by Sam Blake
‘Don’t worry, love, we’ve been after Sergei Andronov and his associates for a long time. We know from their conversations that you aren’t involved.’
‘Well, thank God for that.’
‘It seems Croxley was using your shop as a base briefly for another scam. He was in the process of swindling Marcus Devine and his wife out of a couple of million pounds.’
Lily shook her head in disbelief. Trying to hide her emotion from the police, her mind raced to Vittoria – was she OK? But as worried as she was, she couldn’t get rid of a niggling feeling – a feeling that Vittoria must have had something to do with this …
Chapter 54
STEPHANIE CARSON found the remote control and switched on the evening news. She was exhausted. She’d been cleaning all day, had suddenly realised that the windows were filthy and the skirting boards … She didn’t understand how she hadn’t seen the build-up of dust before. And she couldn’t wait for the window cleaner or Sally, her own cleaner, to come on Friday – she’d just needed to get it all done now. She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa, the buttons on the top of her elasticated jeans digging into her side.
She’d been so busy that she’d only realised that she hadn’t heard from Lily Power, or more importantly Marcus, as she sat down a few moments ago. Marcus usually rang or texted to say goodnight but the last two nights her phone had been silent. And there had been no message all day. It wasn’t like him, but she knew he had a lot to do this weekend, that he was seeing his lawyers today. She glanced across the oatmeal sofa at her phone, looking to see if a text had arrived without her hearing it.
Still nothing.
But he’d said he’d be over tonight when he got everything sorted out.
Stephanie wrinkled her face in a scowl, trying to concentrate. She couldn’t remember anything these days – what did they say about baby brain? She hoped to God it went away or how would she be able to remember her lines? She pushed her hair out of her face. The last time she’d heard from Marcus had been Saturday morning, hadn’t it? Or maybe later, around lunch-time? She couldn’t remember a time when he’d left it longer than twenty-four hours without being in touch. Unless he was flying, but even then he’d text to say he’d landed safely.
Stephanie sighed to herself. He knew she worried about him pretty much constantly. About whether he was safe in whatever country he’d landed in, about whether he was eating properly and getting enough sleep. Perhaps it was the insecurity she felt in their relationship, but she did need him to reassure her everything was OK.
Vittoria was very attractive and successful. Very successful. She ran her own business and looked after major stars like that ballerina who was all over the papers. Stephanie couldn’t remember her name. Vittoria was everything Marcus needed in a wife – who was to say he wouldn’t get fed up with her, Stephanie, and decide it was simpler to make things work at home? Maybe he had days when he regretted their relationship.
Stephanie felt the baby kick and knew she was being paranoid. But perhaps that just came with the territory? She was his mistress and she had constant competition: it was vital she always looked her best when she saw him, that he enjoyed every minute of being with her, because if he didn’t, what if he changed his mind?
The baby moved again, like he was reminding her she had it all wrong. Marcus had been shocked at first but then he’d been so overjoyed that she was pregnant, and then, when he’d come to the scan with her and found out their baby was a boy, he’d been absolutely over the moon. He’d bought her jewellery and a new car, they’d gone out together to choose everything for the nursery and he’d organised a decorator. It was all so perfect. Obviously, it would be a whole lot more perfect if Vittoria wasn’t in the picture but that would come, Stephanie was sure. He said she was beautiful, that he loved being with her. She was the mother of his son.
And Stephanie knew Vittoria could be very difficult.
Stephanie’s attention was suddenly brought back to the screen, to someone’s mobile-phone footage of an arrest in Great Russell Street – she’d filmed there as part of a drama series, beside the British Museum and across the road at Senate House. It had been a period thing … She tuned into what the newsreader was saying.
‘In what police describe as a major operation, members of a suspected Russian organised crime gang were apprehended this morning in central London. Armed police raided a premises on Great Russell Street in order to apprehend Sergei Andronov, previously an Olympic gold medallist …’ A picture flashed onto the screen of an extremely attractive blond man in full ice-hockey gear holding his stick above his head. Stephanie felt her eyebrows lift.
