The Actuary's Wife

by K T Bowes

  Ray nosed the car into the road and spotted the inconspicuous van parked in a bay near the end. “Bingo!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you dare!” Ray grabbed at Emma’s arm as she grappled with the door handle. “If you go blasting out and attract attention to them now, you’ll be the reason they die. Hack diverted the street cameras onto a feed into the van and replaced it with a loop back to the council. If Rohan’s in the van, he’ll see you.”

  “What will he do?” Emma whispered, glancing sideways at the van with the windows blocked out. “Will he come out?”

  Ray shook his head, barely holding his temper. “Yep, sure. He’ll come bouncing out in a clown suit and do a bit of magic and then they’ll shoot Hack as the grand finale.”

  “I’ve gone off you,” Emma whined, folding Farrell’s thick scruff in her fingers.

  “Likewise, miss,” Ray sighed. “You’re a bloody liability.”

  “So what can we do? How do I get Rohan’s attention?” Emma hissed.

  “Text him.” Ray jerked his head towards Emma’s fleece pocket and she nodded and handed him the plaster cast.

  Emma felt the sinking feeling in her gut as she searched first one and then the other pocket. Her words caught in her throat and she choked on them. “I don’t have it,” she gasped. “It’s at home.”

  Ray heaved out a huge breath and shook his head. “Do you know his number?” He glanced at the distress on Emma’s face, seeing her wide-eyed terror and groaned, running a hand across his face. “Don’t tell me; he put it in the phone and you just press a button?”

  Emma’s sob broke into the tension as she pressed her fingers over her lips to prevent more following. Ray relented. “Hey, don’t do that. It’s ok, we’ll sort it out.” He tutted and ran a comforting hand up and down Emma’s upper arm. “Don’t cry, miss. I can’t think straight when I see tears. Just give me a minute and I’ll come up with something.” He clasped her shaking hand in his and squeezed.

  Farrell laid his head on Emma’s knee and his brown eyes glinted in the streetlights. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing, praying Ray would think of a solution. He didn’t let her down. “Stay here,” he told her, flicking the interior light switch, so it stayed off when he opened the door. He slipped from the car, making minimal sound as he pressed the door closed. Emma cuddled Farrell’s soft ruff as she watched Ray hurry to the back of the van and knock. She held her breath as he waited, his ear next to the rear door.

  With a shake of his head, he strode back to Emma. He opened her passenger door and ignored the dog who was eager to be out.

  “Something’s gone wrong,” he declared, urgency in his voice. “Captain Andreyev’s not in the van. He’s locked it and followed Hack. I’ll get into the church; you stay here.” He glared at her through narrowed eyes. “I mean it, miss. You stay here!”

  Emma opened her mouth to protest, closing it again in response to the warning look in Ray’s green eyes. She fondled Farrell’s soft ear and nodded. “Please can I have the car keys?” she asked, holding her hand out. Ray placed the keys into her palm and winked, the comforting gesture lost in the eerie night glow. Emma watched him stride away, heading for the main door facing the high street.

  “Well, that won’t work, will it?” she murmured, talking to Farrell. “He thinks he can just walk in and say hey to everyone.” Emma glanced around her, worrying as a police car cruised by on Adam and Eve Street. She peered at the white van, fear gnawing at her insides. “I can’t sit here doing nothing,” she grumbled, rewarded by Farrell’s faithful blink of agreement.

  With shaking hands, Emma slipped the collar over Farrell’s head. She let the chain slither to the floor, feeling the dog’s wet nose against her fingers as he traced its journey. “I know,” she whispered. “But I need you with me and they’ll hear you coming wearing that.” Emma wagged her finger in Farrell’s face. “You stay to heel though, Faz. Ok?”

  Farrell licked his lips and smiled, blowing dog breath into Emma’s face. She waved her hand and crinkled her nose. “You can stop that too!” she complained.

  Taking a deep breath, Emma looked around her at the empty street. As the world crossed the line over which midnight hovered and pitched into the next day, she made her choice.

