‘Mr Mullbery will want to come himself. He’ll bring a photo-grapher and one of our engineers. When would be convenient?’
Grace closed her eyes and tried to think. This had to be kept secret until after the sale. Alexander would be in London until the end of the week, no doubt spending his days at Westminster and his nights with that nubile little schoolgirl. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Either morning or afternoon.’
‘That’s rather short notice. It’s going to have to be in the afternoon. Shall we say around three?’
‘Would it be possible to delay collection of the cars until the day before the sale?’
‘They need to be available for viewing, Mrs Fairchild. A week before, at the very—’
‘The day before the sale. That’s my husband’s wish.’
She heard an exasperated sigh. ‘It can be arranged.’
‘And my husband’s under considerable pressure at the moment. He doesn’t want to be bothered with the disposal, so would you send all correspondence to me at Larkspur Farm, Upper Bodding, Staffordshire.’
‘Of course, Mrs Fairchild. I’m just noting that down. I’m not surprised your husband’s under pressure, the state the world’s in. Thank God he’s at the Foreign Office. Thank God his party’s in power.’
‘I’ll pass on your kind sentiments.’
‘I’d be most grateful if you would. And thank you for contacting Johnson and Mullbery.
Samantha turned off the A40 and headed up a steep rise, cruising past the mostly Georgian buildings that lined the high street of the old market town.
‘So, this is Haverfordwest,’ Annushka said. ‘Quaint and crowded.’
‘County town close to a National Park, in the holiday season; I suppose it’s going to be crowded.’
‘Are we staying here?’
Samantha shook her head. ‘A cottage, in the countryside, not far from the sea. Before we go there, I have to find us another car. We’ve been driving around in this one for too long.’ She took the left fork at the crown of the hill and motored along Dew Street. Up ahead, a painted signboard extended above an archway between two high and windowless stone buildings: James Brangwyn. Car Repairs and Car Hire. Samantha flicked the indicator, waited for a gap in the oncoming traffic, then swept through the opening into a rear yard enclosed by garages and workshops. She turned to Annushka. ‘I’ll ask them if we can leave the Mercedes here for a few days; hire one of their cars to use as a runabout while they service it. We can leave the big luggage here, just take a couple of overnight bags and the holdall with your cash and papers. OK?’
Annushka nodded.
A man of about twenty-five, with curly black hair and wearing blue overalls, appeared in the entrance to one of the servicing bays. He watched them for a moment, then began to amble over. Samantha glanced at Annushka. ‘Talk to me in Russian while we’re here,’ she said, then stepped out of the car.
‘What can I do for you?’ The young man had a deep baritone voice and a lilting Welsh accent.
‘I’d like you to give the car a thorough servicing, really check it over: oil change, new filters, brakes, steering, whatever.’
‘Can’t do it today. Too busy. Do it tomorrow, though.’
Annushka emerged from the car, blonde hair tumbling around her shoulders, eyes a vivid blue, the hem of her skimpy summer dress brushing her thighs. The man was captivated. Annushka smiled. He swallowed hard, began to blush, and his mouth curved in an inane grin.
Samantha glanced at Annushka. ‘I think you’ve made a conquest. And he’s very good-looking. He’d scrub up quite nicely.’
‘He’s cute, but I think he’d probably bore me to death.’ Annushka flashed her a furtive smile. ‘Let’s hope he can’t speak Russian.’
Samantha turned back to the man. ‘Perhaps we can leave the car here for a couple of days . . .’
He hadn’t heard her. He was still gazing at Annushka. ‘The car,’ Samantha repeated.
He dragged his eyes away. ‘Sorry, I didn’t . . .’
‘Perhaps we could leave it with you for two or three days, hire one of yours while you service it?’
‘Why not. It would give us more time if we find anything wrong.’
‘And you can let us have a car?’
He gestured towards a row of new-looking and mostly small cars at the end of the yard. ‘Just take your pick. Keys are in the ignition; bring them over to the office when you’ve chosen one.’
‘And we’d like to leave our luggage in the Mercedes. Would it be safe?’
‘Safe as houses.’ The lilt made the words musical. ‘Yard gates are locked, garages are locked, and there’s a guard dog.’
