by Robson, Roy
‘What it means, Ron, is that we are going to have a word with this fucking “oligarch”. Get your coat on.’
81
Before setting off for Knightsbridge they swung by the Walworth Road, to fortify themselves with double portions of pie and mash. As they reviewed the situation over their heaped plates Ronnie told H that Kuznetsov was known to him, and had been for years.
‘Fucking hell, Ron, you could of told me you know the geezer’, said H.
‘I didn’t know who you were talking about - all your “oligarch” this and “honcho” that. I just know him through business.’
‘What business?’
‘Oh, nothing major. A few bits and pieces. Property, mostly’, said Ronnie.
‘You mean you help him and his money-laundering mates sell London off to the highest bidders, while proper Londoners…’
‘Let’s not get into the politics of it mate. We’re all just getting a living. Business is business. Do you want me to set up a meet with him or what?’
H gave Ronnie the look, but nodded yes. Ronnie made the call.
‘We’re on. Four o’clock. But…where exactly does he fit in? I mean, what exactly are we going to accuse him of?’
‘Losing your bottle, Ron?’, said H.
‘No, I am not losing my fucking bottle. If it turns out he was involved in Tara’s death I’ll rip his fucking throat out myself. I’m just a bit confused. Lay it out for me again will you, all of it, before we go barging in there.’
‘Well, here’s how I see it’, said H. ‘Tara and Jemima were executed, by a professional hit man. We don’t know who he was, but he was obviously a top-notch professional. We know she was involved, or dragged into involvement with, Agapov, a big man in the Russian firm. I’m guessing she saw or heard something, or was getting in the way, or was wobbling and trying to cut loose, and…I don’t know, Ron. But I know one thing: thugs like Agapov never run the show. Someone further up will have been pulling his strings, and we know from Amisha’s package that he and Kuznetsov were connected in all sorts of ways. And on top of all that, we know he was setting things up for and protecting Old Shitbreath and the other nonces. We’ve got him bang to rights on that…I haven’t even mentioned that pop someone just had at me. Who do you suppose was behind that? And what if you hadn’t been there? If they’d hurt Liv?... I’m going to have him.’
‘OK, but how are you going to have him? You’re suspended from duty, we’ve got no backup, and he’s practically untouchable. These types always seal themselves off completely from the naughty stuff, you know that. Not to mention he’s probably got a small army to call on. Probably all former Spetzsnaz nutters, ruthless as fuck and armed to the teeth’, said Ronnie.
‘They don’t scare me mate. I’ve dealt with them before. Kuznetsov is going to help us with what we need to know, on both fronts, or I am going to put it on him. Severely.’
‘I hope you’ve got this right mate’, said Ronnie, ‘if he’s what you think he is, this is one man we do not want to piss off.’
‘Hold your bottle, Ron. Eyes on the prize. We’ll know what happened to Tara soon. Very soon. Just get me in there.’
82
Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge. H’s mum had once had a cleaning job here, when he was a kid. That was the closest anyone in his family had ever got to the place. Ronnie, much more at ease in these surroundings, nodded to a few familiar faces but saw that H’s jaw was working, and working hard; he was building himself up for a big blast.
‘A few things before we go in, H. I’ve good pretty good idea of how these blokes work. You won’t be able to wind him up, or put the frighteners on him. You can go in all guns blazing, but all you’ll get back is the super-successful legitimate businessman, the smooth gentleman with establishment connections, civilised and confident as you please. He won’t play ball with us unless there’s something in it for him, or he thinks he has to cover his own arse.’
H looked him in the eye, steadied his breathing and nodded: ‘Alright mate. You do the pleasantries. I’ll give you five minutes.’
It was 4pm. The building was all plush and good taste, but nothing too fancy. They were ushered into Kuznetsov’s inner sanctum. He rose from his desk, gushing with charm, and in accented but otherwise perfect English said:
‘Ronald, how good to see you my friend. It’s been too long. And Detective Inspector Hawkins, such a pleasure to meet you at last. Your reputation precedes you.’