  Chapter 40

  The central locking made a dull clunk as Emma closed the door and pressed the key fob. She ambled as though walking her dog late, checking around her for danger and half expecting Ray to appear and make her scream. The dog’s claws clicked on the cobbles surrounding the old schoolhouse and Emma sneaked beneath the giant stilts and hid, catching her breath. Reaching a hand down, she found the loyal, furry head and Farrell licked her fingers. “Quiet now,” Emma told him and surveyed the church. All was silent. Light glowed from the leaded glass windows, dulled by the floodlights outside. She moved soundlessly, using her expertise at creeping up on Nicky’s misdeeds to reach the side wall of the church, puffing from fear and exertion. A camera on the high ramparts stared straight at her and Emma gulped, trusting Rohan to have rerouted the feed as he promised. “Where are you when I need you, Andreyev?” Emma mouthed. Farrell glanced up and wagged his tail.

  Emma crept along the side of the building, grazing her fingers on the roughened brick as she stuck close. The front doors of the church faced the main street and saw most foot traffic from tourists and visitors. Reaching the black, metal gates protecting the side door into the nave, Emma enjoyed a momentary flashback of Nicky’s excited face as he skipped into the porch for the Christmas Eve service. Emma avoided the gates, disregarding their padlocked security and headed for the front door, following Ray. Farrell stopped and whined and Emma whipped round to face him, raising her finger to her lips. He looked at the gate and whined again and Emma doubled back. “Heel, Faz!” she hissed. “Or I’ll take you back to the car.” She wound her fingers through a handful of the dense hair at his scruff and gave a gentle tug. Farrell whined again, emitting the same noise he made when Rohan’s Mercedes turned into the driveway of Wingate Hall.

  “What’s wrong?” Emma halted, trusting the dog’s judgement. Farrell nosed at the gate and stepped back, panting and wagging his tail. Emma’s fingers closed on the metal and it moved, emitting a low groan as it swung inwards.

  Emma flicked her finger and Farrell shot through the gap and sat next to the door, his mouth open in an enthusiastic grin. She laid the fake plaque behind the gate, hiding it in the dense shadows of the porch. Holding her breath, Emma followed the dog and hissed in surprise to find the wooden doors open a crack. A faint light spewed in an arc around the gap. “Stay!” she told the spaniel, leaning into his ear to make her command more audible. The dog’s face settled into an indignant expression, his eyes worried. His tail brushed the floor and he panted, his tongue lolling over the side of glossy lips. “I mean it,” she warned.

  Emma slipped through the door, cursing her trainers as she heard grit under her feet. She crept through the wide porch towards the nave and peered into the church, listening for movement or voices. Hearing nothing, Emma proceeded forward, creeping on all fours and keeping the toes of her trainers off the flagstones to avoid the inevitable squeak of rubber.

  The dull light issued from the altar and Emma pressed on, unnerved by the neat rows of dark wooden pews offering numerous places for assailants to hide. She checked behind her, discerning a sense of evil in the shadowy corners of the nave. The sound of low voices carried in the cavernous stone and Emma crept closer to listen, feeling the cold through the knees of her jeans. At the foot of the altar stood a man she didn’t recognise, surrounded by people. “I just wanted the plaque,” he said, an affected English accent making him sound like royalty. “It belongs to my family and I’ve said I’ll settle the debt.” Emma heard the sound of bubble wrap moving and crackling and used the sound to cover her as she crept closer to the action. “I don’t want to be involved with all this silliness,” the man said, thin lips smiling as he viewed the artifact. “Yes, this is it. My grandmother
spoke of it; bronze I believe and made by a gentleman in Leicester.”

  “Is not about some durak piece of crap!” Mikhail’s voice rasped into the stillness, echoing over Emma’s head. “I want my syn!”

  The grey haired Adam Jameson observed Mikhail through narrowed eyes. A bristly moustache laced with streaks of fading red, covered for the spitefulness of his thin lips as he opened his mouth with a scornful expression on his face. “I know nothing about any sins, despite this being a church. I made a deal, with her!” He jabbed a sharp index finger towards a figure in the circle and it moved. Shrouded in a dark cloak, it replied in a gentle female voice.

  “So you did, Dr Jameson. But I subcontracted to someone more local, killing two birds with one stone.” She lowered the hood which covered her face and Emma stuffed her fist into her mouth to suppress the gulp of fear at the sight of the Contessa, seeing only one side of her face. Graceful and elegant, the woman dominated the circle with her poise and Emma watched as Christopher’s gaze rested on the woman, captivated by her presence. An Oriental looking male stood behind the Irishman, a handgun levelled in the small of his back. Christopher’s body language was relaxed, appearing unconcerned by the nearness of death.

