She called the surgery for regular updates on Lipinski, and found each one offering better news than the last, each report holding out more hope of a complete recovery.
‘I don’t know what you feed him on,’ said the receptionist at one point, ‘but that’s a hell of a tough cat.’
‘Polish meatballs, mostly,’ Riley told her, and thanked her before hanging up.
Out of boredom, she soon found herself going over everything that Richard Varley had said, the files on Al-Bashir… and the threats uttered by the man she now knew as Pavel Ivanovich Fedorov.
And Varley. She was still having trouble coming to grips with the idea of him being someone called Vasiliyev. It was all too alien.
Then came thoughts of Helen Bellamy and the German reporter, Annaliese Kellin, and the part they had unwittingly played in this affair. And how she had come within an ace of sharing the same fate.
‘You okay?’ Palmer stood in the doorway. He’d just returned from a tour of the streets around the hotel. He was, she knew, unwilling to take for granted that the gunman who had come to Riley’s flat wouldn’t find some way of tracking her down if those were his orders.
‘Palmer, I’m going stir-crazy,’ she replied. ‘I need to do something. Can’t I put on a hat and go out for a walk?’
‘Maybe later, when it’s dark. We still don’t know what resources these people have got. All it needs is for someone to spot you. Shooting the cat was a warning. I doubt they’ll leave it at that. Keep this door locked.’ He glanced at her mobile on the bed. ‘Any news?’
‘You mean the cat? Yes, he’s fine. Indestructible, according to the vet.’ She paused, unsure how to begin telling him about Natalya’s call. She felt more than foolish already, and didn’t need to suffer more humiliation over having been duped so easily.
‘And?’
‘What ‘and’?’
He rolled his eyes, and she told him about Richard Varley/Vasiliyev and his master, Fedorov.
Palmer took in the news with little reaction. ‘Don’t sweat it,’ he said evenly. ‘You weren’t to know. But it answers lots of questions. This was carefully planned and financed. They’re not here to fool around.’
‘Palmer?’ Riley got off the bed and faced him.
He waited.
‘Do you have something I can use?’ She gestured at the room. ‘I feel naked.’
‘You mean a gun? No way. Forget it.’
‘No. Not that. Anything… I don’t know.’ She shrugged helplessly, unsure about what she was asking. ‘Something.’
Palmer’s lips twitched. He reached into his jacket and took out a short black rod covered in hard foam. He gave a sharp jerk and it snapped into a tapered steel baton with a hard plastic tip. He pressed a release button in the handle and retracted it, then handed it to her. ‘Try it.’
Riley was surprised by the weight. But it felt reassuring in her hand. She flicked her arm sideways, the way she’d seen Palmer do it, but nothing happened. She tried again, harder. This time she was rewarded with a satisfying click as the baton extended and locked out.
‘Wow,’ she muttered, amazed by the feel of it in her hand. ‘Cool or what?’
‘It won’t make you bullet-proof,’ he warned her. ‘So take it easy.’
‘I will.’ She tried a couple of practice swings. ‘Where do I aim for?’
Palmer shrugged. ‘If you’re mad enough at the time, anywhere you can reach.’
‘What then?’
‘Then you run like hell.’
The long afternoon blended with agonising slowness into the evening. Riley stood up from time to time, swinging the baton and getting a feel for its weight, snapping it out and back. Palmer was right: it wouldn’t make her bullet-proof, but it might make all the difference if anyone came in here after her.
She eyed her phone and the time. It brought thoughts about John Mitcheson; it was probably morning wherever he was. They hadn’t spoken in weeks. Months, actually. Should she give him a call, or would that seem too desperate? If she did, what would she say that wasn’t going to sound pathetic? In the end, she decided against it. Boredom was insufficient reason to go unearthing something better left to take its own course.
In the end, she decided that enough was enough. She had to see the cat. And have a very strong drink or some fresh air, whichever came most readily to hand. She rang Palmer, but he wasn’t answering.
