by CJ Carver
It was Mac. He was staring at Nicholas Blain.
Blain looked at Lucy, then at Mac. He smiled. Mac didn’t.
Mac headed out of reception. Lucy joined him.
Halfway down the corridor she said, ‘Do you know that guy?’
‘Nope.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yup.’
‘He’s an ex-cop,’ she said. ‘Or at least that’s what he told me.’
Mac didn’t say anything. She looked across at him. He looked back but there was something odd in his expression that made her press further.
‘You worked together?’
He turned away with a shrug. ‘I didn’t like the look of him, that’s all.’
Her jaw dropped. Dear God, she thought. He’s jealous. How the hell was that going to work when he became her boss?
From the beat office, she called the desk sergeant and asked him to ring her when Justin Tripp arrived. Ten minutes later she got the call and she jogged back to reception to find Nicholas Blain and the lawyer standing closely together, absorbed, talking quietly, intent on the screen of an iPad. As she approached the light shifted making the image on the screen perfectly clear to her.
A man’s face, close up. Slightly blurred as though he’d been on the move and unaware of being photographed. Clean cut, strong jaw, short brown hair, serious expression. A fair-haired woman was just behind him and her features were out of focus and unclear.
Lucy’s eyes widened and at the same time Nicholas Blain swept the iPad away from Tripp and slid it into his satchel.
‘Yes?’ Blain asked.
His expression had turned cold, speculative, but it wasn’t this that stopped her from asking about the man in the photograph. It was because of who the man was that stopped her.
She said, ‘I wanted to ask Justin something.’
‘Go ahead.’ Blain’s words were casual but the cold look remained. ‘Don’t mind me.’
‘Privately,’ she said, allowing an edge into her voice.
He shrugged and stepped aside, allowing the lawyer to walk a few paces away. Turning her back to Blain she stood close to the lawyer. Lowered her voice. ‘You know Zama.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘OK. Know of him. Please, don’t split hairs.’
His expression didn’t change. ‘I can’t say. Client privilege, I’m afraid.’
‘But if he’s in danger, as Calder seemed to believe, shouldn’t you be concerned?’
His lips tightened. ‘I have nothing further to say.’
He returned to Nicholas Blain. Murmured a few words. They walked outside together. Lucy followed to see them head across the station forecourt and cross the street to a silver Mercedes. They shook hands. Tripp beeped open the Mercedes and slid inside. Lucy watched him cruise up the street, turn the corner and disappear.
Blain walked in the same direction Tripp had travelled. Lucy dawdled, curious to see what car he drove, but he didn’t stop. He kept walking. She looked at her car then at his rapidly diminishing figure. He walked deceptively fast. She couldn’t follow him on foot. She’d stick out like a walking traffic light being in uniform. Lucy hopped into her car. Bridge Street West was incredibly long and his figure soon became a dot in the distance. She’d lose him if she wasn’t careful. Lucy started the car and followed him. To her relief he didn’t turn around, didn’t look behind him, but turned the corner into Boundary Road. She eased after him, driving unhurriedly under the old iron bridge but she couldn’t see him. She pressed the accelerator. Came to a muddled junction of three roads, a car park and a discount exhaust shop on the opposite corner. Still no Blain.
She drove slowly, turning her head from side to side. Where had he gone?
She extended her search but couldn’t find him. It was as though the second she’d lost sight of him, he’d evaporated.
Lucy turned the car around, her mind on the man she’d seen on the iPad. The last time she’d seen him had been outside a junkyard that had been crawling with police and Security Service personnel. Both of them had been exhausted. Both had blood on their clothes.
What was Calder’s lawyer doing with a photograph of ex-MI5 officer Dan Forrester?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sunday 1 February
After he’d dressed, Dan checked his phone and saw that Lucy Davies had called. Her message was brief. Ring me. It’s important.
