by CJ Carver
‘She is an accountant,’ stated the old man conversationally. ‘Local farmers and beekeepers.’
Dan’s skin turned cold.
The old man had used the exact words Dan had spoken to Ekaterina. Proving that he’d heard everything he and Ekaterina had said. The old man knew Dan was a spy of some sort and was letting him know that he knew.
Ekaterina: Edik Yesikov secretly sent two agents to your country last week.
Dan: How do you know this?
‘Where do you live?’ the old man asked, flicking through Dan’s passport.
Dan gave him his cover address in Ealing.
More questions followed about Dan’s job, where he went to school, university, his hobbies and interests, all of which he had to cobble together with his real life because his legend wasn’t extensive. Dan couldn’t understand what was going on. The old man hadn’t asked for his real name or confronted him. What game was he playing? Then the old man turned to ask about Dan’s family.
‘No children,’ Dan lied, perfectly calm. ‘We’ve been trying, but no luck yet. Now, look. I don’t know what all these questions are about. I know my driving got up your nose, but you can’t detain me indefinitely.’
‘Do you know Jane Sykes?’
Ekaterina had said Jane Sykes was a British journalist and Dan frowned, pretending to search his memory. ‘I think Ekaterina mentioned her, but I can’t be sure.’
‘And Zama Kasofsky?’
Dan kept frowning. Having had his conversation with Ekaterina recorded, he knew he had to stick close to the truth. ‘She said something about Edik Yesikov’s interest in these people.’
The old man gave a nod as though to say Yes, that’s what she told you.
‘Your wife,’ said the old man. ‘She used to work for McInley and Krevingden?’
Dan stared at him, fear tingling along his veins. Leave my wife out of this!
‘How long did she work for them?’ the old man pressed.
Calmly, Dan said, ‘I am not saying another word until you get me a lawyer.’
Long silence.
The old man gazed at Dan, wrinkled and hunched, frail with age, but his eyes were alive and active as a man in his twenties. ‘What do you know about Russia?’ he asked.
Dan waited a time, and finally said, ‘As much as anyone who listens to the news.’ He was cautious. The last thing he needed was to get into a political debate.
‘What do you think will happen when Mr Putin dies?’ The old man was watching him carefully.
‘There’s no risk of that, is there?’ Dan said, startled by the question. ‘He’s very fit for his age. At least that’s how the photographs depict him. Strong and healthy.’
‘He’s a strong man,’ the old man agreed. ‘That’s why he is so popular with the people. Why they stood shoulder to shoulder with him when he brought Crimea and Sevastopol home again, to Russia.’
Dan wasn’t surprised at the man’s imperialistic attitude, but it made him wonder if the old man was truly patriotic or if, deep down, he was as cynical as some of his countrymen.
‘When Mister Putin goes, we will need another strong man to take his place. A man who loves Russia in his heart, and who they can trust and depend upon to look after them.’
Dan stared. Was he talking about Edik Yesikov? He said, ‘Do you have anyone in mind?’
The fierce blue eyes fastened on Dan’s face. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.
The old man held Dan’s eyes for a few seconds longer. Then he turned his head and spoke to the policeman briefly in Russian, who responded with, ‘Da, ser.’
The old man walked out of the office. Baffled, Dan watched him go. He couldn’t work him out. Was he an ally or an enemy? Ekaterina had been shot, but he’d escaped without injury. Why? Had he met the old man when he was last in Russia? Was the old man a double agent of some sort? His mind flew over various scenarios but he quickly brought himself back on track because from the way the old man had treated him, like a stranger, he was fairly certain they hadn’t met before.
Who was Zama Kasofsky? Ekaterina had told him that Edik Yesikov had sent two agents to Britain to find a British journalist, Jane Sykes, because she knew where to find Kasofsky. Was he a whistleblower? They wouldn’t be the first Russian informant to flee to the UK. Dan ran a hand over his head. How was Jenny involved in all this? Was Zama Kasofsky one of her old clients? Were McInley and Krevingden, Jenny’s old employers, involved somehow? He couldn’t think how else she’d be entangled in whatever was going on.
