‘Get the feeling we’re being watched?’
‘Not especially, Guv.’
Skelgill perhaps unfairly stares down the bellhops; his features remain stern as he and DS Jones begin to move away from the doors.
‘You know how they give you free toiletries – like in a kit, in your bathroom?’
‘Aha.’
She sounds apprehensive, anticipating what is coming.
‘Mine had condoms in it.’
Skelgill’s gaze picks up the trajectory of a pigeon, as though the bird is an unexpected sight. There is a pause before DS Jones replies.
‘So did mine, Guv.’
Skelgill lifts his head in silent acknowledgement. The pigeon passes beyond view and he looks briefly sideways at his colleague.
‘What’s that all about?’
‘Maybe it’s a marketing campaign.’
They are descending flights of steps towards a busy road – four lanes of fairly heavy traffic flow in either direction. This conversation seems to peter out, but their emergence from the hotel’s semi-private environs brings new distractions. Though they move purposefully, it is not clear which of them leads – until Skelgill reveals he has delegated (if not communicated) the task.
‘I take it you’ve sussed out the rendezvous?’
As is frequently the case, DS Jones is one step ahead.
‘We’re meeting Captain Shevchenko just off Khreschatyk – that’s the main street. It’s the way up to the Maidan – Independence Square – I thought we should at least see that in case there’s no time tomorrow – we’ve got about half an hour.’
Skelgill shrugs. It is probable he would prefer any such casual sightseeing to take in the river – especially since the airline magazine has informed him that the Dneiper, Europe’s fourth longest, is noted for the legendary beluga, the European sturgeon, and once produced a specimen of fifteen feet and the weight of five men. Absently he takes a series of pronounced breaths, and then exhales, as though the act has brought a revelation.
‘You can tell we’re a long way from the sea – the air’s not fresh, like back home.’
DS Jones glances skywards, as if she expects Skelgill’s notion to be somehow manifested as a visible phenomenon.
‘You know, Guv, it reminds me of London – apart from...’
‘Aye?’
‘Well – the people.’
Skelgill’s eyes become busy with passing citizens. A stream of elderly women all seem attached to plastic carrier bags. A youngish man has a laptop satchel, its strap a diagonal black sash across his pale mackintosh. A plump older man in a bulky blue ski jacket and a grey tartan cap is reading a pink notice plastered to a lamppost; the foot of the page is perforated and he reaches up and tears off one of the strips. An officer in smart greenish-blue military uniform, matching collar and tie, gold buttons and braid and insignia, and a ridiculous field visor hat, stops – and stoops – to present a coin to a female beggar, soot-blackened though well-fed and semi-larval, half emerged from a grimy sleeping bag.
‘I don’t think they look so different from us.’
‘That’s my point, Guv – do you see anyone who’s not Caucasian?’
He nods pensively, but any further comparison to London is dispelled as they round into the southern end of Khreschatyk. This grand boulevard is unequivocally Iron Curtain, lined as it is by continuous ranks of neoclassical Stalinist architecture. Such an impression is not lost upon Skelgill.
‘I can just picture the Red Army tanks rolling along here.’
DS Jones glances anxiously about.
‘Not too loud, Guv – I think it’s a sensitive subject.’
Skelgill ingenuously chastises himself with a gurning expression.
Ranged around the north-east end of the Maidan self-important buildings converge like infantry battalions that have advanced so far and now realise they are not all going to fit. In somewhat garish contrast to their stark socialist modernism, their vertical masculine lines standing to attention, that capitalism has seduced this city is revealed by their incongruous crowning tiaras: giant neon logos, effeminate and elaborate, supported by extensive scaffolding. Skelgill is surveying these sponsors for a not-so-hidden meaning.
‘Jones – look – there must be another McDonald’s round here.’
His colleague grins, though she checks the time in her palm.
‘I think we ought to head to the meeting point, Guv – it’ll probably take us five minutes to walk back – we’ll be able to eat there.’
Skelgill casts about forlornly. It will soon be dark – almost eight p.m. – and perhaps the two-hour time warp is contributing to his premature hunger (though his subordinates might testify that it is a permanent condition). The sky is blanketed by an evenly padded quilt of stratus, the gentle bulge of each pocket tinted pink by the setting sun; indeed its rays pick out the lavish golden domes of the city’s holy places as if they radiate of their own volition.
