The Hunt series Books 1-3: The Hunt series Boxset

by Tim Heath

  Sasha wanted to get to the scene of the alleged crime––all reports confirmed it happened in the same street where he knew the Volkov mansion was located. One reference had mentioned an upstairs window on a building facing the Volkov home. He’d been there. Svetlana’s own security occupied the building directly opposite––was it possible that this had been an inside job, someone who’d stepped out of line and needed silencing? But Foma? A man worth over $7 billion. Or maybe the shot had come from the next door building––a building he’d used himself when Alex and Anissa were over, and they were able to watch the New Year event unfolding, to some degree.

  Pulling up outside the basement restaurant that was a few doors down from the mansion––a place where a van was always parked whenever anyone was at home, telling him the mansion was therefore currently empty––Sasha got out of his car. High above on the building opposite, without looking directly at them, Sasha could tell the men were still in place, a twitch of the curtains enough to give away their presence. They would most probably know who he was, too, at least guess he wasn’t just a tourist anyway. His car gave him away to those in the know, not that the team of security in an upstairs apartment was a concern to him at that moment. He wasn’t there to attempt an entry into the mansion.

  Most noticeable of all was the smashed glass on the ground––yellow police tape still visibly marking off that section of pavement––the window in the same room they’d been watching from at the beginning of the year now noticeably boarded up. So the shooter had been in that next door building. It wasn’t an inside job. That made it particularly intriguing.

  He wouldn’t risk going up there to have a closer look. The apartment might well be guarded anyway, and while his role within the FSB would warrant his presence there, it wasn’t his case. Some agents within the service didn’t like other agents stepping in on their toes. He left that thought there, turning from the building––the glass and the tape––and faced the Volkov mansion once more. Little evidence remained to suggest anything at all had taken place. That was the first thing that stuck out. If, as indicated in at least two of the reports he’d seen, there were multiple shots––at least three were heard, one report said it was four––then the police would have combed the area for the impact craters. Sure, a direct hit from a less powerful weapon might have meant the bullet never passed through, but he suspected it was, in fact, a sniper’s weapon and four shots, and a falling body would have left some trace. There would be signs of the bullets hitting concrete, tarmac, brickwork––anything. There would also have been blood residue left from the victim. He’d been around corpses enough to know how the blood got everywhere. Even after sawdust was applied––and there was no sign any had been––it took heavy rain or a thorough clean of an area before it was gone entirely. That gave strength to the feeling that it might have been a fake story.

  Why had there been multiple reports, however? Granted, they had all been taken down already, but that could have been done by anyone. It didn’t mean the stories were wrong. And what about the broken glass, the police tape? Clearly, something had happened here. Someone apparently knew a little more than was being said.

  He needed more. He knew he needed to gain access to the property the shooter––assuming there was one––had been watching from. There was no other way of being more certain. Sasha carried on down the street, turning the corner where the open all hours convenience store was located. Taking that turn, he looped back around and in through a courtyard, which led to a rear entrance to the block of housing that made up the opposite side of the street to the Volkov mansion. The door had been left open.

  Sasha climbed the few flights of stairs that were needed to get up to the third floor, taking a corridor that led him deeper into the building, passing other apartments on the way. There was nothing evident on the door to the apartment in question. He remembered it had been empty when they used it––run down and unused, which is why he’d been able to source it for the stakeout––and assuming someone had just used it for the same purpose, he presumed it was still empty. He forced the door, which gave way without much of an effort.

  Everything was as he’d remembered it, if not a little more dusty, a little more run down. Clearly, it was still empty. He felt the breeze coming through before he got into the main room, the window boarded up, though a slight gap appeared down the left side which allowed a little light, as well as air, into the dank room. A small patch of sawdust lay on the floor underneath the window.

  Sasha went over and moved it around with his boot––blood was immediately evident. As was the smell of gunpowder. Shots had been fired from this location––and evidently, a body then found as well. Was it possible that this, in fact, had been the murder, these were the shots that had been heard? A stray bullet or two smashing the glass on their way through the victim? That thought had some merit, but there was no crime scene tape, no report about such an incident taking place. Something had apparently happened, but as far as he could see, there were no police reports on record.

  The fact it was this apartment––the very same empty apartment they’d used months before––all but ruled out it being a murder. No one lived there. Why else would something like that happen in an empty home? It was also a perfect vantage point for the Volkov mansion. When you put men together who had so much wealth, there would be a long list of names who might want to take revenge.

  Given the amount of blood, there must be a corpse, or at least a severely wounded individual, who wouldn’t just disappear, but the story was being brushed under the carpet.

  Someone, somewhere, knew something. It was his job to find out.

