by CJ Carver
Great, Jenny had thought, half-amused, half-horrified at the thought of having a son named after Gobber the Belch, a six and a half foot tall hairy Viking out of the movie How to Train Your Dragon.
Tenderly Jenny placed a hand on her belly, which had just started to curve gently. ‘Good morning little one,’ she said. ‘How did you sleep?’
She’d talked to Aimee before she’d been born, Luke too, and she found herself doing the same for this child. She’d read somewhere that unborn babies participate in the emotional state of their mothers, whether watching a disturbing movie or a comedy, and that within hours of birth, a baby already prefers its mother’s voice to a stranger’s, suggesting that it must have learned and remembered the voice from the womb.
She wished Dan was here to talk to the baby. Before Aimee was born he’d taken to resting his head on her belly and telling Aimee stories. When he’d learned that the foetus could listen, learn, and remember at some level, he’d spoken French to her, and Italian, reading from city guidebooks on Paris and Florence.
So she won’t be scared of languages, he’d said. Or travel.
And when he’d told unborn Aimee a story about a dolphin, he said, so she won’t be afraid of the water.
Jenny felt a mix of emotions rise. Sorrow, anger and love. Sorrow for Luke, who would never meet his younger sibling. Sorrow that Dan wasn’t with them. Anger for the same. Where was he? Where had Bernard sent him? Was it Russia again? Or Turkey? Or just plain old England? She’d never know. Dan never told her about his missions. Never had, and never would. She remembered when she’d first found out that he was a spook. They’d been going out for over a year and she was head-over-heels in love with him. So much so, she hadn’t given much thought to his habit of keeping arrangements flexible and occasionally changing things at the last minute. He’d told her he was head of marketing for a global pharmaceutical company with a demanding boss, who would sometimes call him out of hours, claiming his time.
When he’d confessed, she’d been astonished, then curious, and then she recalled all the times he’d changed arrangements: leaving her halfway through a weekend telling her he had to do an impromptu presentation at nine on Monday; being forced to collect an overseas colleague from Heathrow with virtually no notice; flying to a week-long conference in America with barely a days’ warning. None of it had been true. She was stunned.
You’ve been lying to me all this time?
I didn’t want to. Dan’s face was pale. I’m sorry but I had to.
She was deeply shaken at his ability to deceive her.
I believed every word you told me.
I know. He was contrite, almost on his knees in penitence. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t have the courage to do it any earlier. I didn’t want to mess up what we had. Please, Jenny. What can I do to make it up to you?’
She’d demanded to know more. He told her everything he was allowed to tell. Then she demanded time out with him.
I can’t think when you’re around. I’ll ring you when I’ve thought things over.
He had looked gratifyingly horrified. Are you saying you don’t want to marry me any more?
I don’t know.
She’d let him dangle. She couldn’t live without him, she knew that as well as she knew how to reconcile a bank statement, but could she live with being a security service wife? As it turned out, she could, but it was far harder than she imagined and when he came home after being away for weeks on some undercover mission, unshaven, underweight and with a faraway, absent look she hated, she’d considered separating, but she couldn’t. She could no more leave him than cut off her own hand. And just when she’d planned a weekend to reunite them, give Dan a chance to forgive her and move back home, Bernard had snapped his fingers and Dan had jumped, gone who knew where, and there was nothing she could do about it.
‘Time to get up,’ she told the baby. ‘See what Aimee’s up to.’
She pulled on her dressing gown – a soft snuggle shawl robe that her parents had bought her for Christmas – and went and put the kettle on. Tea in hand, she walked into the sitting room to find Aimee, still in her pyjamas, slouched on the floor with Dan’s dog. Which she had completely forgotten about.
She thumped down her mug of tea. ‘The dog’s got to go out,’ she said. ‘It’s late. Has she made a mess anywhere? I’d better get some newspaper and bleach . . .’
‘Mum!’ Aimee rolled over. ‘I’ve already done it. She peed and pooed outside and then she came in and I gave her breakfast.’
Jenny blinked. ‘She’s been out?’
‘Yes.’ Aimee rolled over to continue watching TV. The dog looked amiably at Jenny but didn’t move.
