A business-like woman, probably early thirties greeted him as she walked through the door and gestured for him to take a seat again. She too, Campbell was pleased to note, was hot. She introduced herself as Nicole Bannister, with a firm business like handshake that seemed to match her pin-stripe suit.
“I’m Operations Director here. Oleg’s second in command if you like.” She frowned and then her face was blank for a second or two. “Or I was.”
“Were you close?” Campbell asked, pulling out his notepad.
She laughed as she adjusted a lock of stray hair, replacing firmly behind her ear.
“In as much as anyone was.”
“How so?”
“Well Oleg, wasn’t, well, wasn’t to say he wasn’t that kind of person.”
“In what way?” Campbell asked, wondering as he did what was wrong with a man who wasn’t close to her. Karpov clearly had more money than God. That must have carried some leverage.
“He didn’t seem to have anyone or anything much in his life outside work,” she replied.
“No family?”
“Not that I was ever aware of. He did have various connections back in Lithuania but I was always led to believe they were mainly business associates.”
“No friends?”
“None I ever met. He generally seemed to live for work, always here before I was and still hard at it when I left. I tried to keep up with him in the beginning but in the end, you know there’s just more to life.”
“So they tell me,” Campbell replied. “Girlfriends?”
“None I ever heard about. I’m afraid it’s a bit of a dead end all of this. None of us knew anything about him really. I just don’t think he cared for much other than work.”
“Surely a man of means, he can’t have been too short of offers,” Campbell mused.
“He wasn’t exactly George Clooney,” she replied, a small grin lighting up her face briefly, “but I suppose some people like that power thing. No one I know of though.”
“Did he have any dealings with anyone which may have resulted in ill will of any kind? Was there anyone who may have made threats of that kind?”
“Well he was in financial services not an industry known for its consideration of our fellow man. I dare say he’d crossed swords with a few people over the years, a deal gone wrong here or there, well, right for him and wrong for someone else, but that’s the way it works. Business men of Oleg’s calibre don’t tend to lose sleep over toes they’ve inadvertently trampled on, do they? And they also don’t tend to overreact and shoot each other. Not in my experience.”
“Depends what business they’re in.”
“I would imagine so. However, to my knowledge no, there was no one in the near past that bore Mr Karpov any serious ill will.”
“No threats then?”
“None.”
“Ok Miss Bannister, that should be all for now. Oh you don’t happen to know where Mr Karpov’s lap-top is?”
“No. At home I’d imagine. He’d be unlikely to leave it here. That might mean he didn’t have all the answers at his disposal for more than five minutes.”
“Bit of a control freak was he?”
“You might say that. Perhaps it would be more charitable to say that he had issues around letting go...”
“Of the reins,” Campbell replied before he could stop himself.
She smiled taking it in the humorous way he might have intended if he had actually meant to say it.
“Can I reach you here if I need to?” he asked.
She produced an expensive looking embossed card with her details and he briefly felt like he’d won the lottery, before telling himself no he mustn’t phone this one after a skin full. Not after what happened last time.
He thanked her for her time and made his way out of the office
He entered the toilet across the hall and finding it suitably empty, proceeded to chop out two lines of the finest product Columbia had to offer onto a granite sink top before rolling a twenty and snorting the whole lot in one u-shaped movement. Just a little pick me up. Who was going to stop him? New suppliers were easy to find, it seemed.
He had thought of mentioning what his previous one had said about the possibility of losing her head to Burke, but he wasn’t sure. The boss had a way of disapproving of these things, along with a curiosity about most things and it might be best to avoid complicating the situation. It was hardly important info anyway.
He looked at his ornate surroundings. The perks of executive life.
Who was he kidding? He tore up her card and threw it in the bin as he left the building. Best not to go down that road.
********************
Victor sat in the office of his fallen comrade as he watched the police officer go. He pushed the balls on the desk toy back and forth watching them knock off each other, the two in the middle remaining static and the ones on the outside doing all the work. He could think of no better model for how the world of business worked.
Executive toys they used to call them, this and the miniature pool tables, an assortment of curiosities for the feeble minded. Executive toys. He preferred his yacht. Now there was an executive toy. One for an executive in the truest sense of the word when the occasion had required it. Oleg was not feeble minded. Of course not. He would not have been allowed to enter the brotherhood were it ever the case. He had merely gone to seed in this place, which looking around this office, it appeared to be easy to do in these God forsaken parts, barely a sane one among them. A few months in the salt mines would do them good. Let them starve for a while, see how quickly they turned against one another
He breathed a heavy sigh and returned to the view, catching a glimpse of his reflection as he did and briefly not recognising the old man that stood before him. Folds of skin had overtaken the youthfully sculpted jaw line and wisps of grey now flashed out of his eyebrows. The bags under his eyes sagged with the weight of the evil they’d seen and his hair hung limp and colourless across his wrinkled brow. His body was decaying. There was no fighting that. A nip and a tuck might stave off the visuals for a time, but underneath the foundations were beginning to perish.
