The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  The force of this hit Kaz squarely in the gut. There was no criticism in her cousin’s voice, just resignation, and it filled Kaz with even more guilt. She should’ve been there when Finlay was born, not poncing around at art college. And if she’d had the least inkling she would’ve been. But her sister hadn’t trusted her enough to confide in her.

  ‘I wanted to be there for Natalie. I still do.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’

  ‘It’s not going to be like before. If only I could turn back the clock—’ Could it have been different? That question had tormented Kaz ever since she learnt of her brother’s death. If only she could’ve persuaded him to change.

  ‘You’ll go bonkers if you think like that.’

  As the anger rose in her, Kaz could feel the energy and suddenly the way forward seemed crystal clear.

  ‘Maybe. But I’m not walking away this time. Not from any of you. All I’m doing is laying low. If we don’t take care of each other, who the fuck else is going to, eh? I want you to tell Natalie that. And Mum too, once she comes round enough to hear it.’

  ‘Okay. If that’s what you want.’ Glynis blinked as her heavily mascaraed eyes welled up.

  ‘I want to put this family back together, Glyn. That’s what I want. For Finlay and for all of us. Dad’s gone, Joey’s gone, Sean’s gone. We got a chance to make things different.’

  51

  Viktor Pudovkin loved to take tea at the Dorchester; it appealed to the unrepentant Anglophile in him. The white linen, the tiered cake stands, the tinkling of silver spoons in bone china cups were, in his view, small but significant hallmarks of civilization, part of what made life in London so pleasant. He drank Earl Grey with a sliver of lemon; milk in tea struck him as an eccentricity too far. But he adored the little fruit scones loaded with raspberry jam and clotted cream. His wife said they were bad for him, all that fat and sugar. But a man needed a few small treats in his life.

  And, as he explained to her, it was more than personal indulgence. A tea table tucked away behind a colonnade in the Promenade bar was also the perfect venue for business meetings, particularly with Arab associates. These days most of London’s best hotels belonged to owners from the Middle East, and the Russian had found that dealing with them on what they considered their turf tended to make things easier.

  He always made a point of arriving early; partly to see who was about and to sniff out the deals that might be going down, but also so he could enjoy his tea and scones in peace.

  Eating alone might not suit everyone, but Pudovkin, who spent his life going out to lunch and dinner, regarded it as valuable time out, an opportunity to reflect and plan. His life had become somewhat stressful of late. A shift in the balance of power back home in Moscow was not operating in his favour, in fact quite the opposite. And then there was the assassination attempt, which might or might not be connected. He was worried.

  For the last twenty years he’d been a lucky man, astute certainly, but in the chaos following the collapse of the Soviet Union everything had been up for grabs. Like many others, Pudovkin had enriched himself at the state’s expense. But he wasn’t an egomaniac like some. When the inevitable backlash came, he’d managed to escape Putin’s campaign against the oligarchs because he knew exactly how to make himself useful to his old comrade.

  Recently, however, siren voices had been whispering in the President’s ear, telling him that Pudovkin preferred his life in London, that he was simply too rich and that his connections with MI6 and the CIA were suspect. Pudovkin talked to these people, of course he did. It was how the game was played, always had been even back in his KGB and FSB days. Back channels were important, Putin knew that. But he was surrounded by jealous and greedy people and, in Pudovkin’s absence, it was all too easy for them to cast doubt on his loyalty.

  Spreading the last dollop of clotted cream on his scone, Pudovkin popped it in his mouth and savoured it. He could go back to Moscow and spend months paying court to the President and his coterie, but spending the winter there didn’t appeal and anyway, he had a better idea. He planned to prove his loyalty to the motherland once and for all, as well as demonstrating how useful, indeed vital, it was for him to remain in London.

  From his vantage point, Pudovkin kept a close eye on the comings and goings and was pleased when he noticed the maître d’ escorting an old friend to a nearby table. He raised his hand in greeting and Ahmad Karim strolled over. His current passport was Lebanese, he had several other names and his origins were lost in the mists of time – even the FSB had never ferreted them out. But Ahmad Karim, investor and crook, was an A-list fixer and over the years Pudovkin had found him a valuable asset.

