‘Good God, how awful. Do we know the girl?’
‘I think not. Daughter of a minor politician; not a person one would know. Earl Farnbeck was concerned about the media getting hold of it. There were a couple of viscounts there, the Foreign Secretary’s son, the granddaughter of one of my ladies-in-waiting.’
‘Was Harry there?’
‘I think Sir Lawrence feared he might be, but he was on his way to New Zealand. Security Services had rescheduled his flight. Sir Lawrence spent some time on the telephone the next day, making sure no other members of the family were there.’
‘Then I can’t understand what Farnbeck was fussing about.’
‘I suppose he was just being cautious; that dreadful referendum in Australia, the people voting for a republic, Canada moving in the same direction. One’s realm is diminishing by the day.’
‘Ungrateful beggars,’ the Duke muttered. ‘Whatever happened to loyalty and respect? What’s become of tradition?’
The Queen sighed. ‘Quite so, dear, but at the moment anything that presents us in a bad light is a cause for concern. Sir Lawrence contacted one of my Lord Lieutenants, Major Makewood, asked him to go over to the hall and do what he could to deal with the situation.’
‘Sensible move. Makewood’s a shrewd old devil. What happened?’
‘Sir Lawrence couldn’t say. He received no further calls, so he presumed Makewood had dealt with it.’ The Queen folded her napkin, placed it on the table and rose to her feet.
‘What’s in the diary?’
‘Charles and Camilla are opening a waste-sorting and recycling plant near Rotherham. The largest in Europe, apparently.’
The Duke’s shoulders heaved with a wheezy laugh. ‘They couldn’t have put it in a better place.’
‘I’m going to walk the corgis around the gardens. What about you, dear?’
‘I think I’ll just potter.’
They crossed the river on Vauxhall Bridge and entered Belgravia via Grosvenor Place. The battered Mercedes van reeked of tar and cigarette smoke, but its high cab imparted a feeling of supremacy in the heavy traffic. Samantha had told the young and enthusiastic Cockney salesman they were Polish women, sisters; she was leaving her husband and they were returning to Poland. ‘Would it get them and their possessions to Poland?’
‘Poland? No problem, darling.’ He’d patted the bonnet. ‘Take you round the world, this little beauty. Heavy chassis, strengthened floor, German know-how. And it’s taxed until the end of the month. I’m giving it away.’
They’d had no problems with it so far, and no difficulty finding nondescript clothing in a charity shop: wrap-around aprons, two summer dresses, one green and flower-patterned, one blue and plain; headscarves, a pair of low-heeled shoes and an arm-covering cardigan for Annushka. Despite the warmth of the day, Samantha was wearing the raincoat she’d purchased before releasing Annushka from the children’s unit; her gun was nestling in the pocket, its silencer projecting through the tear into the lining.
‘Turn right here, then sharp left,’ Annushka directed. They were rumbling past terraces of tall, elegant houses. Decorated with columns and pilasters, pediments and cornices, their stuccoed walls were blindingly white in the strong sunlight. Annushka was guiding her to the flat, making sure they avoided the square at the front and approached down the narrow access road at the rear. ‘Slow down now,’ she warned, then pointed, ‘That’s it, that’s the opening. Turn through there.’
Samantha braked, swung the battered white van through the gap, then drove more slowly between high brick walls, pierced at intervals by steel security gates.
‘The one that’s coming up now, with the brass number plate,’ Annushka directed. When the bonnet of the van was inside the recessed opening, she keyed the remote control and the heavy gates swung slowly open. They advanced into the rear yard, then climbed out and made a show of unloading their buckets, mops and box of cleaning things, their upright vacuum cleaner.
‘This dress smells,’ Annushka muttered, as she unlocked the rear door of the house.
‘It’s only camphor. Whoever had it must have put mothballs in the wardrobe.’ Samantha, clutching the box filled with bottles and cloths, was glancing around. Despite the high enclosing walls, the top-storey windows of houses beyond the access road were visible. Someone could be watching.
‘Don’t know why she bothered.’ The rear door opened and they stepped inside.
‘Bothered?’
