Murder on Page One

by Ian Simpson

  The beard twitched and the Russian’s dark eyes narrowed. His head moved forward. Osborne saw he was a real fighter and braced himself for a blow. But after a tense moment, Chapayev stepped back and began to laugh.

  ‘You tell me I am tosspot, so you have balls. I think I like you. Only I will know once you have done your work. We sit down, and I will tell you about my book.’

  Half an hour later, Osborne and Peters understood why the Russian authorities would want to suppress The Whole Pravda. Chapayev had a remarkable memory, with specific recall of names, dates and places. He also had an acute analytical mind, and he could draw inferences from apparently unconnected events. When, at last, he paused, both policemen were convinced that Putin was guilty of atrocious abuse even Osborne could see breached human rights. He wished more English prosecuting counsel were as persuasive.

  Before Chapayev could begin another monologue, Osborne said, ‘Okay, so Putin’s a villain. How do you know that the Russians killed Ms Swanson? There is someone around London who’s murdered three other literary agents in the last couple of months. They might have killed her.’

  ‘They screen with smoke. They kill other agents to throw you off scent.’ Chapayev’s eyes blazed. ‘They have done that often. In many countries.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone from the Embassy, or anyone connected with the Embassy, doing anything you could describe in evidence?’

  ‘Dogs, underlings, from Embassy have watched me.’

  ‘That proves nothing.’

  ‘And Linda was watched, not by Embassy, and I know who.’

  ‘Tell us.’ Osborne was losing patience.

  ‘South Ossetians. “My enemy’s enemy is my friend.”’

  ‘South Ossetians?’

  ‘In 2008 the Russians helped them against Georgia. There is a price for everything. In London, South Ossetians meet at Pyotr’s Place, a Russian restaurant in Delaney Street. Camden, you know.’

  ‘How can we prove that they watched her?’

  ‘Sam, from Book Village, her agency. He will tell you of his time as James Bond.’ Chapayev smiled at the puzzled expressions. ‘One day I was at agency, with Linda. She like my book, but not my English, so she gave me editor, Tanya. Tanya often mince my words. “Kill your darlings,” she keep saying. We had many arguments. One day, Tanya, Linda and I were in Linda’s room and I saw in the street a man I thought was watching for me. Linda sent for Sam, a clever boy who work for her, and I told him to follow the man as long as he could. Then I told him how to do this without being seen. I left after we finish work, but the man did not tail me. When Linda left later, he followed her home. After watching half an hour, he went to restaurant. Sam learn quick from me, and he took photos on his mobile. He look inside and saw man pouring tea then going through to back room. Restaurant is Pyotr’s Place. South Ossetians have it.’

  Peters said, ‘They wouldn’t have diplomatic immunity.’

  Chapayev snorted. ‘But they help the Embassy. Their faces are not known. It is more difficult to spot them.’

  Peters shook his head. ‘Do you really think a South Ossetian killed Ms Swanson?’

  ‘I cannot tell for sure, but they might have. They helped by following her.’

  Osborne pointed his finger at the Russian. ‘If they did, we could get them as accessories, even if we were not able to touch people at the Embassy.’

  Chapayev beamed. ‘And their trial would be Russia on trial, as sure as if Putin was in the dock.’ He got up, towering over Osborne. Suddenly, he lunged down and planted a slobbery kiss on each cheek.

  ‘Cut that out, will you?’ Osborne spluttered. Peters stifled a laugh.

  Osborne wiped his sleeve across his face. ‘Is there anything else you know? Did Ms Swanson ever say she was scared, or tell you about threats? Anything at all?’

  ‘No, and she was scared of nothing. I tell her that with her claws she was literary lioness, and she purred, like a great kitten.’

  There was nothing more to be learned from Chapayev. As they left, Osborne phoned Baggo, who was at the agency, to make sure he spoke to Sam.

  * * *

  “Olpra” could have been her trying to say The Whole Pravda,’ Flick suggested. The members of the team had gathered in the CID room and were trying to collate what they had learned.

  ‘That’s another pointer to the Russkies or their mates,’ Osborne said. ‘Did you find anything interesting at her house, Felicity?’