  Rising to his feet, the Russian – a good six foot three in his silk socks – towered over the Arab but they still managed a manly hug.

  ‘You’re looking fit, my friend.’

  The little man patted his paunch. ‘Aww, I’m not so sure about that.’

  Standing in Karim’s wake, hands in pockets, shoulders squared, was a young man who easily matched Pudovkin in height. The Russian looked him up and down. He exuded the casual arrogance of many of his generation of wealthy young Arabs; he had a preppy tilt to the chin, so educated in America was the Russian’s guess.

  Karim turned to his companion. ‘This is Viktor Pudovkin, an old friend of mine. May I present Turki bin Qassim.’

  Handshakes were exchanged. The young man’s eyes were sharp behind the languid smile and the accent was indeed transatlantic. ‘Mr Pudovkin needs no introduction.’

  Karim beamed. He loved parading his connections. ‘Turki is the son of another old friend of mine in Qatar, and a member of the Al Thani family.’

  Pudovkin inclined his head; the hook was in and he was intrigued. ‘Can I offer you both some tea?’

  Qassim raised his palm with a teasing smirk. ‘Oh but I’ve been advised against drinking tea in London with Russians.’

  Pudovkin laughed out loud, although the joke annoyed him. How many times had he heard it? The Litvinenko case was indeed a bad joke. It was a stupid and totally unnecessary move – he’d said so at the time – to dispose of anyone using radioactive polonium. Such a ridiculous piece of melodrama had upset the usually tolerant Brits and soured relations between London and Moscow.

  Karim was chuckling merrily too. ‘Another time, Viktor. Turki and I have some matters to discuss. You understand.’

  They retreated to their own table and Pudovkin sat down. He wondered why the young Qatari had wanted to rattle his cage. Because he could? Was he part of the Al Thani inner circle, or was Karim simply boasting? The Russian pulled out his phone and sent a text to one of his PAs to have the young Arab checked out. He might be a useful addition to the list and a potential target for his new project.

  Robert Hollister was invariably late for their appointments and usually arrived with a flurry of excuses about urgent parliamentary business. Although he no longer had that pretext, Pudovkin presumed his behaviour was unlikely to have changed and he’d factored that in. A disgraced politician, currently under indictment, was about as useful as a fart in the wind, but he’d put a lot of time and effort into the Hollisters, particularly the wife, and he remained hopeful of recouping on his investment.

  When Robert Hollister finally appeared, a full half an hour late, he was wreathed in smiles and apologies.

  ‘Viktor, I’m so sorry. I’ve been down to Tewkesbury to see Paige. Coming back, accident on the M4, hell of a tailback.’

  Pudovkin travelled by helicopter or private jet; he rarely encountered such problems. He offered his hand to shake. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Better, I think.’

  Inviting his guest to sit, Pudovkin signalled to the waiter. ‘Some Earl Grey, Robert?’

  ‘God, no. Smells like a pimp’s aftershave. How do you drink it? Coffee.’ He glanced up at the waiter. ‘A cappuccino. But don’t dump a load of chocolate
on the top.’

  ‘And a fresh pot of tea.’

  Dipping his head, the waiter withdrew; the Russian folded his hands in his lap and smiled. Hollister looked wired; he crossed and recrossed his legs several times, unable to sit still. His eyes were bloodshot and pouchy.

  ‘Actually, she’s not better. Not really. She’s completely fucking nuts, Viktor – you do realize that, don’t you?’

  ‘So you’re still planning to divorce her?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But not immediately. I took your advice and I’ve persuaded her to make a statement to the police confirming that Helen Warner was sixteen when I first slept with her.’

  ‘What do the lawyers say? Will that be enough?’

  ‘I just talked to Merrow on the phone. With that she’s pretty sure she can get a discontinuance. That means the CPS drops the charges.’

  ‘Congratulations! We should be drinking champagne.’

  ‘Coffee’s fine. I’ve got a cracking headache.’

  ‘But things are “a bit more chipper”, isn’t that the English expression?’

