The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  He and the other minder had gunned down the funeral director and one of the pall-bearers, causing the remaining three to flee. But as the deadly volley of shots had whizzed across the churchyard, the curate had been struck in the chest and Ellie Phelps had run screaming hysterically into the crossfire.

  Mika was ex-military too, from Yevgeny’s old unit. He knew his business and what his dead cousin would’ve expected of him. While he gave first aid to the curate, his companion used a burner to call an ambulance. Ellie had been hit in the arm, Glynis knelt beside her, Brian was hiding under a bush. The minders’ next priority was to remove their charges from the scene.

  Irina was sobbing over her brother’s corpse and had to be dragged bodily from it. Mika hoisted her over his shoulder and trotted towards the car. The other minder hauled Kaz to her feet and looped an arm round her waist. ‘Okay? We go now.’

  Kaz turned and saw her prostrate mother. ‘Hang on!’

  ‘No! No time. We go!’ He pulled her after him.

  Kaz wrenched herself free. She could hear Ellie gasping and moaning.

  Glynis was clasping her hand and crying. ‘All right, lovey. It’s gonna be all right. Don’t you worry.’ She lifted her head; her desperate gaze met Kaz’s but she didn’t speak.

  The minder grabbed Kaz’s arm. ‘The police come. We must go. Now!’

  Kaz’s head was spinning and her ear stung. She could feel her own blood, wet and sticky on her neck.

  She held up her hand to ward him off. ‘You go. Take care of Irina. I’m fine. I need to help my mother.’

  Ellie had taken a bullet through the upper arm; it had passed through the muscle but missed the bone. Kneeling down beside her, Kaz had ripped a strip of gauze from her mother’s ridiculous hat and used it to bind the wound as Glynis cradled her head.

  Brian emerged warily from his hiding place. ‘Fuck me! She all right?’

  Kaz gave him a withering look but no reply. He was a weasel of a man, a cowardly opportunist. Her father had often used him as a punchbag and Kaz could see why.

  She’d moved over to the young curate; he was struggling to breathe, blood bubbling up between his lips. Kaz took his hand and his eyes sought hers. They were full of dread and panic; he spluttered as she stroked his brow.

  ‘Try not to speak. Ambulance is coming. You’re gonna be okay.’ Did she sound convincing? Probably not. It had seemed surreal – her giving comfort to a dying priest. She’d racked her brains for some sort of prayer. Our Father, who art in heaven – but what the hell came after that?

  She’d trawled her memory and couldn’t come up with anything further so she’d simply gripped his hand. Over the hedge, in the lane next to the church, she’d glimpsed two women on horseback. They’d heard the gunfire, and one of them was speaking urgently into a mobile phone. The horses were steaming as they circled restlessly. The cleric’s eyes flickered; he seemed to be drifting off.

  Kaz squeezed his hand. ‘C’mon, stay with me. Open your eyes. Look at me.’

  His eyelids fluttered. He didn’t look old enough to be a clergyman. Kaz felt responsible for him. He must’ve known how dodgy the whole deal was, yet he’d still helped them. Somewhere behind her Kaz could hear her mother whimpering and Glynis’s soft voice soothing her. For some unexplained reason, Brian had gone to check his car.

  Finally, after what had seemed an age, the wail of a distant siren came drifting over the fields on the summer breeze.

  On reflection, Kaz realized that it might’ve been sensible at that point to slip away but she’d remained to hold the young man’s damp palm. By the time he was stretchered to the ambulance by paramedics, two squad cars were pulling up followed by a van of armed police.

  The officers who’d interviewed her initially were young and rather over-excited by the whole event. It had been easy enough for Kaz to evade their questions and pretend to be in shock. Indeed, she was in shock. Her ear was missing a chunk and surprisingly painful; it reminded her that she’d had an extremely close brush with death.

  However, once they’d pulled up her records and identified her as an ex-offender released on licence, they put her in a cell.

  She didn’t doubt that Viktor Pudovkin was behind the hit. Who else could it be? Joey had tried to kill him and had damn near succeeded. It must’ve given the Russian billionaire quite a scare to face an assassin’s bullet right outside his own front door. But what he wouldn’t have known at the time was that the attack was an act of revenge for the murder of Helen Warner.

