by CJ Carver
He nodded.
‘Welcome home,’ she said to Jenny, handing over her passport.
Jenny nodded. ‘Thanks.’
Emily turned to Milena. ‘Please, if you would come with me.’
Milena sent Dan a look of panic.
‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘You’ll be fine. Emily will look after you, won’t you, Emily?’
‘Of course.’ She looked insulted that he’d asked.
Using a pen of Emily’s and one of her cards, Dan scribbled his mobile number down on the reverse and gave it to Milena. ‘I’ll bring you a phone tomorrow but in the meantime I’ll keep in touch through Emily, OK?’
She gave him a tremulous smile but the fear didn’t lessen. He guessed she wouldn’t feel secure until she had her residence card in her hand. He watched her walking away, her figure small and uncertain next to Emily’s confident stride.
‘How do you know her?’ Jenny was also watching Milena.
Dan took a deep breath. ‘Her friend, Ekaterina, used to be an asset of mine.’
Jenny gave him a searching look. Then she turned to look after Milena. She said quietly, ‘They’re both incredibly brave women.’
Dan didn’t say anything. He took Jenny’s hand in his and together they walked to passport control.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Tuesday 10 February
Lucy parked her car beneath a leafless tree and climbed out into a biting easterly peppered with sleet. Wrapping her scarf around her neck and half her face, she jogged for the hospital. This time, nobody was there to take her photograph. There were no hordes of journalists, no TV vans. Instead the killings were plastered over the front pages of every newspaper, double-page spreads of the victims’ stories inside, great swathes of photographs, writers’ comments, special reports. It was a media feeding frenzy, which the general public was lapping up.
She pushed open the door. Inside, it felt stiflingly warm and she quickly shrugged off her coat as she strode down the corridor.
While Mac had driven back to Stockton late last night, Lucy had stayed at her mother’s. It had been Mac’s idea that she should stay south for a couple of days’ recuperation and she hadn’t demurred. She felt she deserved a bit of a break.
As far as the police knew, the slaughter of the Stantons had stopped now the FSB agents were off the grid; one having been turned by the British Security Service, the other sent back to Russia in a diplomatic flurry of counter accusations. Not that there were many Stanton descendants left alive after the killings, which appeared to have spread to Australia as well. On the surface, every death looked like an accident, but nobody was taking this at face value any more. Apart from Timur and the two cousins, there were just two more that they knew about, and both were in England: the neo-Stalinist UKIP candidate in Sunderland and Jenny Forrester in Wales. The FSB had done a good job of wiping out most of the competition for Jenny’s unborn son, which was no doubt Lazar Yesikov’s intention. He had wanted his DNA to be passed on and lead Russia one day, but thanks to her and Dan, and the two Russian women as well as Jenny, his plan had been foiled.
Yesss! Lucy mentally punched her fist in the air as she turned into the hospital car park. Result!
Irene had been moved out of intensive care and was now in a long ward lined with windows showing a view of the car park. She was sitting up in bed with a newspaper, half-talking to her nephew and niece who, apparently, were due to leave for South Africa at the end of the week.
‘It’s been one hell of an adventure.’ Robin was shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘I can’t believe we survived,’ Finch remarked drily. ‘Considering.’
Although Robin’s wrist was still bandaged, his arm was no longer strapped against his chest. Their bruises had faded and the scratches healed. They could have a big story to sell to the media but so far they hadn’t said a word. Lucy wondered how long the tale would remain out of the public view and guessed for as long as they wanted it to.
‘How are you, Irene?’ Lucy asked.
The woman had colour in her cheeks and a glint in her eye. ‘I look forward to seeing Zama,’ she said. ‘Robin, he tells me she is pregnant. With a boy!’
Irene had lost her daughter and her grandchildren, lost her son Aleksandr firstly through estrangement, and then through murder, but she wasn’t defeated. She had taken the one positive thing out of the mess and held it up to the light. Her granddaughter and great-grandson. Irina Kazimir was indefatigable.