  Flick scowled. ‘No. Sir. She lived alone. The family come from Yorkshire, but they don’t seem close. She had a few female friends, mostly from her student days, not so many male friends. A neighbour told me she had odd one-night stands, always with younger guys. She had a country home in Gloucestershire where she went most weekends. The local police didn’t know anything about her.’

  ‘And her street, Mornington Place, isn’t far from that restaurant. Easy to see why the Russkies got their South Ossetian gofers to tail her. Did you learn anything from her office, Baggo?’

  ‘They all lived in terror of her, gov. She was one very scary lady. She was called Cruella de Ville, and liked it. She reduced more than one published author to tears. She seems to have been a creature of habit. Almost every weekend she spent in the country, usually with one or two manuscripts. Her Monday routine was sacrosanct: she arrived in the office at Pont Street after the rush hour, worked for a couple of hours, then went round the corner for her twelve thirty appointment at the Nail Bar. Very predictable. I took her computer and will see what I can find on it. She’s not on Facebook or Twitter.’

  ‘Did you see Sam?’

  ‘Yes, what you would call a likely lad. He followed a man he described as a “dark-haired, scrawny little runt” from the Book Village Agency to Mornington Place, ending up at Pyotr’s Place. He took photos on his mobile and stored them on his computer. He has promised to send them to me. I got the impression the scrawny runt was not experienced in espionage, as he concentrated only on the person he was tailing, and did not spot Sam.’

  ‘This time there’s no desecration of the body, or a message,’ Peters said. ‘Do you think this is really a political killing, gov?’

  ‘Everything points that way,’ Osborne agreed, then was interrupted by the phone. ‘Sir,’ he said, his tone patient but world-weary.

  Osborne did not believe in telling his superiors too much, particularly someone like Jumbo, but he was forced to acknowledge that he was working on the Russian angle. The others watched as he listened to Jumbo, his face registering boredom, then irritation, then puzzlement.

  ‘Anything wrong, gov?’ Peters asked once the call was over.

  ‘Nah. But I need thinking time.’ Osborne pulled his coat from its peg and left.

  The phone rang again. Cautiously, in case it was Jumbo again, Flick picked it up. When she put it down she grinned broadly.

  ‘They’ve arrested Patrycja Kowalski trying to leave the country. We’ll go to Dover and see her tomorrow morning, Baggo.’

  * * *

  Pyotr’s Place smelled of fried food and spices, with a musky background. It was warm and dimly lit by wall brackets with burnt lampshades that had seen better days. From a gilt frame on the wall opposite, a Russian Orthodox priest stared at Osborne. Facial hair made it impossible to tell if he was smiling or frowning. A dog-eared card beneath the photograph proclaimed: ‘This Restaurant Blessed by Archpriest Valentin Sergeyevich Egerov 4 May 1996’. Some lines in Cyrillic script appeared to say more. Apart from the shiny plastic table-cloths, little about the restaurant seemed to have changed since the blessing.

  Osborne was the only diner: either the restaurant struggled or its customers came in late. He knew that in his roundabout way, Jumbo was warning him off the Russians, which he didn’t like, so that evening he had decided to try Russian food. His starter, Grenki, a spicy combination of cheese, egg and garlic, served with tomatoes, was surprisingly tasty.

  ‘Are you Russian?’ Osborne spoke s
lowly and unnecessarily loudly to the waiter, a short, furtive man, badly shaved, with thinning black hair.

  ‘Niet. I am South Ossetian.’

  ‘So is this a South Ossetian restaurant then?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Do many Russians come here?’

  Another, more expressive shrug. ‘Sometimes they come. Not always.’ He carried away the empty dish.

  When he returned, Osborne tried again: ‘I saw a Russian on the telly. He had a big beard. Talking about some murder. Do you know anything about him?’

  The waiter shook his head and roughly set down a plate on which a mixture of beef, fried onions and rice sat on a big cabbage leaf. ‘Golubtsy,’ he said, turning away before Osborne could ask any more.

  It was a trencherman’s portion, and Osborne wished this restaurant was nearer his flat. As he was finishing, a tall man, tidier and better dressed than the waiter, came through the swing door leading to the kitchen and approached his table.

  ‘Welcome, sir. I am Mihail Pyotrovich Serov, the owner of this restaurant. Pyotr was my father, unhappily now dead, but I kept the name. It is good to follow tradition, no?’