‘She didn’t run away?’
‘Daddy told me to show Poppy her breakfast first, so she had something to come back inside for.’
Clever Daddy, thought Jenny. She sat on the sofa looking at the dog who watched her back unblinkingly. ‘Good dog,’ she said. At that, Poppy rose and ambled over, stuck her head on Jenny’s lap. Carefully she stroked the broad forehead and then the ears. ‘Gosh, her ears are soft.’
‘They’re like bunny’s ears.’
Bunny’s ears or not, they had to take her for a walk at some point. Luckily their garden was quite large, and although it was unfenced at the end – she and Dan liked having the unbroken view across the valley – the field didn’t contain any livestock at the moment.
She was finishing her tea when Poppy went to stand in front of the French windows. Her body was alert, her ears pricked as though she was watching something outside. Maybe a rabbit? There were loads of them even in winter – she’d seen four grazing the edges of the drive yesterday morning. For no good reason she could see, the dog suddenly turned and raced out of the room.
‘Maybe she needs to go out again,’ said Jenny on a half-yawn. ‘Or she wants to go rabbiting.’
‘Show her a titbit first!’ called Aimee.
Yes, Madam. Jenny found Poppy with her nose pressed against the front door. ‘Just a minute,’ she told the dog. In the fridge she found a piece of Cheddar. She tried to show it to Poppy but the dog wasn’t interested.
As she opened the door the dog muscled her aside and set off at a run across the drive. Her head was low, her hackles up. She moved silently and with purpose. Puzzled, Jenny tried to see what she might be after. Please God it wasn’t a sheep. Farmers had zero tolerance for sheep worriers and Dan wouldn’t just kill her if she got his dog shot, he’d –
Her thoughts stalled. There was a man. He was running hell for leather through the trees at the edge of the drive. Poppy was running straight after him. The man jinked left, deeper into the woodland, and vanished from view. Hotly pursued by Poppy.
Her heart went into her mouth.
‘Jesus Christ.’
What would happen if the dog caught the man? Rottweilers were guard dogs – would she bite him? Savage him? Would he be hospitalised? Would he sue? Ramming her bare feet into a pair of wellies, yanking on an old Barbour of Dan’s over her dressing gown, she tore after them.
‘Poppy!’ she yelled.
Her breath poured steam in the icy air as she galloped down the drive, Barbour flapping around her dressing gown.
‘Poppy!’
She heard a man’s shout and then Poppy’s bark. Deep furious woofs! that reverberated through the trees. Sick with apprehension, she raced towards the sound of the barks, her wellies slipping on the damp ground, cold muddy water splashing up her bare legs. Please don’t bite him.
She found Poppy at the base of a tree. Just out of reach, standing on the low branch of an ancient oak and hugging the trunk was a man. Red-faced and panting. He said, ‘Call him off.’
The dog glanced at Jenny then looked back at the man. She continued to bark until Jenny put her hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Quiet.’
The sudden silence rang in her ears.
The man said, ‘Put him on a lead.’ His voice was unsteady.
She cringed. ‘I don’t have one. Well, not with me. I have one at the house but –’
‘Take him to the house. Shut him in.’
She gripped Poppy’s collar. The dog immediately came close to her side.
‘He’s obedient.’ The man sounded surprised. ‘Is he yours?’
Jenny looked at the man. He wore dark green trousers and a big camouflage jacket. A beanie covered his hair. Thirties, light brown stubble. A pair of binoculars hung from his neck. A birdwatcher, maybe? Odd time of year for it, but what did she know – she’d never gone birdwatching in her life. He didn’t look particularly threatening, but she wasn’t going to tell a stranger Poppy was only on loan. He had, after all, been on their property.
‘It’s a she,’ she said. ‘And yes, she’s mine.’
‘Can you keep hold of her while I come down?’
‘Yes.’
She tightened her grip on the dog’s collar but although Poppy watched him, she didn’t move as the man scrambled to the ground and began dusting bits of bark and lichen from his clothes.
‘How long have you had her?’ He looked interested.
She didn’t want to tell him. Instead, she said, ‘Are you birdwatching?’
