by Alan Judd
The day was also punctuated by calls from Katya Chester, who had the irritating knack of leaving a message nearly every time Sarah was away from her phone. When Sarah eventually rang back she had to endure waves of apologies for bothering her and tender concern for how she was feeling, her weekend, the dinner party at Jeremy’s and whether Charles had enjoyed it. Eventually she cut Katya short with, for her, unusual brusqueness.
‘Katya, I’m fine, we’re both fine, everything’s fine and I’m very busy. What is it you want?’
‘Of course, I understand. I am sorry. I shall be quick for you. First, the conveyancing on my house. Is everything all right and is there anything else I can do?’
‘Until you send me the details I asked you for the other day there’s nothing I can do. You just need to get on with it.’
‘Of course, yes, thank you for reminding me. I will do that immediately.’ There was a very slight pause. ‘The second thing is a message from Mr Mayakovsky. He wishes to know whether you are able to act for him concerning the properties he wishes to buy.’
There was a brief struggle between conscience and desire. Her desire was never to see Mr Mayakovsky again but she still felt, irrationally, as if she were potentially a cause of trouble to Charles and that she should therefore do what he wanted. She knew he didn’t see it like that but nevertheless she felt responsible. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘please tell Mr Mayakovsky I am content in principle to act for him.’
‘He will be very pleased.’ Katya giggled, an irritating tinkle. ‘He told me that if you agree to act for him he would like me to make an appointment for him to see you. May we do so?’
She wasn’t having that. If he wanted her to play ball he could make some effort himself. ‘Tell him to ring and make an appointment with me or my secretary. If you’ve nothing else, I’m afraid I have to go now.’
She put the phone down and sat for a few seconds wondering if she had got that wrong; perhaps he wanted to make an appointment via Katya not because he couldn’t be bothered but in order to edge their relationship towards a clandestine footing. Charles would want her to encourage that. But he might also want time to prepare her for the next meeting, to wire her up, as he had inelegantly put it. In which case, the more notice the better.
The phone rang again. She answered mechanically, noting a Sussex number. Something to do with the cottage, presumably.
‘Sarah, hello, sorry to bother you at work.’ A woman’s voice, clear and confident. ‘It’s Wendy Wheeler. I’m sure you’re very busy but I’d like to consult you in a professional capacity about a personal matter. I want to divorce Jeremy.’
Until the last sentence Sarah was gathering breath to enthuse about the dinner party and promise that the thank-you card would be on its way that evening. Unless Charles had sent one, which was highly unlikely. She then had to suppress her second reaction, which was to say she wasn’t surprised. She said she was, and was sorry to hear it. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not a divorce lawyer—’
‘That doesn’t matter, I’d just like some advice even if it’s only to tell me where to go. You’re the only lawyer I know who’s not in some way involved with Jeremy. I’ll pay you properly, course.’
‘Don’t worry about that if you’re not formally engaging me. We can meet for a drink or coffee or something when you’re next in London—’
‘I’m coming up today. We’ve a flat in Pimlico. I could meet you anywhere any time.’
She sounded determined but not emotional. Sarah sighed inwardly. She had been hoping to get home at a reasonable time and do some more unpacking. ‘All right, let’s arrange something. I am sometimes peripherally involved in divorce cases because I do a lot of property work but I should say first of all that you don’t need a lawyer if it’s by mutual consent. If it’s contested or if there’s a lot of money involved you’d best engage a specialist. What does Jeremy—’
‘He doesn’t know yet. Have you time for a drink after work? I could come to you.’