‘We’re going to visit Dan and Jenny before we go,’ Finch said. ‘Now we know they’re relatives of ours.’
‘Wouldn’t it be great if they visited us back home?’ Robin asked. ‘We could take them around some wineries.’
Lucy was half-listening to them talking about which bedroom they’d allocate for Dan and Jenny, which beaches they’d take Aimee and their baby son to, her eyes drifting over Irene’s newspaper. More stories about sex abuse. More violence in Syria. A grandmother who escaped death when her light aircraft crashed. A UKIP candidate killed in a hit-and-run.
A magenta contrail streaked through her mind.
She reached across and picked up the paper.
UKIP CANDIDATE KNOCKED DOWN AND KILLED IN SUNDERLAND.
Gregory Stanton, 45, who was originally from Newcastle, was struck by a car late on Saturday. He was on his way home from meeting friends at a pub when he was knocked down at a pedestrian crossing. The driver of a Ford transit van is being sought after the hit-and-run.
The magenta contrail spread into a cloud that began to crackle into white lightning.
Another accident.
Another Stanton dead.
Her breathing tightened. Was it another murder? If so, why were the family still being killed if the FSB agents weren’t around any more? Did Robin and Finch know about this? What about Irene? Why hadn’t they mentioned it? Or had they just not read the article? As her thoughts raced the lightning increased, crackling and firing at a tremendous rate.
Numbers tumbled in her mind, agitated, urgent.
Times and dates.
It was all to do with timing.
Ivan and Yelena Barbolin, the FSB agents, had arrived in the UK on Thursday the twenty-ninth of January, the day before Adrian Calder’s family were massacred. However, Oxana Harris’s eldest son Lewis killed his two young children and himself by driving his car into a quarry and drowning the week before. The police had thought there might have been another FSB team in the UK, but what if they were wrong?
And what about Ivan Barbolin? According to Dan he’d been adamant he and Yelena hadn’t killed the Calder family or Aleksandr Stanton. He had admitted to killing Elizabeth, however, and Adrian Calder.
Why?
She stared at the newspaper article, her mind fizzing as it scrambled to rearrange the information she had.
Irene’s words tumbled past the lightning.
Timur’s voice.
You’re not a fucking prince. You’re a nasty, cruel little freak. And your children will be nothing but vicious little freaks too.
If I were you, I’d have him sterilised.
Someone was still killing the Stantons.
‘Are you all right?’ It was Finch, looking at her warily.
‘Fine, thanks.’ Lucy felt dizzy. She had to ring Dan, she realised. Warn him. Then she’d ring Mac. She rose to her feet. Walked outside. She dialled as she headed for her car. She didn’t feel the sleet pecking her cheeks or the cold teeth of the wind snatching her hair. Didn’t register the diesel engine behind her. To her frustration, Dan didn’t pick up. She began to leave a message.
‘Dan, it’s Lucy. I don’t know if you know, but Gregory Stanton’s been killed. I think it’s still going on. I have my suspicions as to who it is, OK? But no hard evidence yet. I just wanted to warn you and Jenny to be careful of –’
She never got the next words out because something hit her very hard on the back of her head.
‘Sorry,’ said Rob
in and he hit her again.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
They had made love earlier, long and slow and lazily, as though they had all the time in the world, and now they were dozing together, luxuriating in the fact they didn’t have to get up for anything and that Aimee was occupied playing nurse to Poppy downstairs. Jenny was blinking a little, yawning and thinking of nothing but how good Dan felt, how delicious he looked with rumpled hair and sleepy eyes, when the landline rang.
‘No,’ she mumbled. She didn’t want to leave the cocoon of their embrace.
‘I’ll get it.’
She watched him lean over her for the phone, his chest broad and his muscles well defined. ‘Nice,’ she murmured, but he didn’t respond. He was saying, ‘Hello,’ into the phone as he sank back on to the pillows, and ‘Yes . . . Oh . . . I see. I’m not sure . . . Can you wait while I ask Jenny?’ He covered the mouthpiece with a hand. ‘It’s the South African cousins,’ he whispered. ‘They want to come over today.’
