The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  Rory McLaren was the former Head of Security; he’d decamped to set up his own firm with his brother, a City boy with excellent connections.

  ‘Rory’s the competition now.’ Swivelling his chair, Blake sighed. ‘And I reckon a few of our clients’ll end up going with him.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you two . . .’

  Nicci flashed him a warning look. ‘No, and we never were.’

  He raised his palms. ‘Sorry.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, sharp fingers of afternoon sun filtering through the blinds.

  Blake gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘It was a casual fuck, Simon. Well, a casual several fucks. He’s a buttoned-up lunatic, which is not what I need in my life.’

  ‘No indeed.’

  She shook her head, chuckled. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be so . . . y’know.’

  He waved away the apology. ‘Hugo’s in charge of security for now.’

  ‘As long as you’re not lining me up for the job.’

  ‘I still want you in charge of investigations.’ He looked at her directly and frowned. ‘But the reality is a major part of the work, for defence briefs and the like, depends on checks we do online. It’s a research job, Pascale can handle that.’

  Nicci sipped her coffee. She noticed his eyes were puffy; sleepless nights haunted by problems he couldn’t solve. His back was against the wall.

  ‘So what do you want me to do that I’m not going to like?’

  ‘HNWIs – that’s our target market. High Net Worth Individuals.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it. The billionaires.’

  ‘Plus all the multimillionaires too, many of whom hail from the Middle East. They have wives. Sometimes several. And they want those wives protected by female personnel.’

  ‘You want me to become a minder? Take some rich woman shopping and carry her packages?’ Nicci exhaled.

  She’d been forced out of the only career she’d ever wanted – that of police officer. Being a private detective had always felt a poor substitute. But this?

  Blake rubbed his close-cropped scalp, a habitual gesture when he felt tense. ‘There is a potential threat both from financially motivated kidnappers as well as terrorists.’

  ‘What, that makes the job more interesting? Taking on terrorists unarmed?’

  Blake managed a smile.

  Nicci raised her eyebrows. ‘The Federation’s talking about every officer having a taser. You can’t even offer me that.’

  ‘They’ll never agree. Training would be too costly.’

  ‘Get real, Simon. If push comes to shove they’ll hand them out without the training.’

  Blake grinned. ‘I’ll throw in some pepper spray. And it would only be temporary. Until I can afford to start hiring again.’

  They both knew that wouldn’t be anytime soon. Still there was no way she could let him down. She shook her head wearily. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘That’s all I ask.’

  Returning to her desk, Nicci cast an eye over the investigations section, which she’d come to regard as her domain. Blake was right, most of the day-to-day inquiries could be handled by Pascale. Sharp as a tack, she was also a grafter. Unfortunately no one could say that of the remaining member of the team.

  Eddie Lunt was munching his way through a triple-decker chicken BLT as he lounged in his chair. Nicci found his relentlessly smarmy attitude a constant irritant. Nevertheless Eddie had his talents and, more importantly, his contacts, although it had taken her a while to come to terms with these annoying facts.

  She sighed. ‘Have you come up with any more background on that stuff I asked you?’

  He wiped the mayo from his lips. ‘I’m on it, boss.’

  He insisted on calling her boss even though she told him, about once a week, that she hated it. Stalemate.

  She shot him a sceptical look. He responded with his pixie smile. ‘Oh, I answered your phone. Some copper’s looking for you. Says it’s urgent.’

  ‘A copper? Who?’

  He waved the sandwich. ‘Stonehouse?’

  ‘Stoneham?’

  ‘That’s the one. Apparently a gunfight broke out at Joey Phelps’s funeral. I checked online. Three dead, according to the Beeb.’

  The face of Karen Phelps flashed into Nicci’s mind, plus that old familiar stab of fear that heralded bad news. She wasn’t exactly a friend either. A target, a pain-in-the-arse and a sometime ally – she’d been all those things, not to mention a shedload of trouble. But in spite of Nicci’s best efforts not to care, somehow she did. ‘Three dead? They say who?’

  Eddie shook his head. ‘A woman and two blokes, that’s all it said. Number’s on the pad. This Stoneham wants you to call ASAP.’

