‘A window of opportunity arose, as they say. When I learned that his only child is missing and in trouble with the police, I decided to bring the takeover forward. The girl is the only remaining obstacle to our taking control of Vladimir’s enterprises; so, first the father, and now the daughter. She’s staying away from home, she doesn’t attend her school – fewer suspicions are raised, fewer questions are asked, when a missing person has an accidental death. And with her father dead, there’s no one to express concern, no one to make demands on the authorities.’
‘You’ve arranged for her to be killed?’
‘Men boarded flights to England within an hour of Vladimir’s death. Don’t concern yourself. It has to be done.’
Tatiana stroked her forehead. So much was happening so quickly. What should she tell her father? Some things might be best not mentioned. Perhaps there was nothing he didn’t already know. She said, ‘The girl could be difficult to find.’
‘We located her yesterday. There’s a flat in London, in a part of the city called Belgravia. I had two men watching it from a nearby house; two others cruising the neighbouring streets in a car. They heard a crash, drove towards the noise, saw two women in a white van ramming a car, trying to escape from an alleyway. The women smashed their way out and drove off. My men followed, saw them abandon the van, run towards the main road and hail a taxi. They followed the taxi to a car park outside the city where the women recovered their car, then followed them to a flat in a district known as Chelsea. The place is being watched. At the first opportunity, the girl, and her companion if needs be, will be killed.’
‘And there will be a body? There must be a body.’
‘Of course there will be a body.’ Leonid Molosovitch struggled to keep the irritation out of his voice. Did his daughter think he was stupid?
‘The car they rammed – it was a police car?’
‘She’s in trouble with the authorities, so presumably it was.’ His tone became brisker. ‘How are you coping with the captain and the crew and the people on the ship?’
‘Very well, so far. They’ve all assured me of their loyalty and their wish to serve me. They’re all respectful; at least, they are to my face.’
‘Good. Immediately the police say the Empress can leave port, I want you to instruct the captain to sail for Odessa. When you dock there I’ll join you, arrange the appointment of a new captain and crew, and begin the takeover of all Vladimir’s enterprises.’
Take everything over? Surely it was hers? It was all hers. Her father had promised her the marriage would make her one of the wealthiest women in the world; now he was proposing to take her inheritance from her. She’d been used, used by her father to entice a business rival; used like a whore by a husband of only thirty days. Suddenly close to tears, she blurted out, ‘Vladimir treated me badly, Daddy. He would never leave me alone. He did dirty things to me. He wanted me to do dirty—’
‘Enough! These are not matters a daughter should speak of with her father. All marriages have secrets. If you must talk about these things, discuss them with your mother when you return home.’
Tatiana sniffed back tears. ‘I understand Maxim Gaidar is your man.’
‘He’s been in my employ for three years. He can be trusted. If you need to contact me, he can arrange it; any hour of the day or night.’ Leonid sighed and affection replaced the anger in his voice. ‘It will be good to have you home again, Tatiana. Your mother and I have missed you.’
‘And I you,’ she murmured dutifully. ‘Thank you, Daddy.’
She put down the phone, suddenly feeling even more vulnerable, even more isolated and alone. She had to protect herself, to hold on to what was rightfully hers. She’d bathe and dress, then summon the captain and instruct him to arrange for their stay in Piraeus to be prolonged, to make it appear that this was at the behest of the police and port authorities. Then she’d speak to Vasila, her new head of security, tell him that Maxim Gaidar must not return from his next trip ashore. That would hold the situation, give her time to decide how best to safeguard her interests. And she’d tell Vasila she wanted the guards to accompany her to Athens, to the place called Kolonaki where the fashion houses had their boutiques, and the shops sold the most expensive and luxurious things. She needed new clothes, clothes that were smart and fashionable, yet restrained; the sort of things a newly bereaved and wealthy young widow would be expected to wear.