When he’d last seen Lucy she’d been sitting slumped and exhausted on a London pavement, bruised and bloody. He remembered offering to introduce her to Bernard, get her a job with MI5, and she’d laughed, genuinely amused.
Now, he rang Lucy back, but the line was busy. He didn’t leave a message.
After a leisurely breakfast buffet, Dan headed to the metro, glad he wasn’t pressed for time and could take a circuitous route to Tretyakovskaya. He paused occasionally to check if anyone was following, doubling back on himself and popping in and out of kiosks. He thought he saw the same woman a couple of times and when she stepped on to the same train as him he waited until she was forced further down the carriage – ostensibly trapped – and at the next station when the doors were about to close, he stepped off and caught another train.
He then ran a further two hours of counter-surveillance, making him question why he was being so careful. After all, who could know where he and Lynx intended to meet? Maybe his tension came from a primeval instinct that recognised he was on an assignment. Dr Winter said he retained a myriad of memories that weren’t necessarily memories but subliminal associations of what was around him; sounds, colours, body language, actions, incidents. His instinct told him to make sure he approached the rendezvous with Lynx alone.
He walked past the church, a massive five-domed two-storey building that stood behind a row of trees devoid of leaves, but couldn’t see her. He returned, looking up and down the road as traffic roared and splashed through slush alongside. Finally, he walked into the church.
He found her standing just inside the main entrance. She was gazing at the ceiling, her perfect features serene. She wore a full-length fur coat the colour of syrup and a matching fur hat. He’d thought he was immune from her beauty but when she turned and looked at him with those wide almond eyes, his breath caught.
‘So,’ he said quietly, determined not to let her see he was affected, ‘why do you want to see me?’
‘Shhh.’ She pointed at the people scattered throughout the church. Three contemplating, two couples on their knees, praying. A cleaner dusting a pew. ‘Let’s go outside,’ she whispered.
He followed her on to the broad pedestrian pavement. They walked past a bank, then a pedestrian crossing. Few people were about. It was too cold.
He said, ‘What’s your name?’
She turned her head to look at him. A tiny frown marred her perfect brow. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Your name.’
She stopped and faced him. Held his gaze. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. He couldn’t read her at all.
‘My name is Ekaterina.’
It meant nothing to him. He said, ‘How do we know one another?’
‘You’re saying you don’t know who I am?’
Something in her tone made a prickle of unease sweep over his skin.
‘That’s right,’ he said. He didn’t apologise or explain. He wanted to try and get her to show her hand. Friend or foe? He couldn’t work her out.
‘I see.’ Her tone was non-committal, giving nothing away.
Dan was aware of a bus trundling past, a woman standing at the pedestrian crossing, a car overtaking another on the one-way street.
‘What’s your surname?’ he asked.
When she didn’t answer, he stepped a little closer, forcing her to raise her chin to meet his gaze but she wasn’t easily intimidated and didn’t back away. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded.
She held his eyes, composed and enigmatic, heartbreakingly beautiful in the icy air of the street.
Finally, she took a
step back and put her head on one side, studying him.
‘I heard something about you losing your memory,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t know it was true.’
‘How did you hear?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer but continued to study him.
‘So this is like the first time we’ve met,’ she said.
He didn’t want to make it easy for her and didn’t reply. Instead, he said, ‘I need to know your surname.’
‘This isn’t about me.’ She was curt.
A gust of wind nipped his cheeks, making his eyes water and the hairs in his nostrils freeze.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘So what is it about?’
‘You can’t remember anything?’ This time her scepticism broke through.
‘Of course I can.’ He couldn’t help feeling irritated. He hated it when someone remembered him but he couldn’t remember them back. ‘How do you think I got dressed this morning?’
She made a dismissive gesture to show that wasn’t what she meant.
‘You can’t have forgotten the City Space Bar,’ she said.
He just looked at her.
‘Or Dominika’s Club, surely.’
He tried not to grit his teeth, but it was an effort.
