‘In a hotel in Cheltenham.’
‘Anything to report?’
‘We were followed by four men when we drove here. I led them down a country lane and disposed of them. I questioned one before I killed him. Leonid Milosovitch, the stepmother’s father, had hired them to find and kill Annushka: probably an inheritance thing. We went to a house where the phones were being kept; they’d been taken, a professional job, two locks picked. Has Marcus assigned someone to recover the phones, someone smart enough to get there first? Has the Met been searching?’
‘Marcus has been kept busy with other things, and if the Met had found the phones I’m sure I’d know.’
‘Perhaps some extreme monarchist group has organized a search,’ Samantha suggested. ‘Makewood and Dillon might have questioned the partygoers again, got a little more information out of them and passed it on.’
‘The phones were carried away by the Dvoskin girl. What more could they tell them?’
‘Another girl helped her gather up the phones. They left the house together. When they parted, Annushka persuaded the girl to keep them. One of the revellers might have seen the girl leaving with Annushka.’
‘From what I can gather, the guests were out of it, as they say: drugs, drink or both. They’d no clear idea who’d been at the party, or who they’d consorted with while they were there. It was more a gathering of kindred spirits than a meeting of mutual friends.’
Samantha listened to the faint rustling of the encryption for a while, then Loretta asked, ‘Have you any idea where the phones might be now?’
‘Just a very tenuous one. Could you have the researchers check someone out and call me back during the night?’
‘Give me the name.’
‘Lionel Blessed. Works for an IT company called Sungrove Solutions; he has a flat in Gloucester. If they could get me his home address and his work address, his mobile and landline numbers. And some idea of his working hours would be useful, but it’s the home address I really want. Tell them not to delay the call back if they have difficulty finding the other information.’
‘That shouldn’t take them long. Before we finish, there’s something I have to tell you: the search for the girl’s been taken out of my hands and passed to the Met.’ Loretta paused, then added, ‘Dillon’s been told to have recourse to counter terrorism legislation.’ There was a long silence, then she asked, ‘You there? You still there?’
Samantha let out a resigned sigh. ‘I’m here. I’m just thinking about what you’ve told me. It could be ugly if they find us. Dillon’s sure to deploy an armed squad.’
‘You must stay hidden until the phones are recovered. I’ll have the electronic search started up again. If the phones are in new hands, they might be switched on.’
‘And if we don’t retrieve the phones?’
‘Then I’ll have to decide how best to ensure the girl’s safety and pull you out.’
‘It won’t be easy: five men have been killed.’
‘She may have to be returned to Russia.’
‘Where she’ll be in peril from Leonid Milosovitch and his daughter.’
‘There are other options. Just keep hidden for a few days while we do another trawl for the phones. And one final thing: if there’s a confrontation, avoid killing at all costs. If members of the police are killed, I might not be able to sort out the mess.’
Annushka Dvoskin lay perfectly still, waiting for the woman who called herself Georgina to put down her beads, slide beneath the sheets and abandon herself to sleep. Never, in her entire life, had she felt so alone and afraid, so threatened by danger. Violence and death were her constant companions now. Only days ago, her father had been murdered. His security man, Grigori, had been shot when he tried to murder her. A man had been deliberately run down by a car, his face made featureless, the flesh scraped down to the bone; she’d listened to a man moaning as he was beaten about the head with a gun, heard the shocking explosion of the bullet that killed him.
And Georgina had begun to frighten her. She was always so calm and unruffled, always vigilant, forever listening and watching. And she killed without a second thought. When they’d gone down for dinner she’d insisted on a particular table so she could sit with her back to the wall and survey the entire room and its entrance, her gun in a clutch bag on her lap. When they’d returned to their bedroom, she’d wedged a chair under the handle of the door. Seeing her surprised look, she’d smiled and said, ‘Hotel staff have pass keys. They can be bribed.’
