She turned and smiled. ‘I was going to call you this morning.’
He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘Well, I think I’ve tracked down this kid of yours. This Leon.’
‘Well done.’
Nicci watched him fumbling with his phone. He seemed more than a little disconcerted, which puzzled her. The Hackney DS must’ve seen most things. Why would it bother him that she had a lover, albeit one who wore rubber gloves?
Scrolling through images he finally found what he was looking for. ‘Yeah, here we go. Is this him?’
He held the phone out for her to see.
She peered at the tiny screen. ‘Yep, that’s Leon.’
‘Definitely?’
‘Yes.’
Delgado sighed. ‘Well, we’ve had a word. Sorry to say he’s got an alibi for the evening of Ethel Huxtable’s murder.’
‘You sure?’
‘There’s a beat boxing class at one of the youth centres. He says he was there. I know the guys that run the centre. Good blokes, not the sort that’d lie. I phoned them. They confirmed he was there.’
Nicci shrugged. ‘Oh well.’
‘I will double-check. Make sure it’s watertight.’
She ran her fingers through her hair, it needed washing. Had she convinced herself of Leon’s guilt merely to assuage her own? She’d always been critical of the old-school coppers who operated on gut feelings, usually based on prejudice, just because they couldn’t be arsed to collate the evidence properly. All the same it niggled her; a random mugging felt like too much of a coincidence. But however counter-intuitive they were to the human mind, coincidences happened.
Rory appeared in the doorway, fully dressed. The two men looked each other up and down.
The place suddenly felt very overcrowded to Nicci. This was why she lived alone. She didn’t want the burden of other people’s needs and expectations. She wished she could boot them both out, step into the shower and let the water rinse away her guilt: for Ethel, for Sophie.
Delgado seemed to sense her discomfort. ‘We’re handing over to the murder team anyway. No real evidence against the soldier at number six.’ He moved towards the door. ‘Back to square one, I guess.’
She met his eye, two cops who understood the system and its shortcomings. ‘Thanks anyway, Jack.’
He gave her a wistful look, followed by a curt nod, and was gone.
80
Kaz looked out of the bedroom window, drawn by the chatter of children and the bounce and slap of a ball being booted around on the neighbouring driveway. It was the summer holidays, a balmy morning and the world was at play.
The house was brand new, spacious, a detached executive home on a corner plot in an exclusive cul-de-sac. The developers had preserved a huge spreading oak as the centrepiece for the half-dozen premier homes that filled the site.
When Tolya had dropped them off in the early hours the whispering tree had filled Kaz with foreboding. But in the brilliant morning sun its wide limbs provided a benign shade.
Tolya had driven away to some wasteland and torched the Beemer. No forensics. No trail.
They were home free, on the outskirts of Reading. Kaz had no real idea where. Having left the M4 they’d travelled another few miles west towards the fringes of the Berkshire Downs. Tolya’s sleepy brother had greeted them on the doorstep.
Yevgeny and Tolya were itinerant former soldiers who’d never bothered much about where they lived. But the arrival of their sister Irina had changed all that. Yevgeny wanted the family to settle and had hopes of persuading their mother to join them too.
A comfy bed had been provided for Kaz and when she’d stepped out of the steaming shower Irina had been laying out some of her own clean clothes for Kaz to borrow.
Nearly matching her brothers in height, Irina was willowy and blonde. Full of easy laughter she resorted to facial contortions and flapping hands to get over her difficulties with the English language. Kaz found it impossible not to like her and even harder not to fancy her.
Irina held up a black lacy bra, scrunched her features into an exaggerated frown and looked speculatively at Kaz’s upper torso, which was just about covered by a towel.
‘It . . . yeah, good I think. You think?’ She giggled.
‘I think it’ll fit, yeah. Thank you.’
Irina gestured at the knickers, jeans and T-shirt all laid out neatly on the bed. ‘You try, you take. Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ Clutching her towel, Kaz felt absurdly shy. The two women stared at each other awkwardly for a moment. Then the Russian laughed.
She pointed at the door. ‘Breakfast? Yeah?’
Kaz nodded, holding on pertly to the towel until her hostess disappeared out of the room.
Bra and jeans were both slightly too snug. But with her own stuff abandoned at Mike’s all she possessed were the clothes she’d arrived in. However, when she strolled into the kitchen, it was immediately apparent from the reactions of the three men, that her new figure-hugging threads were a hit.
Joey sat drinking coffee at the large farmhouse table. Yevgeny stood at the hob frying bacon and eggs. Tolya was checking his phone. But all eyes turned to scrutinize her.
‘All right, babes?’ Joey beamed. Their narrow escape from the police the night before seemed to have revitalized him. In spite of his injury, the energy and spark of the old Joey had returned.
She couldn’t help smiling at him. ‘Yeah. I’m good.’
‘Yev, he does an ace breakfast. Full English, all the trimmings. No fucking idea where he learnt it.’
Yevgeny was larger, older, more solid than his brother. He had a tea-towel tucked neatly into his belt.