‘What about sexy little Milena?’ Her gaze turned sly. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t remember her either?’
Silence.
She put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. Her eyes widened. ‘It’s true.’ For a horrendous moment he thought she was going to laugh. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if she did.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
For the first time, her guard lowered fractionally. He couldn’t help it. He responded to whatever it was in her expression, and felt his chest tighten with an emotion he couldn’t identify. Whatever it was, it left him feeling off-balance and vulnerable.
‘Was it an accident?’ she pressed. ‘A trauma? I’ve heard of such things from our soldiers, but never –’
‘Why am I here?’ he cut over her. He didn’t want to give her any information that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Something shifted in the atmosphere between them. She narrowed her eyes. Looked away, then back. She was thinking, he realised. Thinking fast.
‘OK,’ she said. She seemed to have come to a decision. ‘We are here to talk about Edik Yesikov. President Putin’s successor. His plans for Russia’s future.’
She reached into her coat pocket and brought out a photograph, showed it to him. He didn’t touch it. Simply studied the picture of a man with dirty blond hair dressed in hunting attire. He was kneeling on the ground, smiling broadly, holding open the jaws of a dead bear. Blood smeared his hands and wrists.
‘How do you know him?’ Dan asked.
She didn’t answer. Pocketing the photograph, she turned and began to walk along the street. He walked beside her, close enough so their coats brushed.
‘This will be the only time we see each other,’ she went on in the same businesslike tone.
‘How can I trust you?’
This made her pause. ‘You have to have faith.’
‘Are you with any of the authorities?’ he asked. ‘FSB, GRU?’
‘I am not with any intelligence agency.’
‘Then, what?’ He was puzzled.
‘Edik Yesikov,’ she said determinedly. ‘He secretly sent two agents to your country last week.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Trust me. They arrived in London on Thursday the twenty-ninth of January.’
‘Why?’
‘Edik is an FSB officer,’ Ekaterina went on. ‘Also Director General of Shelomov Gaz. He’s powerful and rich, but he’s nothing special. Putin would prefer an inspirational leader down the line, a man who unites his people and commands respect around the world. He’s looking for a man the people will love. Who they’ll write poetry about and fight wars for.’
‘And stop the next revolution.’
‘Correct.’
Ekaterina slowed her pace with his to make way for a couple passing them.
‘You’ve heard of Kazimir?’ she asked.
As she spoke, a fissure opened in his mind and a picture of a broad-shouldered man in KGB uniform appeared. ‘He was a KGB general,’ Dan added. ‘Stalin’s most trusted aide.’
She turned, her expression filled with consternation. ‘You remember Kazimir?’
‘Not exactly.’
She stared at him, her gaze so piercing it was like having a laser drill through his skull. He could almost hear the words: How can you remember Kazimir but not me?
‘It happens occasionally,’ he admitted. ‘Something breaks through.’
She continued to stare at him.
‘But it’s not often,’ he added, suddenly feeling awkward. Defensive. ‘Maybe a couple of times a year.’
Did her stare intensify? He wasn’t sure, because she suddenly whipped around and began walking again. She didn’t say anything for a while, just walked. They passed a small park with a frozen waterfall, the trees covered in a dusting of snow turned grey by pollution. Past a bus stop. Another bank. Another pedestrian crossing.
‘The people remember Kazimir clearly,’ Ekaterina told him. Her voice was steady and calm. ‘They’re scared of him, but deep down they revere his great strength, his wisdom. Kazimir means “keeper or destroyer of peace” and if he was still alive, they’d probably walk through fire to follow him.’
She halted at a zebra crossing but the traffic didn’t stop and she made no move to cross the road.
She said, ‘The two FSB agents in your country are called Ivan and Yelena Barbolin. Their mission is to find a British journalist. Jane Sykes.’
‘Why?’
‘Jane Sykes was told a secret by a friend in the UK. She came to Moscow to verify it. She was overheard by the FSB, talking about it.’
