by Chris Simms
‘Let’s find somewhere to sit down, shall we?’
Their table overlooked the terminal and Jon stared down at the mass of humanity below. Spanish-looking student types sitting on the floor, rucksacks propped against the windows of a newsagent’s booth. Commuters with their heads down, striding determinedly to their platforms. People wheeling suitcases with airline tags still attached to the handles. A black cleaner meandering through the throng, plucking up items of litter with long-handled pincers.
A staff member arrived with their drinks. ‘Black coffee?’ he asked, Australian accent unmistakable.
‘Cheers,’ Jon replied, taking the drink.
‘Latte?’
‘Thanks,’ Rick answered.
The man placed the last drink before the suited man then disappeared back through the balcony doors.
‘What with almost breaking my fingers?’ the man from MI5 asked, tearing open a sachet of sugar and pouring it into his tea.
Jon felt his face redden slightly. ‘I didn’t know who the hell you were. For all I knew, you were a gang of pickpockets.’ He glanced awkwardly at the other two men who were sitting in silence at a nearby table.
The young man smirked. ‘Gor-blimey, it’s crawling with tea-leaves round these parts.’
Jon registered the mocking tone. I should have squeezed your fingers harder, he thought.
The man stirred his tea. ‘What was your business with Mykosowski?’
‘We’re pursuing a line of enquiry,’ Jon replied. ‘A string of incidents up in Manchester.’
‘You’re with Greater Manchester Police?’
‘The Major Incident Team. I’m DI Spicer, this is DS Saville.’
The man placed his teaspoon in his saucer and smiled. ‘What type of incident?’
Jon sat back. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I haven’t given it.’
‘Up north,’ Jon replied, deliberately overplaying his accent, ‘we get to know each other a bit before exchanging information. You know, chat?’
‘I’m an MI5 officer.’
‘So I gathered from your badge.’
‘What sort of an incident?’
Jon sipped from his coffee, saying nothing.
The man looked at Rick, who stared back in silence. ‘This is absurd,’ he blustered. ‘I make one call and this information will be sent to me – by your Chief Constable, if necessary.’
Aren’t you the big fucking deal, Jon thought. ‘You want to borrow my phone?’
The MI5 man raised a hand and swept his long fringe back into place. ‘Bloody ridiculous. My name is Edward Soutar.’
Jon held out a hand. ‘Jon Spicer.’
Looking bemused, the man shook.
‘And this is Rick Saville.’ Jon nodded at his partner.
‘OK,’ Soutar said, taking Rick’s hand. ‘All done?’
Jon turned to the nearby table. ‘All right, boys? I’m Jon.’
One raised a finger. ‘Alex.’
‘Matt,’ his colleague added.
Jon nodded then turned to Soutar. ‘There. I feel at ease now.’
‘Good. Slavko Mykosowski is under our surveillance. I can’t divulge any details.’
‘People trafficking, by any chance?’ Rick asked.
The officer shot him a glance that hinted Rick was wide of the mark. ‘Why were you questioning him?’ he asked, looking back at Jon.
‘Murder investigation.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘We don’t know. Three men, all claiming to be Russians, have been garrotted in recent days. All were housed in Home Office-provided accommodation after having put in bogus claims for asylum.’
Soutar was now sitting forward, hands clasped on the table. ‘Why bogus?’
‘The case owners at the Border Agency had started looking into their claims. None of their names were even real.’
‘They had no documents?’
‘None. Arrived in only the clothes they stood up in. Picked up by a fishing trawler, having been drifting off the south-west coast for some time.’
‘When was this?’
‘Almost two weeks ago.’
Soutar produced a notebook and pen from his attaché case. As he started jotting things down, a wasp homed in on the torn sachet of sugar. He flicked a hand at the insect and it moved away, turning its attention to a glass of half-finished Coke.
‘Have you got any photos of these three men?’
Jon nodded, reached into his own briefcase and extracted the Border Agency mug shots. ‘This one,’ he tapped the photo of Bal, ‘had borrowed a mobile from a fellow asylum seeker. He called Mykosowski’s office, staying on the line for over six minutes.’