  2

  Nicci got to Liverpool Street station by four forty-five, just as the early surge of homeward-bound Essex commuters hit the trains. With some gentle pushing and shoving she managed to secure a window seat. The fast train to Chelmsford took thirty-two minutes.

  She gazed blankly out of the window as East London’s higgledy-piggledy vista of buildings, bridges, rail-tracks and roads rushed by, gradually loosening to include swathes of green. Her mind too was racing.

  The phone conversation she’d had with Detective Chief Inspector Cheryl Stoneham had been businesslike; their connection was entirely professional although it had always been friendly.

  ‘Nic, it’s been a while. You’re a hard woman to track down.’

  ‘I was retired on medical grounds.’ Nicci wondered how much Stoneham knew.

  ‘Yeah, I gather.’ She knew. There was a respectful pause to acknowledge Nicci’s tragedy: the death of her little girl in a road accident. Stoneham was a mother herself so the searing agony of such a loss was all too easy for her to imagine. ‘But you’re bearing up?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘And you’re a private investigator now?’

  ‘It pays the bills.’ This was the glib explanation Nicci always gave. It was a polite rebuff.

  Stoneham took the hint. ‘Well, I’ve got a shoot-out in a country churchyard. Turned out to be Joey Phelps’s funeral. Three dead, two more injured.’

  ‘Including Karen Phelps?’

  ‘She’s okay. A bit shaken – though with her it’s hard to tell. We’ve spent the afternoon trying to interview her, but she’s being very cagey.’

  Relief flooded through Nicci; she didn’t want it, but again, there it was. She tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘She’s pointing the finger at some Russian by the name of Pudovkin. And she says we should talk to you, says that you know all about it. Do you?’

  Nicci hesitated. ‘I know a bit but . . . it’s complicated.’

  ‘It would be. I realize you’re not in the job any more. But I’d really appreciate your input.’

  It had been a friendly enough request but Nicci knew she didn’t have a lot of choice. And with her job prospects getting rockier by the day, it didn’t seem sensible to alienate one of the few allies she still had at a senior level in the police.

  She walked the short distance from Chelmsford station to New Street and the brutalist-style concrete bunker that housed the headquarters of Essex Police. She gave her name at the desk and Stoneham met her in person when she emerged from the lift.

  The DCI was what a casual observer might call a jolly woman – fiftyish, rotund, chatty, with a jokey greeting for everyone. But it was easy to be fooled by her manner; underneath there lurked a whip-smart intellect. She was a leading Senior Investigating Officer in the Serious Crime Directorate run jointly by Essex and Kent police. She’d been invited to apply for promotion and could’ve probably made it to Chief Con stable. But Stoneham was a detective in her blood and bones; climbing the greasy pole of senior management didn’t appeal to her.

  ‘Thanks for coming so promptly.’

  Nicci shrugged. ‘If I can help, I’m only too pleased.’

  Stoneham led the way down a short
corridor towards her office. ‘The Phelps funeral was scheduled for twelve o’clock at the crematorium. Given his violent death, we had officers present, including firearms officers. But it seems the family fooled us and everyone else.’ She gave a wry chuckle. ‘Well, not quite everyone. Anyway, they changed the venue.’

  ‘I don’t know Karen well, but I can see that the prospect of holding her brother’s funeral in the middle of a media circus probably wouldn’t appeal.’

  The office was small and bright with a pleasing view over the city rooftops. Stoneham offered Nicci a chair, closed the door and settled herself behind the desk.

  ‘Our SCD was supposed to be liaising with the Met on Joey Phelps’s death. But this shooting obviously changes things. The ACC has asked me to oversee the investigation because of the organized crime element. We’re running it from our MIT office in Brentwood, they’re nearest to the scene.’

  Nicci made a conscious effort to relax. SCD, ACC, MIT – she could feel a sense of elation as Stoneham trotted out all the insider acronyms. The tension around a big police operation was always exciting. The seriousness and importance of the job, this was the buzz she craved. ‘Did the Met tell you that Pudovkin was the target Joey was after when he was killed?’

  ‘That name was mentioned. But they’re being a bit evasive. Hard to know if it’s deliberate or they really are clueless.’