The policeman’s mobile rang. He spoke briefly. Then he looked at Dan and said, ‘Come.’
He led Dan back to his cell.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lucy called Dan’s office but he was apparently out for the day – back tomorrow – and all she could do, yet again, was leave a message. Where was Dan? What was he doing? She didn’t want to ask Justin Tripp or Nicholas Blain why they had a photograph of him without speaking to Dan first. She didn’t want to blow what might potentially be Dan’s cover. He was an ex-spook and who knew what he might be up to.
She’d barely hung up the phone when Mac announced that Adrian Calder had been officially charged with murdering his wife and children. Even though he was considered a serious flight risk as well as potentially suicidal, he’d received bail. His lawyer had obviously done an exemplary job.
‘Hell.’ Lucy was surprised. ‘I thought we’d keep him banged up for ages yet.’
‘I know,’ Mac agreed. ‘But the good news is that our legals say that with nobody else in the frame, we could well get a conviction.’
‘What if he didn’t do it?’ Calder’s helpfulness still niggled at her, along with his honesty with his wife about their facing potential bankruptcy. But instead of winding Mac up, her comment simply made him look weary.
‘He did it, Lucy.’
She decided not to mention the other family annihilation, the Oxana Harris case near Bristol because that really would irritate him. Plus she hadn’t heard back from the Bristol DI so she’d be talking out of her backside. She made a hurried mental note to chase the DI. It would be a feather in her cap if she found a connection to Adrian Calder and would encourage Mac to keep her on a loose leash rather than a stranglehold when she began full-time in CID.
She’d told Mac about the mystery man at Melted and his packages and the fact that although she’d waited until closing time, he never returned. Mac hadn’t agreed with her idea of assigning a surveillance team to watch the restaurant, saying it didn’t offer good value for money especially since they didn’t know whether the man would reappear. When they’d questioned Calder about the deliveries, he’d simply shrugged.
‘Gifts,’ he said. ‘That’s all. Things I order on the Internet and don’t want Polina or the kids to see. Things like a new Sonos speaker for Felix’s birthday. And, um . . .’ He thought for a bit. ‘A gardening book for Polina. A new iPhone for Jessie.’
Each time he mentioned his wife or his children’s names, his breath caught and the pain rose in his eyes.
‘I even got half a dozen bottles of Polina’s favourite Sauternes delivered there once,’ he added.
Lucy might have believed him if his shoulders hadn’t done their little crunching trick. He was lying. It was at that moment her mind emptied out everything but the need to know what was in those packages. Her heart thumped and a sudden energy swept through her, lighting up her mind with shimmering rainbow colours. The grey was banished, replaced by her single-minded mission; she must catch Mystery Man, she must solve the case. She was suddenly on a high, focused on nothing else.
‘I’ll stake out the restaurant if you like,’ she offered Mac. ‘I’ll find him.’
Mac shook his head. ‘I can’t justify it.’
Now Calder had been charged, everyone had reverted to working shifts. Lucy’s current shift finished at eleven a.m. and then she was supposed to be having her two days’ allotted time off, and if she continued to work past eleven she woul
d officially be on overtime. Overtime, however, was limited by Mac’s budget, which had apparently fallen to below zero.
‘He has a package to deliver right now.’ She could shake Mac for not seeing how important it was. ‘He couldn’t deliver it yesterday with me there. Lee hasn’t rung, so he hasn’t been back yet. He will be there soon, I know it. Any second now. Now.’
Mac stared at her. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine, fine. I’m great. Fantastic.’ Everything was amplified. Phones ringing, radios crackling, the smell of instant coffee. Excitement filled her. ‘I need this, Mac. Can I go? I’ll do it in my own time. No problem.’
He stared some more. ‘Your own time?’
‘Yes, yes.’ She was already striding for the door.
‘You’re not tired?’
‘God, no. Could keep going forever.’
‘Keep me posted!’ His yell followed her down the corridor.