But she had been kind to her. Today they’d visited a department store, bought suitcases for her clothes, a holdall for the cash and documents she’d taken from the flat. And in a smart little boutique she’d bought her a dress: dark smoky blue, scoop necked and clinging, the hem below the knee. She’d also bought her some Kurt Geiger shoes. When she’d tried to pay with money she’d taken from the flat, Georgina had told her not to use it, to deposit it in a new bank account, spend it with a card. When she’d protested that she’d plenty of clothes now, Georgina had laughed and said, ‘Wearing something new, something you’ve never worn before, always lifts the spirits.’ When they booked into the hotel she’d had coffee and brandy brought up to their room, made her take a bath, then she’d pinned up her hair for her, just like Babushka used to do. And all the time she’d talked to her in that soft husky voice about ordinary, everyday things, trying to calm her, to help her recover from the events of the day. She’d worn the new dress when they’d gone down for dinner. It made her look older. Alexander would have liked her in it. Her short dresses and skimpy skirts aroused him, but she knew he’d have been embarrassed to be seen with her in a restaurant dressed like that.
Annushka heard faint sounds of movement: silk sliding on silk, the creak of mattress springs, bare feet on carpet. A handle turned, then the bathroom door opened and clicked shut. She slid from the bed, darted over to the holdall beneath a desk-cum-dressing table and slowly, silently, drew back the zip. The phone charger she’d taken from the flat was hidden beneath the bundles of notes. She took it over to the bed and untangled the lead. Her phone, the phone she used for contacting Alexander, was in her Gucci bag. The special number he’d given her was the only one held in its memory. He’d been most particular when he’d made the arrangement: they would both have dedicated phones, to be used only for contacting one another. She peered into her bag, found the monogrammed case and inserted the tiny connector.
When she plugged the charger into the socket behind the bedside table, the screen remained dark. Her heart sank. She had to get out of this mess: the endless flight from danger, the violence, the killing. Alexander was powerful, he had great influence. How many times had he told her he loved her, how much she meant to him, that she made him feel alive again, that she was the most important person in his life? If she could contact him he’d come for her, protect her, take her away from danger while he sorted out the mess. But if she couldn’t reach him . . . A faint image of a charging battery appeared on the screen. It was dim, barely visible, but it would seem the phone was still working. She slid it beneath the bed, tucked the wire behind the edge of the carpet and climbed back between the sheets. It would be charged by morning. The battery was a bit wonky, but if she kept the phone switched off it should stay charged until she had a chance to call Alexander. She closed her eyes. Thinking about Alexander had made her breathless. It would be wonderful to feel his arms around her again, feel his breath on her cheek when he murmured those silly-sweet things to her, feel the touch of his lips, the caress of his hands . . .
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Samantha parked the Mercedes at the head of the cul-de-sac and studied the houses. The open frontages were shallow, hardly a car depth; the dwellings were terraced and small. A meagre tiled canopy, supported on timber brackets, extended over a plastic front door and a metal garage door. It created an illusion of width, but it wouldn’t afford much shelter. Above it, two windows looked into what was probably a sitting room, and two dorme
rs, set in the steeply sloping roof, no doubt served bedrooms.
‘Why have we come here?’ Annushka asked.
‘It’s where Lionel Blessed lives, number fourteen, next to the house where the old man’s watering his perennials.’ Samantha glanced at her. This morning she seemed calmer, her demeanour happier. Two decent meals and a good night’s sleep had done something to dispel the dark cloud of despair.
‘Rebecca’s ex?’
Samantha nodded. ‘There’s just a slender chance he could have the phones.’
‘Rebecca said he’d no idea where she was living now. And you said the locks must have been picked.’
‘It’s not difficult to find out where someone lives,’ Samantha murmured absently. She was studying the houses: no rear access, they overlooked one another, and an alarm box had been mounted above the front door to number fourteen. ‘And perhaps Lionel Blessed can pick locks,’ she went on. ‘Didn’t Rebecca say he could fix anything? Picking locks is a skill that can be acquired; all good locksmiths can pick locks.’
‘But why Lionel Blessed?’