  The day after Joey and Tolya were gunned down she’d sat with Yevgeny in the sunlit garden in Berkshire and discussed the fallout from her brother’s suicidal attempt to please her. Yevgeny knew only too well that if Pudovkin joined up the dots and figured out Joey’s motive, he’d come after Kaz. So he’d devised a plan to try and protect her.

  ‘Pudovkin must think is a professional hit, that Joey do it for money. Just money. Not revenge.’

  ‘How you gonna make him think that?’

  Yevgeny had thrown open his palms and beamed. ‘I go and I tell him.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  But her dead friend had been as good as his word. Through an intermediary he’d sought an audience with the billionaire. Kaz only had Yevgeny’s report of the meeting to rely on. Pudovkin had been courteous, he’d listened and seemingly accepted Yevgeny’s tale of two foolish young men, hyped up on coke and paid a tempting sum, by persons unknown, to carry out the hit. Yevgeny came away convinced he’d sold him on the lie.

  It was now clear that he’d been wrong. Pudovkin was not as easy to fool as they’d hoped. Yevgeny had been played; lulled into a false sense of security.

  Sitting in a police cell, ear throbbing, nerves jangling, Kaz came to the conclusion that the billionaire spook must’ve somehow known the truth all along; he’d simply waited patiently until Joey Phelps’s funeral to exact his revenge.

  And with Yevgeny gone she was on her own. When questioned, she’d given the police Pudovkin’s name. She saw no reason to hold back. There was a slim chance they might take her seriously, although she doubted it.

  Leaning back against the wall, feet up on the hard plastic bunk in her cell, she thought of Irina, wondering if she was okay and wishing she could take her friend in her arms and comfort her.

  Irina had been the first electrifying and arousing presence in Kaz’s life since Helen. In the short while since meeting, they’d laughed a lot and played around with clothes and makeup and music like a couple of teenagers. Having grown up in the dour industrial surroundings of Magnitogorsk, Irina had revelled in her new life in London. Her brothers had spoilt her, her clothes all had designer labels and she was invited to an endless round of parties and social events.

  Kaz had intrigued her although language divided them. And the young Russian wasn’t naive; she was well aware of the sexual frisson zinging between her and her new playmate. The fact her devout mother would’ve been appalled by such western deviance made it all the more delicious. In her new life, Irina wanted money and the freedom to do exactly as she pleased. Teasing and flirting and maybe even sleeping with Kaz Phelps was simply part of the fun.

  But the partying had ended abruptly with the murders of Joey and Tolya. Kaz had been left reeling. In guilt and grief she’d retreated into herself. Yevgeny had become silent and stern and, as Irina relied on him to translate her more complicated conversations with Kaz, communication had dwindled to almost nothing.

  Alone in her cell, Kaz regretted this. Now she was worried about Irina. With her brothers gone how would she cope? She had her cousin, Mika, and other Russian friends in London, but would they want to be involved in the complicated fallout from Yevgeny’s death? None of them would dare to cross Pudovkin.

  As Kaz struggled to get a handle on events, more questions rose up to torment her and they made her head spin. What did Pudovkin know? He had unlimited resources and contacts, it wouldn’t have been so hard for him to figure it all out: the connection between her
and Helen – that sleazy perve Robert Hollister would’ve filled him in on that – and the fact his attacker was her brother.

  Was the bullet that killed Yevgeny meant for her? She was standing right beside him and it was pure luck that she’d survived. Slowly it began to dawn on her the kind of danger she was in. Being in police custody was hardly going to protect her. She was exposed and alone. An angry Russian billionaire, beyond the reach of the law, had set out to kill her and it was more than likely that he would succeed.

  4

  The Major Investigation Team office in Brentwood was a hive of activity. They were the lead on ‘a brutal gangland slaying’, to use the press’s well-worn phrase. The media were all over it, begging for sound bites. It was the kind of case that made careers, a fact not lost on the rather young detective inspector in charge of the intelligence cell. The whole team numbered thirty officers, but the intelligence cell was the hub. Made up of two officers and three civilian analysts, they operated from their own private cubbyhole with a digital lock on the door.