She checked her watch. Nearly six o’clock. She threw on a jacket and pocketed the baton, then slipped out of the room, half expecting Palmer to emerge from a doorway like a shadow and kick her back inside. She made her way downstairs and out through the rear entrance, which opened onto a narrow back street lined with skips, dustbins and a couple of bikes chained to some railings.
She decided to walk to the surgery, located on a quiet street in Westbourne Park. It wasn’t far and she needed to feel the stretch in the back of her legs and the firm pavement beneath her feet. Soft carpets and sprung floors were fine for a while, but there were limits to the amount of comfort she could endure.
She arrived at the surgery and was ushered through to what the nurse called the convalescence suite, a room lined with cages, each holding a sick animal. The remainder of the space was heaped with an assortment of medical equipment, boxes of animal foods and pet paraphernalia.
Lipinski was sitting up, wearing what looked like a backpack with lots of strapping holding it in place. He looked bored and restless. She knew how he felt.
‘He was lucky,’ the nurse told her, as Riley scrubbed the cat gently under the chin and he drooled over her fingers. ‘The bullet didn’t hit anything vital, so there was no internal bleeding. He’ll have a bald patch once the dressing comes off, but that will soon grow back.’ She eyed Riley cautiously. ‘The police said they’d be in touch. Sorry, but we had to report it.’
Riley thanked her and wondered if they had already been to her flat to make enquiries. No doubt Craig Pell would have something to say when he found out, and she found herself smiling at the idea.
After ten minutes of talking to the cat, during which time he veered from looking interested on hearing her familiar voice, to grumpy when he realised she wasn’t about to take him home, Riley decided she had better get back to her hotel room before Palmer began scouring the greater London area in search of her. She gave the cat a final rub along his flanks and said softly, ‘Never mind, chum. When you get out, you can compare bullet wounds with Szulu.’
With that, she told him to get well soon and left the surgery. She decided to take a taxi, in case Palmer was busy tearing his hair out, and set out towards the nearby Tube station, where the chances of picking one up would be greater.
She was only yards from the surgery when a large car pulled into the kerb ahead of her. A man jumped out and bent down to inspect a front wheel. He swore loudly and banged the wing, then stood up and looked around as if hoping a handy tyre depot would appear nearby.
As Riley drew level, he looked at her then looked away again.
Riley’s antennae began to tremble. There was something about the man. He was tall and muscular, with a bullish neck and cropped hair. The way he had looked at her was just a little too deliberate, too focussed. She gripped the baton inside her pocket, her heart-rate increasing fast, and began to step away.
The rest happened very quickly. Riley heard one of the rear doors of the car click open, and from the corner of her eye, saw a second man emerging. This one was shorter and heavier. The first man turned in the same instance and stepped towards her, reaching out with big hands.
Whipping out the baton, Riley flicked it open and slashed the first man across the face. She felt the impact travel through her wrist and lower arm, and the man cursed but kept coming. The baton fell away, her fingers stinging and unable to retain their grip. Before she could retrieve it, the second man was on her, scooping her up in his massive arms and bundling her through the door onto the back seat like a sack of laundry. Following her in, he landed on top
of her with a grunt, smothering any further resistance.
Riley tried to scream, to attract the attention of someone, anyone. She caught a glimpse through the open car door of a woman’s startled face, watching from the pavement. Then a large hand was clamped over her mouth, the doors slammed shut and the car surged away down the street.
Frank Palmer tried Riley’s room again. He’d already been up once but got no reply, and the receptionist had confirmed that the key had not been left. He tried her mobile, but there was no connection. He tried to think where she might have gone. Back to the flat to get some clothes? No, he’d made sure she had sufficient for at least three days. What other priorities did she have?
The cat. It had to be. He checked his watch. It was nearly seven-thirty. He went back down and got the porter to get him a list of veterinary surgeries close to where Riley lived. He remembered her saying that the place wasn’t far from the flat, which narrowed down the possibilities.