Lucy ducked home to dress down. Frayed jeans, fur-lined suede booties to keep her feet warm, sheepskin-lined leather jacket. She tied her hair back with a crimson scarf and rammed on a bobble hat. Grabbed spare clothes, undies, deodorant, toothpaste, laptop, chargers, a book of crossword puzzles, another of sudoku. Ear buds so she could listen to music on her phone. En route, she stopped at a service station and filled up her car. Bought bottles of water and a variety of snacks from sandwiches to bags of Maltesers – her favourite – and nuts. High-energy food.
She felt nice and inconspicuous in her own car. The repair shop near her mum’s – that the family had used for decades, being distant cousins – had done their level best to iron out the dirty great dings she’d collected on her last escapade (and where she’d first met Dan) but there was no way she’d get decent money for the Corsa when she sold it. A two-year-old could tell it had been trashed at some point.
As soon as she arrived in Newcastle she checked with Lee to make sure no package had been delivered.
‘When he turns up,’ she told him, ‘text me immediately. I’ll be just around the corner.’
She walked along Nun Street, assessing where to wait. Parking was limited, but at least the street was outside the vehicle restriction zone, even if by a whisker. At night she’d be OK but during the day it was going to be another matter; she’d have to stick her car in a car park. Her luck changed when she discovered the McDonald’s on the corner was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Not only could she park her car there but it would be dry and warm, and she had an unimpeded view across the street of the Melted restaurant. Yes! She punched the air in her mind. She’d found the perfect spot.
Settled on a stool at the window, she drank tea, had a burger. Walked up and down Nun Street. Browsed the jewellery store, the Oxfam shop. Returned to McDonald’s. Drank more tea. Played with her phone. Listened to some music. He will come, he’s on his way, I will catch him. She was absolutely focused, absolutely convinced.
Night fell. She didn’t talk to anyone except to order more tea and a sweet chilli crispy chicken wrap that left her feeling strangely bloated and heavy. Hadn’t someone tried to live off McDonald’s once? She seemed to recall the man who’d tried it ended up with a knackered liver and malnutrition. She looked him up on the Net, her fingers racing over the keys, her thoughts on fire.
Suddenly she came to, as if she’d fallen asleep, to see that it was morning. She hardly knew how she’d got through the night. After a walk, bracing and wet, she returned and ordered a cappuccino and a sausage and egg McMuffin.
Another walk. More tea. She had endless energy. She kept trying Dan Forrester with no luck. Occasionally she rang Mac. He kept asking how she was.
Fine, I’m fine. Fabulous.
She was glad he wasn’t witnessing her hyperactive mood. On a stake-out it worked to her advantage, being able to survive without sleep, and all she could do was hope and pray it wouldn’t be followed by a mind-numbing crash.
Tuesday came and went. Wednesday morning, six thirty a.m. and another McMuffin breakfast. The staff didn’t seem to make much of her practically living in their restaurant, probably because she kept to herself and didn’t smell or cause problems. She washed and brushed up in the toilets, taking as little time as possible in case she missed something vital.
She was swallowing the last of her cappuccino when she took in a man approaching from Grainger Street. A man dressed in a heavy coat and nubuck boots. Early thirties, sun-bleached hair, strong jawline. Bad-boy good-looking.
All the hairs on her body stood upright.
Nicholas Blain.
The man who’d shown Adrian Calder’s lawyer a photograph of Dan Forrester on his iPad.
She slid off her stool at the window and out of sight. What was he doing here? It couldn’t be a coincidence, surely. Carefully she inched her head round the corner of the window to see him walking steadily down Nun Street. She wanted to follow him but sod’s law being what it was Mystery Man would probably arrive the second her back was turned. A lorry turned into Nun Street, blocking her view of Blain. To her frustration, it pulled into the parking bay opposite, filling her view with advertising. FISH ’N’ CHICK. COMMERCIAL QUALITY FOODS.
Her brain sizzled orange and crimson. She wanted to scream. She couldn’t see Blain and she couldn’t see Melted any more.