‘With the mothballs. The dress wasn’t worth it.’
Struggling with the vacuum cleaner, brushes and buckets, they headed down a tiled corridor, across an impressive entrance hall, then up a curving flight of stairs. The landing at the top had been decorated to reflect the importance of the Dvoskin household. A strip of deep-blue carpet, laid on white and gold tiles, marked the approach, and tall oriental vases stood, like sentinels, on either side of panelled doors in the pedimented entrance. Bit ostentatious, Samantha reflected, as Annushka unlocked the doors and disabled the alarm.
Abandoning the pretence, they dropped their cleaning things in the inner hallway and Annushka began to climb a second, somewhat less impressive, flight of stairs.
‘Don’t use suitcases,’ Samantha called after her. ‘Put the things you want to take in these sacks.’ She tossed her a roll of black plastic bin-liners. ‘I’ll join you in a few minutes. I want to look out over the square at the front and the yard at the back, check for signs of our having been followed.’ When the girl had disappeared around the top of the stairs, Samantha returned to the entrance doors, opened one, then crept to the edge of the landing and peered down into the shared hallway. It was deserted.
Back in the flat, she wandered into a large sunlit room that extended across the front of the house. Boldly patterned yellow wallpaper decorated the walls, and an oatmeal-coloured carpet covered the floor. Three floor-to-ceiling windows were framed by yellow and gold curtains and tasselled pelmets. Samantha crossed over to the nearest window and concealed herself behind roped-back folds of damask. She peered out. Most of the houses around the square appeared to be embassies now, but a few remained as the homes of the wealthy. Trees, one large, three small, cast dark shadows across the grass in the private park that filled the square. Everything seemed to be sleeping in the heat. There were no cars, no pedestrians, no signs of life.
She returned her attention to the room. A Tompion clock on the high mantelpiece of a white marble fireplace was big, black, ugly and priceless. Tick silent, its hands rested at five past four. A large oil painting of a futuristic-looking white ship surging through blue seas was hanging above it: no doubt a picture of Vladimir’s yacht. Ornaments and lamps with large and tasselled yellow shades were arranged on low tables scattered around the room. Suspended from the high and ornate ceiling were two huge chandeliers, their lustres sparkling with tiny beams of reflected sunlight.
Samantha checked a smaller, cosier sitting room at the back, where a television had been installed beside a rather plain fireplace. The pale-blue sofa and armchairs, the darker blue flower-patterned carpet, made it a more feminine room. When she looked through the window she could see the van in the yard, but high walls prevented her seeing anything of the access road and restricted her view of the yards and gardens of the houses beyond.
The kitchen was large and lavishly appointed; the dining room comparatively small. A tiny office off the hall was furnished with no more than a desk, a chair, a copying and printing machine. She returned to the sitting room at the front and positioned herself behind the curtains. She’d watch the square for signs of activity, give Annushka a little time and privacy to find the things she needed before joining her and helping her down with the bags. The sooner they were away from this place the better.
Annushka crossed the landing at the top of the stairs, pushed through a door at the end of a passageway and entered a small room crammed with discarded things: a chest of drawers, suitcases, a dolls’ house, a bookcase filled with children’s
books, tennis rackets, a hockey stick. She stepped over a box filled with dolls and lifted the lid of a battered plywood desk. Old mobile phones and chargers lay amongst pencils and crayons, hair slides and dog-eared exercise books. She selected a charger with a connector that looked right for her phone, untangled it from the rest and dropped it in the pocket of her apron.
Having found the thing she wanted, Annushka returned to the landing and entered the master bedroom. It hadn’t been used since her father and her first stepmother had become estranged. As far as she was aware, Tatiana had never even seen it. The white four-poster bed was unmade, its mattress protected from dust by a single sheet. Tall gilt lamps still stood on the bedside cabinets, but the top of the dressing table had been cleared. She shivered. The silence of the place, the desolation of the unmade bed, were chilling reminders of her father’s death.
A large electric fire, cast in bronze, decorated in the Art Deco style, was mounted in the opening of a delicate marble fireplace. She padded over pale-blue carpet, knelt down, pressed a concealed catch and swung it aside to expose the door to the safe.