Spatula in hand, he turned to face them. ‘I learn recipes. Live like an Englishman, eat like an Englishman, this is my aim now.’
Kaz met his eye. Their complicated history skittered through her mind – on the night her brother had been arrested she’d persuaded him to walk away and spare the cop, Mal Bradley. She’d never been sure why he’d agreed.
‘Really nice place you got here, Yev.’
He dipped his head formally to accept the compliment. ‘Thank you. Please take a seat.’
Irina joined them and breakfast was served. Yevgeny certainly lived up to the rep Joey had given him. The plates were large and loaded, with copious amounts of toast and coffee on the side. Irina was anxious to practise her rudimentary English and the conversation darted in and out of Russian as her brothers helped out with some translation.
Kaz was surprised to learn that Yevgeny also spoke German and the basics of Arabic. He’d worked in many countries, but all three siblings agreed that they preferred the UK.
Joey was rueful. Facing a life in exile made him see London in a different light. He missed the pubs and clubs, his riverside flat with its panoramic view of the City.
As he turned to Kaz, she noticed him blink away the moistness in his eye. ‘I am one dumb-fuck. Didn’t realize what I had. Took stupid risks. I shoulda listened to you, babes.’
Yevgeny patted his arm cheerfully. ‘You go Brazil, get new face. I seen guys, their own mother don’t recognize them.’
There was laughter round the table.
Irina threw Joey a vampish look. ‘No! No cut! He pretty!’
Leaning back in her chair, Kaz watched and listened. Did Irina flirting with Joey make her envious? If she was honest, it did. It wasn’t just that the Russian was gorgeous; she exuded verve and spirit. She possessed the same energetic aura of self-belief that had first drawn Kaz to Helen. It was something that Kaz had been missing in her Glasgow life, though she hadn’t realized it until this moment.
Scanning the two brothers – Joey’s minders, his employees – Kaz wondered again about their agenda. They were undoubtedly being paid well for their current services. But the nomadic, globetrotting life of guns for hire didn’t exactly fit with a posh new gaffe in the leafy Royal County of Berkshire, just a spit down the road from Windsor Castle and the Queen. Were they
still illegals, living beneath the radar? It didn’t look much like that to iKaz.
The breakfast dishes were cleared away and Kaz’s attempts to offer help resisted. Tolya and Irina shared the chores. Yevgeny pulled out a pack of cigarettes and suggested Kaz and Joey join him in the garden.
The lawn still had the ridged and lumpy appearance of new-laid turf. There was a terrace with recently planted pots and a small bower with a low wicker, glass-topped table and four easy chairs.
Yevgeny invited them to sit. He sparked up, leant his head back and blew a fine plume of smoke towards a cloudless cerulean sky.
Joey rested his left ankle on his right knee. ‘Okay, let’s talk business. After all, you come looking for me, Yev.’
This was news to Kaz. She’d presumed her brother had somehow got in touch with the Russians. Now it seemed they must’ve learned of his escape from the media and decided it was an opportunity for them. An opportunity for what though?
Joey rubbed his beard. ‘The fee for getting me out the country, a hundred grand, that’s already agreed. But that’s not all you’re after, is it?’
The Russian opened his palms and smiled. ‘My sister come now, even I hope my mother too. Time we make a proper home. England such a good place. Good for business too.’
‘You got leave to remain?’
‘Temporary. But with cash, business interests we make things permanent.’
‘You’re settling, I’m leaving.’ Joey grinned. ‘Funny old world, innit?’
The Russian inclined his head. ‘We get the three cannabis factories back to full production, we take a controlling interest of fifty-one per cent. Your man, he agree?’
‘Quan’s flexible. His end’s always been twenty per cent.’
‘Leaves you twenty-nine.’
‘I can live with that. But the Kemals are your problem.’
Yevgeny grinned. ‘I take Kaz along to frighten them.’
Joey chuckled. Kaz’s gaze was travelling back and forth between the two men. So the price of her brother’s freedom was a takeover of the firm – all amicable enough on the surface – but a takeover none the less.
Joey sighed. ‘The Ibiza end of the business is a mess, all kinds of hooligans have tried to muscle in while I been away. But I’ll sort that out.’
‘We can maybe help.’
‘Cool.’ Joey laced his fingers. ‘But that would have to be a sixty–forty partnership. I still gotta make a living.’
The Russian shrugged. ‘Partnership yes. But ffty–ffty I think.’
They both knew Joey was in no position to press the point. Again he laughed. ‘You’re a hard bastard, but okay, agreed. Provided you do one more thing for me, Yev. I want you to help my sister out.’
Kaz looked at him in surprise, but he was focused on the Russian.
Taking a heavy pull on his cigarette, Yevgeny frowned. ‘Pudovkin?’
‘Is it doable?’
The big man shot a glance at Kaz. ‘Depends what you want.’
She returned the look. ‘I’ve been told he had my friend killed. First up, I wanna find out if that’s true.’
Yevgeny gave a dry laugh. ‘You know who he is?’
‘No idea.’