Loretta Fallon followed the attendant down the strip of red carpet that crossed the entrance hall to Number 10. They passed through half-glazed doors with delicate fanlights, then headed down a wide corridor lit by windows that looked over an inner courtyard. It led them to an antechamber to the Cabinet Room. Loretta glanced through an open doorway, into an office on her left. A white-haired woman wearing a black dress with a white collar and cuffs was sitting behind a desk, frowning down at papers through heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. When she looked up she smiled, left her desk and joined them.
‘I’m so sorry, Miss Fallon, the Prime Minister’s decided to hold the meeting in the study rather than the Cabinet Room.’ The woman turned to the attendant. ‘Could you escort Miss Fallon to the study, James?’
‘Of course.’
‘So sorry, Miss Fallon,’ the woman gushed. She removed her spectacles and smiled again.
‘The study’s over the entrance hall, ma’am, so we could go back the way we’ve come and use the front stairs, or we could slip through the door over there and take the grand staircase. Which would you prefer?’
‘Grand staircase is fine.’
He led her through the doorway and they began to ascend some dog-legged stairs. Not very grand, Loretta mused: the scroll work on the balustrades was very ordinary, the lamps on tall black and gilt poles somewhat grotesque. It was utterly outclassed by the sweeping staircase at Darnel Hall where Nicole Manning had fallen to her death. Black and white photographs, set in white mounts and thin black frames, lined the ascent. Carefully posed, artfully lit, the photographers had done their best to make their subjects, all Prime Ministers, appear wise and statesmanlike. As they neared the top of the stairs they encountered the only image of a woman. Tight lipped, blonde haired, her cold myopic stare challenged them as they passed.
‘You’re taking me on the grand tour,’ Loretta said, making conversation.
The man turned and smiled. ‘Are you very well acquainted with the premises, ma’am?’ He led her around the landing and through an opening at the top of a short flight of stairs that descended to yet another passageway.
‘Not really. I’ve visited a few times, that’s all.’ She was dissembling. She’d memorized the plans of the place, attics to basements, arranged for it to be swept for surveillance devices and had devices installed. It was a warren of rooms and stairways and passages; a security nightmare.
‘The room they call the study used to be called the library, but that was before my time. Prime Ministers Wilson, Heath and Thatcher liked to work in it.’
‘Is that so?’ The staff seemed to enjoy trotting out these trifling titbits of information about their former masters.
After more twisting and turning, they emerged in a wider passageway. The attendant knocked gently on a door and swung it open. ‘Miss Fallon, Prime Minister.’
Loretta swept past him, into a large sunlit room where tall windows looked out on Downing Street. White-painted bookcases lined three walls; a black and white marble fireplace dominated the fourth. The Prime Minister was sitting at a round table with Sir Nigel Dillon, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Alexander Fairchild, the Foreign Secretary, and Bernard Markham, the Home Secretary. She heard the door close behind her as she strode towards them.
‘Thank you for joining us, Miss Fallon. Sorry about the early start.’ The Prime Minister’s countenance was grim and unsmiling. And it was Miss Fallon today. When she’d been summoned to the dawn meeting it had been Loretta.
She drew out one of the chairs. Upholstered in some nondescript blue material
, its seat had sagged badly. Perhaps its springs and webbing had surrendered under the onslaught of Harold and Edward’s portly posteriors. She thought it surprising that Margaret hadn’t insisted the chairs be reupholstered, the rather ordinary table replaced with something grander, the tired-looking Persian carpet renewed. Loretta settled herself into the depression and placed her briefcase beside her feet.
The four men were eyeing her warily. She gazed back at them, her grey eyes calm and untroubled. Sir Nigel Dillon was tall, broad and powerfully built, his massive head crowned by a mane of greying hair, his black and beribboned uniform immaculate. A swagger stick, ebony with silver tips, together with a silver-braided cap, lay beside him on the table, a pair of black leather gloves nestling inside it like a couple of dead bats. Loretta found his sheer physical presence brutish and rather overwhelming.
Alexander Fairchild met Loretta’s cool gaze with apprehensive eyes. Wearing a blue pinstripe suit, he was leaning back in his chair, a blue silk handkerchief bursting out of his top pocket, his arms folded across his chest. Without a doubt he was extremely handsome in that mature and urbane kind of way many women find attractive. Bernard Markham, the Home Secretary, a smallish man with thinning hair, a long face and nervous eyes, stared at her for a moment, then glanced down and began to shuffle through his papers.
