by L. A. Larkin
‘No, I don’t know who you mean. Tell me.’
Casburn sighs. ‘All right, have it your way. But be careful, Olivia. Vitaly Yushkov is a trained killer. He’s not the man you think he is.’
‘He’s everything I believed him to be.’
Wolfe has had enough of Casburn’s games. She ends the call, throws her phone into her bag and turns the ignition. It’s a long drive home. But she doesn’t put the car into gear. Instead, she pulls out Vitaly’s mobile. She stares at it, wondering how he would react if she told him about Grankin. Would he tell her the truth?
She shakes her head.
‘Best not to know.’
78
Snow has settled overnight, enough to fill the gaps between paving stones and coat the grassy zones of Collinson Court, a sprawling council estate in Southeast London. Children scream with delight as they scoop up the snow in mittened hands and throw it at friends, hitting their targets in explosions of white. Wolfe can’t think of the last time London had snow on Christmas Day; even though the streets are eerily empty, driving on icy roads has made her journey difficult. Not that it was ever going to be easy. She hasn’t seen her brother, Davy, since he was sentenced. As she watches a little boy chase a girl with pink earmuffs and hurl a snowball at her, Wolfe can’t help wondering if the boy might be Joe Wolfe, her nephew. She remembers playing such games with her brother, who also taught her how to build a snowman.
‘Mel, come inside now, we’re doing presents,’ calls a neighbour.
The little girl in pick earmuffs skips to her mum, the game forgotten, presents her only thought. For a moment, Wolfe feels very alone. No family to share Christmas with.
‘Snap out of it,’ she tells herself.
Wolfe kills the car’s engine and looks up at the sitting room window of Davy’s first-floor council flat. A small, fake, green Christmas tree is decked with a string of flashing lights, framed by beige curtains that haven’t been hung properly, sagging at the top in uneven waves. Someone moves behind the tree, but it’s little more than a human shape. She shouldn’t be here. She’s violating her protection order and Davy’s parole. But the decision is made; she has to know. She reluctantly leaves the warmth of the car and trudges along the icy pavement towards the blue door of number forty-two. She rings the doorbell and hears it chime, then the creak of somebody coming down the stairs.
‘This is my house.’
Standing next to Wolfe is a boy with large brown eyes, and hair as dark as a blackbird.
‘Joe?’
‘Who wants to know?’ The boy gives her a cheeky, lopsided grin.
The door opens. The woman has short bleached-blonde hair, with dark roots, a puffy face and bloated body. She’s in a red sweatshirt and grey tracksuit pants. Between her chapped lips, a cigarette dangles. As warm air escapes through the open door, Wolfe smells the delicious gamey smell of a turkey roasting.
‘Well, bugger me,’ says Claire Spiers, taking the cigarette from her mouth. She’s wearing chipped black nail polish. ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’
‘Hello, Claire. I’m here to see Davy.’
Spiers raises her eyebrows in disbelief. ‘You’ve got a fucking nerve!’ Then she notices the boy. ‘Go play with your mates,’ she says, shooing him away.
Joe gives Wolfe a quizzical look, then runs off to join the other children. He looks like Davy when he was that age.
Spiers - taller and wider than Wolfe - steps into the doorway, blocking it.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, turning up like this, after what you did?’
She flicks ash into the air.
‘Claire, it’s up to Davy, not you. Will you go ask him if he wants to talk? Please?’
Spiers juts her neck forwards. ‘Don’t tell me what to fucking do!’
‘Who is it?’ says a voice she barely recognises from the top of the stairs.
‘Your fucking sister!’ she shouts over her shoulder. Then, at Wolfe, ‘Now get lost!’
The children stop playing and stare in silence. Wolfe doesn’t want to cause a scene, but she’s not going to walk away because Spiers says so.
‘Davy!’ Wolfe calls. ‘Can we talk? Just five minutes. Please.’
Spiers gives Wolfe’s shoulder a solid shove. Before Spiers realises what’s happening, Wolfe grips the woman’s hand to her chest, squeezing her thumbs under Spiers’s palm, and applies pressure to the already partially bent wrist, forcing the hand back at a right-angle.