He would live on in his legacy and in his sons.
Just a few more pieces had to fall into place. Some minor problems to be resolved and all would be well.
Perhaps he would live out his days by a river he considered, as he briefly lost himself again in the water of Leith’s foaming torrent before he bit his lip and forced himself back to reality.
Now was not the time. There was work to be done still.
12
Andy had just about lived down the humiliation he reckoned, though when it really came down to it there was rarely any living down of any humiliation, perceived or otherwise. People round here had long memories.
It was a powerful motivator. He needed some kind of revenge. Nothing major, nothing too severe, but something at least to save face.
He’d asked around a bit. Where did the guys working at Baldoon live? That kind of thing. A team of workers arriving in a small town; someone should know something. They would be staying in someone’s husband’s granny’s daughter’s attic. Nothing. It seemed they were masters of invisibility. They couldn’t be nowhere. There were only so many places to go round here.
So he knew what he had to do.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t done stalking before. Of course he had. Not in an injunction provoking restraining order demanding sort of way, he’d never been a stalker of human form but he’d hunted down the odd deer. It wasn’t really his thing, too much waiting around. Being a low attention span child of the digital age didn’t really equip you for the joys of lying around in cold grass on the slim chance you might get a shot off.
He’d asked Davie for his help, but the big man said no. He would be watching the golf from Augusta he said. That was where his priorities lay ‘rather than helping out a mate?’ Andy asked and in return he was granted a lecture on the fact that he was �
�laying it on with a fucking trowel’ and that ‘to be fair,’ Davie had ‘done a bit of bacon saving already this week.’
He had a point, Andy agreed. It was never wise to provoke him head on anyway, like most people his size, he tended to assume he shouldn’t really be questioned in any way. Probably true, best not to anger it or risk incoming the wrath.
He knew what he had to do and so in the spirit of adventure he got on with it.
He had to hunt through the wardrobe for black clothes. He tended to wear rugby shorts or boiler suits which he now knew were actually fairly bright. He may have to rethink the wardrobe for next year he realised, maybe buy some of the skinny jeans and what not just to fit in with the rest of the students.
Then he had a bit of inspiration and headed for his parent’s room feeling fairly chuffed with himself. He remembered a photo of his dad from the late ‘70’s or early ‘80’s trying to look like a young Tom Jones or something.
He knew the auld yin would be too tight to throw anything out and after a good old rummage -which he would have admitted made him a bit anxious, as you didn’t want to find anything too risqué in your mum and dad’s possessions- he struck gold. There it was, the very same black polo neck the old boy probably thought made him look French or something back in the day.
He pulled it over his head, bit tight and smelled a bit wardrobey but it would do. Next he needed bottoms and again Pater did not let him down. At the bottom of a box he found an old pair of faded black 501’s. Yes. He was in business.
He donned the rest of the ensemble, completing it with a pair of old trainers and made for the kitchen, pursued by the delectable bouquet of mothball. He raked through the cupboards in the utility room and came up trumps, some black boot polish. Probably not the best for your skin, but he’d used whatever there was of his mother’s makeup left in the house while she was away and drawn a blank. He doubted colouring in his face with mascara or eyebrow pencil was a goer.
He applied the polish in a considered manner, using stripes in a left flowing down side in order to look as much as possible like the SAS, or at least the actors you saw made up to look like the SAS in films, as this was the one place their existence was officially confirmed.
He topped it all off –literally- with an old tourie from the utility room, selected the necessary electrical equipment ensuring the buttons were up to scratch, headed for the Landrover.
He parked just after the road end. Diesel engines weren’t the best for stealth, but it was a windy night and the sound should be deadened by this and the woods he now carefully made his way through.
The moonlight made everything fairly visible but stray clouds blew over every so often making for a few misplaced footsteps.
The lights of the buildings were soon closer providing some much needed assistance. Emerging from the woods at a dry stone dyke, he ran along it keeping as low as possible. He rounded the end of the biggest of the barns and vaulted the dyke. Bastard. The motion sensor caught him as he tried to head along the back wall towards the drive. There was nothing else for it. He kept his head down low, sprinted for the far corner of the barn and threw himself over the dyke on the other side.
He lay in his stomach as the damp started to seep through his makeshift saboteur outfit. He waited for the light to go out.
He made his move and dived over the wall onto the grass at the other side. As he thought, he’d outrun the motion sensors, but he was further away now. He reached into his backpack and pulled out the night sites. They weren’t brilliant. He wouldn’t have relied on them in a battlefield situation but what could you expect from Russian army surplus?
He moved swiftly knowing all too well that the large expanse of grass he was running over was uneven. The sites gave him a clue as to the lay of the land and cut down on the likelihood of a twisted ankle from an unexpectedly high or low foot strike. He hit lower than expected at one point jarring his ankle and his knee and causing an adrenaline spike that made sure the rest of his steps landed more consistently.