  If he could get access to the body, he might be able to work out who had sent him. If he could figure that out, it might lead on to other things.

  He left the apartment with the thought that Foma might well have been the target––not clear if the attempt had been successful or not, and the blood suggested not––though what had really happened, and why it was all still so silent, he was yet to work out.

  14

  Trial day had arrived in St Petersburg, a day Anissa thought would never come, though as she woke in her hotel room that morning, she wondered if she was even ready for it now. It had taken an enormous effort to get things that far. There had not been a trial in Russia of a British suspect charged with murder since the William Hackett scandal, the repercussions of which were still being worked through some time on.

  Anissa’s aim all along––as well as achieving some level of justice for Josée, and to some degree, the family of the victim––had been to expose before the Russian judicial system the very existence of the Games. There was nothing like being forced to reveal their dirty laundry in public to make them give some answers.

  Nothing had come up in the news about the case––which was a little disappointing, though the less profile Anissa received during the ordeal, the better. It had been kept quiet because of an agreement by all three countries––the French for the protection of their national, and key witness in the trial, the British for the protection of a Security Service member who was deemed vital for the witness to give her evidence, and the Russians––which was the biggest surprise of all––unless you understood that those with so much to hide had apparently made this one proceed in the shadows.

  Walking into the courtroom, Josée just ahead of Anissa, it wasn’t anything like Anissa expected. The space was light and modern. There was also apparently no space for a jury. Anissa had been looking forward to watching the faces––and in particular, the reactions––of the jury members as everything got disclosed.

  When the judge arrived––his English clear and understandable––he quickly set the tone as they all took their seats. Leona sat to one side. It was the first time since the incident that the two Contestants had been in the same room at the same time. Neither looked at the other.

  The trial was to be conducted in English, and the reason immediately became apparent.<
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  “Seeing as today’s hearing will be solely before me––there will not be a jury,” the Judge stated. Anissa immediately wanted to interject, to demand why on a murder trial such a move––though not without precedent––had been made, but she stopped herself. Of course, she should have expected this. They would have made sure no ordinary Russian was there to hear what was said. It meant the Judge must already be in the know. Her trip and potential exposure were most probably already pointless. She’d certainly put herself on the FSB’s radar, without being able to open up before an impartial jury the goings-on by one particular group of Russian men. “I will speak in English, the native language of the woman who stands accused of the crime I will be assessing the evidence for. As I understand it, all persons present have a good level of English, so a translator is not required.” He looked at Josée––the intended person of that last comment––and moved proceedings on.

  Over the course of the next few hours, both lawyers made their initial opening arguments. Crucially, Leona was not denying being in Russia at the time of the incident. They would get to question her more directly about why she was there later, they hoped. But her defence team obviously realised trying to argue that element was not in her best interest. If she denied being there only to be confronted by video and documentary evidence, it would blow a massive hole in her credibility.

  Where they would argue the case, however, was who––if even either of them––had killed the janitor. Leona’s lawyer finished up her opening address with the stark statement that her client was adamant the janitor was alive and well when she left the lovers to it––that she had nothing to do with whatever may have unfolded, she had just been there looking for the ticket.

  So the ticket had come up. The Judge asked for no clarification––there was no confusion on his face as if to wonder what she meant by a ticket––it was clear he already knew all about it and wasn’t going to press that angle. Josée’s lawyer also knew about the ticket, so couldn’t really ask those questions––much to Anissa’s frustration––instead she just focused on doing her job, which was to get justice for her client.

  As the afternoon progressed, Leona was called to the stand. This was when at least the prosecution could get the chance to lay into the defendant. By instructing her lawyer to say the janitor had been alive when she left––instead of outright denying being there, which is what Josée’s lawyer had imagined would have been the case––it suddenly brought her own client a little nearer to the crime, in theory. Potentially in the eyes of the Judge, Josée suddenly became a possible perpetrator––maybe not the innocent witness after all––maybe a cold-hearted killer instead? She should have seen that coming. Perhaps she’d been foolish to bring this to trial at all?

  Anissa––who was there as a support for Josée as well as a witness not to the actual crime but of Leona being there––now had less of an upfront role to play. The defence lawyer had just admitted her client was in the room where the crime had taken place. The British agent was growing increasingly frustrated. All the things she wanted to expose, all the progress she wanted to make in the case against the Games, seemed likely to fall on deaf ears. She couldn’t even guarantee the safety of Josée, someone she’d personally harassed to bring this all to trial.