  Escorting Nicci into an empty meeting room, the DI held out his hand. ‘Tom Rivlin.’

  She shook it and smiled. ‘Nicci Armstrong.’

  ‘SIO says you know Phelps.’

  ‘I was on the team that took down her brother. I dealt with her then, when I was in the job, and subsequently.’

  Shirtsleeves rolled up, Rivlin rested his palms lightly on his narrow hips. He had the frame of a runner but Nicci could see that his most winning aspect was his smile.

  It produced boyish dimples, offset by a square chin – and he knew exactly how to deploy it. ‘Well, the boss wants her licence revoked, which is fine and dandy. Trouble is, that’s not going to encourage her to talk to us about who shot up her brother’s funeral and why.’

  ‘She knows me. Possibly even trusts me.’

  He scanned her with an appraising eye. ‘DCI’s in charge. It’s her show.’

  Nicci got the clear impression Rivlin regarded it as his, or at least the intelligence-gathering part of it. And he didn’t like the idea of an outsider, even if she was an ex-cop, walking in and stealing his thunder. She’d met his type before: lizard charm concealing calculating ambition.

  She jutted her chin. ‘It was DCI Stoneham who contacted me and asked for my help.’ The tone was bullish; she wasn’t in the mood for testosterone-driven games.

  ‘And we’re grateful. Phelps has mentioned you briefly. So I guess we could say you’re her “reasonably named person”.’

  He treated her to the smile again, but Nicci had the measure of him.

  She shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t want to break the rules.’

  ‘You know what it’s like. I just need to tick the boxes. So what’s your preference? Interview room or cell?’

  ‘I’m happy with an interview room. Means your officers can listen in.’

  He acknowledged the gesture with a nod. ‘I’ll set it up. Coffee?’

  A DC was summoned to provide refreshments and an escort. Nicci opted for a herbal tea; it was getting late in the day and she decided she probably had enough caffeine zapping round her synapses.

  After a ten-minute wait the DC showed her into an interview room. It was the usual small, nondescript box with wall-mounted cameras, a table and two chairs.

  Kaz Phelps looked up at her in genuine surprise. ‘Fuck me, I never thought they’d actually get you!’

  ‘Nice to see you too.’ Nicci took a seat across the table from her. ‘What happened to your ear?’

  ‘Thanks to you morons being too pussy to do your job and nick him, some fucking stooge of Pudovkin’s tried to blow my fucking head off.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your friend who was killed.’

  Kaz glared at her. Then her chin quivered and her eyes started to well up. For an instant it seemed she was about to cry, but she gritted her teeth and swallowed it down. She leant forward, her voice barely audible: ‘What the fuck am I gonna do, Nicci? I am truly, I mean well and truly, fucked.’

  Nicci reached across the table, putting her hand over Kaz’s. The move was impulsive, the way you’d comfort a friend. ‘You’re in shock. You’ve had a very traumatic experience.’

  ‘This is what Joey’s left me. My life is fucked, thanks to him. He’s up there somewhere laughing his fucking socks off.’

  ‘You walked away from him and that life before. You can do it again.’

  ‘How? Talk to your mates? I’ve told them who’s behind this. What the fuck difference does it make? And don’t tell me there’s no evidence. No one’s gone looking.’

  ‘Building a case against someone like Pudovkin—’

  ‘You said yourself, the Met was told to leave well alone.’

  ‘Maybe so. But no one’s above the law.’

  ‘What planet you living on? ’Cause it ain’t the same one as me.’

  Nicci forced a smile. ‘Have you had a drink and something to eat?’

  ‘Not hungry.’

  ‘So how can I help you? I’ve already told the SIO about the possible connection between Helen Warner’s death and Pudovkin.’

  ‘Get me back on witness protection.’

  ‘I don’t know how easy that’s going to be.’

  Kaz rubbed the back of her hand across her nose with the air of an aggrieved toddler. ‘No one’s even told me how my mum is.’

  ‘Your mum was injured?’

  ‘Yeah, in the arm. And the vicar who done the service for us, what’s happened to him?’