‘Ow!’ Spiers squeals.
‘Do that again, and I’ll break it,’ says Wolfe, releasing her grip.
Spiers steps back, surprised, clearly used to throwing her considerable weight around.
‘Let her in,’ calls Davy, his words slurred.
As Spiers steps aside and follows Wolfe up the steep stairs to their first-floor flat, she wonders if Davy has been drinking. But when she sees him standing in the sitting room, she realises her mistake. His stocky build is slightly stooped and his hair has turned pepper and salt. But this is not what causes her to stare. His left eyebrow and eye socket have dropped a fraction, and his eyelid is lazy and stays half closed. Butcher had warned her about the attack on him in prison, but she can’t hide her distress.
‘Look nice, don’t I?’ He takes a few steps towards her. ‘You did this.’ He points to his face. ‘You put me through hell.’
‘I didn’t know, Davy. Until you were released, I didn’t know.’
He turns his back on her and sits down in a sagging, pale green armchair. Wolfe follows, keen to move away from Spiers’s laboured breathing on her neck.
‘Your mate, Jerry, tell you, did he? How fucking thoughtful of him.’
Wolfe sits opposite, on an equally sagging two-seater sofa. She glances at Spiers, who stands in the doorway, arms folded, like a bodyguard.
‘How are you going?’ she asks.
‘Fucking dandy, can’t you tell? I talk like a fucking retard and look worse.’
His hand shakes with fury as he pulls out a cigarette and lights it.
‘Are you working?’
Davy takes a deep drag, then exhales. ‘Why?’
‘Just asking.’
‘Yeah, a bit of IT. Subcontracted stuff I do at home. But if it wasn’t for Claire, we’d be well and truly fucked.’
Wolfe takes a deep breath. The room is overheated and the roasting turkey’s aromas are so strong, she feels she’s going to choke.
‘What’s with the dumb hat?’ Davy asks.
Wolfe removes it.
‘Well, aren’t we a matching pair?’ She swears Davy almost smiles. ‘Heard you got shot. Been all over the news. Shame that sniper wasn’t a better shot.’
Wolfe clasps her hands together. During the drive there, she had rehearsed what she was going to say. Now she isn’t sure how to begin. She glances at the Christmas tree and sees discarded wrapping paper and opened presents lying next to the plastic three-pronged stand: an aftershave gift set, a cheap brand of tablet she’s never heard of, some DVDs, a pair of women’s pyjamas and fluffy slippers. Wolfe feels like an intruder.
‘Davy, there’s no point in going over old ground. You did what you did, and I did what I did. I’m sorry you went to jail. I’m sorry you were beaten up. But can we start again? You’re all I’ve got.’
She sounds pathetic. She hadn’t intended to say this.
‘You want family? Go find the old man,’ he replies.
Wolfe swallows. ‘You heard from him?’
‘Course not. And if I did, I’d tell him to go fuck himself.’
She pulls from her pocket a small box, wrapped in red paper covered in smiling snowmen. ‘For Joe.’
Spiers can’t stay quiet any longer. ‘How dare you come in here expecting to buy your way into our family! Get out! Go on, get the fuck out!’
Davy stares at the TV, which isn’t on. Wolfe gets up, leaving her gift on the sofa cushion, and pulls on her hat. She has to ask the question she came there to ask.
; ‘Did Freddie Glenn teach you to hack computers?’
She has Davy’s attention. ‘What?’ he asks. ‘You trying to frame me for something else?’ Davy is up and standing over her, his chin jutting forwards, his mouth curved into a sneer.
‘Someone’s hacked my computer. Stalking me.’
‘Oh, and you think that’s me, do you?’ He yells. ‘Get out! Don’t ever come here again.’ He grabs the gift and hurls it across the room. It hits the radiator with a clang.
79
Your visit was unexpected.
It’s Christmas night, the turkey’s been eaten, the telly’s on, the Queen has made her speech; all is right with the world. But it isn’t, is it?
I’m fucked up and you’re fucked up. But I will always bear the visible scars.