‘He was obsessed with Rebecca: sexually obsessed. He probably still is. She said she thought the bed wasn’t quite as she’d left it, said someone had taken a pair of knickers from a drawer and dumped them in the bathroom. Perhaps he’d been lying in her bed, fondling her underwear.’
Annushka wrinkled her nose and laughed. ‘Sounds a bit pervy and far-fetched.’
‘Men can be very pervy. And I don’t have any other ideas.’ Samantha took a notepad and her bag from between the seats and pushed open the door. ‘Come on. Let’s go over and see what we can find out.’
‘What will you do if he’s in?’
‘Get inside, talk to him, and if I think he has the phones do whatever’s necessary to get them back.’
Annushka grimaced. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay in the car.’
Samantha climbed out. ‘You really ought to come with me. We may have been followed.’
‘Let me stay in the car . . . Please,’ Annushka begged. ‘We didn’t see anyone; there’s no one in the road.’
Samantha gazed at her across the seat for a moment, then decided to let it go. She didn’t dare push the girl too hard. ‘OK, but lock yourself in and if you want me, sound the horn.’ She smoothed the skirt of her summer suit, then crossed over to number fourteen and thumbed the bell. Chimes ding-donged behind the door.
‘He’s away.’
She turned. The old man was looking at her over a clump of lavender, secateurs in hand. A faint breeze was ruffling his few remaining wisps of white hair; dampness darkened the knees of his brown corduroy trousers.
Samantha made a show of studying her notepad, then looked up at him. ‘A Mr Lionel Blessed lives here?’
‘Lionel, that’s right.’ The old man’s breathing was wheezy and asthmatic. ‘He’s gone to Glasgow, on a job, back Friday. He told Ethel he’d be back no later than six in the evening.’
‘Ethel?’
‘The wife. She likes him. Reminds her of our boy. He helps her with her computer stuff and she cooks him a meal sometimes. We watch his house when he’s away.’ He gazed, beguiled, at Samantha’s face, at her vivid crimson lipstick, the hair of her blonde wig drawn back and arranged in a chignon, her dark glasses: Emporio Armani, large and conventional, not the ones with tiny round lenses. In a barely audible voice, he added, ‘Our boy was killed, serving in Iraq. He’d have been about the age Lionel is now.’
‘How unspeakable. I’m so sorry,’ Samantha murmured, then asked, ‘Does Mr Blessed have a wife, a partner, I could talk to?’
‘He lives alone.’ Cloudy blue eyes glanced down at her black and white two-tone shoes, then wandered up over her tailored suit and came to rest on her dark glasses. ‘Can I give him a message? Would you like me to give you his work number?’
‘I’m from a recruitment agency. We’re trying to put a team together to deal with a major project. His name’s been suggested to us. I’d rather not phone him at work: people don’t usually want their current employers to know they’re being head-hunted.’ She flicked her pad shut and gave him a dazzling smile. ‘We’re travelling north. We’ll call again on the way back, but thanks for talking to me.’
Samantha returned to the car and slid behind the wheel. ‘He’s away on a job. Glasgow. Back Friday evening. We’ll pay him another visit then.’
‘Are we going to stay on at the hotel? The room was nice and the food was jolly good.’ Annushka’s tone was pleading.
‘I daren’t linger here any longer. Milosovitch probably knows by now that his men are missing. He’s sure to make another attempt; and the police are searching for us. I’m going to take you to Wales, to a cottage a few miles from the sea.’
Grace Fairchild poured herself another cup of coffee and buttered her third slice of toast. No point starving herself to death anymore; she wasn’t going to Moscow. Alexander had left early after spending the night in Vincent’s room. The boys were staying at her mother’s. She was alone in the house she’d come to loathe: sagging bedroom floors that shook when you crossed them, low-ceilinged rooms made gloomy by tiny windows, vaulted cellars that had a strange smell and were so creepy she never went down.
The shock of the night before had mutated into a cold, seething anger and a craving for revenge. How could he have had so little thought for her and the boys? And he’d displayed no remorse – the only thing that concerned him was his wretched career. And how dare the patronizing bastard accuse her of being foulmouthed? That was the last bloody straw. What the hell did he expect her to say: you’ve been rather naughty, darling, and I’m a teensy-weensy bit upset?