But with no fast-food joint actually in view, Skelgill makes up his mind.
‘Right, let’s go.’
He has his bearings, and strides away, and DS Jones scampers to catch him. He remains a yard ahead as they retrace their steps southwards along Khreschatyk, until – prompted by her maps app – DS Jones reaches to pinch his sleeve and veer across the broad pavement towards a high stone arch. Beyond is a narrower thoroughfare, immediately distinctive for its chic. Raised terraces wrapped in smart awnings mark several restaurants; there are boutiques and a high proportion of luxury cars, mostly prestigious German marques – though a gleaming white Range Rover catches Skelgill’s eye.
‘Now it reminds me of Bond Street, Guv.’
‘Aye, well – you’d know better than me.’
‘It’s this one, Guv – Pechera Vid’my.’
‘Sounds like a fish restaurant.’
DS Jones shakes her mobile phone.
‘I could see what translate says.’
Skelgill’s response is to take a striding leap at the wooden steps, but once over the threshold he halts and widens his eyes in an effort to adjust to the relative gloom. Beneath the canopy the terrace is more like the interior of a bar. There is scant lighting other than ambient street neon, and candles in jars upon the tables. A western pop video plays out from screens suspended at either end of the space. The seating recalls the VIP area of a nightclub, low-backed rectangular sofas in pale leather arranged around broad glass-topped coffee tables into a series of cubicles, in two rows. Despite a healthy sprinkling of patrons, the terrace is unmanned as far as staff are concerned. No one seems to be dining as such, though he discerns that some customers have plates of finger food.
He leads the way down the aisle to a vacant booth on the balcony side, achieving a view both along the street and back towards the entrance. DS Jones settles on the sofa perpendicular to his, facing the curtained doors of what must be the restaurant proper. While she appears relaxed, Skelgill is agitated and looks unwilling to drop his guard. In the next cubicle, seated together in the same position as DS Jones, are twin girls, perhaps aged twenty. They are strikingly attractive and immaculately presented. Their dresses, one a shimmering silver, the other pearl, look expensive, silky, clinging to contours and exposing bare shoulders; Skelgill’s darting gaze, ostensibly seeking a waiter, continually returns to the groomed blonde heads and smooth bronzed cleavages. Occasionally sipping French mineral water, they lean in together, conspiratorial, swaying over mobile gossip, tapping with crimson talons at what amuses them.
DS Jones must notice Skelgill’s continual distraction, for she turns to glance pointedly to her right.
‘No sign, Guv?’
Skelgill affects to notice something in the street and leans out behind his sergeant to stare beyond her.
‘Not that I know what to look for.’
‘DS Leyton’s email said he’d be wearing a three-stripes jacket – but I wondered if something got lost in translation – you know, to do with his rank?’
/> But Skelgill is only half listening – his gaze has become fixed upon the darkened doorway of a designer store – and there it is again: the firefly glow of a cigarette. As he narrows his eyes, the tiny orange ember reappears – apparently one last long draw, for it is sent tumbling through the air and a slim figure of medium height detaches itself from the sentry box of shadow and swiftly, easily, unobtrusively moves beneath the glow of the streetlamps and crosses towards the restaurant steps.
‘This could be him.’
Now Skelgill reclines, as though he has been calm all along. DS Jones turns expectantly to watch the entrance.
‘That’s the right jacket, Guv.’
The young man – for he can be no more than mid-twenties, and possibly inferior in years to DS Jones’s twenty-six – walks with the casual purpose of one who is returning to his seat, knowing where he is going, and already familiar with those around him. Indeed, he slides in at right angles to DS Jones, on her other side from Skelgill.
‘Imagine I visit the restroom – there is no need to attract attention.’
His Slavic English has a mid-Atlantic drawl, as if American television has been his formative fare. His clothes fit him well, a sporty ensemble of shell jacket, t-shirt, slim jeans and trainers – though cuffs and hems show signs of wear that suggest, if he owns a new wardrobe, he has not dressed to impress them. Equally, if they were expecting the stereotypically wooden undercover policeman in oversized square shoes and ill-fitting brown suit with 1970s lapels, then he does not remotely conform. Indeed, as if to allay any such concerns about his rank or identity, he slides a palm across the table and lifts it briefly to reveal his credentials; he seems to require nothing in return.