‘We’ve started looking into Mykosowski’s freight business as a result,’ Rick added. ‘He operates tramp ships – vessels with no fixed schedule or ports of call – which travel all over the world. The three murder victims all spoke Russian. They said the ship which dumped them in the Irish Sea had set off from St Petersburg. Is Mykosowski trafficking people?’
Soutar glanced up. ‘If he is, it’s the least of our concerns.’
‘So why are you watching him?’ Rick asked.
Saying nothing, Soutar spread the photos out, and as he examined them, Jon watched the wasp.
Antennae seeming to bob with excitement, it reached the rim of the glass then attempted to walk down the inner side. Immediately it lost its grip and fell into the Coke. With ponderous movements, it began trying to free its legs from the meniscus, but lifting one limb only seemed to press its other ones in deeper. Soon, its abdomen had also become attached to the sticky surface. It buzzed its wings in frustration, the noise slightly amplified by the glass.
‘Tell me,’ Soutar said. ‘These murder victims. Have you got a suspect?’
‘We have.’ Jon half extracted Yashin’s photo from the file.
‘There was a fourth man on the lifeboat they were all found on. He’s since absconded. On our way to interview Bal, we actually passed the guy on the stairs. We got to Bal’s accommodation seconds later and found him dead. Killed, literally, minutes before.’
‘No sign of this fourth man when you tried to catch him up?’
‘No. This is him. He used the name Vladimir Yashin.’ Jon placed the Border Agency’s shot on the table.
Soutar looked down at it and nodded. ‘The dead guys. They weren’t being trafficked: they were working with this man.’ He held up the photo to the two men at the other table. ‘Lads.’
Jon saw both men’s eyes widen.
‘He’s done three up in Manchester,’ Soutar stated matter-of-factly.
The one with the short cropped hair whistled. ‘Another day at the office. Were they garrotted?’
Jon turned in his seat. ‘Yes. Wire, nylon or something – whatever it was, their heads were just about hanging off.’
‘That’s how he likes to do them,’ Soutar replied. ‘A brief struggle, a little noise, but no chance once the thing’s round their neck.’
Jon stared at the younger man. ‘You mean, you know who he is?’
‘We do. I can assure you of this, DI Spicer, you do not want to come close to this man.’
‘Who is he?’
‘The devil, mate,’ the crop-haired man spoke from the other table. ‘Alive and well and striding the face of the earth.’
Jon remembered the look in the man’s eyes as they’d passed on the stairs. A needle of ice traced its way down his vertebrae.
‘They crossed paths on the way to one of the murder victim’s flats,’ Soutar said, a grin playing on his face.
His colleagues shook their heads.
‘Two minutes earlier,’ Jon said. ‘And we would have caught him in there.’
‘Two minutes earlier, and you wouldn’t be talking to us now. Count yourselves lucky you were late,’ Soutar replied.
‘Who is he?’ Jon repeated.
‘Call him a jack of all trades.’
‘I’ll call him my prime s
uspect.’ Jon placed his elbows on the table. This building-up of the man calling himself Vladimir was getting annoying. ‘Do I call you agent?’
Soutar shook his head. ‘I’m an officer. Like you.’
‘Officer Soutar, you have information on a series of murders which I’m investigating.’
The younger man raised his bottom lip, nodding in acknowledgement. ‘I do. But I also know this investigation is touching on something that relates to national security.’
‘I’d appreciate you letting me know who the hell this man is.’
Soutar picked up a teaspoon, fished the drowning wasp from the glass and, with a flick of his wrist, deposited it on the table. It crawled out of the puddle it found itself in and started trying to brush the moisture from its antennae with its two front legs. Soutar placed the spoon to one side, picked up the glass and lowered it onto the insect. Jon heard the crunching sound as its carapace gave way.
‘You probably think the crimes you investigate up in Manchester rank as major incidents. But believe me, DI Spicer, this investigation is in another league. And compared to the scallies – as I believe you call them – up there, this person is an entirely different species.’