Fuck me, Ronnie wasn’t kidding. This bastard’s oilier than a giant slick in the Gulf of Mexico.
‘Something to drink gentleman? No? May I assume this is not a social call?’
‘You may, Kyril’, said Ronnie. H had his mouth clamped shut but was exuding waves of manic, aggressive energy, like invisible solar flares bursting out into the space around him. Ronnie felt the blast, and knew he didn’t have much time. He composed himself and, in the measured tones of someone who knew how to negotiate with ruthless and unyielding competitors, laid everything out. Step-by-step and piece-by-piece: the evidence contained in Amisha’s package… the contents of Tara’s phone… H’s assessment of the situation and of Kuznetsov’s position.
Ronnie’s presentation came to an end. A long, pregnant pause followed. Kuznetsov looked at each of them in turn, composed and unruffled, and considered his options.
Eyes like a shark. He’s got eyes like a fucking shark.
‘Gentlemen’, the oligarch said eventually, ‘I propose a deal. I will tell you everything I know about everything I know, and provide you with detailed information that will aid you greatly in your investigation. In return my name will never be mentioned, documented or appear on anybody’s radar in this matter. I understand that the evidence of which you speak is solid and is in safe hands, and might be used against me at any time in the future; I will therefore take no further action, and we will never meet again. Is this arrangement agreeable to you?’
H nodded, and said ‘Alright son, start talking.’
83
‘First of all, I assure you that I know absolutely nothing about the abduction of your colleague, Detective Inspector Hawkins. None of my people are involved in that, and I don’t know who is. I can, however, shed more light on the activities of Sir Basil Fortescue-Smythe and his friends, though I must make it clear that I myself am not a sexual predator, or any kind of “nonce case.” I simply provided infrastructure and security for the paedophile ring. I took no part in their “meetings.” Over the years I have worked hard to earn the trust of these people, whom I cultivated as part of my strategy for gaining influence and position in this country. I sometimes secretly filmed their activities as insurance. They are very sick people, and I despise them. But they have been very useful to me.’
‘What about the kids? Did you provide those as well?’, said H.
Ronnie’s heart began to beat faster: H was about to blow.
‘Yes and no’, continued Kuznetsov. ‘Agapov had - I assume he is no longer with us, Detective Inspector? - targets to meet. Financial targets. He employed the usual means: drug smuggling and distribution, people trafficking, prostitution etc. Some of the children were, I believe, supplied by him.’
‘You mean supplied by you, you horrible cunt!’, shouted H.
‘Only indirectly’, said Kuznetsov, calm as ever. ‘I don’t deal directly with any of those things. That was Agapov’s job. His replacement is now doing the same. Business is business.’
H exploded out of his chair and moved at speed towards Kuznetsov’s desk. Ronnie got his body in between the two of them just in time.
‘Sit down H. We need more. Keep to the deal!’, barked Ronnie. He turned to Kuznetsov: ‘Tell us about Tara. Who killed my wife, and why did she die?’
The Russian fixed his eye on him; he was unwavering: ‘Ronald, of this I know very little. Your wife’s tragic death was not connected in any way to my activities, or those of any of my people. Of this I can also assure you.’
‘He’s lyin
g Ron’, H screamed, ‘give me five minutes with him. Cover the door and give me five minutes.’
‘There really is no need for these histrionics, Detective Inspector’, said Kuznetsov. Ronnie almost admired his cool. ‘No need at all. You must look elsewhere for your culprit.’
‘Where? Tell me now’, said Ronnie, himself now on the verge of exploding. ‘I’m running out of patience with this bollocks. Who killed Tara? And why?’
‘Look again to our nonce friends, Ronald. As to the whys and wherefores of her death, for those you would have to ask Lord Timothy Skyhill, that great peer of your realm: my guess would be that it was he who commissioned her murder.’
84
‘It all makes sense if you think about it, Ron’, said H, back in the car. ‘Tara comes across the clip of Old Shitbreath and his pals, bang at it. She must have got it from Agapov somehow. She watches it in horror and uploads it to her phone. Five minutes later she phones Skyhill, in a terrible rage. Maybe she threatens him, maybe she just needs to let it out. But she shows her hand. The next morning she’s murdered.’