‘Inspector, welcome – I am Shevchenko.’
Skelgill nods; there is no suggestion that they shake hands.
The newcomer has longish, neatly styled black hair, light olive skin, and deep brown eyes fringed by extensive lashes; a handsome Mediterranean rather than typically Slavic appearance. His features are well defined, though lean and perhaps slightly harried. Still hunched forwards, he turns to look at DS Jones and takes in her apparel – a cropped black leather jacket over a snug white vest top, stretch hipster jeans, black ankle boots.
‘Ukrayins’kyy?’
DS Jones seems momentarily startled, though she responds in kind to his inquiry about her nationality.
‘Ni, Brytans’ka.’
He shrugs phlegmatically, as though this can’t be helped. He holds her gaze for a moment.
‘Krasyvyy.’
DS Jones giggles involuntarily, and immediately blushes, clearly taken by surprise by some compliment. But Shevchenko looks with a concerned expression to Skelgill and gestures to the bare table.
‘We have a saying in Ukraine – no drink, no fun.’
And with this he rises and disappears through the curtains as though he is acquainted with whatever lies beyond.
Skelgill – perhaps unwittingly – is scowling.
‘What was that about?’
For a moment DS Jones is tongue tied.
‘He thought I was maybe Ukrainian, Guv.’ Her cheeks still tinged with pink, she adds, unconvincingly, a rider. ‘That I was your translator.’
‘Aye, well – let’s stick to English, eh?’
He folds his arms and glares across his right shoulder into the street. An elderly female flower-seller has drifted into his line of sight on the opposite pavement. Holding a basket of lilac carnations in the crook of an arm, she halts more or less facing him. She wears a green tailored coat with a marbled pattern, a high blue polo neck sweater and a tightly drawn brown floral headscarf. Her flesh has a deathly pallor, and her pale eyes are sunken into a long, lined countenance that exudes austerity. Her bearing is one of brave endurance, of mourning, her expression humble; she nods meekly to passers-by, offering gentle, hopeful glances from within an all-consuming aura of pathos.
But as he watches, this practised graveside manner suddenly transforms; like the screen vampire rudely woken by a hovering stake her eyes widen and her teeth become bared, and she lets loose a string of (unintelligible) invective: for an interloper has trespassed upon what is evidently her beat! It is another woman, younger, unkempt, large and rotund, partially wrapped in a threadbare serge greatcoat with rope for a belt, and clutching only a single tired posy in each unwashed fist. The intruder at first begins to protest, but when she sees that the old woman means business and is bearing down upon her she turns and begins to hobble away, receiving a solid – and surprisingly athletic – boot in her ample hindquarters for her trouble.
‘Is doggy-dog world, no?’
While the modest drama has been unfolding, Shevchenko has slipped back into their cubicle. Skelgill turns to face him, looking a little startled. DS Jones laughs – perhaps she prefers to believe the malapropism to be intentional. But the officer does not wait for further approbation; he breaks open a new packet of cigarettes, and offers first to her, then to Skelgill. When they each decline he makes no comment but takes one himself and strikes up.
‘How is your hotel?’
Skelgill is surprised by the mundane question.
‘Seems pretty quiet.’
‘It gets interesting later.’
Keeping his eyes on Skelgill, Shevchenko leans back into the sofa, blows a stream of smoke from his nostrils, and makes a short and sharp though deliberate jerk of his head, indicating the two girls at his back. DS Jones, detecting the signal, glances to see Skelgill’s reaction – but he has already turned away: a pair of waiters approaches their table. The first grasps by its neck a bottle of clear liquid, and in his other hand three shot glasses, which he proceeds to fill and slide like a croupier, one before each player. He places the bottle in the centre of the table; then he unloads from the tray borne by his colleague a large steaming dish of what, beneath Skelgill’s critical scrutiny, looks vaguely like dim sum. Finally he roughly distributes side plates, cutlery and napkins and bows to Shevchenko – who ignores him – and backs away. It is left to DS Jones to intercede with a modicum of protocol.