As he rounded the last corner, seeing the light streaming from the window he needed, Andy dropped to his knees sliding along the wet grass and coming to a halt dramatically under the window.
Slowly raising his head he took in the scene that emerged.
The lights in the room were in fact low but the room was dominated by a huge screen, must have been 50 inches at least. The sporting event on display was accompanied by occasional giant stats and graphics.
The room was unoccupied apart from a lone figure, whose head Andy could clearly pick out in silhouette above an ancient wingback chair as the light from the screen and a roaring log fire danced around distorting its shape more than normal. Now was the time. He selected the necessary electrical equipment from his pack ensuring to take the right preparatory precautions and took aim.
He held his breath and fired. Nothing. He reloaded taking aim again after the correct amount of shoogle, fired and watched with gritted teeth.
He felt a grin spread across his face as the screen went black, watched as the rotund figure on the chair scrambled around looking for his own remote control before switching the golf back on. As the figure sank back onto the chair, Andy took aim again. This time selecting the TV mode, scrolling down the menu and selecting Al Jazeera.
He watched as Davie jumped up from his seat again scratching his head like the overgrown primate he was and frantically pressing buttons on the remote. Andy decided he would go for the caravan channel next possibly followed by Nikelodeon or one of the African Christian channels. He could keep doing this for a while.
13
Burke made his way to the West End. He buzzed the archaic door at the Phoenix Consultancy and entered. He was greeted by and aging receptionist who offered a cup of tea which he gratefully accepted with the proviso that she put three sugars in.
Fraser Douglas’s consultation room was more or less what he imagined a plastic surgeon’s office would look like. Two black leather couches flanked a marble fireplace with a heavy expensive looking vase as its centrepiece. Magazines related to the business of nipping and tucking adorned a coffee table and a series of splatted minimalist canvases their owner had no doubt paid through the nose for adorned the walls along with the standard centrepieces denoting qualifications awards and memberships.
The man himself was probably around forty five. It was hard to tell as he had clearly foregone the type of hair replacement he recommended and performed.
He bounded into the room like a cocker spaniel and they shook hands as Burke’s tea was delivered. Douglas sat on the arm of one of the couches and slurped on an espresso. He’d clearly had his teeth done as there wasn’t a coffee stain or natural shade of enamel on display in his mouth.
“So you spoke to one of my officers this morning?” Burke began.
“I did,” Douglas replied.
“And at the time you didn’t remember seeing anything?”
“No, well that’s not perhaps strictly true,” Douglas replied frowning.
Burke realised he’d had his eyebrows done.
“I hope we can keep this on the down low if you know what I mean.” Douglas gave Burke a look an actual spaniel might give someone with food; a kind of practised begging look, or at least he was sure that’s what he thought it would look like. The outside world rarely accurately reflected the inside of anyone’s brain and in reality it merely served to make him look like a cross between the ET and someone who was in the midst of a fright when the Botox properly kicked in. Forty five year old men really shouldn’t try to look cute in a begging way or in fact anyway Burke noted.
“I have been engaging in what you might call a bit of an assignation,” Douglas carried on. “Can I ask that we keep this between ourselves?”
“You can ask,” Burke replied “but I can’t really guarantee anything. That’s not strictly true. I can guarantee that you won’t be obstructing a police investigation should you see fit to fill us in on what you saw or didn’t se
e. I can also tell you that I will do my best to conceal your infidelity. But that’s as far as I can go.”
Douglas had obviously been trying to put a positive face on it. His shoulders slumped forward and his features collapsed. He raised his eyebrows, wrinkling his brow in recognition. “I value my marriage inspector. Are you married?”
“I am.”
“Well then presumably you know how much that means and that you just want to live up to your better half’s expectations but that also, sometimes that’s just not possible.”
“Sometimes, perhaps.”
“I’ve tried to fight it off,” he said staring intently at a spot somewhere on the wall. “But I’m a remarkably weak man when it comes down to it.”
Burke said nothing. He let Douglas continue knowing that this was a man looking to unburden himself.
“It started last summer. I’d been going round the doors on the street, looking for sponsorship for a cycle ride I’m doing to John O’Groats and back. It was through the local Rotary club, a few of us were doing it as much for an excuse to put in some extra training before the summer, if only to look good on the beach. Vanity’s a powerful motivator. I should know.” He paused clearly expecting this to elicit a small laugh at the very least. “So I get to Oleg’s house around nine only to find him in a bit of a drunken state.” He looked at Burke who nodded, “well he was having a bit of a get together and he invited me in. It was only at that point that I realised there were no other men there.”
“Really?” Burke replied. “In which case, who was there?”
Douglas’s shoulders slumped forward again and he let out a long lingering sigh.
“Professionals you might say.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Ladies of the night, escorts, call girls, hookers, call them what you will.”
“And presumably having being invited in, you were then invited to indulge?” Burke enquired, already knowing the answer. Why else would he look so decidedly pale right now?
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