Sarah suggested the restaurant in the crypt of St John’s, Smith Square, convenient for the new house in Cowley Street. She would be home within minutes afterwards. Wendy rang off before she had a chance to thank her for the dinner. She didn’t sound as if she were about to burst into tears or want a lengthy heart-to-heart, which was just as well. Sarah returned to her screen. There were a further six emails from a wealthy Hong Kong property speculator who had failed to get his son into Eton and wanted to sue the college. The firm’s proposed new Hong Kong office couldn’t open soon enough so far as she was concerned. Meanwhile, she forwarded them to the litigation department; they were welcome to him. But all the time, between her and the screen, was the image of Wendy’s face when Charles announced the death of Viktor. It was Wendy’s stillness that had struck her then, and that stayed with her now.
14
Despite his experience of bureaucracies, Charles had assumed that being Chief of MI6 would mean being at the pinnacle of operational endeavour and decision-making. The reality, he realised as he spent most of the day on the phone or in meetings, was that operational decisions were taken lower down and that his role was more the overseeing of a production line, an unending process of reports, meetings, agreements, liaisons and procedures which, he felt, would function as effectively with a virtual chief as with a flesh-and-blood one. It was clear that significant change would call for determination and constant vigilance to see that what was agreed was enacted. There was surely some law of thermodynamics expressive not of chaos theory but of continuous reversion to comfortable stasis. Chief Nag was the title he privately awarded himself.
However, there were two telephone calls concerning his real task, as he saw it. The first was from DI Steggles with some not very useful answers about Peter Tew’s time in prison; the prison service was proving ponderous and reluctant, as usual, and Steggles had no contacts in that particular prison. The second was from DI Whitely who wanted to travel up from Hastings to take his formal statement. Aware that this would be difficult to explain to his staff without saying more than he wanted, and tempted by the excuse to get down to Sussex again, he insisted he would come to her later in the day. Her disappointment was palpable.
The Bristol was in the basement garage where there was a store of camp-beds for people who had to stay overnight. From long habit, he kept travel kit and spare clothes in the boot of his car. He would take a camp-bed to the cottage, a chance to withdraw and think. Both Sarah’s numbers were on voicemail, so he left messages, told Elaine he was helping MI5 with a spot of police liaison and pointed the long nose of the car towards the M25 just before the rush-hour. It would do the ancient V8 good to fill its 5 litre lungs on motorway and dual carriageway.
Driving gave time to think and he made good progress. He would be early and so, seeing Bodiam signposted, he swung off the A21, towards Viktor’s house. It was the nearest he would get to saying farewell, a final handshake with the past. The place would no doubt be taped off, boarded up, maybe even guarded against press intrusion – he had seen from his phone that the brutal murder of what they called the leading Cern scientist had made national news – but just looking at it for a few minutes would be enough.
It was neither taped nor boarded and there were no cameras, but nor was he alone. A light blue Ford Fiesta was parked in the drive. He placed the 410 carefully alongside it, taking his time as he thought how to explain himself. The front door was opened by DI Whitely, wearing jeans and a dark jumper that emphasised her pallor.
Charles spoke first. ‘Hope this isn’t illegal but I thought I’d drop in on my way to you as a kind of farewell. I thought there’d be a guard on it. I wasn’t going to come in.’
‘You may, sir. Forensics have finished with it now. The lawyers are running round trying to find out who owns it. No-one’s found a will yet.’ They shook hands. Her manner had changed. The official’s resentment of outsiders was replaced by the simulacrum of respect and openness. Someone had spoken to her. ‘There’s no family
that anyone knows of?’ It was a question rather than a statement. She knew enough now to know that he would know.
‘There’s a former wife abroad but I doubt they’ve had contact for many years.’ The old MI6 would have insisted on a will when they bought Viktor a house as part of his resettlement package, in which case there should be a copy on file. He would get someone to check, assuming the file was recoverable. Presumably they were still paying his pension, too, just like the SVR. He’d opened his mouth to speak again but a thought stopped him, a thought so obvious he couldn’t believe it had only just occurred. The SVR was a bureaucracy like his own, a wounded one at that; if the Russians had discovered where Viktor was, they wouldn’t have gone on paying his pension. Even if they kept it going to conceal their discovery they certainly wouldn’t go on paying after they’d killed him. Bureaucracies were like that. If Viktor’s pension was still being paid, it was unlikely to be the Russians who had killed him.