  “This is nothing to do with me,” Adam Jameson repeated. “I’ll make the transfer of the cash and then I’d like to leave. My sister’s waiting for me and she knows where I am. If I don’t return, she’ll alert the authorities.”

  “Nobody leaves,” Mikhail growled, his Russian accent slurring his words. “I care nothing for authorities; I want my syn!”

  Emma heaved a sigh of quiet relief that Clarissa was apparently elsewhere. She viewed the Contessa from the side and watched as the pretty mouth curved downwards in a sneer. “You’re not in a position to make demands!” she said, her voice calm. The vowel sounds of her New Zealand accent seemed to drag in a soporific drawl as her other companion lifted a gun to Mikhail’s temple.

  The Russian spluttered in fury. “I brought eight men viz me!” he spat. “Six are outside zis place. I have only to shout.”

  “Shout then,” the Contessa said with a ghoulish smile. “My two outside have already overpowered your six.”

  Emma looked around her in confusion. She saw nobody on her way into the church, not even Ray. Her eyes raked the dimly lit pews searching for gun toting Triads but saw nothing. Emma faced the circle of adults, seeking Rohan. Her view comprised the heads and shoulders of the gathered crowd and she allowed only her face to peek around the pillar, her sight impeded by the front row pews.

  Christopher stood with a bored expression on his face. He showed no respect for the gun in his back, picking at something on his fingernail. Mikhail repeated his demands to see his son, sounding like a droning, broken record in the echoing space, while the Contessa sneered at him from beneath long eyelashes.

  “I’ve transferred the money,” Adam Jameson said, cutting across Mikhail’s whining. He looked at Christopher and hefted the plaque under his arm. Bubble wrap trailed from the artifact like a wedding train. “Check if you wish.”

  Christopher shrugged and pressed keys on his phone. His fingers moved quickly and after a moment, he nodded. “Cheers then,” Christopher said and returned to his heavy boredom.

  Adam moved and one of the Russians next to Mikhail pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed it at the surgeon’s head. Like a child cranking up to a tantrum, Jameson’s face crumpled. “It’s not fair!” he exclaimed. “I’m nothing to do with this!”

  “For now, you are everything to do viz zis!” Mikhail spat.

  “Where’s the Actuary?” the Contessa asked Christopher and the Irishman shrugged.

  “He couldn’t make it so he sent me.”

  “He sent his tech to make a delivery?” she mused. “Interesting.”

  Mikhail stared at Christopher and his brow furrowed. “Da!” he said crossly. “Ver is he?”

  “On another job,” Christopher said. “This one was only small. I handle the wee ones.” His Irish lilt added a comic dimension to the scene.

  “No, you don’t!” Mikhail spat.

  “He does sometimes.” The Contessa’s voice held a hint of flirtatious humour and Christopher grinned at their shared memory of a hotel in Auckland.

  “He does not!” Mikhail maintained, his wizened face crinkling in a nasty sneer.

  “How’d you know?” Christopher raised his voice. “All you’ve ever done is fund the expenses and take a huge cut. You took forty percent even while you were selling us out and making life harder than it needed to be. How’d you know what we do? Do you think the Actuary would ever trust you with details?”

  Mikhail bridled and Emma watched his back straighten. He took a threatening step towards Christopher and Emma heard the Russian hiss, his tone surprised and dismayed. “What? Why do dis? To me!”

  Emma crept forward, desperate to see the reason for Mikhail’s shock and hoping it was the appearance of Rohan. Dropping to her hands and knees again, she crawled between two wide pillars. Nobody looked in her direction and she moved as close as she dared. The last pillar felt cool under her palm, the smooth stone offering a last bastion of cover before the wide space in front of the ornate altar.

  The Contessa held a knife in her hand, her arm extended to throw it through Mikhail’s face at close range. She couldn’t miss. The metal blade glinted in the spotlight over the altar, threatening and deadly in its promise of instant oblivion. Mikhail looked more indignant than frightened, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief.

  “Why do I have to stay?” Jameson whimpered, his face pale in the dim overhead light.

  “Because you’re part of dis job!” Mikhail spat. He jerked his head towards the Contessa. “She vants you dead.”

  Adam Jameson’s jaw dropped. “What? No! She’s helping me retrieve a family heirloom.”