‘Andronov’s arrest has been linked to a double murder just outside the Irish capital, Dublin, in which British art dealer Edward Croxley and TransGlobal Airways pilot Marcus Devine were found dead in Devine’s pool.’ The voiceover continued, ‘Currently suspended from his job as a senior pilot at the airline over allegations of misconduct, Devine was recently photographed with reality TV star Bellissima Serata at a London nightclub.’
She felt the room swim, nausea rising spontaneously. Marcus was dead? He couldn’t be – they had it wrong … How did she not know?
But who would call her? Who would know to tell her?
And Marcus had a pool, and he’d mentioned that name, Croxley – and selling the paintings. That was the whole reason he’d gone back to Dublin.
Stephanie suddenly felt her chest tighten; she was finding it hard to catch her breath, stars dancing in front of her eyes. Then she felt the most enormous pain across her stomach, like someone was ripping her apart. She couldn’t focus. Had they said Marcus was dead, murdered? Had they—? Another pain split her in two. It was too early for the baby but something was happening. She started to breathe. In through her mouth, out through her nose, just like they’d taught her at antenatal classes. She focused totally on breathing and counting and the tension in her body began to reduce a fraction as she took control. It was too early.
The doorbell cut through her thoughts. Marcus, it had to be Marcus. Heaving herself up, her hand under her bump, supporting the weight, Stephanie headed for the front door. Another wave began to build and she stopped, leaning on the doorframe, bending forward, focused on her breathing, counting. It was all going to be OK. They’d got it wrong, Marcus was here and …
She got the front door open to find two uniformed police officers standing on her doorstep and her knees buckled.
Chapter 55
‘WHEN DO YOU think I’ll be able to get back into the house?’
The cry of a seagull almost drowned out Vittoria’s voice. She’d needed to get out of the hotel, and for the moment couldn’t face the office, so she’d driven down to the pier in Dun Laoghaire. Parking outside the National Yacht Club, she’d pulled a bright-red waterproof Helly Hansen jacket that Aidan had lent her out of the back of the car and set off for a walk and a think. She’d just passed the Victorian bandstand when her phone had started to ring in the depths of her pocket.
Detective Inspector Frank Gallagher’s name had flashed onto the screen.
In the background she could hear the sounds of a busy office. It sounded like he was walking through it as he answered her question. ‘Hopefully in a couple of days. We just need to finish the forensic examination and then we can let you back in.’
Vittoria wondered if that was a stock answer just to keep her happy. But she liked Detective Inspector Gallagher – he was a very straight, very genuine man, and she was sure he wouldn’t lie to her. She was pretty sure that he knew she was a no-bullshit type too, and she liked nothing better than a clear answer. The one thing Marcus had never learned was that it was pointless lying to her because she had an incredible memory for detail, not just what he said but the way he said things, and if he’d made an excuse and then forgotten what he’d said, it was asking for trouble. Still, she’d learned a long time ago not to take it to heart. Marcus’s failings hadn’t been about her: they were all about him
.
Vittoria cleared her throat. ‘Is there any news?’
The inspector had apparently walked into an office. She heard a door closing and the background noise vanish. The wind had dropped for a moment on the pier and she went to sit down on the granite ledge that ran along the staunch protective wall. It shielded her from the weather and she could hear him better now.
‘Some. Where are you?’
‘On the pier, why?’
‘Can you come up to the station?’ He hesitated. ‘No, actually, can you stay there for a few minutes? I’ll come down to you.’
‘Of course. I’ll wait for you; I can finish my walk.’
‘Great, there are some things we need to talk about.’
*
Vittoria easily spotted Frank Gallagher striding down the pier towards her. He was alone this time, his good-looking sidekick obviously otherwise engaged. She’d been down to the end and lingered for a few moments, looking at the circling seagulls, their cries shrill, at the twin red-and-white-striped chimneys at the entrance to Dublin Port, before turning back to walk along the pier towards land. She could see him now ahead of her, wrapped up in an army-green waterproof jacket, zipped against the wind, the new library building towering above him in the distance like an ocean liner.