  Nicci glanced at the wall-mounted camera. ‘Okay, I’ll see what I can—’

  She didn’t need to finish. The door to the interview room opened and Tom Rivlin strolled in. Sliding his hands into his pockets, he stood between the two women. ‘Hello, Karen. I’m DI Rivlin.’

  Kaz gave him a scathing look. ‘Oh, finally the organ grinder instead of the fucking monkeys.’

  ‘Well, one of the organ grinders.’ He smiled. ‘I’m sorry you haven’t been kept informed. Your mother has a flesh wound in the upper arm. Not life-threatening, but my understanding is they’re keeping her under observation for a day or so. The Reverend Taylor is in surgery. His condition is serious.’

  Kaz dipped her head and swallowed. Nicci and Rivlin exchanged a covert glance.

  ‘Tell us about the funeral directors you hired, Karen.’ The copper seemed to be looming over her.

  ‘I’ve told you already. Yev did all that. I don’t know nothing about it.’

  ‘A name? Or even where they were based?’

  ‘I ain’t lying. If I fucking knew anything, I’d tell you, okay!’

  Rivlin seemed unruffled. ‘Okay, I’ll get one of my DCs to bring you both a cup of tea.’ More beverages, Nicci thought, but when they were working a big case that’s what MIT’s subsisted on – round-the-clock caffeine.

  He disappeared out of the door. Kaz met Nicci’s eye. ‘I’m not lying. Yev sorted it all out. He didn’t discuss the ins and outs with me.’

  ‘I know you’re not lying. But the funeral directors are key. Whoever Pudovkin sent, they facilitated it. Make that link and we have a case.’

  Kaz rocked in her chair. Her gaze was scooting nervously around the room – from the door to the cameras and back. Nicci couldn’t recall ever having seen her so agitated. It was understandable in terms of the shock she’d had. But this was Karen Phelps unmasked. Nicci could feel her raw fear.

  Kaz shot her a belligerent look. ‘Once this lot’ve got what they can from me, they’re gonna revoke my licence and ship me back, aren’t they?’

  ‘Is that why you’re being evasive?’

  ‘No. I don’t fucking know who the funeral directors are.’

  Nicci held her gaze. ‘And did you really not know what Joey planned to do?’

  ‘I thought he planned to kill me, not Pudovkin.’ Kaz was balancing her chair on two legs like a defiant pupil at the back of the class.

  ‘Why do you think he didn’t?’

  ‘Joey was a complicated boy.’ She
brought the chair down onto four legs with a thump. ‘He didn’t see the world like other people.’

  ‘Psychopaths don’t.’

  ‘I ain’t an expert on that.’

  ‘But you knew your brother.’

  Kaz let her gaze come to rest on Nicci’s face. Nicci could read the calculation in her eyes but there was something else: a profound sadness.

  She shook her head. ‘When we was little, before Natalie came along, it was just him and me. I was about six when I figured how to steal money from me mum’s purse, go down the shops, so we could eat.’

  ‘Your mum didn’t look after you?’

  ‘Mostly she was out of it. She was a drug addict, married to a gangster who beat the shit out of her.’

  ‘Did social services never get involved?’

  ‘Now and then. But the old man soon saw them off.’

  ‘Very few people would’ve survived such an upbringing unscathed.’

  ‘Joey hated people feeling sorry for us.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘A bit.’ This was the most Nicci had ever heard her say about her family. Would she say more? Nicci waited; she knew the importance of leaving space. It was what had made her a good interviewer.

  Finally she was rewarded. ‘When I was in the nick I went to this therapy group for a while. They wanted us to talk about all the family stuff. And about responsibility. It really pissed me off, these stupid girls who sat there going, “Oh poor me, I had a terrible childhood, so that’s why I went out nicking.”’

  ‘You saw that as self-pity?’

  ‘I saw it as bullshit. They went nicking to get stuff to buy drugs. And they sat there giving the spiel ’cause they thought it’s what the shrinks wanted to hear.’

  ‘Why did they want to take the drugs in the first place?’

  ‘People make stupid choices. Then they look for excuses.’