Thoughts of her father were filling her mind as she leafed through her tiny diary, searching for the page where she’d written the combination. On the eve of his wedding he’d come to her room in their Moscow flat and done his best to give her a fatherly talk about behaving well while he was away on honeymoon. He hadn’t admonished her for refusing to be a bridesmaid; he hadn’t criticized her coolness, her rudeness, towards Tatiana. She realized now that he’d been showing his concern for her. It was during this conversation that he’d told her about the contents of the safe and given her the combination. Perhaps he’d had a premonition.
She found the page where she’d scribbled the seven numbers, set the dial on the safe door to zero, lifted the brass lever, then entered the sequence. When she pressed the lever down and pulled, the heavy door swung open. She peered inside the tiny space, saw ribbon-tied documents, a small black velvet bag, a slender black imitation leather case, and money, in new bills – pounds, dollars, Euros – all in neat, paper-banded bundles. Georgina had told her to be quick. She tore a sack from the roll, scooped the entire contents of the safe into it, then closed the heavy door and swung the electric fire back in place.
Her heart lurched. He must have been as silent as a cat. He was standing very close, his massive bulk towering over her. She opened her mouth, but before she could gasp his name, he’d covered it with one huge hand and encircled her throat with the other.
‘I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said softly. ‘I was sure you’d come here. You are alone?’
She stared up at him, blue eyes wide with terror.
Grigori squeezed her throat. ‘You are alone?’
She managed to nod.
‘You’re lying. I heard voices, women’s voices.’
‘It was the woman who lives in the ground-floor flat. She was saying hello, saying it was a while since she’d seen me.’ She mumbled the words into his hand.
He gazed down at her for a dozen heartbeats, his flat Slavonic features expressionless. Then, narrow eyes glittering, thin lips hardly moving, he whispered, ‘You’re mine now, Annushka. Mine to do with as I wish. What a provocative little tease you’ve been. Did you enjoy taunting and arousing me? Did you enjoy humiliating me with your smart little mouth?’ His hand still clamped over her face, he dragged her out on to the landing and into the bedroom that was hers.
The bed had been slept in. Cups and plates, an overflowing ashtray, littered her dressing table. A leather travelling bag, unzipped and disgorging socks and underwear, lay beside the bed. He reached into a side pocket, took out a syringe, then tumbled her down on the crumpled sheets and knelt astride her. ‘You have no need to be afraid, Annushka. I’m not going to take what you’ve endlessly flaunted, I’m not going to hurt you.’ He put the syringe to his mouth, gripped the red plastic sheath covering the needle between his teeth and drew it off. He spat it out, then laid the hypodermic by the pillow.
When he pulled up her dress, anger and outrage overrode her fear. She tried to sink her teeth into his hand, but his flesh was leathery and unyielding, soured by sweat and nicotine. She began to flail his chest with her fists, but the futility of it dismayed her: it was like hitting a brick wall.
Fearful of marking her, Grigori was restraining her gently. Her body must bear no signs of trauma, no marks of an assault. And the injection had to be made at the top of her inner thigh, hidden amongst her pubic hair, where the prick of the needle wouldn’t be noticed. He eased a massive knee between her legs, forced them apart, then grabbed the waistbands of her tights and knickers and dragged them down her thighs. He reached for the syringe. It had slid into a fold in the sheet. She was writhing violently now, still aiming pathetic blows at his face and chest. His groping fingers touched the syringe, he smiled down at her and whispered, ‘This won’t hurt, Annushka. You won’t feel a thing.’
‘Enjoying yourself?’
He jerked round, saw a black-haired woman standing in the doorway, saw a quick stab of flame. He didn’t hear the dull thud of the silenced gun. Before the sound could reach him the bullet had destroyed his right eye and ripped through his brain. The floor shook when his vast bulk crashed down from the bed.
A dazed Annushka slowly sat up; Grigori’s blood and brains were splattered over her face and hair, the pillows, the bed’s carved headboard.
‘Did you know him?’ Samantha asked.
‘He was one of the security guards who was travelling with Father and my stepmother on the yacht. He was called Grigori.’