‘Vittoria, thank you for waiting.’
Vittoria smiled. ‘Thank you for coming down to me. I find going into the police station a bit grim, to be honest.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘You wouldn’t be the only one who thinks that. Do you walk here a lot?’
Vittoria shrugged. ‘Sometimes. When Marcus and Aidan are out racing it’s fun to watch them. Danny Boy has a bright red hull so they’re easy to spot.’
Gallagher frowned. ‘Terrible tragedy that, Aidan’s little brother Danny. He was only in first year. I remember it like it was yesterday.’
Vittoria looked at him, surprised. ‘You were in school with them?’
‘A few years ahead. I was on the landing behind him when it happened.’
‘Marcus told me he tripped and fell?’
Detective Inspector Frank Gallagher’s face went hard. ‘That’s what they all claimed, but I reckon he was pushed. I could hear them goading him from further down the corridor – they were at him like a pack of jackals. I just couldn’t get there fast enough.’
‘Mio Dio, that’s awful.’ Vittoria felt herself pale. ‘I didn’t realise.’
Gallagher shook his head, his face sad. Vittoria could see his regret, as if keeping Danny Kelly safe had been his responsibility. His voice caught as he spoke: ‘It was a steep flight. He broke his neck.’
Vittoria felt her heart break again. She’d never forget Aidan telling her about it, the crack in his voice, his eyes glistening with tears. ‘Aidan said that’s why he became a doctor. That Danny died in his arms.’
Gallagher cleared his throat. ‘And it’s why I joined the guards if I’m honest. I think he blamed Marcus for not intervening and protecting Danny – Marcus was there, at the top of the stairs. They’d been best friends until then, but I remember him crossing the corridor to avoid him afterwards. They must have sorted themselves out, though. Naming the boat after him was a lovely gesture.’
Vittoria kept her mouth shut, remembering Marcus’s face as they’d toasted buying the thirty-four-foot yacht and Aidan had proposed renaming it. There was so much unsaid. So much she hadn’t understood until now.
‘Will we sit?’ he asked.
Following Frank Gallagher over to the ledge that ran the full length of the pier, Vittoria put her hands in the pockets of her jacket and sat down. ‘Marcus didn’t tell me he was there when it happened.’
Gallagher scowled. ‘Well, he sure was.’
She cleared her throat. ‘But you have news for me?’
‘Of sorts. We’re working closely with our colleagues in the UK on this case. They’ve arrested a Sergei Andronov – he’s the chief bottle-washer for a Russian multi-millionaire, Igor Kaprizov.’ Vittoria frowned, the name sounded vaguely familiar. Had she read it in the newspaper? She wasn’t sure. Unaware of her thoughts, Frank continued, ‘The art world is increasingly becoming a place to launder large sums of cash. Some paintings are bought legitimately and sold on; others are stolen to order and sold on for huge sums. Our colleagues in the UK have been watching Kaprizov since he arrived in London. He’s involved in just about everything you can think of – drugs, arms but mainly art. They’ve been monitoring the movement of antiquities out of the Middle East and keep coming back to him.’ He continued, explaining, ‘Selling artefacts is a way to raise money for all shades of criminal activity, and with willing buyers it’s a busy trade. Anywhere there’s a war is vulnerable. At the moment that’s Syria. It seems Igor Kaprizov has been receiving and selling art and artefacts for years. He’s a clever guy, has all sorts of scams in place to legitimise the stolen stuff. That’s where Croxley came in.’
‘Do you think these Russians wanted to steal Marcus’s paintings?’
‘It’s a possibility. Had your husband mentioned meeting anyone like this to discuss the collection before?’
‘No, not at all.’ Vittoria sighed. ‘I’ve been so busy, particularly in the last few months, that actually we’ve hardly seen each other.’
The inspector didn’t answer for a moment, allowing her regret to sit there between them in dignified silence. When he spoke again, he sounded serious. ‘Are you on your own today?’
Vittoria frowned. ‘Yes, who would I be with? I needed to get out of the hotel and get some air.’