He glanced at the binoculars. ‘Not really. I was going for a walk and my host – I’m staying with the Taylors in the village – insisted I take them.’
She knew the Taylors, a robust elderly couple who lived in the Old Rectory with their two spaniels, and felt herself relax.
‘I’m so sorry she chased you.’ Her body language turned apologetic. ‘I thought she was after a rabbit.’
‘No harm done, apart from to my pride.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Was I trespassing?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’
‘In that case, I deserved what I got.’ He settled his binoculars straight on his chest. ‘I wanted to walk to Pen-y-parc and thought this was a shortcut.’
‘It is, but it’s private property.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looked genuinely apologetic. ‘I won’t do it again, promise. Would you mind holding your dog until I go?’
‘Of course not. I’ll take her straight to the house.’
Back inside she gave Poppy the piece of cheese whereupon her own stomach growled, reminding her how late it was. She was about to ask Aimee if she wanted cereal or eggs for breakfast when her parents rang. ‘Darling,’ said her mother. ‘We’re crossing the bridge now. Your father wanted to warn you.’
Crap, she thought. She’d completely forgotten they were coming over for coffee. Thank God for Dad or they would have been caught out.
‘See you soon!’ she told her mother brightly.
‘Soon!’ her mother replied in the same cheerful tone and hung up.
Jenny bolted to the living room. ‘Aimee, get dressed. Granny and Grandpa will be here soon.’
‘But I’m watching –’
‘Now. And turn off the TV.’
Aimee knew when not to argue and followed Jenny upstairs in a flurry. It didn’t take them long to shower and get ready, and by the time her parents arrived, they’d blow-dried their hair and straightened the house, looking as though they’d been up for hours. At least she hoped so. Her mother wouldn’t approve of them lounging around in sleepwear for half the morning. She’d been brought up on a farm, rising before six a.m. no matter what the weather, and was baffled by anyone who rose any later. Something Jenny’s academic father still had trouble with, being a bit of a slugabed himself.
Aimee helped put out the cakes she’d baked for the weekend. Carrot cake, Dan’s favourite, and a batch of chocolate and nut brownies, also his favourite and maybe Poppy’s too by the way the dog was salivating. Unbidden, an image of Dan rose. Dan in the shower, turned away from her, when he didn’t know she was looking. His body tall and fine and strong, his thighs and backside well muscled, his calves well defined. He didn’t know it, but he had a beautiful body. She loved every inch of it, even the scars on his ribs and knuckles, the twist of scar tissue on his stomach where a bullet had grazed him.
‘Does the baby like chocolate, Mummy?’ Aimee asked.
‘You could always ask him.’
Aimee put her face against Jenny’s stomach and yelled, ‘I bet you DOOOO!’
‘You don’t have to shout!’ Jenny laughed. ‘His ears will be ringing for a week! Mine too!’
Aimee patted her belly and said, ‘Sorry.’ She was smiling.
Jenny was glad she’d involved Aimee in the pregnancy from the start, letting her accompany her on any doctor’s visits to try and lessen the possible jealousy that would occur.
At that moment, the phone rang. Ronny Field, a local builder, wanting to know if she was in. He wanted to drop off his personal accounts.
‘You’re a day late,’ she scolded. She must have told him a dozen times the cut-off date for him to pay his tax was the thirty-first of January.
‘I know, love, but I forgot. The wife reminded me as we were getting on the plane.’
‘What plane?’
‘Canary Islands. Holiday.’
‘It’s all right for some,’ she told him drily. ‘It’s going to snow later, you know.’
‘Can you do it next week? Submit it for me?’
She grabbed her phone and brought up her diary, had a quick look. ‘Yes. But how do I get hold of your paperwork?’
‘Bobby Taylor said he could drop it all round. He’s got keys to my place. Would you mind ringing him?’
‘No problem.’
She called Bobby Taylor who said yes, he could drop Roland’s paperwork round later that day. She said, ‘I met your friend this morning. My dog gave him rather a fright.’
‘What friend?’
‘The one staying with you. He seemed rather nice.’
Pause.
‘But we don’t have anyone staying with us.’
