The Killer

by Susan Wilkins

  The black Mercedes was waiting outside. Nicci held the back door open for her charge then got into the front seat next to the driver. It was a short journey from Mayfair to Holland Park and, apart from a small snarl-up of traffic in Notting Hill Gate, a smooth trip.

  Lounging in the back seat, Ayisha didn’t look up or out; she spent the entire time texting on her phone. Tapping away with both thumbs, grinning to herself as messages zapped back and forth, she seemed like any teenager in the globalized world. She had friends somewhere, though possibly not in London.

  Nicci found herself wondering, for the millionth time, about her own daughter. What sort of teenager would Sophie have become? Would she too have been obsessed with gossiping on her phone? Would Nicci have got annoyed and chided her? Death had robbed her of all these experiences and possibilities. And when she thought about that too much the pain became physical.

  The car drew up outside a huge porticoed mansion; it was the largest house on a street of outsized detached residences. Nicci got out of the Mercedes, opened the back door and waited.

  Ayisha finally glanced up from her phone and Nicci was surprised to see a look of trepidation. ‘I hate all this. I never know what to say to these women. They’re all so old.’

  ‘Tell your hostess she has a lovely home and you’re really looking forward to trying the different sorts of caviar.’

  The girl considered this. She was an odd combination of imperiousness and naivety. ‘Won’t she know that I’m lying?’

  ‘People like to receive compliments. You’re nice to them, they’ll be nice back.’

  ‘My mother says that to be a good wife you have to know how to lie.’

  ‘There’s a difference between lying and not telling people the whole truth if that would upset them.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  ‘Divorced.’

  ‘So you are a whore?’

  Nicci looked down at the teenager, hiding in the back of the car like a frightened rabbit. ‘We look at these things differently over here, Ayisha.’

  ‘Turki never takes me to meet his friends because they’ll think I’m a stupid kid. But he makes me do stuff like this. Some Russian businessman he wants to impress.’ The sourness and the sorrow in her tone made it hard for Nicci not to pity her.

  She leant into the car and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘Listen to me, these things are never as bad as we imagine. Everyone gets nervous. You go in, you smile and you say nice things. About the house, about peoples’ clothes. They’ll like you and then Turki will be pleased, won’t he?’

  Ayisha nodded, though she still looked scared.

  ‘Come on. It’ll be okay and you’ll have some funny stories to text to your friends.’

  ‘I text my sister.’

  ‘Your sister then. Look out for things to text her about.’

  This did the trick. Ayisha emerged from the back of the car and followed her bodyguard up the path to the massive front door. It opened magically before them without any need to ring the bell.

  Nicci stood aside for her charge to enter. The hallway was huge, more of a foyer designed to impress than a domestic interior. The walls and floor were beige marble and led the eye back to a magnificent sweeping staircase with an ornate gold balustrade, which snaked round and up to the floor above. The finishing touch was an enormous crystal chandelier.

  Ayisha – to her credit, Nicci thought – didn’t seem that impressed. A butler dipped his head and held out his arm in welcome. But the hostess was already bearing down on them.

  A foot taller than her young Qatari guest, with tumbling tresses of honey-blonde hair, she opened her arms. ‘I am Galina. So delighted you could join us.’

  Nicci was left on the doorstep watching Ayisha being borne away by the statuesque Russian.

  Casting her eye around, she found the overall effect gaudy. The butler stared straight through her and walked away. A large minder was closing the front door.

  He grinned at her and jabbed his finger. ‘Hey, SBA, innit?’ The accent was pure South London and he was six foot six of solid black muscle crammed into a tightly tailored suit. ‘Ex-cop’d be my guess.’

  Nicci smiled. ‘Yeah. How d’you know?’

  He stepped forward. ‘You’re looking at everything, checking it out. I was with 3 Para. Name’s Jerome.’

  He offered her his large meaty paw and they shook.

  ‘Nicci. Pleased to meet you. How d’you know I work for SBA?’

  ‘That Craig’s a lucky bastard. Sweet deal.’

  ‘You know Craig?’

  ‘Oh yeah, we worked together. That fucking beard though!’