Eventually, the porter came up with three names, and he began dialling. The first two had closed for the day, and were on voice-mail. He struck lucky on the third.
‘Miss Gavin left about an hour ago,’ the nurse confirmed, and Palmer instantly picked up something in the tone of her voice.
‘What is it?’ he said.
‘Well, it might be nothing, but one of our customers came in and said she saw a young woman being pushed into a car by two men right outside the surgery. We called the police, but they haven’t shown up yet. That’s why I’m still here. I hope she’s all right…’
Palmer thanked her and disconnected. He swore long and silently. Supposing it wasn’t what the woman had thought? Maybe some friends messing around. An hour wasn’t long — Riley could have decided to stop off somewhere else, understandable after being cooped up in the hotel all day. But instinct told him it wasn’t that simple.
He began to dial DI Pell’s number, then stopped. Pell wasn’t the sort to mess about; he’d do the right thing, which was to mobilise all the resources he could muster. Especially given the circumstances and his knowledge of Riley’s background from Weller. But going in with all guns blazing was the worst thing they could do. A blue light showing up within half a mile of anywhere Riley was being taken — if it had been her being lifted off the street — could only end one way.
He dialled Ray Szulu, who was still watching Pantile House, and told him what he wanted.
39
By Riley’s reckoning, the journey couldn’t have lasted more than thirty minutes, but it felt like an hour. Once the man holding her seemed satisfied she wasn’t going to kick and scream, he let go of her, but made her lie down with her head pressed into the back seat. To make sure she complied, he held a gun across her neck, buried under her hair. It felt cold and greasy against her skin, and she tried to recall what Palmer had told her about safety catches and the sensitivity of trigger mechanisms.
A stream of furious words in Russian and the occasional obscenity in English came from the driver, and Riley guessed it was the man she had hit with the baton. Eventually, the man holding her tired of it and said something short and sharp. The complaining ceased.
When the vehicle stopped, Riley was dragged from the car and marched across a short expanse of concrete. She had no opportunity to escape. Her captor kept one arm across her shoulders, his other hand holding her face in a vice-like grip and pressed into his chest. To an onlooker, Riley decided grimly, they might look like lovers, and she felt as sickened at that dreadful irony as she was by the man’s proximity and the smell of his unwashed clothing.
In the background, the car door slammed and the vehicle moved away.
Seconds later, a door creaked and she caught a brief glimpse of bright lights. When her feet echoed over tiled flooring, she knew instinctively where she was.
Pantile House.
The man let go of her face to palm the door open, and for the first time Riley managed to get a look at him. Her stomach went cold.
It was Pechov.
The lift hummed and the floor shifted. They were going up. The close atmosphere held nothing but the sound of the man’s breathing and the creaking of the lift mechanism. When it stopped, Pechov bundled her out into a short corridor. One of her shoes came off, but he forced her on, making no move to retrieve it. He stopped at a door and kicked it open, pushing her through. She caught the sharp tang of disinfectant and saw more bright lights, and a row of sinks and several cubicles with thin walls. A tall metal rubbish bin stood beneath a hand drier. An extractor fan hummed, giving out an intermittent clatter. A tampon dispenser was fixed to one wall. They were in a women’s washroom.
A hard chair was positioned ominously in front of the sinks. Pechov pushed Riley into it. Yanking her jacket down off her shoulders, he produced a roll of gaffer tape, and in seconds, had her taped to the chair with her hands immobilised behind her back.
When he was satisfied Riley couldn’t move, he took out a mobile and dialled a number. He spoke briefly, then hung up and looked at her with an evil smile. ‘You in big trouble,’ he breathed thickly, and took a toffee from his pocket. He unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, sucking noisily. ‘Boss is not happy man.’
Footsteps echoed along the corridor outside the washroom door. For a brief moment, Riley hoped that it might represent rescue; that someone had seen what was happening and had come to take her away from this.
Then the door swung open and Grigori Fedorov entered.