Samantha smiled at Annushka. ‘Can you go over, choose one and put the holdalls in the boot?’ She turned back to the man. He was watching Annushka walk towards the cars. ‘We’re heading across the Continent: Belgium, Frankfurt, Prague, Lublin then Kiev. I want the Mercedes really checking over, the tank filling, all ready for the journey when we collect it.’
He sucked air through his teeth. ‘Won’t be ready till late tomorrow then; probably after six. And that’s if we don’t find anything serious.’
‘What time do you close?’
‘Shut the workshops down about seven, but there’s always someone in the house for the car hire. Just ring the bell on the small door next to the gates. Shall we go into the office? You’ll have to sign for the car and we ask for a deposit. Cost of the petrol you use is deducted from it.’
Tatiana Dvoskin, attired in her widow’s weeds, was sitting behind the desk in the large cabin her husband had used as his office. Weeds was hardly an appropriate word. The black dress was an Alessandro Dell’Acqua original: velvet bodice with long tight sleeves and a multi-layered chiffon skirt. She’d bought it on her shopping spree in the Kolonaki, together with black satin and suede shoes and handbag, and a long and misty lace-trimmed black veil that made her look ethereal and mysterious. She’d swept up her hair, clipped studs to her ears, and fastened a matching necklace of square-cut black gemstones, bordered with diamonds, around her throat.
There was a respectfully faint knock on the door. At her call, Cecil Trope, the secretary she’d inherited from Vladimir, entered the cabin. She fixed him in an aloof, imperious stare, a look she’d practised in her mirror. ‘Come and sit down, Cecil.’
He crossed the room, taking short, brisk little strides, and perched his scrawny buttocks on the edge of the chair.
‘The arrangements have been made?’
‘They have, ma’am. Do you wish me to go through them?’
‘Briefly.’ Tatiana laid her forearms on the desk; he settled back in his chair, and began. ‘Since yesterday evening, your husband’s casket has been resting in the Metropolitan Cathedral of the Annunciation. It’s been placed in a side chapel, before the shrine of Saint Philothei.’
Tatiana raised an eyebrow.
‘Saint Philothei ransomed Greek women enslaved in the harems of the Ottoman Turks.’
Tatiana suppressed a smile. Hardly an appropriate waiting place for her godless and libidinous husband. ‘You were able to obtain a new Russian flag?’
‘Better than that, ma’am. The Embassy loaned a velvet drape for the casket, the Russian tricolour edged with gold braid.’
‘And the flowers?’
‘White roses, as you instructed. A wonderful display; they fill the chapel.’ Cecil closed his eyes for a moment, gathered his thoughts, then went on, ‘The funeral and burial services will be conducted by Father Andreas Papakostas; he speaks Russian fluently. This will be followed by the interment at the First Cemetery of Athens; quite an impressive burial ground located behind the Temple of Olympian Zeus.’ He reached into a folder, drew out a slender black-leather bound book, and laid it on the desk. ‘I thought you might wish to have this with you, ma’am: the Orthodox funeral and burial services, Greek and Russian texts.’
‘Thank you, Cecil. That was most thoughtful.’
He flashed her a ti
ght-lipped, prim little smile. ‘During the proceedings a few crew members will remain on board the Empress to keep watch, and the chef and catering staff will be preparing the meal for the reception. The captain, the rest of the crew, and the cabin staff will be attending the funeral. The Russian ambassador is sending a representative. Both he and the priest have accepted invitations to the reception in the Grand Salon.’
‘Please tell Captain Potamin I would like him to welcome people as they come on board the ship, and during the reception I want you by my side to translate for me, and to remind me of the names of the guests.’ Mourners would, perhaps, have been a more appropriate word than guests, but she couldn’t bear the hypocrisy.
‘It will be my privilege, ma’am.’
‘And you and Captain Potamin must ride with me in the funeral car. Vasila can sit beside the driver. What about the remaining security guards?’
‘I understand Vasila’s going to put them in the car that follows yours.’
‘The priest and the ambassador’s representative must also travel in my car. I take it there will be room?’
‘The funeral directors are sending their finest and largest limousine. It comfortably seats six behind the driving compartment, so there will be a seat to spare. Do you wish to see the menu for the meal?’