  Emma gritted her teeth at the lie. The archivist in her fought to burst from her hiding place and expose the truth. Family heirloom, she fumed inwardly.

  Christopher looked suddenly interested. “We don’t do hits. We neutralise risk that’s all.”

  “This man is a risk,” the Contessa replied, her voice silky smooth. “A risk to everyone he promises to fix.”

  Christopher stared at Adam Jameson and then back to the Contessa. Confusion crossed his face as he pointed at the surgeon. “He already did surgery?” The Irishman didn’t hide his surprise. He shook his head and looked away. “Sorry, love.”

  Emma craned her neck, trying to see the Contessa’s face, curiosity driving her further than good sense dictated. The dark hood shrouded the woman from view and Emma wrinkled her nose in morbid disappointment as she sat back on her heels.

  “Yes, he performed a very expensive surgery,” the Contessa’s smooth voice continued. “But unfortunately he was drunk and it didn’t go well, did it Dr Jameson?”

  The surgeon took a step forward. “I said I’d make it better,” he pleaded, his voice wavering. “It wasn’t my fault...” He trailed off as if understanding the futility of his plea. Emma winced, suddenly not wanting to see the rest of the Contessa’s face and suspecting it was more than an unsightly blemish or a patch of misplaced botox.

  “I told you what would happen,” the Contessa continued. “You were warned.”

  Adam Jameson stamped his expensively shod foot like a child, his suit jacket swaying over his meaty frame. “You made me nervous,” he complained. “I didn’t want to do it but you left me no choice. Your threats towards my family ruined any chance you had of seeing my best work! I had an unblemished reputation before this!”

  “Had! So, this is my fault and I should just let you go?” The Contessa’s voice held a warning which the surgeon ignored.

  “Yes!” he agreed. “Completely!”

  Emma cringed, hearing Clarissa Jameson-Arden’s arrogance and superiority in the man’s answer. The Contessa oozed menace and Emma filled her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater, instinct warning her what came next. With a flick
of her wrist, the Contessa changed her aim from Mikhail to Jameson, sending the blade straight through the pompous Englishman’s neck. His eyes widening in stunned surprise, Adam Jameson fell like a stone snatched by gravity. In the same moment the Contessa released her knife, her foot soldier removed the gun from Christopher and trained it on Mikhail.

  “Rohan vas supposed to do dat!” the foolish Russian complained. “Dat vas de job.”

  “Only you didn’t tell him, did you? Why was that, Mikhail? Was it so you could call the wonderful English police and get him locked away for murder?” The Contessa turned and Emma saw her ruined face. She clamped her teeth on the prickly wool to prevent her reacting to the pool of blood spreading outwards from Adam Jameson’s dying body, or the melted scar tissue on the Contessa’s visage. Emma heard Jameson’s final, gurgling breaths and felt bile rise into her throat.

  The Contessa took a step towards Mikhail and the remaining Russians both trained guns on her. She faced each of them in turn, her smile like the two sides of a coin, beautiful and horrific at the same time. “You think there’s anything left to spoil?” she asked and Emma felt a flash of pity as the two Russian’s looked away, focussing their attention on their boss. “Mr Romanov will be dead before you pull the trigger and so will you.” The Contessa took another step towards Mikhail and his bodyguards panicked, not sure what to do next. They babbled in Russian at their boss and he stilled them with a raised hand. “This is all your fault,” she breathed, “it all began with you.”

  Chapter 41

  The ancient church seemed to hold its breath as Mikhail shook his head. “Nyet!” he protested. “Rohan left you in za fire, not me. I vasn’t zer!”

  “But I was there because of you,” the Contessa replied. “I’ve always had a soft spot for the Actuary but I’d have left him there burning too.” Her ruined gaze narrowed, zeroing on the frightened old man. “You, you’re the origin of my misery.” Her body tipped as she leaned towards Mikhail. “You placed a man in my inner circle. Brilliant, Mikhail. For years he’s sabotaged my jobs until Uncle Che investigated him and we fed him false information. This is about you and my uncle and nothing to do with me. Hack, the Actuary and countless others have been pawns in your sad game. He talked, Mikhail; your spy said a lot before they killed him. He told Uncle about your petty revenge over a bad business deal before I was even born.” The Contessa leaned closer still, the dark cloth covering her sumptuous breasts almost touching his chest. “How did it feel when he reported how he shot me before I burned? Did your revenge taste good?”