“We’ve been watching them for quite some time now,” Proud said.
“Them?” Smith said.
“Gogol,” she said, “aka Ivanov aka Wolfie.”
Smith’s heart started to beat faster at the mention of Wolfie’s name.
“Real name Viktor Boronov,” Proud continued, “born in Moscow in Nineteen sixty eight. Self proclaimed citizen of the world. His family moved from Moscow in seventy seven. Do you really want to know all this?”
“I want to know everything,” Smith said again, “let me guess the next part. They moved from Moscow to Talinn, Estonia?”
“Half right,” Proud said, “they did move to Talinn but in seventy seven it was still part of the former Soviet Union. Boronov was nine years old when they moved. One year later his parents were both killed. Car crash according to the records but that’s not what really happened to them.”
“What really happened?”
“They were eliminated,” Proud said, “you must understand that in those days very few people knew what went on behind the so called iron curtain. People disappeared on a daily basis.”
She paused to take a sip of the coffee.
“Nineteen seventy eight,” she continued, “Viktor Boronov is ten years old and an orphan. You can’t imagine how terrible it must have been for him; being passed from one barbaric institution to another.”
“My heart bleeds for him,” Smith stubbed his cigarette out on a saucer.
“You said you wanted to know everything,” Proud said.
“Sorry,” Smith said, “go on.”
“Fast forward ten years or so,” Proud said, “the walls have come down and the old Soviet machine has crumbled and fallen to pieces. Free enterprise has taken over but very few people know how to handle it. Enter a man in his twenties with the street savvy that only years in and out of institutions can give you.”
“Wolfie?” Smith said.
“Boronov,” Proud said, “he saw an opportunity and took it. Supply and demand. The barriers between east and west had all but gone; money was flowing in at an alarming rate and suddenly there was a demand never experienced before.”
“Demand for what?” Smith said.
“Demand for what the west had enjoyed for years,” Proud said, “drugs, fast cars, women, you name it. In a very short space of time, Boronov became a wealthy man.”
She drained the last drop of coffee from the mug.
“Do you want some more?” Smith said.
“Ok,” Proud said, “fast forward another ten years and Estonia has broken free of the chains of the Soviet Union. Free in theory anyway. The Russians still controlled pretty much everything but the people had an identity. Boronov had not only amassed wealth over the years; he had gained contacts. Contacts that ensured he was virtually untouchable. Politicians, high ranking police officials, you name it.”
Smith put the coffee mug in front of her.
“There was nobody who could stop him from doing whatever he wanted and it was then he became most dangerous.”
“The man’s a psychopath,” Smith said.
“But also an incredibly intelligent human being,” Proud said, “a paranoid genius is virtually impossible to outsmart. He will always think everything through to the last detail; always be one step ahead. Have you got anything stronger than this?”
She pointed to the coffee.
“I drank all the Jack Daniels,” Smith said, “but I’m sure there’s an old bottle of Brandy around here somewhere.”
He stood up and walked through to the living room. He returned with a bottle of Remy Martin and two glasses.
“In the mid nineties,” Proud said, “Boronov became weary of Estonia and hatched a plan to recruit an army of loyal followers in cities all over the world.”
“That much I know,” Smith said, “The Brain of Wolfie. He recruited my little sister remember although I wouldn’t use the word ‘recruited’.”
“It was nothing personal,” Proud said, “he took Laura because she was just the right age to change her; to brainwash her.”
“Ok,” Smith took a long sip of the brandy, “let’s fast forward to today shall we. Wolfie, or Boronov or whoever he really is is now in York. He tried to kill me and then he killed my sister. Why?”
“We all know about Talinn Jason,”
It was the first time Sarah proud had used Smith’s first name.
“What do you mean?” Smith said.
“Like I said, we’ve been following Boronov for a long time. You were nearly killed in Talinn,”
“I guess I’m just lucky,” Smith smiled.
“Its more than that,” Proud said, “you should not be alive. Boronov showed an uncharacteristic mercy. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“You said you have to be back in London tomorrow?” Smith said, “then what?”
“Boronov is finished with York,” she said, “it’s all over.”
THIRTY SEVEN
It was past midnight when the bomb squad officers had deemed it safe for the residents of Green Street to return to their houses.
“The double glazing companies are going to make a fortune out of this mess,” Chalmers said to Whitton.
“What do you think happened here?” Whitton said.
“We’ll find out tomorrow,” Chalmers said, “Today I mean. It’s already tomorrow isn’t it? I wonder if Paul heard anything.”
“Paul?”
“The Ghoul,” Chalmers said, “He lives on this street. I think I’ll pay him a quick visit. Knowing him he’ll still be up and he always has a cold beer in the fridge.”
Chalmers walked a short distance down the street and stopped outside a house with a blue tiles roof. The lights were off inside the house. He walked up the driveway and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He must be working late, Chalmers thought. He knew the Ghoul often worked all night; he put in more hours than anybody else in the pathology department.
“He’s not home,” Chalmers walked back to where Whitton was standing. She was talking to Thompson.