‘Spasybi.’
‘Bud’ laska.’
Shevchenko has already lifted his glass. He holds it out, obliging the others to reciprocate. However, he toasts DS Jones.
‘To your accent – it is very convincing.’
Skelgill looks mildly irritated.
‘She’s got a Ukrainian granny.’
Shevchenko squints as smoke drifts into his eyes.
‘Then you have tried horilka.’
DS Jones sniffs the liquid experimentally.
‘I’m not sure.’
Shevchenko grins knowingly.
‘Bud’mo!’
He swallows the drink in one. Skelgill and DS Jones exchange glances; Skelgill makes a ‘when in Rome’ kind of face. They follow suit.
During the hiatus in which the two English detectives are unable to speak, Shevchenko first refills their glasses and then presents the bottle so they can see the label more clearly.
‘You might know this as Russian vodka – but horilka was invented by Ukrainian Cossacks in the fifteenth century. We have many varieties – but basically it is grain spirit – think of it as white whisky without the headache.’
‘It certainly hits the spot.’ Skelgill’s expression may not convey this precise sentiment, but nonetheless he now drinks about half of his second measure, this time merely grimacing as it goes down. ‘The trick’s just to swallow.’
He turns to DS Jones for approval, but she is not looking at him and instead gestures with an outstretched hand to the food.
‘Varenyky, Guv.’
Skelgill empties his glass and slides it closer to Shevchenko for a refill. He leans to get a closer look at the little crescent-shaped doughy parcels, garnished with diced fat and fried onions and accompanied by a dish of sour cream. Shevchenko addresses DS Jones.
‘Your grandmother make?’
DS Jones nods.
‘When
I was young.’
‘You are young.’
Her eyebrows flicker but she avoids eye contact with Shevchenko. Instead she gets to work with a ladle; Skelgill is watching and seems content when she serves his helping first. Unsure of precisely what to do he slices a parcel in half and eats it from his fork; it is almost too hot and he has to employ his cheeks like bellows. Shevchenko simply uses his fingers, and dunks a parcel into the cooling sour cream before taking a bite.
‘As I recall there’s usually a selection of fillings, Guv.’
Shevchenko waggles his remaining portion.
‘Mine is offal.’
‘This one’s alright.’
DS Jones grins apprehensively at Skelgill’s remark – it is never easy to tell when he is joking, and the retort is quick-fire, which might suggest otherwise. However, perhaps the horilka is getting to work, for he has a punchline.
‘Chicken Kiev, I reckon.’
‘Is not chicken in varenyky, Inspector – maybe you have cheese.’
Shevchenko’s straight response suggests the British irony has evaded him. Meanwhile Skelgill is starting on his second parcel. He cuts it open and examines the contents, which could be minced cabbage.
‘Make a decent fry-up, these would.’
Shevchenko speaks as he chews.
‘We fry the leftovers – the next day.’
Skelgill frowns, leftovers being something of a scarce commodity in his kitchen. He glances to see how DS Jones is getting on – but, as he does so, behind her in the street a car slowly draws up. It is a large Mercedes, its stealth both enhanced and simultaneously undermined by distinctive matt black paintwork that singles it out as some kind of statement. Behind tinted glass the occupants are invisible – until the driver, a stocky dark-suited character of Slavic appearance sporting a severe expression and matching haircut gets out and rounds to the passenger door. He checks about and then opens it for a small pale man in his early forties, who slips on a pair of aviator shades to accessorise his smart-casual ensemble of stressed jeans, crocodile shoes, black crew-neck cashmere sweater, Italian jacket and prominent designer wristwatch. He is speaking into a mobile phone, and continues to do so as he enters the restaurant and – monitored surreptitiously by Skelgill – self-assuredly joins the two blonde girls. In the absence of an acknowledgement, the females fall silent and retreat dutifully from their handsets. The nearest of them delves into an extravagantly branded leather purse that rests upon the cushion beside her and pulls out a compact – but what now fascinates Skelgill is not the rather sensual manner in which she adjusts her make-up, but that peering at him from over the rim of the bag is a tiny white bat-eared dog.
Murder by Magic (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 5) Page 15