  Nicci’s gaze spun around. How could she have been so slow? It was obvious. ‘You mean you work for Viktor Pudovkin? This is his house?’

  Jerome grinned. ‘Yeah, one of his houses. But probably his favourite. The boss is a real Londoner.’

  61

  During her time in the Met and subsequently, Nicci Armstrong had seen inside a fair number of London’s classier addresses, but Viktor Pudovkin’s Holland Park mansion was in a league of its own. It was a twenty-first-century urban palace, three floors of which were subterranean, set discreetly behind walls and trees in a landscaped garden. The opulence and scale of the place could only really be appreciated from within the electronically controlled perimeter. And like any traditional stately home, it comprised two worlds: upstairs and downstairs.

  Jerome took Nicci down in the service lift to the underground bunker occupied by the staff. The kitchen was a hive of activity as two chefs from the fine food company who had been brought in to cater the caviar tasting laid out their wares.

  He grinned at her. ‘You like caviar?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  He helped himself to a plate from the counter. One of the chefs gave him a dirty look.

  ‘You got a problem, mate?’ In the modern below-stairs pecking order it wasn’t the butler who ruled the roost, it was security, and Jerome was the man in charge.

  He led Nicci down a corridor to his office suite. A bank of security monitors covered all entrances and exits to the mansion plus the main rooms. Nicci caught a glimpse of Ayisha, in the grand conservatory, chatting to another girl in a hijab; she’d found a friend.

  Jerome offered Nicci the plate. ‘Caspian Beluga. The boss has it flown in. You’re supposed to eat it on its own, but most people can’t hack it so we get these guys in to stick it on blinis.’

  Nicci picked up one of the small squares loaded with dark beads. It smelt slightly fishy. She took a bite and ended up with a mouthful of popping bubbles. It wasn’t as bad as she’d expected.

  Still she wrinkled her nose. ‘Bit too salty for me.’

  The security man grinned. ‘And that’s the good stuff.’

  ‘Quite an operation you got here.’ Nicci was gazing at the computerized security system.

  Jerome shrugged modestly. ‘We got places all over the world, but this is our main base. The boss prefers London, so does the missus; kids go to school and nursery here.’

  ‘Good bloke to work for?’

  ‘Yeah, the wages and perks are good. He rewards loyalty.’

  Nicci tilted her head; she didn’t want her curiosity to be too obvious. ‘I would’ve thought he’d want his security team to be Russian, though.’

  Jerome chortled. ‘Yeah, you’d think. Actually, it’s the opposite.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You need a lesson in Russian politics to explain that fully.’ He shook his head. ‘Oligarchs and the Kremlin are pretty much in a head-to-head nowadays. Though the boss and Putin go way back. A few of the regime’s opponents have been whacked in the UK and often it’s their own Russian bodyguards who carry out the hit. The solution, if you’re cautious like the boss, is to hire professionals with no connections to Moscow.’

  ‘Makes sense. But didn’t some gangster try and shoot your boss recently? He wasn’t Russian.’

  ‘You remind me of Craig – full of
questions. Once a cop always a cop, eh?’ Was that a warning shot across the bows? He was still smiling, so Nicci couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I like to understand what’s going on. And I haven’t been in security that long; I want to move up.’

  ‘You got languages?’

  ‘GCSE French.’

  ‘That won’t get you far. My Russian’s not bad now. I done a couple of stints with the boss in Moscow. Arabic and Chinese – they’re the other two, if you want to get on.’

  ‘What was Moscow like?’

  ‘Hard work. The whole place runs on bribes. From traffic cops up, you always got to be ready to slip them a note. And they blame everything on foreigners. Old ladies used to curse me in the street ’cause I’m black.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound much fun.’

  ‘Why d’you think we got so many rich Russians living here?’

  ‘I want to get on in this business. Only . . . y’know, you read stuff in the papers.’ She didn’t want to push too far in case he got suspicious. But she wasn’t likely to chance upon a better opportunity to get the inside track on Viktor Pudovkin.