  ‘The politics of the Met is the one thing I don’t miss.’ Nicci grinned, prompting a sympathetic smile from Stoneham in return.

  ‘We can all be territorial. And with all these cuts – sorry, “reforms” – don’t think we haven’t got our share of stupid politics.’

  The dry common sense of the DCI reminded Nicci of why she’d always liked her. If anyone could unpack this can of worms it was her. But was Nicci there simply to be pumped for information or was Stoneham really prepared to trust her? ‘Have you ID’d the three dead?’

  Stoneham hesitated, but only for a second, then she slipped her glasses on and consulted the file on her desk. ‘So far we’ve got Yevgeny Koshkin, a Russian businessman, recently granted a business visa. According to his application he’s an importer of fine wines. Who knows if that’s true? The woman is more interesting. Jumira Bogdani. She’s Albanian, operates under several aliases and there’s a European arrest warrant out on her. She has connections with various people-trafficking gangs and could be a hired assassin.’

  ‘Did she start the shooting?’

  ‘According to one witness – Glynis Phelps – possibly. Though there’s a deal of confusion around the chain of events.’

  ‘You think she could’ve been hired to carry out a hit?’

  ‘Looks that way. But who was the target and why?’

  ‘The Russian businessman? Koshkin?’

  ‘There are certainly precedents for that. Particularly if he’s on the Kremlin’s shit list.’ The DCI removed her glasses. ‘But I’m wondering about Karen Phelps. Is there any reason to think it might be her?’

  ‘She’s Joey’s sister. Which could be enough.’

  ‘And Joey, for whatever reason, took it into his head to try and murder this Pudovkin. There was a shoot-out and Joey ended up dead. Question is, what was it all about? The Met seem pretty clueless.’ The DCI rocked back in her chair, the preliminaries were over, they’d both laid their cards on the table. She laced her fingers and waited.

  Nicci knew it was her turn to share. ‘The firm I work for, Simon Blake Associates, was hired to look into the death of Helen Warner.’

  ‘The MP who committed suicide?’

  ‘Her partner refused to accept the suicide verdict, that’s why she hired us.’

  Stoneham frowned. ‘I didn’t follow the case in detail, but didn’t it emerge that Warner was an abuse victim? And Robert Hollister, the Labour bigwig – wasn’t he involved?’

  ‘Hollister was a student of Warner’s father; he started to have sex with her when she was fourteen. He’s been charged. He’s out on bail. I don’t know the trial date.’

  The DCI made a note on her pad. ‘What’s the connection with Karen Phelps and this Pudovkin?’

  ‘For a number of years Helen Warner was Karen’s lawyer.’

  Stoneham’s brow furrowed as she dredged her memory. ‘I think I knew that.’

  ‘If you recall she attended that interview we did together in Southend.’

  ‘Oh yeah. After the sister’s boyfriend bought it.’

  ‘When Karen got out of prison, it became a more intimate relationship.’

  ‘That wasn’t very professional of Ms Warner.’

  Nicci shrugged. ‘By the time Warner died they’d gone their separate ways. Karen was relocated by witness protection. But she didn’t buy the suicide story either.’

  ‘So is that why she turfed up here in July when Joey broke out? I caught her lurking round the old family pile when we went looking for him.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t nick her.’

  ‘I gave her the benefit of the doubt.’ The DCI pursed her lips. ‘Looks like I made a mistake.’

  ‘Maybe not. I’m pretty sure she didn’t aid or abet her brother. She was obsessed with Helen and finding out what happened. She was very helpful to our investigation.’

  Nicci hesitated. The remainder of what she knew was speculation and it wasn’t up to her to send a major police investigation off on a wild goose chase. She needed to be careful. But would that best serve the interests of justice? She was torn. Being asked for her input, as Stoneham had phrased it, was seductive. It made her realize just how much she wanted to feel like an insider again.

  She gave Stoneham a diffident smile. ‘The rest is pure guesswork.’

  The hook went in. Stoneham beamed. ‘Round here we call it informed hypothesis. It’s what makes this job fun.’

  Nicci felt a pang of guilt but ploughed on. ‘Okay, Viktor Pudovkin is a rich Russian, who lives in London.’

