‘That’s why you came and got me out?’
Samantha nodded.
‘Who sent you?’
‘You don’t need to know that.’
Collecting her thoughts, recovering her composure, Annushka said, ‘There have been scandals before. Loads of them. A politician has an extra-marital fling. So what? In Italy, France, no one cares. I don’t think anyone here really cares anymore.’
The girl was stubborn and not easily scared, Samantha reflected. She’d have to try harder. Pretty sure that lies had been told about the death at Darnel Hall, deciding to confront her with it, she said, ‘There’s something even more damaging, isn’t there, Annushka?’
‘I can’t think what you mean.’
‘The party you went to a couple of nights ago, at Darnel Hall. You witnessed a girl falling to her death; stole mobile phones that held unsavoury images. Perhaps one of them holds a record of the girl’s death.’
Annushka stared back at her, her face bleak, her pretty mouth pressed into a hard line. ‘Who says so?’
‘People who were there say so.’ There was fear in the girl’s eyes now. Her composure was slipping. Sensing she’d touched on the truth, Samantha went on, ‘The sons of senior politicians were at the party, and a couple of viscounts. Who else was there? Was a duke or a prince enjoying himself? A princess, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘You know very well what I mean. Was a prominent member of the Royal Family letting his or her hair down?’
‘They’re just people to me. I don’t bother about titles, or who they are, or what they are. I go for a good time. We have a meal, sometimes one of the boys runs a disco, we dance, we pair off. It’s all very discreet, very select. The girls go to, or went to, Martha’s. Most of the boys go to, or went to, Conningbeck.’
‘There’s drink and drugs?’
‘I don’t drink and I don’t do drugs.’
‘But some of the others do?’
‘There’s wine and beer with the meal. A lot of weed’s smoked, some snort a few lines of coke, others take pills.’
‘And things got a bit wild. They started fooling around. They were so doped up and stupid they threw the girl off the landing and you videoed it?’
Annushka glared at her. ‘This is why you came for me, why you got me out of the Sternwood place: you want the phone with the video.’
‘If I had the video I could make you safe.’
‘And if I had this video, which I don’t, how would giving it to you make me safe?’
‘You’d no longer have it, so you’d be less of a threat. And if that weren’t enough, the contents could be put in the public domain and the damage would have been done. There’d no longer be any point in them silencing you.’
They gazed at one another across the remains of the meal. The refrigerator clicked and began to hum, the faint sound almost hidden beneath the rumbling-roar of a jet plane crossing the sky above the city. Annushka’s expression was inscrutable, her face pale and tear-streaked. Presently she said, ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore. There’s too much to think about. My father’s dead and my stupid stepmother might try to interfere with me.’ Her body suddenly tensed. Something had occurred to her. ‘I must go to the flat. I must go there now.’
‘The flat?’
‘The family flat. It’s close, in Belgravia. I could walk there.’
‘It’s too dangerous,’ Samantha protested. ‘They’ll be watching the place round the clock.’
‘I must empty the safe, take papers and my mother’s jewellery. And I need clothes.’
‘It’s out of the question. I can’t risk you being arrested again.’
Annushka’s tone became determined. ‘Get me in there and safely away, and I’ll tell you where you can find the mobile phone with the video.’
Tatiana Dvoskin was sitting in Vladimir’s high-backed swivel chair, her trembling legs hidden behind his massive desk. This was the first time she’d lingered in the cabin he’d used as an office. Awnings projected above the long viewing windows; books lined the wall behind the desk. Purchased by the metre, they were intended only for decoration – Vladimir had never read a book in his life. The awnings, the old leather bindings, the dark wood that lined the walls, muted the bright Mediterranean light, made it the calming, peaceful place where Vladimir used to come to think and make decisions, the place where he’d contemplated the vastness of his business empire, the enormity of his wealth.