‘Perhaps we should go up to your hotel?’ He looked unsure.
‘If you need to tell me something, just tell me. Here’s as good a place as any – there’s hardly anyone about.’ She grimaced. ‘It can’t be worse than my husband being murdered in our home, really, can it?’
The inspector cleared his throat. ‘You’ve been through a lot, but I’m afraid there’s more. I think we should go back to the hotel.’
‘Please just tell me – let’s get it over with. Ever since that newspaper article appeared in the Inquirer, every day has been a minefield. I’m lucky I haven’t ended up in a pool too.’
‘OK.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘You know we have to look at everything in an investigation like this?’
She interrupted him. ‘I hope so, and I hope you’re investigating me with as much vigour as everything else.’
Inspector Gallagher didn’t comment, instead said, ‘So I was saying we have to check everything … Well, we’ve been looking at Marcus’s bank accounts and a very large sum of money was transferred on Thursday of last week to a lady called Stephanie Carson, who lives in London.’ He stopped for a moment.
‘Go on, Inspector.’ Vittoria put her hand on her forehead, running her fingers into her hair. He sounded so concerned. Part of Vittoria wanted to tell him that she already knew, that there had been many Stephanie Carsons … But the money was new. What had he done?
‘Our UK colleagues called around to her to have a chat, to find out what her connection was to Marcus, and, well, there’s no easy way to put this … She was heavily pregnant. It must have been the shock, but she went into labour. It was a bit fraught but the UK lads have gathered that the baby is Marcus’s and that’s why he was transferring money to her. Everyone’s fine now but she’ll be in hospital for a few days.’ Gallagher cleared his throat again. ‘Obviously there will have to be a paternity test …’
‘In case she was blackmailing him? Honestly, Inspector, I don’t know much about childbirth but I think when you’re in labour it’s quite hard to keep a fraudulent story going. It all sort of goes out of the window as you hit level-nine pain. Or so my clients tell me.’
‘We have to explore all the possibilities.’
‘I know, but, Inspector,’ Vittoria softened her voice, appreciative of his concern but letting him know that she was under no illusions as to her husband’s fidelity, ‘my husband was away from home a lot. He liked going out and
he was a very attractive man. I have to say I’m not entirely surprised. I’d guess if you checked his phone, you’d have found her name, and you’d have seen that he’d been in touch with her and the tone of any texts.’
Vittoria sighed deeply. In front of her a seal’s head bobbed out of the churning waters. He regarded her with inquisitive brown eyes like she was a vaguely interesting exhibit in the zoo. She would love to slip into the water and swim with him. Swimming had always been a vital part of her training and had become even more vital in her rehabilitation. She was weightless and pain free in the water, could dive effortlessly. That was how she wanted to be now. Free of everything. Of the angst and the pain, of the not knowing what was going to happen next. As she watched, the seal vanished beneath the grey water. The wind was coming up, the yachts anchored off the pier wall straining at their chains. Danny Boy was over on the marina, safe from autumn storms. She pulled the jacket more closely around her, zipping up the high neck right to her chin.
‘How can you tell me all this, Inspector? Shouldn’t I be your prime suspect if my husband was having an affair?’
The wind whipped Vittoria’s dark hair across her face as she let out a sigh. ‘Or perhaps several affairs. Aren’t most murders crimes of passion?’
Sitting next to her on the harbour wall, Gallagher turned to look at her. ‘Everyone is a suspect in a murder investigation. But we’ve looked at your mobile-phone records – they tally location, and time-wise, with what you told us. The staff at the hotel remember you – we’ve taken their statements. You couldn’t be in two places at once.’ Gallagher rubbed his hand over his chin. ‘And everyone we’ve spoken to has mentioned your insistence on improving the security at the house, and particularly in the pool building. That tends not to be the action of someone about to commit an offence in the same location.’ He hesitated. ‘And Croxley’s neck was broken. He wasn’t a big man but unless you grew six inches overnight and are into weight training …’ He trailed off at Vittoria’s sharp intake of breath.