‘What?’ She was confused. ‘He told me you’d loaned him your binoculars to take on his walk.’
‘I haven’t loaned anyone my binoculars. Did he give a name?’
‘No.’
‘How odd.’
She described the man to no effect. When they’d hung up she went to the French windows and looked out. Poppy came and joined her. She rested her hand on the dog’s shoulder, suddenly glad the Rottweiler was there. Who was the man? Why had he lied?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Milena must have lost consciousness because the next she knew she was lying on the ground. Blood ran across her face and down the back of her throat. Panic rose. She felt as though she was drowning. She scrabbled on to her side and coughed up some blood. She heard a feeble, pathetic whimpering and it took her a few seconds to realise she was making the sound.
She forced open her eyes. She could see snow. Blood on the snow. Her blood. She was panting hard and fast through her mouth. She couldn’t breathe through her nose. Her sinuses were swollen and scorched with pain and felt as though they had been blow-torched.
‘Welcome back, beautiful.’
Edik’s voice. She saw his boots. Leather brogues, hand-made in London. She recognised the tiny scar in the leather shaped like a sickle.
She put her hands on the snow and tried to rise to her knees but he put a boot between her shoulders and shoved her down so hard she lost all the air in her lungs.
‘Don’t fucking move unless I say so.’
She lay there, fighting to breathe.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘I have a question for you.’
She rolled her eyes to see she was lying at the end of an alley. Refuse sacks lined one wall, spilling frozen debris on to the ground. Above the rubbish, spread across the wall, was a piece of graffiti featuring a withered rose on a pile of corpses. She immediately recognised it. She was in the alley that ran between the rear of her apartment block and the park. She was barely three hundred yards from the back door.
‘If you answer my question correctly,’ he continued, ‘you will be able to come home and resume your life as though nothing has
happened. If you don’t, or if you try to lie, you will find yourself in so much pain you will beg to die.’
‘Please,’ she choked. ‘Please d-don’t . . .’
‘Where is Ekaterina?’
‘Please,’ she begged. Quietly, she began to cry.
‘Wrong answer.’ He turned aside. He said, ‘Deal with her.’ He walked away, his shoes crunching in the snow.
She inched her head round. Took in three more men. She barely looked at the two thugs because her eyes went straight to the old man. The man who held the power. He was tall but stooped, and leaned on a cane. Wrinkled skin draped over aquiline features. He would have been handsome in his youth.
She wanted to weep. She wanted to howl in anguish. She knew him. She knew what he was capable of. She was scared of Edik but his father frightened her even more. It was said he was best friends with Kazimir’s ghost, and that they dined on their victims’ souls every Sunday after church.
‘Sir . . .’ she choked. She didn’t dare say his name. ‘Please. Have mercy.’
His expression didn’t change. It was as though she hadn’t spoken. Her dread increased. She might tempt a younger man, persuade him with promises or her money – she had over fifty thousand roubles tucked away – but not this hooded old bird. Desperately she looked along the alley, but Edik had gone. Nobody was there. Nobody walking along the adjoining alley, nobody driving or bicycling or walking their dog.
‘Please,’ she begged again. ‘Call Edik . . .’
The old man’s eyes were rheumy but they turned as sharp as icicle points. He stepped forward. He looked down at her dispassionately.
‘Edik can’t help you now, you silly bitch,’ he said. ‘Nobody can.’
His voice was dry and rattled like broken twigs.
‘If you think he’ll protect you because he’s been fucking you for the past decade, you’re deluded. You’re a woman. You’re insignificant. You’re of less value than a piece of dog shit. Can’t you see? He’s abandoned you. He won’t help you. But if you help us, we might consider helping you. Answer me. Where is Ekaterina Datsik?’
She closed her eyes and thought about Katya. Their playing in the woods when they were children, the evening sun lighting the grass and birch trees gold. The swing suspended between two pines. Hedgehogs, foxes and garter snakes. Their walking to school together. Sharing homework, clothes, nail polish, lipstick. The first beauty contest they’d entered. Their shared hunger for Moscow, their unflagging thirst for something new and exciting, the newest events, the latest fashions, the hottest places to be seen.