Ronnie was on fire.
‘He’s got to die, H. Skyhill. He’s got to go. Help me find him. Just help me set it up. Then you can make yourself scarce.’
‘There’ll be none of that mate. We’ll go after him. Together’, said H.
Ronnie called Skyhill’s PA and was told that His Lordship was out of the country. Business. Singapore. Back tomorrow.
H was alarmed at this: the clock on Amisha’s life was ticking loudly, and with Kuznetsov apparently out of the running Skyhill was now the odds-on favourite; if it was true he’d had Tara killed, he would certainly not be beyond a bit of kidnapping. He would need to know what she had discovered, and to whom she’d passed the information. And what about the attempt on H’s life? Skyhill was now also the main candidate for that.
Time for some quick, and clear, thinking. ‘Bollocks’, said H, ‘But…Skyhill will just have to wait. So let’s go and have a word with Sir Basil, and learn what we can learn from him. Let’s not go at this half-cocked. Let’s make sure we get the full picture, and think things through. Do it properly. A day’s grace for Skyhill could work in our favour.’
‘What if the old bastard won’t cooperate?’, said Ronnie.
‘Oh, he’ll cooperate, don’t worry about that. He’s got no backbone, there’s nothing underneath all that old-school bollocks he comes out with. He’ll just want to try and save his arse once he knows it’s all coming on top.’
Ronnie said nothing. He was trying to control his emotions; but he was near bursting point. His leg was pumping up and down like a steam piston, and H could hear his teeth grinding above the roar of the traffic.
Jesus, I haven’t seen him this agitated since Goose Green.
We’d better just get this done. Too late to stop now.
‘OK’, said H, ‘round to Sir Basil’s then. We’ll get him to lay it all out for us, and gather some more evidence. Then we can take care of the others. Blunt and then Skyhill. Yes?’
‘Check. But when you say “take care” of, what exactly do you mean?’ asked Ronnie.
‘I mean I want to nick Old Shitbreath and Blunt, or at least tuck them up and arrange to have them nicked. Skyhill, once we’ve got what we can out of him, I will leave to you.’
‘Is that a guarantee, H?’ said Ronnie.
‘Nailed on. That is nailed on son.’
I owe Ron that. Natural justice. An eye for an eye…Anyway, it’s that or have the whole thing covered up again, and Skyhill gets to carry on following his cock around the world in pursuit of little boys.
At this Ronnie seemed to calm down a little; he began to focus his negative energy, channel his hatred, towards their goal: ‘Alright H. It’s five o’clock. He’ll be at his place in Belgravia. He always has a kip at around this time, then goes back to his club for dinner.’
‘Is anyone likely to be about? Does he have any staff?’, asked H.
‘There’s a cleaner, as far as I know, but I suppose she’s finished by now.’
‘Right. Buckle up Ron. We’re going to bring the hammer down on the sick old bastard, and not before time.’
85
They found the old man swinging from the ceiling in his bedroom. Ronnie was exultant, and laughed out loud.
‘Well, he’s done the job properly’, said H, feeling for a pulse, ‘he’s definitely brown bread. I’m no pathologist, but I’d say he hasn’t been here long.’
Good riddance to bad rubbish.
Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bloke.
‘Have a root about, Ron, see what you can find.’
Ronnie busied himself in the lounge while H rifled through the bedroom drawers and wardrobes. There was nothing to be found. Not that it seemed to matter much now.
‘In here H’, shouted Ronnie. ‘He’s left a note.’
H went through. Ronnie picked up the letter from a desk, and read:
To Whom It May Concern
The net is closing in. I have decided, now that my crimes are about to be revealed, to dispatch myself to hell before somebody does it for me. I have been made aware that my lifelong friend and partner in crime Lord Timothy Skyhill is responsible for the murder of my daughters. This is a consequence of the way we have lived our lives. I can take no more. I have been a weak man, and a bad man. I am ready now to accept the judgement of God.
