is the same Martin Nevers? Lord Justice of Appeal?’

  Emerald shook her head.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘If I were you, I would be having a… quiet word with your mother, and your… Henry is it?… Henry Marriner, and… Martin Nevers. Or maybe not Nevers…’

  ‘My father, Henry Marriner, he’s dead, but what are you saying? That Nevers and my mother…?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. The will is the one talking.’

  ‘And what did you find out about Nevers? Is he associated with these people?’

  ‘I’m… concerned. Put it that way.’

  ‘Concerned.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Emerald said. ‘There’s something going on there. I perhaps should not tell you this but… I followed him one day and he went to Irwin’s apartment building, or one of them. In Soho. He didn’t go in or anything, but…’ She shrugged. ‘It’s a connection. And then there’s the question of what association he’s got with Brilling, he uses his services after all.’

  ‘As I do.’

  ‘Which seems just a little bit coincidental to me.’

  And to Jon as well. He tried to remember how he ended up using Brilling in the first place. Could Brilling have engineered it? Or Nevers? If Nevers knew – or thought – Jon was his son, would that have been a reason? As a way of keeping an eye on him? And then, possibly, could Brilling have been ‘got at’? But the equation was too hard – there were simply too many variables.

  ‘So come on Emerald, give me your best shot, what’s going on? I mean with Nevers and… and my involvement. Is it just the fact that I’m named in a will? That Nevers claims to be my father? What’s happening here? And why is someone trying to kill me?’

  ‘Honestly, I’m not sure.’

  ‘I don’t care about sure, just give me a guess.’

  ‘The person you should be grilling about this is your ex. Romy Banks.’

  ‘I suppose you know my entire relationship history.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve barely touched the surface.’

  ‘You know you’re funnier when you’re not being funny?’

  ‘And anyway,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Runion isn’t paying me to examine your love life, so don’t flatter yourself. But about Ms Banks, there were some documents I found in Brilling’s office that suggest there could be some sort of link.’

  ‘Between Romy? and these…?’

  ‘It’s hard to believe when it’s that close to home, huh? And of course I don’t know, but―’

  ‘Without flattering myself I’m guessing you’ve seen my will?’

  ‘I have had a quick look, yes.’

  ‘So you’ll see everything goes to Romy.’

  She nodded. ‘Not all beneficiaries are murderers. But you certainly have to tread carefully in my opinion. If Romy is involved… these are dangerous people.’

  Jon put his head in his hands for a moment. It was a lot to take in. A new father. A sister somewhere. And a big, dark cloud over everyone.

  ‘You don’t think… ‘ he began. Formulating a thought. Emerald watched him with Scandinavian patience.

  ‘I mysteriously received a large sum of money not so long ago… Stop me if you know this… But I still don’t know where it came from. You don’t think it could be Nevers, do you?’

  ‘Could be. Was it much?’

  Jon nodded slowly.

  ‘Lucky you,’ she said. ‘Nice to have a rich daddy I guess. But tread carefully. If Nevers is involved, it’s not going to be money you’ll want to be touching. The blood might not be dry for a start.’

  ‘A bit late now. It’s well and truly dry I’m afraid.’

  ‘Right. Oh well.’

  ‘OK so leaving aside the “why”, wh
at about the “who”? You’ve gone through a big list, but you still haven’t told me who’s after me, who exactly it is that’s trying to kill me. It’s a bit hard when you don’t know who you’re running from. However many new family members you acquire along the way.’

  ‘I don’t know Jonathon. I’m sorry I can’t be any more precise. Maybe… I mean, sometimes, I guess, you just have to run. And not look back.’

  ‘Run.’

  ‘You have somewhere to run to?’

  ‘There’s a place… yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s a house―’

  ‘In Peacehaven.’

  Jon looked at her in amazement. ‘How did you know―?’

  ‘I know everything. It’s my job remember? Don’t worry. They don’t know. I will tell you one thing though.’ She pulled out of her bag an iPad. ‘Watch out for the bitch with the red hair.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She opened up her photo albums, swiping her way through a vast array of photographs, angling the device away from Jon. She opened one photo in particular and showed it to him. They were looking at Jon’s old house.