He murmured to Pechov, who nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Fedorov walked across and stood looking down at Riley. Up close, she thought he looked slightly ruffled, the collar of his shirt slightly grey. Or maybe it was the lights.
‘This is not productive, Miss Gavin,’ he said at last, his dry voice echoing off the tiled walls. ‘I have not the time for this.’
‘Tell me about it,’ she replied, surprised at how level her own voice sounded. She felt a tremor going through her left leg and fought to still it.
He stood for a moment, before turning away. Almost casually, he picked up the rubbish bin. Then, with a vicious surge of rage, he swung it in an arc over his head and brought it crashing down on the end sink. Shards of porcelain flew into the air as the front edge of the basin disintegrated, and a large piece fell to the floor and lay spinning raggedly, like a demented top.
Riley couldn’t help it; she closed her eyes, stunned by the unexpected display of violence. When she opened them again, Fedorov was standing in front of her, breathing heavily, his eyes glittering.
‘You did not call,’ he said quietly, a tremor in his voice. ‘I was disappointed.’ He stepped over to the sinks, his shoes crunching on splinters of porcelain, and studied his reflection in the mirror, turning his face left and right. Then he turned on one of the hot taps and let the water run. He tested the temperature, but turned it off again with a hiss of irritation.
Bending down, he picked up a sliver of porcelain. It was the length of a finger, with a razor-sharp edge. He ran his thumb along it. The skin opened as if sliced with a surgeon’s scalpel, and a hairline of blood welled up. Turning to Riley, he touched the sliver to her face with almost gentle care, and drew it slowly across her cheek from one side to the other. It felt ice-cold to the touch. Riley froze, not daring to move or imagine what it might be doing to her skin.
Dreading what was coming next, she felt herself shrink inside.
Then footsteps approached and Pechov appeared. He was carrying a steaming kettle.
‘I wonder if you remember what I said to you, the last time we met?’ Fedorov murmured. He sounded almost disappointed, as if a spell had been broken. He tossed the porcelain to one side and took the kettle, dismissing Pechov with a jerk of his head. ‘I believe I told you of the custom we have for people who do not do what they have agreed?’
Riley said nothing, her eyes fixed on the wisp of steam coming from the spout of the kettle.
Fedorov nodded. ‘Of course. How silly of me. You are a journalist, tra
ined to remember things.’ His accent had become thicker, the final word pronounced as ‘thinks’. He poured the boiled water into the sink, steam billowing into the air and clouding the mirrors. Then he dropped the kettle casually on the floor. Immersing his fingers in the water, he held them there, gently sucking in air through his teeth in a lengthy hiss.
Riley was stunned. She could see Fedorov’s skin turning red with the heat, but beyond the initial reaction, it didn’t seem to bother him.
‘When I was young boy,’ he explained calmly, ‘I was made to stand out in the cold for hours, as punishment. No coat, no gloves. Arms above my head. It was very cold where I come from. My hands became numb. After a while, they lost most of their feeling. It never quite came back. What it taught me, Miss Gavin, was how to deal with extreme pain. How to close off the mind. How resistant are you to pain, Miss Gavin? Hmm?’
‘What do you want?’ she demanded, her voice shaking. ‘I’m not going to write that article, so you might as well let me go.’
‘Oh, I know that, Miss Gavin. I know that. But that is no longer the issue. Nor, sadly, is letting you go.’
Without warning, he flicked a spray of water into her face.
Riley screamed as the hot liquid stung her skin. Her eyes were saved only by instinctively turning away a split second before the water hit her. She kept her head turned, but Fedorov continued relentlessly, repeatedly flicking droplets at her, content to aim them at the side of her neck, where it burned into the soft skin of her throat and just behind her ears where the tissue was at its most sensitive. Riley clamped her teeth together, struggling as small rivulets began to run down inside her clothing, searing across her upper body and down over her stomach. The effect was like a line of fiery little ants scuttling over her skin, leaving her instantly chilled as the heat diminished. She tried not to scream, but in the end, could not prevent a low, agonised moan from escaping.
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