‘Liverpool,’ Jon said quietly.
‘Sorry?’ Soutar replied.
‘Scally is a Liverpudlian expression. We prefer the term scrote in Manchester.’
‘Do you?’ Soutar lifted the glass and examined the pinkish jelly oozing from the split in the motionless creature’s thorax.
Nice speech, Jon thought. Probably been practising that ever since you got the nod from MI5 at the graduate fair you went to at Oxford or Cambridge. He thought about his own years serving in the police, the endless investigations he’d worked on. ‘Until my senior officer tells me otherwise, it’s my murder investigation, Ed.’
Soutar looked up, clearly irritated. ‘Tell me, Detective. Did you inform the Metropolitan Police that you would be here?’
Jon felt his nostrils flare as he took in breath. Shit, the little twat has got me.
Soutar’s smiled gloatingly. ‘I thought not. By the time your train has crawled back into Manchester, your investigation will be over, Detective.’
Jon replaced the photos in his briefcase and stood up. ‘You reckon?’ He reached across the table and flicked the dead wasp into the younger man’s lap. Soutar’s chair shot back and he jumped to his feet, tugging frantically at the seams of his trousers to dislodge the corpse.
As Jon made his way to the balcony doors, he caught sight of the crop-haired colleague turning away in an attempt to keep his grin hidden.
Less than four hours later, Jon was standing outside the door to Vladimir Yashin’s flat. A notice headed with Greater Manchester Police’s crest advised him not to enter. He thought about how, on their arrival back in Manchester, his suggestion to take a look round the Russian’s accommodation had caused an expression of awkwardness to sweep across Rick’s face.
‘I’m meeting Andy,’ his partner had said. ‘We were going for some food in China Town.’
We’ll probably be off this case in the morning, Jon thought. Last chance to get a handle on who our man is.
‘It’s almost half nine,’ his partner had continued. ‘We’ve been on the road since eight this morning.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Jon had replied. ‘You go for it.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I might have a quick peek.’
‘You’re making me feel guilty, now.’
‘No – get some food. Murray and Gardiner have gone over the flat already. I’m only being nosy.’
‘Why don’t we both go first thing tomorrow?’
‘First thing tomorrow, mate, we’ll be dragged in to see Buchanon. You can be sure of that.’
‘Come on, then.’ Rick had started towards the cab rank at the rear of Piccadilly station.
‘No. Have your meal. We don’t both need to go.’
Rick’s step faltered. ‘You sure?’
‘Yes. I’m only going because I’ve got nothing better to do.’
Jon opened the ziplock bag and removed the small keys from inside. Voices grew louder and a fire door further down the corridor opened. Two men stepped through, their conversation coming to a halt when they saw a white man wearing a suit in front of them. Jon nodded in their direction and they nodded back, skirting round him in silence.
Jon waited for their footsteps to die away then reached into the bag, his sense of touch slightly dulled by the latex gloves he wore. He released the hasp, removed the padlock then undid the door’s main lock. It opened on a dark and airless room. He stood in the doorway, testing the smells. A citrus-type scent lay on top of the musty aroma of old carpet. He reached in and turned on the light.
The bulb in a round plastic ceiling shade stuttered into life and Jon found himself looking at a bare room, stripped clean of anything personal. Already knowing his search would reveal no tangible evidence, he stepped inside and walked to the centre of the faded carpet. A narrow sofa, a chair that would have looked at home in a doctor’s waiting room, a flimsy table. Empty shelves ran along one wall, a small gas fire set into the base of another. He crouched in front of the sofa and placed a hand on the slightly dented backrest, picturing the man who’d sat there. The memory of him on the stairs returned. The hunch-shouldered descent, full of barely controlled violence.