  ‘Oligarch rich?’

  ‘Certainly edging into the billionaires’ club.’

  ‘Any connection between him and our dead Russian?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Anyway, my boss, Simon Blake, talked to an old colleague in MI5 about Pudovkin.’

  ‘So what is he? Spook or dissident?’ The DCI chortled. ‘Strikes me the Russian community in London is divided into two camps: those working for Putin and those trying to escape him.’

  ‘Spook. Ex-KGB. It’s how a lot of them made their money. And Hollister’s wife is mates with him, though mates is probably not the right word. The theory is she feared Warner was about to blow the whistle on her husband and, naively, she asked Pudovkin for help.’

  ‘And this spook arranged the apparent suicide of Helen Warner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stoneham twiddled her pen. ‘Karen Phelps knows all this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the Met won’t touch it with a bargepole?’

  ‘There’s no evidence.’

  The DCI’s eyes lit up. ‘So our Kaz, Terry Phelps’s little girl, gets the bit between her teeth and asks Joey to help her take out this Pudovkin?’

  ‘No, I don’t think it was like that. The point is why Pudovkin decided to—’

  The DCI cut her short. ‘Really? Joey’s gunned down in the attempt, presumably leaving this Russian rather pissed off with the Phelps gang.’ She turned over a page in the file and scanned it. ‘Tolya Koshkin – presumably related to Yevgeny – was killed with Joey, trying to carry out the hit. This so-called businessman and his brother or cousin or whatever – were they in fact Joey’s thugs?’

  Nicci wished she’d kept her mouth shut. She’d opened the floodgates to conjecture, which was reckless. ‘I know it sounds plausible that she asked him, but remember, Karen’s testimony helped send her brother down.’

  ‘I think she did that just to stay out of jail.’ The DCI leant forward over the desk. ‘Nic, I watched her and her nasty little brother grow up. They’re villains to the core. And smarter than their old man b
y a country mile. Now she may have been helpful to you because it served her purpose. But come on, where’s your copper’s instinct?’

  Nicci shifted in her seat, silently cursing her own stupidity. The jollity was gone and the DCI’s unremitting gaze was boring into her. Stoneham had a point and Nicci knew it. Yet it wasn’t the whole story, she knew that too.

  Stoneham was on a roll. ‘Criminals like Phelps don’t change, not fundamentally. Okay, you can blame the terrible childhood, the abuse, the drugs. Rehabilitation of offenders? It works with some, but the statistics are not good. When Karen gets angry and frustrated, she’ll do what she’s always done. You’ve had a chance to watch her up close. Put your hand on your heart, Nic, and tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘She says Joey did it to please her, to get her onside again. But she swears she had no knowledge.’ The argument sounded weak even to Nicci.

  ‘You believe that?’

  Nicci’s thoughts skittered back to pain, the knife slicing into her arm on the night she was attacked by a vicious teenage gang. Would she have survived if Karen Phelps, for all her dubious morals and motives, hadn’t turned up to save her?

  ‘I believe her desire to put the old life behind her is genuine.’

  Stoneham wasn’t listening. ‘I’ve got three dead. A stupid young vicar in surgery fighting for his life and the media all over it demanding to know how we let it happen. I haven’t got the luxury of another mistake.’

  ‘Can I at least talk to her?’

  ‘I wish you would. You’re likely to get more out of her than we can. I’ll have one of my lads drive you over to Brentwood. But she’s under lock and key, Nic, and she’s going to stay that way. She’s in breach of her licence and as soon as the probation service can sort out the paperwork and revoke it, she’s going back to jail.’

  3

  Kaz Phelps had spent the afternoon being shunted from interview room to cell and back. A police doctor had examined her, placed a dressing on the bloody gash in the lobe of her left ear, and declared her fit to be questioned.

  Being locked in a cell was a relief; it gave her time to try and gather her scattered thoughts. She’d missed death or serious injury by a whisker. Yevgeny had shoved her sideways and she’d landed in the patch of sun-baked earth at the edge of Joey’s grave, an unnerving experience but one that had saved her life. As she cowered in the dirt, a head shot, which was probably meant for her, felled her protector. Then Yevgeny’s cousin had started shooting back.