Tatiana shook her head.
‘One final thing, ma’am, and I hope you’ll forgive any impertinence on my part, but I wondered if you would wish to be accompanied by a female companion; Oleska, perhaps, the maid who cares for your suite of rooms. Apart from yourself, all of the mourners are men.’
‘That’s a most kind thought, Cecil, but no. I just want you by my side, acting as my memory and translator.’ She smiled at him. The slender, pale-faced English homosexual, with his pointed chin and lank hair, was more delicate and sensitive than any woman. She had no need of female company. And she felt she could trust him. Since her husband’s death he seemed to have overcome his aversion to her sex and transferred his dog-like devotion to her.
When he returned her smile, his thin lips parted to reveal small and perfect teeth. ‘The limousines are scheduled to arrive in –’ he glanced at his watch ‘– twenty-three minutes. Captain Potamin will come to your suite and escort you to your car. One final thing, ma’am, Bogdan, your new radio operator, transcribed a message from your father a short while ago. He asked me to pass it on to you.’ He laid an envelope on her desk and rose to his feet.
‘Thank you, Cecil. As usual, you’ve been most efficient. I’m very grateful.’
When he’d left the cabin she tore open the envelope, took out the yellow slip and read:
Unable to fly in for Vladimir’s funeral. Your mother is not in the best of health and I am overwhelmed by business affairs. The men I sent to find your missing stepdaughter have not made contact with me for more than forty-eight hours. I must assume they have failed, with all that that entails. I have dispatched another team, six men this time, and urged them to be diligent. My informant reports two sightings of the car she and her companion are using. Hopefully this will enable us to locate the girl and bring her to safety. I am also informed that she is still being hunted by the police. When the funeral is over, you must leave Piraeus and sail for Odessa. I will meet you there. Your mother and I send our love and condolences.
The bathroom was small, windowless, white tiled and expensively equipped; much better than the communal showers at Martha’s. Annushka tossed her hair forward, began to towel it dry, then paused and sat down on the rim of the bath. She’d suddenly realized how much she missed the school and her friends: the bustle, the chatter, the swimming pool and sports field, even the lessons. The Georgina woman wasn’t a chatty companion; her eyes, her remoteness, her detachment, were a bit scary, her capacity for violence frightening, but she’d always been pleasant and kind to her. The problem was, they were always together during the day and they shared a bedroom at night. It made her feel like a prisoner. Annushka began to dry her hair again. She couldn’t go on like this any longer.
They’d had some difficulty finding their new hiding place, wandering for ages down narrow, sunken lanes. Eventually they’d spotted the sign, Clogwyn Farm, and turned on to a stony track, no more than a single car wide and hidden behind high banks and hedgerows. After jolting along for a while they’d emerged into a grassy basin and found themselves looking at a farmhouse built against an old quarry face. Its tiny windows were set in walls of stone; blue slates covered the roof. A hundred yards away, on the crest of the enclosing hollow, a derelict cattle shed made a dark shape against the brightness of the sky. The place had seemed sunlit and peaceful when they’d stepped out of the car. Now, with the house surrounded by darkness, the silence was eerie, the sense of enclosure, of isolation, intense.
Suddenly feeling scared, she threw the towel down and trotted into the bedroom. Georgina was standing by the window, leaning into the embrasure. Moths, mesmerized by the light, were blundering against the glass. Annushka took a dryer from her bag, plugged it in, tilted her head, and directed the hot blast at her hair. She was sitting on the edge of a bed that had a white-painted metal frame. The mattress was hard, but the sheets they’d found in an airing cupboard were clean and dry and freshly laundered. Raising her voice above the drone of the dryer, she said, ‘Anything out there?’
‘A badger. It sniffed around the car, then wandered off across the grass. It’s gone now.’ Samantha stepped back and drew the curtains.
‘Can we go to the coast tomorrow, visit one of those little fishing villages, have a meal somewhere?’
Samantha gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry about dinner. I’m not into cooking. We’ll explore the coast and dine out for the next couple of days.’
‘The meal was OK,’ Annushka said, gallantly. ‘I’ve had worse at Martha’s.’
‘And I know the farmhouse is pretty spartan,’ Samantha went on, her tone still apologetic.