You’ll recover from the bullet wound, your hair will grow back and - in a few months - nobody will ever know. The mind heals more slowly. Will you ever forget the moment Sinclair’s skull exploded? His blood and brain on your face? Do you wake at night in a sweat, reliving your failure to save him, a man who had lost everything? Or is he already compartmentalised? Locked away, forgotten, as I suspect I am?
Ah, but the heart is slowest of all to heal. Yushkov is gone. He will never contact you and, should you ever call him, his silence will crush you.
I still watch you. But I keep my distance. GPS trackers. Your new phone, your bike, your grandmother’s car. That’s enough for now. With Yushkov out of the picture I can relax, re-read my diary, relive my successes and learn from my mistakes. Each time, the experience is exhilaratingly new, like the first time you leave home, go overseas, or lose your virginity.
Moz Cohen is a disappointment. I guess he had to reinstate you. How fickle is the public: one minute you’re hated; the next you’re a hero. Even if the subtext is, ‘Not bad for a slut’. You can’t take back your filthy secrets. Do people look at you differently now, Olivia? Do men give you the once-over, remembering those photos of you with Yushkov? Or do you get the cold shoulder? Respect is so fragile. You can be sure that video will follow you wherever you go, just as I do. The golden girl of investigative reporting is tarnished.
I lean back in my armchair, feet up, and savour the moment, knowing that in the morning I will have forgotten the part I played. You may not have fallen as far as I’d hoped, but there’s time, and I have plenty of it.
Yes, your visit today was unexpected. Futile. You are none the wiser. But I am.
I know you suspect the wrong person.
‘Hello, Olivia.’
She is signing the removal company’s inventory. The van is loaded, the rear doors closed. Olivia looks up and at first doesn’t recognise me. I’ve made sure I look my best: even got my hair done. Her brow creases. I decide to help her along.
‘It’s been a while,’ I say, and smile.
I haven’t been within arms’ reach of Olivia since she visited me in hospital. I’ve forgotten - as I do most things - that I am a good foot taller than she is.
‘Annabel?’
Olivia still sounds unsure. Her eyes flick around my face and land on the scar and my lame eye, partially hidden by my glasses. ‘Annabel Maine! Well, I’ll be. How are you?’
She smiles, clearly delighted. I feel lighter, warmer, happy. She envelops me in a hug, leaning her head against my chest, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to stroke her hair or lift her chin and try to kiss her lips.
Releasing me, Olivia says, ‘You look really well.’
‘Thanks. I’m getting there. Slowly. How’s Moz?’
‘As cantankerous as ever, still reducing trainees to tears. You know how he is.’
‘Vaguely. There’s still a lot I can’t remember.’
‘So what are you doing here?’ Olivia asks, so close I can imbibe the perfume I know so well.
I study her face. There’s no hint of suspicion. Just surprise.
‘Meeting a friend for lunch,’ I lie. ‘She suggested the Bombay Palace.’ It’s Olivia’s favourite. I’ve watched her eat there often enough. ‘You’re a curry fan, as I remember. Why don’t you join us?’
A heavy-set man in a Big Ben Removals T-shirt interrupts. ‘All right, love, we’ll meet you there in, say, half-hour. All right?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ she says.
The driver and his mate get into the truck and drive off, thick black smoke belching out of the exhaust pipe.
‘Moving house?’ I ask.
Indecision flits across her face like a dark cloud. ‘Time for something new. A change.’
‘Where you going?’ I keep my voice light, as if I don’t care.
Olivia frowns, then looks to her right, watching the truck disappear down the road with everything she possesses inside.
‘Give me your number,’ she says. ‘Gotta get going, otherwise the removal men will get there way before I do, and I’m paying by the hour.’
Ah, so she’s not going to tell me. Never mind.
‘Sure.’ I pull a pen and notepad from my satchel, tear off a page and jot down a mobile number.
She takes the scrap of paper, shoves it in her jeans pocket, then holds my hand.
‘Once I’m settled in the new place, I’ll call you. Lovely to see you. Bye for now.’
Olivia jogs up the path and waves at me as she closes the communal door to her flat on Elmbourne Road.
I wave back. The door shuts with a click.
‘Goodbye, my little robin. For now.’