  ‘I agree,’ Osborne said. He saw the man look expectantly then added, ‘I’m Smith. Noel Smith.’

  ‘Well Mr Smith, as this is your first visit here, will you join me in a drink? Vodka?’

  ‘I don’t drink, but I could murder a cup of your Russian tea.’ A large brass samovar sat on a table in a corner, making intermittent bubbling noises.

  ‘My pleasure.’ Serov went to the kitchen and returned carrying a cup which he filled up from the samovar. He brought it to the table and set it down before Osborne. ‘May I join you?’ he asked.

  This was exactly what Osborne wanted. Serov fetched a glass containing a clear liquid and sat down. The tea was hot and very strong. Osborne prided himself on his asbestos throat. He downed it in two gulps.

  ‘Vanya tells me you have questions,’ Serov said.

  ‘Yes. I was wondering what sort of a Russian community there is in London, just out of curiosity.’

  ‘There is a large Russian community. Some escaped when things were different. Some are here for business, taking over your football teams, maybe.’

  Osborne did not react. ‘Do those who disagreed with the government mix with, well, Embassy people?’

  Serov did not blink. ‘No. We see some Embassy people here, but they stick together.’

  ‘Do you get much ill-feeling over the 2008 war with Georgia?’

  ‘Georgians do not come here. They are not Russians.’ Serov’s mouth twitched. ‘Come, have more tea.’ He got up and refilled Osborne’s cup. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes. Very strong. I like that.’ He drank deeply. ‘Did you see that Russian writer on the telly last night, blaming the official Russians for killing that woman in that poncy store?’

  ‘Yes, I did. People tell me he is mad, but some will believe anything of our country, so he gets away with it.’

  Osborne sat back. He felt a muzziness spreading through his head. He had not felt it for years. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. But he had already been gripped by that old, familiar sensation; he knew that he wanted, needed, more of it.

  ‘Would you like to try something else?’ Serov asked. ‘I know you’ll love it.’

  ‘Yes. I’ll love it,’ Osborne muttered. His will had been broken, and he was going to wrap himself in a comfortable blanket of intoxication.

  13

  ‘In, out, in, out,

  You shake it all about.

  You do the Hokey Cokey and you turn around.

  That’s what it’s all about –hey!’

  The large, black woman behind the reception desk of the Dover Detention Centre swivelled her chair through three hundred and sixty degrees, lifted her arms and grinned broadly. ‘That’s what it’s like here, darlin’. And it’s damn hard to keep track of who’s in and who’s out. I can’t see a Kowalski here.’ She ran her finger down a type-written list of names.

  Flick pursed her lips and tapped her foot in impatience. She had detested the Hokey Cokey since, as a ten-year-old, she had been compelled to participate, and the woman’s impromptu performance made a bad morning worse. The journey to the South coast had been a nightmare due to tailbacks from an accident in the Channel Tunnel. Now, despite arrangements made by phone the previous evening, their visit had come as a surprise to the receptionist, whose manner remained cheerfully unconcerned.

  ‘Tell you this, darlin’,’ the woman said in a broad Cockney accent. ‘Working here, you gotta either laugh or cry, and I laugh. Ha, ha.’ She pulled a file from a drawer, licked a meaty index finger, and carried on with her search.

  Standing beside Flick, Baggo allowed his hopes to rise. If he was going to be found out, it would be much better if he confessed before he had the whistle blown on him. Twice during the interminable drive he had started to speak, then lost his nerve and said something banal. He respected Sergeant Fortune, but she was a bit of a stickler. In many ways, he would be better coming clean to Osborne, who had survived enough pickles to wreck half a dozen police careers. Some miles short of Dover, he decided to tough it out: he would give Patrycja a pleading look and hope she did not implicate him. After all, had he not intervened, she would have suffered a good deal more at the hands of Wolenski’s thugs. But as he watched the receptionist scan her lists, he knew that if Patrycja had got permanently lost in the system, one of his nine lives would have been used up, for sure.

  ‘Ah, ’ere she is!’ The receptionist dashed Baggo’s hopes. ‘Go along the corridor to your left once you go through security. I’ll give you interview room five. I’ll have her sent down. Mind, as it’s lunch time, you’ll have a good half hour to wait.’