  ‘Familiar?’

  ‘Hmm. Looks like someone’s been spying on me.’

  ‘Correct. Because look.’

  That familiar curving road, the usual array of parked cars, even a pedestrian on the footpath…

  ‘Recognise anyone?’

  ‘Her?’

  Emerald zoomed in on the figure. It was a female with red hair, wearing light blue jeans and a white t-shirt. A masculine t-shirt too, with a car-maker’s logo on the front: Renault. But more importantly, the girl bore a close resemblance to the girl he’d followed to the Rootstein factory in West Kensington two days earlier. And the same girl (maybe) that he’d seen in Notting Hill, in almost the same spot in fact – only about thirty metres away – moments before the runaway car incident.

  ‘You must have seen her, she spent a lot of time in your street,’ Emerald said.

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Believe me. And not just the street you lived in.’

  Emerald found a second photo and showed him. In this picture the red-haired girl was standing at the edge of a square somewhere. It was the same girl, definitely. She was even wearing the green dress he’d seen her in, in West Kensington and Notting Hill. And there she was, it looked like…

  ‘Lincoln’s Inn Fields,’ he said. ‘On the north side. Just along from our building.’

  ‘Well done. You can work for me any time.’

  ‘So this girl, she’s been spying on me? At my home and my work?’

  ‘It would seem so. But wait, even better than that…’

  Emerald took her iPad back and went into Google maps and found London, then Holborn, then Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She went in further, into Streetview, and they were in the square, on the western side this time, near the north-western corner. Emerald rotated the image and then zoomed in on a woman on the pavement who seemed to be looking east, in the direction of Jon’s building on the north-east corner. She was standing strangely, stretching her neck, peering around the corner. As if she were hiding from someone, or observing them. As far as he could tell, given the facial blurring you get on Streetview, it was, once again, the girl with the red hair.

  ‘She’s even on Streetview?’

  ‘Exactly. So it’s either a huge coincidence, or she’s been spending a hell of a lot of time around you.’

  ‘So what’s the image date on this…’ he said, looking at the Streetview photo. ‘June last year. Well anyway, yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her. A few times lately, at least. So who is she?’

  ‘Here’s a clue.’

  Emerald brought up a third photo from her iPad albums. It was the same red-haired girl and she was wearing the same green dress, but this time she was walking through the streets of what was clearly Soho.

  ‘… there. She lives, as far as I can tell, with Irwin. Irwin Long. It’s his apartment anyway, I’m not sure if he’s there very often. So it seems to me, for whatever reason, they’re keeping a good eye on you.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘And yes, you’d have to say, in all likelihood, they… as in the Russians, Drayle’s people… are the ones responsible for what’s been happening to you lately. It would be a bit too much of a coincidence, I think, if not. Wouldn’t you say? I, for one, don’t believe in coincidences anyway.’

  ‘Before,’ he said. ‘When I said I’d been shot at, you didn’t so much as blink. You didn’t seem surprised. Did you know?’

  ‘No Jonathon, I didn’t know, and I’m sorry, but nothing surprises me when it comes to these people. And you have to remember, when you told me, what was it, maybe ten minutes ago, I still wasn’t sure you weren’t knowingly involved in all of this. With the other side, or even with the Russians themselves. I’m still not sure.’

  ‘I don’t even know who the “other side” are.’

  Emerald sighed.

  ‘There’s a Ukrainian gang called Deep Zone. Operate out of Odessa, on the Black Sea. One of the most powerful mafia groups in the region. The thing is… this is a war, and specifically, a battle for control of the black market in stolen art. Art and antiquities. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the Isfahan Decagon?’

  ‘The…? No.’

  ‘A priceless, five hundred year old Islamic relic, some sort of geometric sensation… and supposedly a key to untold riches as well, so you can just imagine. Anyway, Drayle managed to recover it, recently, from the ocean off Namibia. Deep Zone were pretty keen to get their hands on it, and it now looks like they’ve done just that. Somehow, I believe, they found a way to infiltrate Black Star, and I have it on good authority that one of their people has managed to steal it. Steal the Decagon.’