She’d slept badly. She was still in a state of shock. Only a few days ago her father had said she must wait a while before he ordered her husband’s death. On reflection, she’d needed that time to learn how Vladimir dealt with things, observe the way he controlled the entourage who travelled with them and attended to their needs. They had all feared and respected him. Now she was in control, would they fear and respect her? She would have to begin as she meant to go on. She would have to hide her fear and assert her authority, to speak and act appropriately, to distance herself from this retinue of people. She was going to be very alone.
The Dior suit she was wearing was the only item of black clothing she’d brought with her on the cruise. Its tailored jacket had narrow lapels and tight sleeves, the fitted skirt was calf length. It was smart yet austere, appropriate for a bereavement. She’d pinned up her hair, clipped black pearls to her ears, shadowed her eyes but left off the lipstick, concealed her spectacular cleavage beneath a black silk blouse.
Andrei Potamin, the captain of the Ocean Empress, had already been to see her. Braided cap tucked under his arm, he’d stood stiffly in front of the desk while he’d offered his condolences and the condolences of the crew. They were all anxious to serve her; he awaited her instructions. At the request of the police, he’d extended their stay in the harbour by another ten days. The Russian ensign was being flown at half mast. If there was any way in which he could assist her, she had only to ask.
He had been followed by Vladimir’s secretary, a young Englishman by the name of Cecil Trope. Educated, cultured, something of a linguist, he spoke fluent Russian, German and French and had a smattering of Greek and Italian. Tatiana suspected repressed homosexuality. Wasn’t that sort of thing prevalent amongst the English? His devotion, his attentiveness to Vladimir had been excessive. She’d sensed his coolness towards her; a coolness she’d interpreted as sexual indifference, possibly even jealousy. His sorrow at his master’s death was evident. Brown eyes wet with tears, small pointed chin trembling, he’d offered his condolences, expressed an earnest wish to continue to serve her, assured her of his dedication. She reminded herself that he was clever, that he had a knowledge of Vladimir’s business dealings and how his empire was run. He could be very useful to her. No doubt he’d be able to put aside his aversion to her sex; Vladimir had paid him well and good jobs were hard to find.
He’d brought with him that morning’s yellow slips, the transcripts of messages sent to the ship. She’d asked him if there were any he couldn’t deal with, any that required her decision. He’d said only one, and passed her a message from the housekeeper at Underhill Grange. Apparently her stepdaughter, Annushka, had disappeared from the secure unit. She hadn’t returned home and the police were searching for her. The school had written, complaining of her absence and expressing concern. Tatiana instructed him to send an encrypted reply, advising the housekeeper of Vladimir’s death and informing her that she would arrange for a search to be made for the girl. Before dismissing him, she’d asked him to send in Grigori, the head of security. She was waiting for him now.
She had a desperate need to talk to her father, but she daren’t use her mobile phone or the systems on the ship. She wanted his advice and guidance, and she wanted him to explain why he’d changed his mind and acted so quickly, without giving her any warning. All those months ago, when he’d urged her to be pleasant and welcoming to Vladimir, to consider him as a possible husband, he’d promised her she wouldn’t have to endure the marriage
for long. As he’d said, marriage is the perfect way to resolve enmities and consolidate the wealth of families. Vladimir had been the cause of much trouble for him – many of his activities had been financially damaging. When she’d protested about marrying him, her father had pointed out that it would make her a wealthy woman in her own right. And he’d reminded her she was no longer a young girl; that at thirty-two she ought to be married. As her father had predicted, Vladimir had insisted on a pre-nuptial agreement; to protect his daughter, he’d said, and to provide for his mother. Through the long and wakeful hours of the night, she’d read and re-read the document, begun to realize that if she acted swiftly and decisively she could inherit all of Vladimir’s wealth. Annushka’s disappearance was auspicious. She had to seize the opportunity it presented.
There was a gentle tapping, she called, ‘Enter,’ the door opened and Grigori advanced across the green and gold carpet towards her, his grey hair close cropped, his broad face impassive. Dark suited, his massive shoulders and huge body blocked her view of the harbour. Tatiana nodded towards a chair. He lowered himself into it and folded his hands in his lap.
She cleared her throat. ‘I want to thank you for protecting me last night. You probably saved my life.’