She sipped coffee and munched toast. It had been wonderful in the beginning. She’d felt loved and cherished then. He’d been attentive and he’d confided in her; they’d been partners, setting out together on life’s great adventure. His career in politics had coarsened him, made him slippery and devious. His mastery of the meaningless statement, the empty promise, had spilled over into his relationship with her. And politics was such a vicious, dog-eat-dog business. It had hardened his heart, just as honest toil hardens a labourer’s hands.
Grace drained her cup, put it on her plate, then carried them over to the sink beneath the window. She glanced out over the lawn, towards the rose-covered trellis that hid a modest vegetable garden. Early-morning sunlight was sparkling on the dew-drenched grass. She turned on the tap and rinsed her cup and plate before stacking them in the dishwasher.
Money was what she needed, some ready cash. Without it she’d have no freedom of action. There was about £٣,٠٠٠ in their joint current account: household expenses would eat into that, but she could probably siphon off 1,000 or 1,500. Her own money, the money her father had settled on her, was invested in shares, and bonds that wouldn’t mature for years. It wasn’t a good time to sell shares, and if she cashed in the bonds she’d lose money. There had to be another way. She slammed the dishwasher door. Alexander’s cars: she’d sell Alexander’s cars. After all, they were matrimonial property; they half belonged to her.
She hurried across the hall – oak panelling, blackened by age and decorated with copper warming pans and a couple of nondescript little oil paintings – and entered Alexander’s study. Framed photographs of his majestic Bentley tourer and blue Bugatti sports car were hanging above the fireplace. She snatched a glossy magazine from a pile on the desk, lowered herself into his chair and flicked through to the back pages. A firm called Johnson and Mullbery had a full-page advertisement and an impressive London address. She picked up the phone and dialled the number. After some verbal tussling with the telephonist, she was put through to Mr Johnson.
‘How may I help you, madam?’ The voice was refined, its tone ingratiating.
‘You hold classic car auctions?’
‘Indeed we do, madam. It’s what we’re famous for. On the third Friday of every month. The next one is in about three weeks’ time.’
‘
I want to dispose of—’ She turned and read the captions beneath the photographs ‘—a 1926 Bentley 6.5 litre open tourer with a Vanden Plas Le Mans style body, and there’s also a 1924 Bugatti Torpedo Type 30—’ She screwed up her eyes, struggling to read the small print ‘—in the style of Lavocat et Marsaud.’
She heard a long intake of breath. ‘And the condition, madam?’
‘Immaculate. They’ve been fully restored by specialists, kept in a heated garage and seldom taken on the road.’
‘You have two rare and very valuable cars. When were you thinking of having them auctioned?’
‘At your next sale.’
‘That’s too soon. They have to be photographed, catalogued, presented to potential buyers. And it might be wise to stagger the sale. May I ask who’s calling?’
‘I gave your telephonist my name,’ she said tetchily. ‘Fairchild. Mrs Grace Fairchild.’
‘Would that be the wife of Mr Alexander Fairchild, the Foreign Secretary?’
‘It would.’
‘I know the cars. They’re very fine examples. Your husband inherited the Bentley from his father, I believe, and purchased the Bugatti from us, about ten years ago.’
‘Sounds correct.’ She cut to the chase. ‘I want them in your next auction. They’re garaged in an old stable block that’s going to be converted into a granny flat. Work’s starting in September, so the cars have to be sold as soon as possible.’
‘If you insist, but that hardly gives us—’
‘How much do you think they’ll make at auction?’
‘Mmm . . . Not easy to say. Market’s rather volatile at the moment and wealthy Arab collectors keep pushing up prices. A Bentley tourer was sold last year, probably not of the same quality as yours, for £370,000. I’d expect the Bugatti to fetch at least £250,000. But selling them with such haste won’t enable us to maximize the price for you.’
‘Can’t be helped. I have to get the garage cleared for the builders. Will you be sending someone to look at them?’
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