DI Whitely was waiting for him to speak. ‘Okay to look round?’ he asked.
The bloodstains had been cleared from the hall. The part of the floor where Viktor’s body had landed was conspicuously clean. ‘Forensics did a good job clearing up after themselves,’ he said.
‘They didn’t. They don’t. It’s usually left to the family or the owners. Pretty awful for them.’
‘Who did it this time, then?’
‘Me.’ She was staring at the floor.
‘Why?’
She looked up with a half-smile and turned away. It was the first time he had seen her smile. ‘Silly, really, kind of superstition. I just felt it might somehow bring me closer to what’s happened, being here, you know. It’s my first murder, you see. Well, it was, before the ACC got on to my superintendent and told me to, you know, soft-pedal because the Met and SO15 are involved. Taking over, he meant.’ She looked at him. ‘I understand you – er – you know something about all that, sir?’
‘I was professionally involved with Dr Klein a long time ago. But I share your superstition, as you call it. That’s really why I dropped in today.’
She looked relieved. ‘I got the impression from the ACC that the investigation’s not likely to go anywhere, not here anyway, because the perpetrators are – er – overseas where we can’t get at them.’
‘That’s what most people think. We don’t have a very happy extradition history with the country concerned. Even when we do have names of suspects, which we don’t here. Okay to walk round?’
They went from room to room, looking at everything and nothing. There was an impression now of unloved functionality, a common characteristic of solitary male occupancy. The house was used, organised, probably appreciated, but unadorned and not obviously cherished. Charles wondered whether his Chelsea flat had felt like this to visitors. His Scottish house almost certainly did.
‘Houses need to be lived in, don’t they?’ she said, lingering by the leather-topped desk in the smaller study.
There were a few sheets of A4 printing paper on the desk, some with scrappily pencilled equations or algorithms, one with what looked like notes for chess moves. Viktor’s several computers had been removed for analysis and those mathematical jottings, Charles thought, should probably have gone with them. On the other hand, they could just as well have been abstruse calculations relating to Viktor’s betting. He had been a daily gambler, not only with horses. Perhaps you had to be a gambler to do what he did.
‘His phone records haven’t yielded anything?’
‘Nothing yet. Just local contacts. One or two we’re following up.’
‘Computers?’
‘They’re still working on those. Takes time, going through the hard drives. Especially with the backlog of terrorist cases.’
They went back down to the hall. ‘Why don’t we do the statement here? Saves me going down to Hastings and you can presumably go straight home.’
She hesitated, looking at the floor. ‘S’pose we could.’
They sat at the dining-room table. Like all the police he’d met, she preferred to write the statement at his dictation rather than have him write it, as was his right. He let her do it; it was short enough anyway and he found himself feeling sorry for her. They soon finished but she was in no hurry to go. Her handbag was open on the table and he noticed a packet of cigarettes.
‘Smoke if you like,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t feel right, somebody else’s house. Also, it’s a crime scene, therefore a work place, therefore illegal.’
‘Dr Klein did. You’d have been on your fourth or fifth by now if he’d been here.’
She took out her cigarettes. ‘Smoked Turkish ones, didn’t he? I saw that. Like James Bond.’
He fetched the ashtray from the mantelpiece. ‘Is it troubling you, this case?’
‘Not really, no.’ She exhaled, then added assertively, ‘No, it doesn’t at all, not personally. No reason why it should. It’s just that – I don’t know what it’s like in your business – but here you don’t often get much of a go at the good cases. This would have been my first murder. Probably my only murder – most police officers never get anywhere near a murder. I was so pleased when the super said I could do it. Perhaps he already knew it would be taken out of our hands. Should’ve known.’
‘He didn’t. I’m sure of that.’
‘What d’you think will happen?’