Enjoyed Devour? Why not try Thirst by L.A. Larkin? www.lalarkin.com
Antarctica is the coldest, most isolated place on earth. Luke Searle, maverick glaciologist, has made it his home. But soon his survival skills will be tested to the limit by a ruthless mercenary who must win at any cost.
The white continent is under attack. The Australian team is being hunted down. Can Luke stay alive long enough to raise the alarm?
The countdown has begun.
T minus 5 days, 2 hours and 53 minutes …
‘The best Antarctic thriller since Ice Station.’ James Phelan
Acknowledgements
The story of Devour was inspired by a British expedition to Antarctica in 2012 led by Professor Martin Siegert, who kindly shared his adventures with me over many cups of coffee in Bristol. He and his team were attempting to drill through three kilometres of ice to reach the subterranean Lake Ellsworth, hoping to discover new life. Despite a Herculean effort, they did not succeed in their mission, but thanks to the information Professor Siegert shared with me, I was able to bring to life the imaginary Camp Ellsworth, the drilling operations, and the dangers the team faced. I must stress that the scientists and engineers in Devour in no way resemble any of the British team, and the character of Professor Heatherton is entirely fictitious. Any deviation in camp layout, equipment or drilling techniques was my decision.
Some years ago I was lucky enough to be in Antarctica, and it was on an ex-Russian scientific research vessel, the Professor Multanovskiy, that I encountered the inspiration for the character of Vitaly Yushkov. He was the ship’s engineer, a man seemingly impervious to the bitter cold and who spoke with a wry smile and in the stilted English I have endeavoured to convey in this thriller. Antarctica is not only a place of stunning beauty, it is also the last true wilderness left on our planet, and long may that last. Antarctica is not owned by any one country. It is protected by a goodwill treaty between numerous nations, known as the Antarctic Treaty, that forbids weapons, nuclear testing and mining, and proclaims the continent to be a place for peaceful scientific research and co-operation. However, there are countries already exploring ways to exploit its resources. I ask those Antarctic Treaty signatory nations to hold strong. Protect Antarctica, for all our sakes.
Retired Detective Chief Superintendent of Sussex CID, David Gaylor, is not only an invaluable advisor on all British policing matters, but also a great friend, and I thank him from the bottom of my heart for his support and guidance. I have huge respect for the British police a
nd must stress that my fictional retired detective, Jerry Butcher, bears no resemblance to David, and nor is DCI Casburn from Counter Terrorism Command based on anyone living.
If you haven’t already read the book, here is a spoiler alert. I wish to thank Ronald Kessler for his insights into the United States’ Secret Service in his books In The President’s Secret Service and The First Family Detail. I would also like to thank Dan Emmett for his first-hand description of life in the Secret Service in A Secret Service Agent’s Definitive Inside Account of Protecting the President.
Thank you neuropsychologist Jenni Ogden for helping me understand brain disorders and how those affected manage their lives. Her book, Trouble In Mind, and our conversations, enabled me to create the damaged stalker character in Devour. Any deviation from scientific studies is entirely my choice.
I’d like to touch on the character of Olivia Wolfe. Devour is the first book in a series of action and conspiracy thrillers featuring this resourceful and resilient investigative journalist. Wolfe is inspired by American journalist Marie Colvin. Marie was killed in the bombardment of Homs in Syria in 2012, along with French photojournalist, Rémi Ochlik. I used to read Marie’s articles, amazed at her courage and determination to tell the world what was happening in war zones such as Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo, Chechnya, Zimbabwe, Egypt, Libya and Syria. Wolfe is entirely fictional and her looks, relationships, morality and actions have nothing to do with Marie Colvin. Her self-defence techniques are thanks to demonstrations and advice from barrister and martial artist, Craig Everson.
Thank you to my wonderful husband, Michael, for your encouragement and honest feedback when editing early drafts. Your input has made this a much better book. Thank you Phil Patterson, the best literary agent anyone could ever wish for. And huge thanks to Krystyna Green from Constable/Little, Brown UK for your passion and drive, and for championing Olivia Wolfe. And the team at Hachette Australia, thanks so much for embracing Devour with such enthusiasm.