  Jerome picked up one of the remaining blinis. ‘Paper’s all make it up as they go along.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ve heard stories too about what’s expected. I did firearms training in the Met, but I’ve never shot anyone.’

  ‘Close protection’s not that different to being a cop. The job is to anticipate trouble and take evasive action. When those two assassins came after the boss, truth is on that day we failed. We found ourselves under attack, but we dealt with it – that’s what we’re trained for.’

  ‘Did the police ever find out what it was about?’

  Jerome shrugged. ‘I never spoke to them.’

  ‘They didn’t question you?’

  ‘Listen, Nicci, the cops stay out of our world. It’s nothing to do with them. The boss talked to his contacts in the security service; one of the shooters was Russian, so somebody back there was probably behind the move. We’ll be making our own inquiries.’

  She painted on a smile. ‘I guess I’m not used to this world. Spent my life chasing drug dealers.’

  ‘I get it. You got scruples. And I’d rather have that on my team any day of the week.’ He beamed at her, but it was clear the discussion was over. ‘Tell you what, fancy a look round? This place is amazing. More modern art than the fucking Tate.’

  ‘Is that allowed?’

  ‘Yeah, if I say it is. Anyway, I got an ulterior motive.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Want you to put in a good word for me with Craigie. Never know when it might come in handy.’

  Jerome proceeded to take her upstairs for a conducted tour of the ground floor. The drawing room was large, with comfortable white leather sofas and, as he explained, hung with the boss’s unique collection of twentieth-century Russian painters. Nicci vaguely recognized two: Chagall and Kandinsky.

  Over the fireplace in the library there was a sleek racehorse painted by George Stubbs; it matched the oak panelling and more traditional feel of the room. As she admired it, Jerome pressed his earpiece. Someone was talking to him. Excusing himself for a moment, he disappeared into the hall.

  Finding herself alone in the room, Nicci was in a quandary. She was inside the Russian’s house, fortress Pudovkin, and it was an opportunity she couldn’t ignore. In her bag she had the voice-activated bugs that Eddie had given her. But the place was riddled with cameras; doing anything would be a hell of a risk. Reaching down, she carefully pulled out one of the tiny devices and cradled it in her palm. She knew she had only seconds to make up her mind. Would she ever have a better chance than this to gather some serious intel on the untouchable billionaire?

  She scanned the room rapidly for the camera positions and, stepping out of what she judged to be their sightline, searched for a suitable place to hide the bug. There were plenty of bookshelves full of unopened books. She found an appropriate nook, clicked the device on and tucked it away. The place was probably swept regularly, but they might glean something before it was found. There was a leather wingback chair set beside the fire, so there was an outside chance Pudovkin might actually use the room.

  Nicci rejoined the security man in the hall; he was issuing instructions to a subordinate. She gave him a smile and said she needed to go out and check on her driver. What she really wanted to do was call Eddie Lunt and see if he could pick up a signal from the bug.

  The Mercedes was parked on the road behind several other luxury vehicles. There was a double yellow line, but no one seemed to be bothered by it. Walking along the pavement, she took out her phone, but before she could make the call it rang. The caller ID read withheld; she clicked the button to accept the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, is that Nicci?’ The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

  ‘Yeah, who’s this?’

  ‘Kaz, Kaz Phelps. I heard through Eddie that you wanted to talk to me. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.’

  ‘My God! Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, I can see you might be a bit pissed off with me, but I need a favour. I wondered if you’d meet me for a coffee.’

  62

  It took Paul Ackroyd a couple of days to make contact with the Kemals. Asil Kemal refused to speak on the phone and Paul ended up having to go and see him in his office over a kebab shop in Walthamstow. To say the Turks were wary was an understatement.

  Asil fixed him with an icy glare. ‘I don’t know why you come to me.’

  ‘Look, Mr Kemal, Joey Phelps shafted me good and proper and his sister’s trying to do the same. Now, I’m not generally a vengeful bloke—’

  Sadik, standing with his arms folded behind his brother, smirked. ‘Everyone is vengeful, if only in their hearts.’

  ‘I’ve known Kaz Phelps since she was a kid. I know what she’s like. You want her and I can deliver her. At a price.’