‘What secret?’ he repeated.
‘Where to find Zama Kasofsky.’
Dan frowned. ‘I don’t understand. Who’s Kasofsky?’
She turned to stand in front of him, expression sombre. ‘This is where it gets personal.’
‘OK,’ he said.
‘Because your wife –’
‘My wife?’ He reacted as though he’d been slapped. ‘What has she got to do with –’
‘Just listen.’ She cut across him, her tone earnest. ‘She is an accountant, am I correct?’
‘Well, yes.’ He was bewildered. ‘But only small-time. She looks after local farmers and beekeepers.’
‘She used to work in London, yes?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘For McInley and Krevingden?’
His stomach dropped. ‘What has Jenny got to do with this?’
She nodded as though he’d confirmed something she hadn’t been sure of. ‘I’m sorry. I had to be certain. But it’s not her so much as –’
Suddenly her hand was flung sideways and she staggered backwards. The look on her face was one of shock.
In the same instant he heard a shot, a distinct crack! that cut through the sound of traffic.
He didn’t have time to move before her body doubled over as though she’d been punched in the abdomen and she toppled to the ground. Instinctively Dan dived to her side.
He should have run. He should have got away, sprinted down the street. But he couldn’t leave her. He pulled open her coat to see blood seeping from her breast and through her dress. She was moaning, turning towards him.
‘Daniel,’ she said. ‘Run.’
His mind was scrambled. He felt sick with helplessness. ‘I can’t.’
‘You must.’
‘No.’
Her eyes went past him. She opened her mouth but nothing came out. He followed her gaze to see an Audi approaching, pulling over. His stomach hollowed as he saw the driver’s door beginning to open. They were coming to finish the job.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lucy checked her phone again to see that Dan had rung, but hadn�
��t left a message. She left another voicemail message as well as a text, but he didn’t respond. There was little she could do but wait until tomorrow – Monday – when if she still hadn’t made contact, she could ring his office.
‘Calder’s twenty-four hours are up at five this afternoon.’ Mac’s voice broke into her thoughts. Everyone in the MIR groaned. ‘At which point we need to charge or release him. Judge Dalton – that’s Judge Dredd to you and me – has already expressed concern about the lack of gunshot residue on him and his clothing, so let’s pull our fingers out and find evidence that irrefutably ties him in. I don’t want a defence lawyer making mincemeat of us.’
Mac was drowning, clutching at straws, but determined to find something to nail Calder. Even Lucy, who knew how fast things could change, didn’t feel optimistic. They’d brought the entire team to work over the weekend, an expensive process with overtime costs and meal allowances, and blowing Mac’s budget to kingdom come. Uniforms were talking to everyone who knew the Calders, checking out the kids’ friends, everyone who lived within a five-mile radius. When Lucy heard uniforms were trying to trace a couple who had visited the family two weeks before the Calders’ murder, long-lost relatives apparently visiting from South Africa, Lucy immediately thought of the good-looking young couple who’d stood on Irene’s doorstep, scaring her.
She asked Calder about the couple who’d visited his family.
‘Robin and Finch Stanton,’ he told her. ‘They’re Irene’s nephew and niece from Cape Town. We haven’t met them before. Didn’t know they existed until they turned up.’
‘What do they look like?’
‘Er . . .’ Calder tried to think. ‘Short. Wiry. Not much like Irene in all honesty. Dark hair. Finch wore hers in a ponytail. Robin’s got a moustache. They’re both pretty brown. All that South African sun . . .’ He struggled to say any more.
‘Well dressed?’
‘Not particularly. Jeans and fleeces. Trainers.’
With their suntans and casual dress, they didn’t sound like the smart couple who’d stood on Irene’s doorstep and this was confirmed when the smart couple’s vehicle number plate check came through, matching a hire car from Heathrow. Hertz. Loaned to Ivan and Yelena Barbolin, from Russia.