The Prime Minister cleared his throat. ‘The Dvoskin business, Miss Fallon.’ His voice had a reedy, nasal quality. ‘Did your people discover anything when they questioned the girl? Are you any nearer to recovering the mobile phones?’ Small and deep-set eyes searched her face.
Devious bastard, Loretta mused. Dillon would have briefed him about the girl’s escape from the secure unit and the debacle in Belgravia. She rested her elbows on the arms of her chair, linked her fingers and smiled. ‘I thought you would have heard, Prime Minister; the girl was freed from the secure unit within hours of your placing the matter with me. Since then I’ve had the family home, her boarding school, and a house in Belgravia where the Dvoskins have a flat, kept under surveillance. Yesterday, two women in a white van entered the Belgravia premises via the rear yard and carried cleaning paraphernalia inside. Operatives were instructed to move in and prevent their escape from the rear access road. After about thirty minutes the women left, carrying plastic sacks, and used the van to batter their way past the obstructing cars. They abandoned the van in a side road close to Sloane Street.’
The Prime Minister sniffed. ‘Your people allowed them to escape?’
‘The cars were a write-off, incapable of being driven. One of the agents had concussion, another a broken wrist, and they all suffered severe bruising.’ Loretta studied each of the men in turn. Dillon’s lips were arranged in a smile that verged on a sneer, Alexander Fairchild’s expression was inscrutable, the Home Secretary’s right eye had begun to twitch, the Prime Minister looked peevish.
‘Agents entered the flat after the incident,’ Loretta went on.
‘You had a warrant?’ the Home Secretary interrupted.
Loretta’s smile widened. ‘Covertly.’
He gave her an exasperated look.
‘They found the body of a man in one of the bedrooms. All means of easy identification had been removed. The body was still warm. Death had probably occurred at the time of the women’s visit to the premises.’
‘They killed him?’ the Prime Minister demanded.
‘It would seem so. The Serious Crime Unit at the Met were notified. Presumably they carried out the usual scene-of-crime investigation and removed the body.’ She glanced at Dillon.
He drew breath, then said, ‘We found some evidence that he’d been using the bedroom to watch the approach to the front of the building; cups and plates on the dressing table, a full ashtray on the window sill. And we found the plastic cover of a syringe needle in the bed, but no syringe. The housekeeper at the family home in Gloucester identified the body from photographs as that of Grigori Malkin, one of Vladimir Dvoskin’s security men.’
‘And Vladimir Dvoskin was murdered in Athens a few days ago,’ the Prime Minister muttered. ‘How did the girl escape from the secure unit?’
‘She was freed from the place by a woman who tricked her way inside,’ Dillon explained.
‘Tricked her way in?’
‘She made herself look dishevelled, exposed her breasts and hammered on the door, screaming she’d been raped by a man who was still chasing her. When the warden on duty let her in, she threatened him with a gun, handcuffed him and made him take her to the girl. The girl went with her willingly, there was no duress, and the warden was imprisoned in the girl’s room. The girl and the woman conversed in Russian; the handcuffs were manufactured by a Polish firm owned by Dvoskin.’
‘The girl’s rescuer was Russian?’
‘It would seem so. Probably a professional employed by the girl’s father.’
The Prime Minister returned his gaze to Loretta. ‘And how is the search for the stolen mobile phones going?’
‘We’ve abandoned the electronic search; there was absolutely no response to signals. Either the batteries have been removed or the phones have been disabled in some other way; they may have been destroyed.’
He gave Loretta his displeased look. ‘We must recover those phones, Miss Fallon. God knows what’s recorded on the things. I can’t contemplate the consequences of them falling into unsympathetic hands. The women who arrived in the van; did your men get a good look at them?’
‘One wore a dress and overall; the other a raincoat and dark glasses. Both were wearing headscarves. The cab of the van was high, it was driven at speed towards the cars; it wasn’t possible for the agents to note more than that.’