  Hollister found it hard to conceal his disdain. ‘Not where I come from, mate.’

  In fact, he’d been forced to take the train; the private car hire firm had cancelled on him at the last moment, though he wasn’t about to admit that to his host. The journey had been awful, that was no lie. He’d spent it drinking whisky, and trying to avoid the gaze of two old biddies across the aisle – travelling in first was no guarantee nowadays – who were clearly gossiping about him.

  The Russian had initially suggested lunch, but when some minion called to arrange it he discovered he’d been demoted to tea. To say he was pissed off was an understatement. He was fighting with every ounce of intellect and cunning he possessed to drag himself out of this shit show. His career had crashed and burned, and the smug bastard was sitting there drinking tea as if he’d had no hand in it.

  ‘So what are your plans?’ Pudovkin didn’t even sound interested.

  ‘Move to Brussels.’

  ‘That sounds sensible.’

  ‘I’ve got to say, Viktor, I think you owe me.’ He was trying to remain calm and reasonable but Pudovkin’s attitude was infuriating.

  The Russian frowned. ‘How do you come to that conclusion? I’ve paid your legal fees—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And for Paige’s treatment.’

  ‘And we’re grateful. Obviously. But a few hundred grand tops – that’s small change to you.’

  Pudovkin opened his palms and smiled. ‘I have some contacts in Brussels and if I can—’

  ‘I’ve got my own contacts.’

  The Russian stared at him. He continued to smile but the slate-grey eyes were devoid of sympathy. Hollister knew he was taking a considerable risk, yet there was part of him that simply didn’t care.

  ‘Here’s the deal, Viktor. Thanks to my stupid wife, you were able to blackmail me—’

  Pudovkin glanced around. ‘I’d be careful, my friend.’

  ‘Or what? I end up in the river too?’

  The Russian simply steepled his fingers and stared. The look was hard and direct. Hollister imagined facing him in some FSB interrogation cell. Had he been a torturer? Probably.

  Helen Warner had been disposed of, neatly, professionally, and it had been dressed up to look like suicide. The quid pro quo had been that once Hollister was in government he would owe the Russian. Who knows what form the payback would’ve taken? It had never come to that.

  Meeting his gaze resolutely, Hollister managed a smile. ‘The fire, that was a nice touch. But I gather the bitch survived. And her mother.’

  ‘What fire?’

  ‘Oh come on, don’t be coy. The gangster that tried to gun you down on your own doorstep—’

  Pudovkin’s lip curled. He still thought about that day. The deadly volley of bullets had missed his head by a whisker. He’d had a few close calls in his career, but what chiefly upset him about that incident was the distress it had caused his small son. Sasha, previously a happy boy, had been petrified. Now he’d started to bed-wet. What was the point of all his wealth and his London life if his children weren’t safe?

  Hollister scanned the old spook but it was impossible to read him. ‘His name was Joey Phelps. The bitch that set me up was his sister.’

  ‘And your point is . . . ?’

  ‘You said you were going to sort it out. I presumed you had.’

  ‘You presumed wrong.’ Pudovkin glanced at the Daniels Co-axial Chronograph on his wrist. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to wrap this up, Robert. I have an appointment at five.’

  ‘I’m planning to join a hedge fund partnership. I want you to stake me.’

  The Russian chuckled. ‘You’re an interesting man. Smart, certainly. But like most Westerners you’re arrogant, you think everyone should live by your rules. You bluster and bully, but you have nothing to back it up. You have a soft underbelly.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s going soft if you’re letting Karen Phelps walk away.’

  ‘Nowadays I’m a businessman. Profit is my motive.’

  ‘Come on, Viktor. We both know that’s not true. What are your friends back home going to think when they hear a couple of cheap gangsters made a fool of you? Can you afford to look that weak?’

  The Russian sighed. Could it be that the hit really was some kind of freelance action by an English gangster? It was a reassuring notion certainly. ‘Why do you want this stupid girl dead?’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t be sitting here now if she hadn’t set me up.’

  ‘I’ve seen a lot of killing in this world. Revenge is never good for the soul.’