  As the defence lawyer summed up at the end of the first day, she’d gone to town at painting a potentially very different picture. That her client, Leona, a successful and now wealthy woman who’d won her competition––she’d repeatedly referred to the Games, and the ticket in particular, as just that––was having her good name and reputation dragged through the mud by an out of work, depressed and suicidal woman, who was looking for someone to blame for her defeat and subsequent downfall. That despite having sex with the man––Josée had not been put on the stand yet but already her life was being exposed––she hadn’t won the money, something her own client had rightfully claimed. She then finished with the sting in the tail––that after seeing her client with a lifestyle of wealth and apparent happiness, Josée envied her. That it was her own jealousy and self-loathing that had brought them all to trial in St Petersburg that day, that maybe in fact the blood was on her own hands. Perhaps in her anger at losing sight of the ticket––having promised the man sex in exchange for entry into the Armoury––she’d lashed out at the one person she could. That in fact, she was responsible for the murder, that it should be Josée on trial, and not her own upstanding and valued member of society––who had done nothing but good to others both before, and especially after, her good fortune.

  Josée was in tears, breaking down at the closing statement, dramatically presented by the defence lawyer before the Judge. The day was officially ended, the Judge then immediately leaving the room, as both lawyers returned to their clients.

  “It’s all complete lies, she’s even trying to implicate me now, Anissa. You never said that would be the case.”

  “She’s just trying to cast doubt.”

  “What if they don’t believe me? What then?”

  “We haven’t shared our side of things yet. You’ll see, it’ll be a better day tomorrow.” She didn’t believe it. Josée and her lawyer then spoke in French with each other––the words fast––tears flowing before long. Anissa couldn’t imagine what she must now be going through. It’d been a rough first day, and the defence seemed to be throwing everything at them to place doubt in the mind of the Judge. By implicating Josée in the actual crime, it questioned her entire character as a witness––if she had committed the crime, of course she would try to blame someone else for it. Anissa hoped the Judge would be able to see through it all. Nothing about the first day had gone to plan, however.

  They left the courthouse together at five. Leona had already gone––she was still under house arrest, though after a day like that, there was no knowing how long that would even last. Josée was staying with the lawyer––they had booked their hotels separately, so Josée was in a different one from Anissa––which suited the British agent. She needed nothing but a little space and time to think. She would most likely face some questions herself tomorrow, as well, and needed to be ready. The defence lawyer was after blood. If she could find a way of implicating MI6 in the murder––what were trained killers doing in Russia in the first place?––Anissa was sure that bitch would. For the first time since agreeing to go with Josée, Anissa wondered if she’d made one colossal mistake. How the Russians would love a British spy in prison for the murder of one of their own.

  After a shower and some food, she called Sasha. As a British MI6 agent, she’d had a tail since landing in St Petersburg. However, it had been Sasha and his team who were assigned the task. He had men outside the courthouse during the day––standard stuff, just Russia keeping watch on a foreign spy. Sasha would take all the evening shifts, allowing him to meet with Anissa without anyone else knowing. He joined her in the hotel’s bar at nine.

  “Rough day?” he said, Anissa having filled him in a little over the phone, the two empty glasses that sat in front of her telling him the rest. They chatted for half an hour about the day’s events in the courthouse, then Sasha brought her up to speed somewhat on what he’d found out.

  As the first day of the trial had been taking place in St Petersburg––Sasha had made brief contact with Anissa, though they both knew they would have to connect properly later––the Russian agent was himself still continuing to run his own investigation into what exactly happened––and to whom––outside the Volkov mansion.

  He’d managed to track down the body, using his own connections in the police force as well as FSB seed money, to buy himself that information. He’d also paid to then have his own pathologist take a look at the body.

  Sasha received those results during his lunch break that afternoon. The report detailed the man’s DNA and fingerprints––something he would later run through the FSB database to see if he could identify this as yet unnamed dead sniper. The report, on Sasha’s express r
equest, also detailed the startling fact that there was no gunpowder residue found on the body. If he’d fired multiple shots––three or four shots from what those early reports suggested, though he’d been unable to clarify how many exactly––there would have been something showing on the shooter, particularly on his hands or arms. Somewhere, and something. But there was nothing. Aside from the kill shot to the back of his head, the sniper’s body was clean. The fact the sniper had been shot in that empty apartment they found him in––where the rumoured shots at the Volkov mansion would have had to come from––and yet for there to be nothing on the body, suggested that the sniper was already dead. He hadn’t fired his weapon.

  To have killed the original man then still to have made the hit was an interesting thought. Had the target therefore changed? Had Foma ordered the initial hit, his man now lying in the morgue, only to become the target himself once his plan had been discovered? And Sasha still needed to track down Foma, to find out for sure if he really was the target.

  As Sasha sat in his office that afternoon––one eye constantly on the clock with an internet feed that slowly updated the events taking place in the trial––he ran the prints and DNA for the body he’d had tested. He found a match.