‘I don’t have any problems with it. It’s clean and dry and it’s only for a couple of days.’ Annushka clicked off the dryer and glanced up. ‘But it’s a bit strange, no door or windows at the back, everything at the front.’
‘Perhaps they built it against the old quarry face for warmth and shelter; it could be a bit wild here in the winter. Or maybe they just wanted to save the cost of a wall.’
‘Who chose these places?’
‘The people who sent me to keep you safe.’
‘My father arranged it, didn’t he? Arranged for someone to come and protect me if anything happened?’
Samantha smiled. ‘I’ll take a bath, then turn in. We’ll make an early start tomorrow, go to the coast and have breakfast in a hotel.’ She slid her gun from beneath the pillow of the bed nearest the door, picked up a white satin bag and headed for the bathroom.
Annushka heard the door click, waited a few minutes, then rose from the bed. Carrying her shoes, she crept out on to the tiny landing and headed down a steep and rather rickety flight of stairs. The front door was facing her. She stepped into her shoes, slid the bolts, then released the latch and went out into the night. She’d already tried to use her phone to call Alexander, but the house was isolated, hidden in a depression, and all she’d got was the no signal message on the screen. The failing battery wouldn’t hold its charge much longer. If she didn’t make the call tonight she’d have to risk charging it again tomorrow.
She needed Alexander so desperately. He was all she had now. She was sure that when he knew where she was he’d come to her, take her somewhere safe and clear up this dreadful mess she was in. Next to the Prime Minister, he was the most important man in England. The police would have to do exactly what he said.
She was running up the slope that enclosed the farm. The sky was overcast, no moon, no stars, and the darkness was almost complete. Hidden things were rustling in the grass. Suddenly apprehensive, she glanced back towards the house. Light was shining through the bedroom curtains and there was a faint gleam beyond the half-open door. Sh
e was almost at the top of the rise now, and the old cattle shed loomed above her. Not wanting to go near it, she stopped running, switched on the phone and keyed in the number. She listened to the purr-purr for what seemed like an age, then her spirits soared as that deep velvety voice said, ‘Annushka? That you, Annushka?’
Relief overwhelmed her. Breathless after running, close to tears, she gasped, ‘Alex, oh, Alex, it’s so wonderful to hear your voice. I haven’t got much time, the phone’s on the blink and I’ll be missed, so—’
‘Missed?’
‘By the woman my father hired to protect me. I’m in big trouble, Alex, and I want you to come for me; take me somewhere safe while you explain things to the police for me and sort everything out. I want you to come now.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Pembrokeshire, south Wales, a few miles from the coast. Nearest place is a fishing village, Broad Haven. The house is called Clogwyn Farm. It’s very isolated, hidden in an old quarry at the end of a track.’
‘That’s rather vague, love. What’s the number of the nearest road?’
‘They’re just tiny winding lanes. They don’t have numbers. But the last town we went through was Haverfordwest; we’re about three or four miles on from there. Can you come tonight?’
‘Not tonight. I’ve got to be in the House tomorrow.’
‘You have to stay at home?’ Her voice was dismayed.
‘Houses of Parliament. There’s an emergency debate. But I’ll come as soon as it finishes. Probably arrive in the late afternoon, early evening. Does this woman, your bodyguard, know you’ve phoned me?’
‘God, no. She’d go crazy. She won’t let me out of her sight. If I tell her I’ve phoned you she’ll probably whisk me away to some other place. When you come, you’d better be careful until I’ve explained who you are . . . The phone’s playing up now, Alex. I’ve got to go. Love you, love you, love . . .’
The frantic voice faded. Alexander Fairchild clicked off his mobile and closed his eyes while he recovered from the shock. Should he, or shouldn’t he? He’d laboured a long time in the political vineyard, devoted his life to it. He’d climbed almost to the top. He was well liked by his parliamentary colleagues, popular with the electorate; another five or six years and he could be Prime Minister. Grace would simmer down. She wasn’t stupid. She knew which side her bread was buttered. And if things remained a little frosty in the bedroom, so what? Things had never been more than lukewarm in that department for years. One phone call, one brief phone call, was all it would take to set things back on the path to normality.
Dark Powers Page 17