Jon stood up, walked over to the corner door and leaned into the tiny bedroom. Light spilling in from the main room revealed blankets and a pillow piled neatly at the base of the bed. Straight out of a barracks. The kitchen cupboards were empty, except for a single jar of pickled gherkins. Jon removed the lid and the sharp smell caused his nose to wrinkle. He screwed the lid back on and walked over to the window. On the sill was a can of air freshener, the yellow cap hinting at its lemon-scented contents. His eyes turned to the window. Off to the left was the Boddington’s chimney, all that now remained of the city’s famous brewery after its foreign owners decided to move production elsewhere. Away to the right was the imposing Victorian tower of Strangeways prison. Jon surveyed the rest of city, eyes moving over the massed lights. Where are you? he thought. Nearby? Or is your work done? Have you vanished back to whatever world spawned you?
He shook his shoulders and glanced at his watch. Just after ten. Still time to catch Braithwaite, if I’m lucky.
The psychiatrist’s car was parked outside his old house. Jon batted the indicator lever down and pulled into a free space almost opposite it. Come on, you bastard, he thought. Make your excuses and head into the city. Please.
The living room was softly lit, and staring at the crack at the top of the curtains, he watched the strength of the glow rise and fall. They’re watching something on the telly. He glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten twenty. Alice usually heads up at half past. If he’s not staying over, he’ll be making a move soon.
Ten minutes later, he became aware of a change in the darkness off to his left. Bending forward a little, he was able to see Belinda, the elderly woman who doted on Holly, at her front window. Funny time, Jon thought, to open the curtains and be talking on the phone.
She was gazing over Jon’s car, talking directly at his old house. A tingle of alarm went through him as he turned to look across the road. Fuck! The curtains of his old front room suddenly opened and there was Alice, phone pressed to one ear, trying to peer out. Jon started his car and began to pull away. In the periphery of his vision, he saw Alice hand the phone to Braithwaite and hurry from the room.
A black taxi was making its way towards him, parked cars on either side reducing the road to a single lane. His front door opened and Alice started running down the garden path.
‘Bollocks,’ he snarled, stomping on the brakes and trying to slam the car into reverse.
‘What are you doing?’ She was at his side window, pounding it with her palm. ‘Tell me! Why are you out here watching us!’ Flecks of spit hit the glass.
Headlights appear
ed behind him. No. This is not happening.
‘Answer me. You have no right to be doing this!’
The driver of the car behind continued inching forward. Jon slammed a hand against the steering wheel. The stupid prick. He clambered across to the passenger side and jumped out. ‘Back up, you fucking arsehole!’
‘What are you doing here!’ Alice screamed, pointing at him across the roof of the car. ‘Answer me!’
Jon caught her eyes for a moment. Then he strode towards the car behind. Belinda was now on her front step, arms crossed over a dressing gown. The woman in the car looked like she was about to scream as Jon reached her vehicle.
‘Fucking move!’ he yelled, slamming a hand down on her bonnet.
She looked over her shoulder and the car began to zoom back, engine whining.
Braithwaite was now at the front gate. ‘Alice, come inside. That’s enough.’
‘No!’ she shouted, anger and confusion filling her voice. ‘He won’t answer me. Say something, you coward!’
He glared back at her, teeth clenched tight. I wish I bloody could. The curtains on the first floor moved and he saw Holly’s pale face behind the glass. Her mouth was open and she was sobbing. ‘Go to her.’ His wife frowned and he pointed to the window. ‘She’s upset. Go to Holly.’
The sight of her daughter’s distress caused Alice to retreat.
‘I’m telling my solicitors about this, I bloody am.’
Jon stood looking up at his daughter. His sternum felt like it was splitting open as he raised a forefinger and placed it against his lips. God, I can’t even go in there and give you a cuddle.
As Alice hurried through the front door, Braithwaite was struggling to close the catch on the garden gate. Once Alice was inside, Jon stepped over. ‘I know what you’re about,’ he stated quietly.
Braithwaite stepped back. They regarded each other for a second. Then the other man suddenly seemed aware of the gate between them. Jon saw realisation in his eyes. You don’t dare enter, his look said. Braithwaite’s face relaxed slightly. ‘I’m sorry?’
Jon raised his eyebrows in warning. He saw Braithwaite’s expression change from alarm to pity. Slowly, the other man shook his head, turned on his heel and walked back to the house.