Samantha glanced around the room, at the cups and plates, the full ashtray, the unmade bed. ‘He’s been keeping watch, looking out over the park while he waited for you.’ She slid the gun inside the pocket of her raincoat and helped Annushka to her feet. ‘Let’s clean you up, then we’ll get away. Did he hurt you?’
‘He seemed to be trying not to.’ Annushka drew her hand across her cheek and grimaced with disgust when she saw it was covered in blood. Legs shaking, she rose from the bed, lifted her skirt and pulled the waistband of her tights over her hips.
Samantha picked up the syringe and read the small print etched into the glass. ‘KCl 100m,’ she muttered; then, glancing at Annushka, said, ‘Potassium chloride, it’s absorbed into body tissues after death. Unless the pathologist’s very vigilant it’s seldom traced, and this dose would have caused heart failure: Grigori was trying to kill you. Where’s the bathroom?’
Annushka gestured across the landing. As Samantha led her through the door, she whimpered, ‘Why would he want to kill me? He’s known me since I was a child. He was Father’s head of security.’
Samantha sat her on the rim of the bath. ‘He was probably sent to kill you.’ She wet a towel and began to clean the blood from the girl’s face and hair.
‘Sent to kill me?’
‘We’ll talk about it later.’ Samantha dried her face. ‘That’ll have to do for now. You can take a shower when we get back to the flat. Did you get what you wanted?’
‘I emptied the safe. I was about to look for clothes when he grabbed me.’
‘We’ve been here too long,’ Samantha muttered anxiously. ‘Go and get what you want while I search through the man’s pockets and bags, then we’ll be off.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Can’t?’
‘Not with Grigori in there.’
‘He’s dead, he can’t harm you.’
Annushka gave her a terrified look.
‘OK, just stand outside the bedroom door and tell me what you want. Where are the plastic sacks?’
‘In the master bedroom.’ Annushka lunged forward, gripped the edges of the basin, and vomited.
Samantha drew the girl’s hair back from her face. When the retching had subsided, she handed her a clean towel. ‘Wait here. I’ll collect some things for you and search Grigori, then we must go.’
The flat had been made secure and Annushka’s belonging
s placed in the van. Samantha slid the loading door shut, climbed into the cab beside her and backed out on to the rear access road. Up ahead, a black car was reversing across the exit. She glanced in the rear-view mirrors. Behind them, another car was slowly advancing along the narrow roadway, blocking their escape.
‘Fasten your seatbelt and brace yourself.’
Trembling hands fumbled helplessly with the metal tag. Samantha reached over, secured it, then released the clutch and pressed the accelerator to the floor. The van surged forward. Annushka began to scream, the sound rising in pitch, louder and louder above the roar of the engine, until they hurtled into the side of the black car and heaved it across the tarmac. The sound of the crash was deafening; seatbelts cut into their shoulders, airbags exploded into the cab in a cloud of chalk dust, then began to deflate.
Samantha crumpled hers into her lap, then slid the gears into reverse. They lurched back. Walls and gates became a blur. In the mirrors she could see a horrified male face behind the wheel of the car looming up behind them; see his passenger making a frantic attempt to open a door. The van lurched and shuddered, and the crash of crumpling metal and breaking glass reverberated around the backs of the houses.
She pumped the clutch and pushed the gear stick over. Tyres screeched and Annushka screamed as they hurtled back towards the mouth of the access road. This time the impact pushed the obstructing car clear, the van scraped past and they bounced out into the street, exhaust pipe trailing along the tarmac. The unsilenced engine emitted a throaty roar as they sped through the quiet residential area, heading west towards Knightsbridge. When they neared the main road, Samantha parked the van down the side of a terrace and unclipped Annushka’s seatbelt. ‘Out,’ she demanded, ‘quick as you can,’ then dropped down from the cab, slid open the cargo door and pulled out the sacks. She handed one to the girl. ‘Sloane Street: it’s just beyond the next terrace. Run.’
‘What about the van?’ Legs shaking, Annushka trotted off, clutching the bulging sack to her chest.
Dark Powers Page 10