“I think we can call it a night,” Chalmers said, “There’s nothing more we can do here.”
“Has anybody heard from Smith?” Whitton asked.
“He’s probably lying drunk somewhere in a ditch,” Thompson said.
“You’re all heart,” Whitton said, “he’s had a rough few days.”
“Haven’t we all?” Thompson said.
“His sister was pulled out of the Ouse this morning,” Chalmers said.
“Oh my god,” Thompson said, “I didn’t know it was his sister. He must be feeling terrible.”
“He’ll be fine,” Chalmers said, “I’m off home. I think tomorrow is going to be just as shitty as today was. I’ve got a sinking feeling the press are going to have our balls on a plate.”
“Why do you say that?” Thompson said.
“Think Thompson,” Chalmers said, “first Jimmy Fisher then Tommy Pike, not to mention Pike’s boy. Three people dead and what have we got to show for it? Absolutely bugger all. The press are going to eat us alive.”
“Our hands have been tied,” Whitton said.
“That means bollocks to that lot,” Chalmers said, “we’re in for a roasting, I can promise you that. Go home, get some sleep. You’re going to need it.”
“I’ll give you a lift,” Thompson said to Whitton.
“Good night,” Chalmers walked towards the bomb squad van.
Frank McCallum was busy packing away his equipment.
“Find anything?” Chalmers asked him.
“Not much left to find,” McCallum said, “the cars totally burned out. We’ll know more when Webber and his team start digging around a bit. There was definitely somebody in the car. It’s not a pretty sight though. I reckon the only chance of an ID is from dental records. Poor bastard was burned to a crisp.”
A truck towing a low bed trailer drove up and parked next to the burnt out car. Two men got out and carefully eased the car onto the tra
iler. From the light of the street lamps Chalmers could see that the road that had been underneath the car when it exploded would need to be repaired. The blast had made a small crater in the tarmac.
“I’m going home,” Chalmers said to McCallum.
THIRTY EIGHT
“It’s far from over,” Smith finished the brandy in his glass and poured another one, “When he killed my sister he made it personal.”
He tried to light a cigarette but his hands were shaking so badly he could not manage it. Sarah Proud took the lighter and lit the cigarette for him. Smith stared into her eyes. The deep hazel colour seemed darker. Proud broke eye contact first. Smith did not know why he did it but he put the cigarette on the saucer in front of him, leaned over and kissed her on the side of the face. Sarah Proud smiled.
“I knew your sister,” she said.
Smith did not know what to say.
“I met her just over a year ago,” Proud said, “she was a very special young woman; very stubborn. A lot like you I suppose.”
“I still don’t get why she didn’t get away from Wolfie and his mobsters when she had the chance,” Smith picked up the cigarette again, “she was the most headstrong person I’d ever met. She wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want to do when she was a kid.”
“Her mind was programmed early,” Proud said, “besides, she wouldn’t have known any other life.”
“When I met up with her in Talinn she was a completely different person,” Smith said, “the little girl I remembered was gone. She was cold and unemotional.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to know her better,” Proud said, “she was much deeper than that when you broke the surface. She had a kind heart. I think that’s another reason why she was so loyal to Boronov.”
Smith took a long sip of brandy and stood up.
“I need a shower,” he said, “I stink and I need to wash this day off me.”
“Do you want me to scrub your back?” Proud smiled.
Smith took her hand and led her upstairs.
The warm jets of the shower woke Smith up at once. Sarah Proud moved the shower curtain to the side and slipped in next to him.
“What happened there?” Smith touched a small scar on her stomach.
“I got in the way of a maniac with a sharp knife,” she said, “can we stop with the questions for a while?”
Smith put his hand on the base of her spine and kissed her on the lips. He was not sure what was happening but whatever it was felt right at that very moment. This enigmatic woman had entered his life and something inside him had lit up. He did not believe in fate but this was something close.
As they dried each other off, Smith stared into Sarah Proud’s eyes. They seemed different now; they were warmer and more trusting. Smith still could not believe what was happening; this government agent who only days before had seemed like a calculating robot was standing naked in his bathroom.
“I’m tired,” Proud said, “god knows what time it is.”
Smith finished drying her hair, took her hand and led her to the bedroom. They climbed under the sheets and held each other. They lay there in silence. Smith suddenly thought of something; it was something important but the thought drifted away as he listened to the rhythmic breathing of the woman lying next to him. The last thing he thought about before he drifted off to sleep was the sound of the waves crashing onto the beach in Fremantle.
THIRTY NINE
Thursday 12 August 2010
Smith shot up in the bed. He was covered in sweat. He had been dreaming about snakes; snakes with dead eyes. He turned and looked at the empty space in the bed beside him. Sarah Proud was gone. He tried to remember what had happened the night before; the brandy, the shower and he wondered if it had all been a dream. He smiled; it had definitely not been a dream. He got out of bed and got dressed. He listened carefully for any sounds in the house but everything was quiet. He ran downstairs and looked around. Sarah Proud was not there. He looked for a note to explain her sudden disappearance but he could not find anything. He picked up his phone and saw he had received a call from The Ghoul. There was a voice message too. He switched on the kettle and opened the back door. He made the coffee and took it outside to the back garden. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The nicotine flowed through his system and for a few seconds his vision went black. He pressed the message retrieve button on the phone. The message from The Ghoul was eerie. ‘I’ve discovered something interesting, nay sinister about our friends from SOCA. Check your e mails. Phone me as soon as you get this’.