  ‘I’m an atheist. I don’t believe in the soul. You wanted to buy me, turn me into an asset.’

  ‘That was when you were in a position to be useful.’

  ‘I can still be useful. Once the charges are dropped, I shall be doing some unofficial consulting for an old friend of mine at the European Central Bank.’

  Pudovkin sighed again. ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Ten million.’

  ‘Five million. Dollars.’

  ‘And the other matter?’

  ‘You want it to look like an accident?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit. I just want it done.’

  52

  Nicci Armstrong had spent a frustrating day hanging around the office, trying to find an opportunity to have a private word with Blake. Naylor had moved in and was busy interviewing new security personnel. A steady stream of meatheads in off-the-peg suits came and went. Blake disappeared, supposedly for a lunch meeting, and didn’t come back. With major undisclosed changes in progress, the investigations section felt like a besieged enclave. There was paperwork to be followed up, a couple of routine investigations on defence briefs to go out, but not much else. Were they about to be phased out or restructured or rationalized – whatever the latest management jargon was for cut?

  At five o’clock Nicci decided to throw in the towel. She turned to Pascale and Eddie. ‘I’ve had enough of this. Fancy a drink? My shout.’

  They were early enough to bag a corner table in the Blue Lion. Eddie offered to go to the bar and Nicci supplied him with the cash.

  Pascale gave her an appraising look. ‘What d’you think, boss? Should I be looking for a new job?’

  ‘Short answer: I’ve no idea.’

  In the late afternoon Nicci had received a text from Tom Rivlin: Kemal to be released, any word on Phelps? After a night of passion, this was what he had to say to her. In which case, why had he sent flowers? Guilt maybe? Or embarrassment? Her ex-husband had always turned up with a bunch of flowers when he’d done something to piss her off. Rivlin appeared to want to forget the fact they’d slept together; it was an aberration, a drunken mistake. Now they were back to business as usual. It left Nicci feeling desolate inside. But better to be let down now than later.

  Eddie returned with a tray of drinks: a pint for himself and a
bottle of white wine with two glasses.

  Nicci glared at him. ‘Bloody hell, Eddie. You trying to get us drunk?’

  ‘Cheaper this way. Trying to save you money.’ He dumped a handful of change in her palm.

  The three of them sat gloomily sipping their drinks, each in their own headspace. Nicci scanned her companions. Pascale would get something else, no trouble. She spoke several languages, her IT skills were top notch and she was easy on the eye. Any employer would regard her as an asset.

  Eddie Lunt was a different proposition. But he was resourceful, that’s what Blake always said about him, and that covered a multitude of sins. It was all too obvious that the least employable of the three of them was Nicci herself. An ex-cop, retired on medical grounds, she’d be joining the army of discarded officers cast onto the scrapheap before their time by the drastic cuts in the police service. She’d be lucky to land a security job in a supermarket.

  Finishing her drink, Pascale made her excuses and left. She had a new boyfriend and a cooked meal to go home to. Nicci stared at the third of a bottle of wine remaining and topped up her glass. Suddenly the purchase of a whole bottle seemed a sensible idea. Eddie was quietly demolishing his second packet of cheese and onion crisps. He offered them to her. She shook her head.

  He folded the foil crisp packet neatly into a square and tucked it under his glass. ‘Got a bit of a confession to make, boss.’

  Nicci’s heart sank. The last thing she needed was fallout from some illegal escapade of Eddie’s.

  She gave him a glowering look. ‘What?’

  ‘Simon’s private phone, I got his number and put it on a tracker. I been following him all day.’

  ‘What the fuck, Eddie! Snooping on your own boss? Is nothing sacred to you?’

  ‘I just thought, well, what if he’s in a fix but is too proud to say?’

  Nicci took a slug of wine. ‘That sounds like an excuse for you to indulge in your usual schtick.’

  ‘Only trying to help.’

  Nicci glared at him, wondering, not for the first time, what she’d done to deserve this malevolent pixie. Ethics mattered. If the ends simply justified the means in every case, then where did that leave you? How you treated people and respect for the law were values to be cherished.