  ‘How d’you know we want her?’ Asil shifted in his chair.

  ‘C’mon, I keep my ear to the ground. You been asking around, you been looking all over for her.’

  ‘And why should I trust you?’

  ‘Call up Ilker in Basildon. He knows me, we’ve done business.’

  The brothers exchanged glances. Paul knew full well that Asil Kemal wouldn’t even have agreed to the meeting if his credentials hadn’t already been thoroughly checked.

  ‘Ilker says you are a good customer.’

  He was buying cocaine from the local Turks in hundred grand tranches and distributing it around the bars and clubs of Essex, so he was more than that. But he merely inclined his head in polite acknowledgement.

  Asil folded his hands in front of him. ‘You want twenty high-quality cannabis plants and you want to choose them yourself. Why?’

  ‘I have a private client. He’s in the music business. Famous, in fact. Wants to grow his own. But he’s very exacting. I can’t afford to disappoint him.’

  ‘How will you persuade Kaz Phelps to accompany you?’

  ‘That’s my problem.’

  ‘You could just tell us where she is.’

  ‘That bitch has caused me a lot of grief. Maybe I want to see the look on her face when she realizes what I’ve done.’

  The brothers had a brief conversation in Turkish. Paul got the impression that Sadik was possibly more in favour of his proposition than Asil.

  But what he’d said to them seemed to have done the trick. An appeal to their cruelty had been Kaz’s idea and it looked as though she was on the money with that.

  The older brother leant back in his chair and his cold, hooded eyes rested on Paul. Then, abruptly, the decision was made. The Turk held out his hand, they shook and Asil Kemal agreed to call the following day with a time and an address.

  Driving out of town on the M11, Paul felt elated; he knew he was taking a considerable risk, but maybe his life had become too safe. He missed the buzz. He was a middle-ranking player a
nd he did all right. A beautiful home in the country, a lovely family and, since Joey went to jail, he’d established a niche for himself.

  The story about cannabis plants for the musician wasn’t a lie. He specialized in offering rich clients a personal service. The second-hand car dealership on the A127, set up twenty years ago by his dad, now did a good trade in four-by-fours and provided the perfect front for his other activities. The old bill didn’t bother him, nor did the taxman. So why had he agreed to Kaz’s crazy scheme?

  Did she think he was a total moron? He may have got a bit pissed, but he could see exactly what she was doing. The bitch thought she could wind him round her little finger. She and Joey were peas in a pod, always had been, charming but arrogant. Their old man had been a total psycho, a cold-hearted killer, and they were just a more sophisticated version. Would she walk in there and shoot the Kemal brothers dead? It was entirely possible. She was a Phelps; she was mental enough to do it. On the other hand, Sadik could prove too fast for her.

  As he pondered the possible outcomes, he was sure about one thing: whichever way it played out, Paul Ackroyd wouldn’t be the loser. If it looked like the Kemals were going down, he’d weigh in on her side. He’d take the cannabis factories but more than that, she’d owe him big time, and he’d get to those offshore accounts.

  However, if it looked like going the other way he wouldn’t intervene. Sadik could have her. Getting onside with large-scale importers like the Kemals could open up all sorts of opportunities. In fact, the more he thought about it the more that began to seem like the safer and more profitable outcome for him.

  He was under no illusions about what Kaz really thought of him. She’d run out on him as soon as she got the chance and he certainly didn’t buy this hogwash about her being upset and jealous that he had a wife and kid. He still fancied her – who wouldn’t? If anything, the last ten years had transformed her from a hot teenager into a real knockout. And the dyke thing added spice to the mix. He’d fuck her, no question. Rafa need never know. But trust her? No way.

  She was a Phelps and they were all the same: manipulative, two-faced liars. The old man had shafted him, made sure he went to jail. He’d worked for the son and got shafted by him too. But those bastards were both dead. Now it was his time. Did that stupid bitch really think she could sucker him? She was about to discover her mistake. She was about to discover that it was him, Paul Ackroyd, and not her precious Joey who’d been the smart one all along.