The Prime Minister gave Dillon a smug little smile. ‘Why would Dvoskin hire someone to kill his own security man?’
Dillon shrugged. ‘Everything’s conjecture, Prime Minister. We can’t be sure the woman was in his employ. Then again, he may have wanted the man killed. Who knows?’
‘Aren’t we playing a little fast and loose with the law here?’ the Home Secretary demanded.
‘Can’t think what you mean, Bernard?’
‘Confining the girl in a secure unit. She wasn’t formally charged with anything, she wasn’t arrested, nothing untoward was found in the car she was driving, there’s no paperwork, no records.’
‘We’ve been over this, Bernard,’ the Prime Minister snapped tetchily. ‘Her parents couldn’t be reached so she was put in a secure unit near her home for her own safety.’
‘Well, I’m unhappy about it. Don’t forget, she’s the daughter of an extremely wealthy Russian. We might be faced with a legal challenge.’
‘The Met will face any legal challenge. Nigel will take it in his stride. And her father’s dead, dammit. I’m sure his widow’s got more to think about than a wayward stepdaughter.’
‘Very well then,’ the Home Secretary ploughed on, ‘forget the way the girl was treated. What about the undocumented and unprocedural response to the events at Darnel Hall?’
The Prime Minister’s expression darkened and irritation sounded in his voice. ‘That’s a completely separate issue we can discuss later, if you wish. But just remember, you attended that early-morning meeting. You went along with what was decided. You can’t walk away from this now.’ He stiffened his shoulders and glared at the faces around the table. ‘And perhaps we should all remind ourselves of what we thought was at stake that night, and the oath we took when we assumed office. We were trying to safeguard our most precious institution; we were protecting the monarchy at what seems to be a particularly sensitive and difficult time.’
‘And we’ve since learned there were no high-profile members of the Royal Family at Darnel Hall.’
‘Since learned, Bernard. We didn’t know it at the time. The Queen’s private secretary was being cautious when he asked Makewood to go there and contain the situation. And it’s not just members of the Royal Family we have to consider. What about Manning’s daughter, the girl
who died? He’s one of our rising stars. Would you want information like that revealing to the public? And Barksdale and Farnbeck’s boys were there, and Alexander’s son, not to mention the granddaughter of one the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. It had to be contained, Bernard, not just to protect the monarchy, but in the interests of stable government.’
The Home Secretary met the Prime Minister’s gaze for a long moment, then said softy, ‘And perhaps we should remind ourselves that we’ve just emerged from an expenses scandal, and that several members of parliament are currently embroiled in a paedophile investigation. Are we going to be confronted with yet another unspeakable mess in a few years’ time?’
‘I’m sure our predecessors always endeavoured to act in the best interests of parliament and the nation, Bernard.’ The Prime Minister’s tone had become patronizing. ‘Democratic institutions have to be safeguarded, public confidence maintained. There will always be things that are best concealed.’
‘The rule of law – shouldn’t that be upheld?’ the Home Secretary demanded.
The Prime Minister leaned towards him. ‘For the last time, Bernard, you attended that early-morning meeting, you went along with what was decided. We’re not going to change course now.’ He took a breath, paused to calm himself, then, one by one, glared into the faces around the table, trying to assert his authority. The Home Secretary looked down at his papers, subdued but unconvinced.
‘We have to do something for the girl’s sake,’ Alexander Fairchild said softly. They were the first words he’d spoken. ‘We’ve no idea what her relationship with this woman is. Her father’s dead, presumably she’ll inherit; it could be coercive. It would have been better if she’d not been stopped by the police, if she’d just driven home to the flat.’
‘I believe it was you who informed the police she’d stolen your son’s car,’ Dillon muttered.
‘His mother contacted the police. He was in a state of some distress when he arrived home. A girl had died at the party, Makewood had scared the living daylights out of them, his car had been taken, he’d had difficulty finding transport. I told him we’d recover his wretched car, that if the girl had taken it, it was probably just a simple misunderstanding.’ Alexander Fairchild shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s happened now. But we ought to find the girl, for her own safety.’
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