‘It was my duty. Whilst I am in your employ I will do whatever is necessary to protect you from danger.’
She remembered his legs imprisoning hers, his arms enclosing her head, the crushing weight of him, and felt a rush of heat to her cheeks. His narrow, pale-blue eyes were fixed on hers. His thin-lipped mouth was grim.
‘I’m sorry about Mr Dvoskin. I feel that we failed him, but he would not allow us to carry guns, and he moved out of the cordon and walked on ahead.’
‘He was tired,’ Tatiana murmured. ‘Tired of walking. He wanted to relax in the car.’
‘Boleslav pulled him back, tried to step in front of him, but . . .’
‘Boleslav died for my husband,’ she said softly. ‘That’s one of the things I wish to talk to you about. Did he have a wife?’
‘He had a wife, but they were divorced.’
‘Did he have any children?’
‘One, a boy. When the child was four he discovered he wasn’t the father, hence the divorce. It was acrimonious. He was very bitter.’
‘Parents?’
‘He never spoke of parents, but he did have a relationship with a woman in Odessa. She had a child from a previous marriage. He used to support them.’
‘Can we find her?’
‘I’ll look through the things in his cabin, check his wallet and the clothes he was wearing when the police release them later today. He carried a photograph of the woman and the little girl. We should be able to trace her.’
‘Talk to me again when you have an address and telephone number. I want to speak to her personally and make some financial arrangement. Presumably Boleslav would have wished that?’
‘He would have been grateful to you. And he would have admired you for it, as we all will.’ They gazed at one another across the gleaming top of the desk. Presently the silence was broken by the deep bellow of a siren, a chorus of shrieking gulls; a ship was leaving the harbour. When the sound had faded, he said, ‘You mentioned other matters, ma’am?’
She nodded. ‘I think you know that my stepdaughter is in some trouble with the British police. Vladimir was worried, but he felt it best to wait a while before becoming involved. The housekeeper at Underhill Grange, I gather she assumes some responsibility for the girl when Vladimir is away, has sent another message. It seems Annushka has absconded from the place where she was being kept, but she hasn’t returned to her home and her headmistress has written to say she’s still absent from school.’ Tatiana realized she was toying with Vladimir’s big black fountain pen. She laid it on the blotter, then linked her fingers to keep them still. ‘I’ve had a message sent to the housekeeper, telling her I’m going to organize a search for the girl.’ She paused, uncertain how to put into words the thing that she wanted him to do.
Grigori was eyeing her expectantly, his bushy eyebrows raised. When she didn’t speak, he asked, ‘You wish me to arrange a search?’
‘More than that.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Vladimir once told me that, from time to time, you undertook special tasks for him?’
He nodded.
‘Would you be prepared to do things of that kind for me?’
‘I would be pleased to serve you in any way that I can.’ He gave her a quick respectful smile. ‘Of course, Mr Dvoskin always recognized the special nature of the tasks. He was invariably generous.’
‘As I would be.’ She leaned forward and lowered her voice. ‘I want her found before the British police find her, and I want her killed. An accident of some kind. It is most important that the authorities recover and identify her body.’
Grigori’s face remained impassive. He was having some difficulty concealing his surprise at the request, but it didn’t displease him. Annushka was smart-mouthed, arrogant, precocious. Since she was little more than a child she’d mocked and tormented him, forever flaunting herself, humiliating him, pretending to offer what he dare not take.
‘Does that give you any problems?’ Tatiana asked.
‘None that I can think of.’
She continued to gaze at him across the desk. It was uncluttered: just the blotter, Vladimir’s pen and two telephones, one red and one black. ‘When could you travel to England?’
‘The police want to go over my statement with me today. After that I should be free to leave. But I have concerns about your security.’
‘You think I am in danger?’
‘You will always be in danger. Boleslav is dead, I am to travel to England, that will leave Stanislav, Yegar, Dimitri and Vasila. They will have to be vigilant, and you must avoid risk. When you are in public places, the four of them must surround you at all times. And you should put one of them in charge whilst I’m away so their work can be coordinated.’