Smith listened to the message again. What did The Ghoul mean by that? He thought. Sinister? He dialled The Ghoul’s number but a monotonous voice informed him that the number he had dialled did not exist. He ended the call and dialled Sarah Proud’s number. He heard the same monotonous voice again. ‘The number you have dialled does not exist’.
There must be something wrong with the network, Smith thought. He put the phone down on the table. It started to ring immediately. Smith picked it up again. It was Whitton.
“Sir,” she said, “where are you?”
“At home of course,” Smith said, “what time is it?”
“About ten,” Whitton said, “I’ve got some bad news.”
“Why doesn’t anybody ever phone me with good news?” Smith said, “What’s happened?”
“The Ghoul is dead,” Whitton said.
Smith did not think he had heard properly. He had only just listened to a message from the man.
“What do you mean he’s dead?” he said, “he left a message on my phone.”
“His car exploded,” Whitton said, “he was burnt beyond recognition. He was identified by his dental records. He was driving when his car blew up. He was metres away from his house.”
“How can a car just blow up?” Smith could not believe what he was hearing.
He thought about the message The Ghoul have left him. Something sinister about Proud and Friedman.
“They found traces of plastic explosive,” Whitton said, “somebody blew up his car.”
“Why would someone want to blow up the car of a pathologist?” Smith said, “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Nothing that has happened in the past few days makes any sense,” Whitton said.
“Can you pick me up?” Smith said, “I seem to have left Bridge’s car just outside Pickering.”
“You did what?”
“It’s a long story,” Smith said.
“Your cars fixed,” Whitton said, “Bridge said he’ll fetch you in it. He’s not going to be too impressed that you left his car somewhere.”
“I’ll make it up to him,”
Smith rang off.
Smith sipped his coffee and lit another cigarette. He could not believe what was happening. He thought about the message from The Ghoul again. What had he found out about Sarah Proud and Brad Friedman? He thought back to the previous night. He had spent the night with the woman; what could be so sinister about her? He finished the coffee and flicked the cigarette butt over the wall into his neighbour’s garden. He made a mental note to buy an ashtray when he had the chance. He went back inside and walked upstairs to the bathroom. He looked at the shower and smiled. He brushed his teeth quickly and went back downstairs. Bridge knocked on the door two minutes later.
“Where’s my car?” Bridge asked.
“There’s a funny story to that,” Smith said, “Morning Bridge. Do you want some coffee?”
“Where’s my car?” Bridge asked again.
“I’ll tell you on the way to the station,” Smith said, “you can drive.”
As they drove, Smith told Bridge what had happened. The anonymous tip off. The police arresting him for drunk driving. He omitted the part about Sarah Proud.
“What about my car?” Bridge said.
“We’ll fetch it later,” Smith said, “and I owe you forty quid.”
“So how did you get out of jail free?” Bridge said.
“I
used my charm of course,” Smith said, “not a word of this to anyone ok?”
“You’re the boss,” Bridge said, “I want the forty quid back though.”
Smith and Bridge were totally unprepared for what waited for them at the police station. A crowd of people had gathered outside. There must have been over a hundred of them. Some of them were wielding placards that read ‘Police incompetence’, ‘we want justice for our heroes’, and the like. A band of journalists were camped outside in the car park.
“This doesn’t look good sir,” Bridge said as he parked Smith’s car next to Thompson’s Audi.
“Just walk straight past them,” Smith said, “don’t say a word to anybody.”
They walked through the crowd as quickly as they could.
“Detective sergeant,” a man with a long neck shouted as they passed, “why aren’t the police doing anything about the recent murders?”
Smith walked straight past him.
“Jimmy Fisher,” the man was not giving up, “Tommy and Alfie Pike. The people of York want justice.”
Smith and Bridge barged through the station. Two police constables were manning the door to prevent any unwanted visitors. Chalmers was by the front desk talking on his phone.
“What the hell is going on?” Smith said when Chalmers had finished.
“They’re calling for a vote of no confidence in the police,” Chalmers said, “You can’t blame them. They’re angry that we don’t seem to be doing anything about the recent murders.”
“SOCA made sure of that,” Smith said, “they made damn sure we didn’t get anywhere near the investigation.”
“Those people out there don’t care about SOCA,” Chalmers said, “They want results. I told you from the start we were in for shit. When a football player gets killed they take it personally. They’re baying for our blood.”
“What are we going to do?” Smith said.
“We’re going to start all over again,” Chalmers said, “it looks like SOCA are no longer going to be a problem. They seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Smith thought back to way that Sarah Proud had left without so much of a goodbye.
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