Jenny felt a moment’s dismay. ‘But I thought they were coming on Thursday.’
‘Their flight’s changed.’
She started to shake her head. She was already having trouble getting her head around the fact she was adopted and the thought of being introduced to these cousins made her feel vulnerable and strangely frightened. She’d been an only child all her life with no cousins that she knew of, and she couldn’t imagine what these two people around the same age, who shared the same blood, the same genes as her, might be like. She felt she needed more time before she met them. It was only now she could see how dissimilar she was to her mother, and how different she was from her father who had been so proud of his Scottish ancestry, trying to instil in her a sense of pride in her Scottish heritage. A heritage which she now knew didn’t exist. A heritage of dust and lies.
She’d seen her parents once since her return and had demanded to see her birth certificate along with the adoption paperwork, and the absolute veto. And there it all was, proof that her birth parents were Aleksandr and Elizabeth Stanton. She’d looked at the two people who’d raised her as their own and felt the anger and horror of betrayal. She’d turned cold and aloof and, although she knew she was hurting them, she hadn’t been able to help herself.
All my life, you lied to me! she hissed. You stole my identity!
We did it to protect you, pleaded her father.
We didn’t want to lose you, sobbed her mother.
Jenny had left without another word. She knew she’d return because she wanted to know her life story from the very beginning in order to find some sense of self. She loved them, but first she had to forgive them. Her emotions were all over the place, partly due to the trauma of her kidnap but also not knowing who she really was. She felt abandoned and confused, and the knowledge that both her birth parents had recently been murdered added the extra burden of despair and grief.
Thank God for Dan and Aimee, and the baby who, amazingly, seemed to be doing just fine despite the stress she had undergone. They were her anchors, her security and sanity. At Dan’s suggestion, she had contacted Adoption Support and booked herself in for private counselling sessions. The first one was next week. She hoped it would sort out the tangled mess in her mind and heart.
‘Jen?’ Dan said gently. ‘They’re really keen. And South Africa’s an awfully long way away. You don’t want to regret not meeting them while they’re here, do you? They may not be back for years, if ever.’
Her mouth twisted. Some days she wished Dan didn’t know her quite so well because he was right. She probably would regret them leaving without her having at least laid eyes on them. ‘All right,’ she relented. ‘But not for long, OK? Just for a cup of tea or something . . .’
Dan gave a nod and returned to the phone. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Look, that’s fine, but we’ve only got an hour or so spare this afternoon.’ He raised his eyebrows at Jenny who nodded and held up four fingers. ‘Can you make it around four o’clock?’ He rattled off their postcode and some final directions. ‘OK. We’ll see you then.’
He passed her the phone and she returned it to the cradle. ‘You stay there,’ he said. ‘How about I get us some tea, and we can drink it in bed.’
They finally got up just before midday, something they hadn’t done since their earlier days, when they’d been gripped by an intense, almost crazy and insatiable lust. They even showered together, which they hadn’t done since Aimee had arrived. And which will continue, even when our son is born, Jenny promised. She’d lost Dan once – she wasn’t going to lose him again.
She knew there was more to the story of Ekaterina Datsik from the way Dan behaved whenever her name was mentioned. He would blink and become strangely distant and although he told her she could ask him any questions about his mission in Russia and he’d answer them honestly, Jenny decided to let sleeping dogs lie. If he’d slept with Ekaterina, or had feelings for her, it was a long time ago. Besides, even though he’d recruited the woman he hadn’t apparently been able to remember her, but Jenny knew how powerful the core of a memory was, and part of her – the fiercely protective wife and mother – didn’t want him to have been in love with her.
While Dan cooked bacon, Jenny made the batter for some pancakes. They ate in the kitchen, Dan scanning the Sunday papers while Jenny and Aimee tried to decide which cakes to bake for their South African guests.
‘Chocolate brownies,’ Aimee insisted.
‘Not everyone likes chocolate,’ Jenny chided.
‘They DOOOO!’