  ‘Off the Russians? Off Drayle?’

  ‘No honesty among thieves, Jonathon, you should know that. Anyway, we’ll see where that goes, it’s all very complicated and very messy. That’s why sometimes running’s your best option. It is in my case. I don’t know about you, but I want to live. Do you want to live?’

  ‘Sure. Are you inviting me along? For the ride?’

  ‘I told you. No sleaze.’

  ‘I wasn’t being… Not really.’

  They looked at each other and chuckled. But only for a moment; the smiles vanished and Jon felt an idiot. An idiot because his life was in danger and he’d just made the lamest pass he could ever remember having made, and to a woman who would have heard some pretty lame ones.

  He looked at the photo on Streetview again. Something occurred to him. Something that maybe, just maybe, could shed some light on things…

  ‘Blyat!’ Emerald swore and twisted her body around, to face away from the milling tourists and the criss-crossing commuters. ‘Don’t look!’ she said, almost spitting through clenched teeth. ‘Look away!’

  He did as instructed. They both pretended to be looking at her iPad. Her home screen was a photograph of a young child – a boy of about four – with a dog. Her child? Or perhaps, more likely, a cover of some kind. For some reason, Jon didn’t picture Emerald as a mother.

  ‘Who are we hiding from?’

  ‘Never mind, just keep looking down and talk to me as though we’re talking about a riveting business plan.’

  All he had to look at was the photograph.

  ‘That your son?’

  While Emerald was busy not responding, Jon snatched a glance over the shoulder of his new ‘business associate’, catching a snapshot of suits and jeans and daypacks.

  ‘You’re not paying attention,’ she said calmly. ‘The contract wasn’t signed and in any event this clause here…’ she prodded the dog’s nose ‘… is a penalty clause and as such, unenforceable.’

  ‘You’ll make a lawyer yet.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Can I look now?’

  ‘No.’

  But she looked around herself. Her gaze steadied and Jon followed its direction. In the flow o
f people, he saw a grey suit disappearing behind a snack bar and was reminded of his trigger-happy pursuer in West Kensington. With all the grey suits in Victoria Station – in London – the chances of it being the same man were low to non-existent, but it was a nasty thought.

  ‘I’m going,’ she said as she packed her iPad away. ‘You probably won’t hear from me again.’

  ‘Tahiti?’

  ‘Maybe Copenhagen.’

  She threw him a brief smile that seemed as if it was meant to indicate she was either being absolutely truthful or completely mendacious.

  ‘Well, I hope we… bump into each other,’ he said. ‘Somehow.’

  ‘I don’t.’ She stood up, and looked back in the direction the man in the suit had gone. ‘Because if we do, it’ll mean one of us is in trouble. Or both.’ She checked her phone. ‘I’d be heading for that house of yours if I were you.’ She was checking for the time? Or for messages. Or an excuse to stall… Was she wanting to tell him something? She looked up and threw him a curt nod. ‘Good luck.’

  Luck. She may as well have cursed him.

  She then turned and walked off quickly, around the corner, following, presumably, the signs to the Underground.

  Jon sighed. Alone again, and feeling more vulnerable than ever. He felt the house key in his pocket, and thought about getting on a train, and then thought about Emerald and everything she’d said and decided to get one more coffee. Think for a moment.

  No point in jumping if it was straight into the jaws of a shark.

  56.

  ‘Tattoo me,’ Isla said.

  Isla: that wasn’t pronounced eye-la, by the way, but rather iss-la (or eee-sla for anyone who wanted to really nail it), as in the Spanish word for island. And an island, she certainly felt like these days. Not to mention the fact that Isla was a nicer name than bitch, and far nicer than fucking slut, both of which Irwin seemed to have a fondness for.

  So, “tattoo me”, it was an odd thing to say, she realised walking into a tattooist’s. For an Iss-la, or an Eye-la, or anyone else. A bit like walking up to an airport check-in counter and saying you wanted to catch a plane. But tattoos were one of Isla’s favourite things, and this was her first one. And that command, “tattoo me”, it was something she’d always wanted to say.