Sir Basil Fortescue-Smythe.
‘Fuck it’, said H, ‘Kuznetsov has put them all in the picture. They’ll know we’re coming for them. We’ve got to get to the others before they do anything stupid as well.’
‘Skyhill won’t top himself’, said Ronnie. ‘Think about his performance in that clip. And all those times you’ve seen him on the telly, giving it. The cunt is so full of himself it’s a wonder he can stand up straight. There’s no way he’s going to top himself.’
‘I hope you’re right mate. OK, let’s go and deal with Blunt’, said H.
86
Sir Peregrine Blunt was at home - an old pile outside Tonbridge Wells - considering his situation. He had been instructed by Skyhill, in the aftermath of Joey Jupiter’s expose of the shenanigans in Thailand, to work with his friends at the War Office and the Press Association and get a D-notice issued. There was to be no uptake of Jupiter’s findings in the news media, and his blog had mysteriously disappeared. Anyone who wanted to run with the story would risk being buried under a ton of hot bricks in the name of national security. Another cover up was now in full swing; the method was tried and trusted.
But they had not counted on H coming after them. He and Ronnie had now blown the usual order of business out of the water and Blunt, like the others, was dreadfully exposed. The message from Kuznetsov had shaken Blunt to the core. The game was up. H, to whose own son he had shown no mercy, would be on his way, soon.
Blunt had always lived alone. He had known little love or genuine companionship in his life. But he had spent a distinguished career dishing out severe justice to wrongdoers, and for that had at least earned respect in some quarters. But Kuznetsov had sold them all out, and now that would be gone. Gone. Along with everything else.
There was nothing else for it. He drained a bottle of brandy, took some rope chording from a curtain, made it into a noose, went into his conservatory and fitted the noose high, on the metal framework at the ceiling. He had seen enough botched jobs over the years - people making their problems worse in the long run by using doors, doorknobs, windows - to know you had to go high and solid. He stood on a chair. He had been depressed - quietly, desperately depressed - all his life. No one would miss him. He felt strangely calm as he pushed the chair away.
Crunch! He found himself, with a rush, in mid-air. An agony of writhing, jerking and gagging. His head exploded with flashing lights and his ears rang like cathedral bells.
Not long now.
Ronnie was first in; he smashed through a glass pane, barrelled across the floor and grabbed Blunt’s legs, ta
king up the slack.
H was right behind him: ‘Is he alive?’
Blunt’s attention came back to the room. To the mortal world. The ringing in his ears subsided; he heard voices. He wanted to live - to return to earth and live forever. He was overcome with relief.
‘Sir Peregrine’, he heard someone say, ‘I’ve got a few questions for you. Answer them nicely and we’ll get you down. Don’t mess us about now. Simple questions, simple answers. Play the game and we’ll take you straight to the hospital. Understood?’
Blunt nodded: yes.
‘Is it the case that Timothy Skyhill ordered the murder of Tara Ruddock?’
Blunt nodded: yes. He tried to speak, and in a low whisper said ‘Yes. But I never knew…the Russian has only just told me.’
‘OK’, said H, ‘next question: a young policewoman has been abducted. We think also by Skyhill. Do you know about this? Do you know where she is?’
Blunt nodded: no. Fear and despair rose within him.
I’ve got to give them what they want, but…
‘I know nothing about this’, Blunt whispered. ‘No abduction, no. Skyhill in charge…the “tidying up” activities all between him and his people. He has a former MI6 man with his own team.’
‘OK Sir Peregrine, last question’ H said gently, ‘think very carefully before you answer this one. Don’t hide anything from us now: where do you think he would have her taken? You must have had some hideaways for your little parties? No?’
Blunt was getting weaker.
‘Let me down, please. I need to sleep’, he whispered. He was becoming hard to hear.
‘Absolutely. But where would he have taken her?’
Blunt searched his brain; it was not exactly fizzing with oxygen. ‘We used…a place in Leysdown, on the Isle of Sheppey…a clubhouse on an old caravan site…and an old warehouse on a wharf, in Grays.’