Throwing on her coat and scarf, she pulled her bobble hat low over her head. Grabbed her rucksack and hastened outside. Casually she skirted the lorry’s rear, ostensibly heading for Grainger Street. Carefully slid her eyes left.
Her heart gave a single, giant leap.
Mystery Man was stuffing an envelope into Melted’s letterbox.
He didn’t turn round. Didn’t look at her.
Keeping her footsteps steady, she walked around the corner. Waited a few seconds before walking casually back to see Mystery Man climbing the access ladder into the lorry’s cab. Lucy returned hastily to McDonald’s. Wrote down the lorry’s details, from the company’s logo – a white cockerel’s head inside the circle of a blue, happily smiling fish – to its number plate.
Yes!
She watched the lorry drive up Nun Street and, with some difficulty, turn the tight corner at the end.
Six thirty-eight.
She was itching to get her hands on the envelope. Longing to see what was inside.
Six forty. Only another twenty minutes until Melted officially opened its doors.
Six forty-five, Lee appeared to open the restaurant, get things started. He’d barely put his key in the door when she was at his side.
‘Hey,’ Lee said as a greeting.
‘Hey.’
He stepped inside and picked up the envelope. Adrian Calder’s name was printed on the front in black felt pen. Nothing else.
She put out her hand. He passed it over.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ he said on a half-yawn. ‘On the house.’
‘Another time. Thanks.’
Carefully, she opened the envelope, peeked inside. Somehow she wasn’t surprised when she saw the stacks of cash, all in twenties and fifties. Around three thousand pounds in total, she guessed. All used notes.
Had Nicholas Blain come to collect the money for Adrian Calder? Was this how Calder was paying his lawyer? If so, who was providing the cash?
‘Has anyone else ever collected packages on behalf of Adrian Calder?’ she asked Lee.
His eyes slid away as he shook his head. ‘No. It’s always Adrian.’
She described Blain to him in case he was familiar, and although he shook his head again, something was off and she wasn’t sure if she believed him. Was he protecting Calder? Protecting Blain? She knew of employees who were so loyal they’d lie and steal for their bosses. Was Lee one of them?
She trotted to her car. Had a quick flit through Google before ringing Mac, but it switched to his voicemail. She didn’t bother leaving a message.
She’d just climbed into her Corsa when Mac texted her.
Missed your call. Where are you?
On my w
ay back.
All OK?
All OK.
What time are you due in?
She nibbled her lip. She’d planned to stop off at the station to log in the cash, but she didn’t want to stop. She wanted to head straight south, to Thetford.
Tomorrow, she told him. She didn’t want him waiting to pounce on her, let alone delay her or scupper her plans. She was on a roll, she didn’t want to be diverted.
OK, he texted. See you then.
An hour later, Lucy quickly logged in the cash before going home and having a long, soapy shower. Heaven. Dressed in a fitted red sweater, blue jeans and thick-soled boots, she shrugged on her sheepskin-lined leather jacket and mussed her hair. Looking as though she’d just stepped out of the cab of an eighteen-wheeler, she walked on to the street to find Mac parked on the other side of the road, climbing out of his car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
For a moment, Mac thought Lucy was going to make a run for it, bolt down the street, but she obviously thought better of it and she paused, watching him. What was she up to?
He strode across the street to stand before her. Tried not to think how good she looked. Then he took in her tote bag.
‘Going somewhere?’
‘Gosh,’ she said, widening her eyes. ‘How did you guess that? You must be a detective.’
‘Seriously, Lucy.’ He fixed her with a hard glare. ‘I know you’re still on your allotted time off, but since you’re not actually taking time off and are working the Calder case I need to know what you’re up to. It’s not that I don’t trust you, I just want to make sure you’re on the radar and keeping safe, OK? And I can’t do that if I don’t know where you are.’
Lucy was looking past his shoulder and wouldn’t meet his gaze.
‘Also,’ he went on, ‘I don’t appreciate your telling the DCS that you’re due in tomorrow only to have him tell me that you’re actually downstairs logging in some cash from your stake-out. In future, when I ask you what you’re doing, I want you to tell me, not fob me off.’