‘Well, the investigation will go on – including you but not with you in charge – and there’ll be an inquest. Bound to be a big story because there’s already been publicity, hasn’t there?’
‘It’s gone viral. All over South East news.’
‘The verdict will have to be unlawful killing by a person or persons unknown. We may get names through intelligence channels but we’ll never get usable evidence or an extradition. That’s if it is the kind of case most people think it is.’
‘You think it isn’t? Sorry.’ She proffered the cigarettes.
He shook his head. ‘I have a private theory that it isn’t. But we need to know more than we do before anyone else would take it seriously. Above all, I’d need to know how.’
She looked at him, waiting. He was debating whether to involve her. ‘Perhaps I shall have one.’ She smiled and pushed the packet towards him. Smiling emphasised her tiredness.
Accepting a cigarette in Viktor’s house was a kind of homage to Viktor. In hotel rooms and safe flats across three continents he had smoked cigarettes he didn’t want, to be companionable, to keep Viktor talking, to help him feel he wasn’t alone. It might help now.
‘There are one or two things you might be able to help with,’ he said. ‘Provided it’s not against your own rules. Don’t want to get you into trouble.’
‘Tell me and I’ll tell you.’
‘The main thing is to find an escaped prisoner called Peter Tew.’
‘No problem with that. We’re always looking for them.’
‘Let me tell you about him.’ He included the little he had learned from DI Steggles. ‘I’ve noted a few names here, prisoners he got to know who might hide him.’
‘I’ll run them through the system and make sure Tew’s description is circulated.’
Afterwards he took the cross-country route through single-track lanes that for long stretches became hidden leafy tunnels. Two fallow deer leapt across the road thirty yards ahead of him, gliding like ghosts into the chestnut coppice. The sun was setting when he reached Brightling, touching the church tower and the tip on the stone pyramid in the churchyard. Their cottage, local sandstone like the pyramid, looked asleep in the evening shadow. It was a pleasure to behold.
It was less of a pleasure to see Jeremy Wheeler’s Range Rover parked across the road and the bulky figure of its owner turning away from the cottage door. Seeing Charles draw up, he raised his hand as if in exculpation.
‘Didn’t know you were a Bristol owner,’ he called, before Charles was properly out of the car. ‘Are you a member of the owners’ club?’
‘N
o.’
‘You should be.’ The church clock struck seven. Two cars took the double bend in front of it too fast. Jeremy, red-faced and wide-eyed, stared at Charles as if lost for words for once. Charles resigned himself to inviting him in.
‘Passing by, just dropped in to see if you were around. Fancy an early supper at the Swan?’
Despair at the thought prevented Charles from coming up with an immediate excuse. Jeremy, like the law, construed silence as assent.
‘Splendid. Just a quick one. Wendy’s out this evening, didn’t fancy cooking. I’ll get up there now and grab a table. Join me as soon as you can.’
The Range Rover’s suspension took the strain as Jeremy got in; what Jeremy considered a quickie meal was unlikely to be light. Irritated with himself and resentful of Jeremy, Charles rang Sarah, really for no better reason than to complain to someone. But she was still switched off and he didn’t leave a message.
The Swan was not crowded and Jeremy had a window table at the back overlooking the patchwork fields and woods between there and the sea. When Charles arrived he was clasping his near-empty pint glass in both hands and staring not at the view but at the chair opposite, morose and heavy-featured. As Charles approached, his expression transformed itself into manufactured delight.
‘Well done. What are you having? I recommend the Harveys. Very good and very local.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Good thing about coming all the way out here is that it’s on the edge of the constituency and I don’t run into too many of my constituents. At least, not that recognise me. Always getting caught out over their bloody names. I know politicians are supposed to be good on names but I’m not. The venison’s good, so’s the pheasant. Both poached, probably. Lot of that round here. You really should join the Bristol club, makes it easier to sell when the time comes. 410, isn’t it? Pity. 411s were a better car.’