  On their way to the interview room, Flick got coffees from a machine. They found room five, which was drab, grey and dismal. They sat on shabby, uncomfortable chairs and drank the warm, beige liquid that tasted of cardboard.

  After a long silence, Flick asked, ‘Are you all right, Baggo?’

  ‘Fine, Sarge. Just fine.’ He forced a smile.

  ‘Nothing’s bothering you? You seem a bit quiet today.’

  ‘I find myself thinking of home, Sarge.’

  ‘I hope you feel England’s your home.’

  ‘Oh, I do, Sarge. But one person can have more than one home, and today I think of Mumbai.’

  The silence that followed was broken by footsteps in the corridor. As Flick sat up straight behind the small table, Baggo eased his chair back so that she would not see his expression. An escort pushed a sullen-looking girl of about twenty into the room. She had a round face and wore a very short skirt.

  ‘Patrycja Kowalski?’ Flick asked.

  The girl nodded. Baggo felt a weight lift from his shoulders. This girl was not the Patrycja Kowalski that he knew.

  * * *

  Osborne wrapped his bath towel round himself and cleared some of the steam from the mirror. Both eyes were bloodshot, but the right one was puffy and sore as well. His lower lip was swollen and blood seeped from a cut that hurt when he licked it. His head ached and his stomach churned. Despite lying in a hot bath for twenty minutes, he still felt chilled to the marrow.

  Every time he tried to remember the previous night’s events, more ghastly details came back to him. A young cop had found him, cold and very confused, in the back seat of his own car, which had been parked on a yellow line in Camden. The engine had been running, and that had saved him from a bitterly cold night, but the cop had wanted to charge him with being drunk in charge of the car. It had taken his badge and a more experienced colleague in a patrol car to make the youngster back off. The older man had persuaded the rookie that it would be best for the Inspector to be driven home, and the young man had done this, seeing Osborne to his door and helping him with his keys. Osborne had half-undressed and collapsed on top of his bed. Now it was broad daylight. H
e should be at work.

  His days as a drunk had taught him that turning up while completely unfit was a very bad idea. He pulled on pyjamas and picked up the phone. ‘Food poisoning’, ‘up all night being sick’, ‘just a twenty-four hour thing, I hope’, tripped off his tongue as glibly as ever. Luckily, it was Peters he spoke to. Fortune and Baggo were chasing after some Polish bint who might give someone an alibi. He swore as he ended the call; he had definitely had enough of Eastern Europeans.

  He settled himself back in bed, the covers over his head, when his mobile sounded. A text. It could wait. Then another. And another. And another. Maybe he should check. He lumbered over to where his jacket lay on the floor, found the phone and called up his messages.

  The first had two words: ‘STAY AWAY’. Next came a photograph. Osborne groaned when he saw himself, lying on his back on a bed, his trousers round his ankles. There was someone else in the picture, a blond-haired, well-muscled man, completely naked. He was lying beside Osborne, and each had a hand on the other’s crotch.

  The second written message was worse: ‘THERES MORE’. The photograph that followed showed Osborne in the same position, smiling stupidly, but the blond man’s open mouth was now beside his erect penis.

  Gingerly, Osborne felt himself, wondering what had been done to him. Everything seemed normal, but that was only half of it; if these photos got round the nick, he wouldn’t be able to show face again. He checked his pockets. Nothing had been taken, but he could tell from where his credit cards were that someone had gone through his wallet. He had been nobbled, good and proper.

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, he forced himself to think back in an organised way. He remembered the long, sweet drink Serov had brought to his table; he pictured the back room he was taken to, the rough-looking men round the table, and a handsome, mature woman. Veronika, that was her name. She had sat next to him and filled his glass. He remembered the men talking about the evil Georgians, then they started on Chapayev; Veronika hated him as a traitor. He had joined in; the men had laughed at his jokes, and Veronika’s hand had crept up his thigh. She had guided him upstairs. There had been a fight: he remembered being hit, but no pain. He checked his knuckles; they were tender. He was glad he had put up some resistance. He stared at the blond man’s face; he had no memory of it, but if he met him again … He clenched his right fist.