They’d decided upon a traditional Victoria sponge with buttercream when Dan checked his phone. Another first – he hadn’t looked at it since they’d woken. Now, he listened to his messages. It was only because she knew him so well that she was forewarned something was wrong. His expression didn’t change, nor did he stiffen or shift on his chair, but a predatory stillness came over him.
She watched him pick up the newspaper and flick through it, frowning. Then he fetched his iPad and opened up the BBC news site. Obviously, whatever he was looking for hadn’t been in the paper. Jenny waited patiently until finally, his eyes locked on hers. He pushed the iPad over to her. As she began to read, she heard him walk into the utility room. A soft thunk indicated he’d pulled out the skirting board and then came the sound of him handling a set of keys. They had a distinctive bell-like jingle thanks to the novelty key ring Aimee had given him for his birthday last year. Every hair on her body rose.
The keys to the gun safe.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Lucy awoke to plastic cuffs binding her wrists and ankles. She had a thumping headache that reached from her neck over the back of her skull and into her brain, her eyes. A sick dirty ache that made her groan.
Blearily she raised her head and looked around to see she was in a van. The vehicle was humming along smoothly, which Lucy took to mean they were on a dual carriageway or motorway. Two benches lined the walls. Carpet on the floor. Bits of rope and boxes of equipment scattered about. Her feet were secured to a metal ring at an anchorage point near the right rear wheel arch. Her hands were locked to another anchor point. Finch sat on one of the benches, watching her.
Lucy had been under the complete power of another person – absolutely helpless against whatever they might do to her – once before and a rush of pure terror bolted through her, loosening her bowels.
‘Please . . .’ she managed.
Finch looked at Lucy with an expression that was almost chiding. ‘It’s your own fault,’ she said.
Lucy didn’t say anything. Her mouth had gone dry.
‘If you hadn’t put two and two together,’ Finch went on, ‘we wouldn’t be here. We would have finished our job and been long gone.’
‘Job?’ Lucy rasped.
Finch looked irritated. ‘Not a job, job. We’re not employed or anything. We’re doing it because we want to, we need to. We’re doing it for mankind. To protect future generations.’
The va
n turned left, throwing Lucy to one side. She was forced to use her hip and knees to brace herself against the movement of the van to avoid straining or rupturing a joint.
Lucy said, ‘The hit-and-run in Margate. It wasn’t real. It was to make you look like victims. Divert attention away from you.’
She didn’t think it mattered if she challenged Finch. The cousin didn’t appear to care if Lucy knew she was a murderer. She guessed she wasn’t going to be released. Don’t think about it, she told herself. Keep Finch talking. Find an advantage of some sort. Work it.
‘Give Pc Plod a Mars bar for deduction.’ Finch’s black marble eyes were flat. She leaned forward, her hands between her knees. ‘You must understand. We didn’t want Elizabeth or Adrian dead. Only those directly related.’ She shook her head, seemingly with regret. ‘But I guess the FSB wanted all witnesses who knew about Jenny and her heritage, silenced. Then they could bring their little Kazimir up unimpeded, no doubt making up some wild story about him being conceived in Russia by pure-blooded Russians.’
Lucy worked her mouth but no saliva came. ‘You killed Adrian’s family?’
‘They might have got the same ideas again. Genetics and behaviour. They could turn against minorities. Look at Gregory Stanton.’ Finch’s expression tightened into a mask of hatred. ‘The world is better off without him. Fascist bastard.’
‘You set Adrian up,’ Lucy said. ‘You made us think he’d killed his own children.’
‘It was Robin’s idea. We’d stayed with them earlier so we knew the layout of the place. The codes on the gun cabinet. Adrian was far too trusting, really. But then he thought he had nothing to fear from us. We were relatives. A trusted part of the family.’
‘Robin wore Adrian’s clothes,’ Lucy said as she worked through what had happened. ‘So they’d be covered in gunshot residue.’
‘It nearly didn’t work. Adrian turned up earlier than we expected. Robin dumped the clothes in the bin and set fire to them to try and make Adrian look guilty. Then he fled through the woods . . .’