‘Who do you suggest?’
‘Vasila is the most capable, the most experienced, and he is respected by the others.’
‘He would be loyal?’
‘He would die for you; they would all die for you.’
‘Our conversation,’ Tatiana said, ‘it stays with us, it is our secret.’
‘Of course. For both our sakes.’
‘Thank you, Grigori, that is all. Send the other guards to me. I must thank them, tell them that you are to go to England, and put Vasila in charge.’
He nodded, rose, and headed for the door. When he reached it, she called after him. ‘There must be a body, Grigori. There must be clear and tangible proof that the girl is dead.’
CHAPTER SIX
Lionel Blessed stood at the kerbside, waiting for a break in the flow of traffic. Dark hair neatly barbered, the open collar of his blue shirt turned down over the neck of his grey sweater, black trousers, black trainers: he was smart, but comfortable. His lock-picking equipment was in an old canvas shopping bag along with a packed lunch and a flask of coffee. If he was able to get inside the house he intended to linger for a while.
The traffic along London Road was still heavy: mothers returning from the school run, workers driving into and out of Cheltenham. From where he was standing he could look across the main road into Orchard Street. It was deserted. He was tingling with excitement and his pulse was quickening, but his hands were steady, there was no shaking. That was important if he was to maintain a delicacy of touch, a sensitivity in his fingertips, when he exercised his much-practised skills.
Traffic lights further down the road halted the flow of traffic. He crossed over, entered the narrow street and glanced into the residents’ car park. Only one car: a blue Nissan Micra. There was no sign of Rebecca’s tiny white Fiat. He heard the sound of an engine behind him, turned and saw a grey van approaching. It slowed as it passed him, then stopped. The cab window lowered and a head craned out. ‘I’m lookin’ for Parkside Close, mate. Know where it is?’
Lionel felt a twinge of alarm. He hadn’t wanted to be seen, let alone stared at and spoken to. ‘Don’t you mean Parkside Villas?’
The man studied a delivery docket. ‘Yeah, that’s it, Parkside Villas.’
Lionel pointed towards a gap in the row of terrace houses. ‘Through there; that’s Parkside Villas.’
‘Thanks, mate.’ The van pulled away and disappeared through the opening.
Lionel walked on for another twenty yards, then paused and looked across at Rebecca’s house. Through the gateway he could see her green front door and part of the big sash window beside it; a gleaming rectangle of darkness, it was reflecting the refuse bin and the tall privet hedge that enclosed the small paved area in front of the house. He glanced up. The curtains were still drawn across the bedroom windows. That was nothing to worry about, she often left them that way.
He crossed the street, pushed through the groaning iron gate and gently closed it behind him. Concealed by the hedge now, he crouched down beside the door and swung a new-looking escutcheon aside. Bright metal gleamed at him when he peered into the keyhole; the lock had recently been changed. Something decent would have been fitted, probably a curtain-lever job. He straightened up and stood there for a moment, listening. The only sounds he could hear were the rumble and swish of traffic moving along the main road fifty yards away. As a precaution, he pressed the bell push, heard a faint ringing from within the house, then realized he’d be unbelievably embarrassed if Rebecca appeared. She didn’t.
No use dithering. If he was going to do it, he’d better get on with it. He groped in the shopping bag, pulled out the wallet of tools and selected the two-piece pick that would open the mortise lock. He inserted the spindle into the keyhole, turned it until a narrow groove was uppermost, then slid the slender steel pick along the groove and into the lock. He closed his eyes. It was all down to delicacy of feel and touch now. He began to probe the mechanism. One by one, he located and lifted the levers, all the time adjusting the torque on the grooved spindle to prevent the raised levers dropping back. It was a delicate business: if he applied too much pressure the mechanism would become impossible to pick, too little and the levers would fall and he’d have to start all over again. There was a faint click as the fifth lever lifted. The lock no longer resisted. When he withdrew the pick and turned the grooved spindle, the bolt slid out of its keep.
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