He ground the half-smoked cigarette underfoot. ‘He’s maybe not a man you should upset.’
Joey gave him an inquisitive look. ‘He a friend of yours then, Yev?’
The Russian snorted with derision. ‘Fuck me, no! I hate siloviki.’
Joey threw his sister a cheeky glance. ‘That’s all right then.’
Kaz understood this was a big ask. If Neville Moore was right – a murder organized to protect a politician – he wasn’t likely to be an ordinary thug.
‘What’s silo . . .viki? Sounds like vodka.’
‘Aww, you disappoint me, Kaz,’ Yevgeny teased. ‘Any Russian word, don’t matter, English people think it some kind of vodka.’
She chuckled. ‘Okay so I’m just a stupid English bint.’ Keeping it light and friendly was all she could do. Joey had no leverage, that was apparent. The Russian didn’t need to help, he’d already got what he wanted.
‘Siloviki is – well, Putin is siloviki. Ex-FSB.’
Joey chipped in: ‘The lot that took over from the KGB?’
Yevgeny nodded. ‘Many was KGB before too, or military.’
‘You were in the army. Why don’t you like them?’ Kaz frowned.
He shook his head wearily. ‘Me, my brothers, we proper soldiers. Not fucking officers. We fight, get shot, blown to fucking bits. They stay in barracks.’ His lip curled with a sneer. ‘Drink vodka.’
‘I get it. So this Pudovkin, he’s rich?’
‘Rich, oh yes.’
‘One of these oligarchs?’
‘No, oligarchs – siloviki, not the same thing. Pudovkin is businessman. But really, Kremlin sends him here to watch oligarchs. Kremlin use him to control oligarchs. And for politics.’
Joey was looking impressed. ‘Fuck me, Yev. How d’you know all this?’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Many Russians in London got money, like to party. Pudovkin, he pretend to be friends with everyone. But we know who he is, why they send him here.’
Kaz was pretty sure that Nicci Armstrong knew none of this. But how did Hollister come to be mates with some kind of Russian spook?
Yevgeny gave her a speculative grin. ‘Okay, I got a deal for you. I have invitation. You put on sexy dress and big smile, be my date, I take you to meet Viktor Pudovkin.’
81
Eddie Lunt sat at his desk ruminating on how to break the news to Nicci. She disapproved of his methodology, he was well aware of that. He’d encountered a number of ex-cops in his colourful career and, in his experience, most couldn’t give a monkey’s about the legal niceties. But Nicci was different. She was a stickler.
In Eddie’s world it had always been payment by results. The technology was there, if you didn’t use it they’d soon find someone else who would. That made any moral line decidedly shaky. You had to be a pragmatist to survive and prosper.
As soon as Eddie had seen the CCTV footage of Paige Hollister arguing with Warner in Glasgow he knew he was on the scent of something. Putting tabs on her wasn’t that difficult once he’d got hold of her mobile number.
A hacker of his acquaintance specialized in collecting data on politicians’ spouses, partners and random lovers. He wanted to charge Eddie two fifty for Paige Hollister’s number; Eddie thought that was cheeky and knocked him down to a grand and a half.
Before he left Glasgow, Eddie was on to Denzil, his contact at the UK’s largest mobile phone operator. Thanks to his careful cultivation of the lad, Denzil didn’t muck about. He started to track Paige Hollister’s phone straight away. And the three-hourly updates he sent Eddie had made interesting reading.
Eddie could see Nicci was at her desk. He knew he’d probably get a bollocking, but that was par for the course with her. No matter what she thought of him, he knew the value of his achievements. And the fact he had a job meant that Simon Blake did too.
As he strolled across the room in her direction he noticed she looked quite perky. She didn’t seem hungover, which was a bonus, and she appeared to be sipping something that looked alarmingly like green tea.
He hovered tactfully – she was chatting to Pascale – until she turned and smiled at him.
‘Morning, Eddie.’
‘All right, girls?’ He included Pascale, though she swivelled back to her computer and ignored him.
He took a breath – in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Thing is, boss, I thought it might be an idea to keep an eye on Paige Hollister.’
Nicci leant back in her chair. ‘We’ve just been talking about her. Pascale’s been doing some digging too.’
Eddie was certain that the very proper ferreting about and collating of all the information in the public domain that the researcher would have done was unlikely to have produced the nugget he had to offer. He was quietly competitive in his own w
ay, but had the good sense not to show it.
‘Well, it seems yesterday afternoon Paige Hollister took a trip down to Surrey. Paid a visit to a lawyer named Neville Moore. I checked him out – Sheridan Crowley Moore – he used to be Helen Warner’s boss before she went into politics.’
Nicci was frowning with concentration. ‘A lawyer?’
‘That’s what I thought. Old Ray was off to see a lawyer the afternoon he bought it. So what if it’s the same bloke?’
She nodded. ‘Makes sense if he was someone that Warner knew and trusted.’
Surprised to have got this far without controversy, Eddie decided to busk it. ‘Say this lawyer had been holding a memory stick for Warner. He gives it to Ray, Ray gets whacked.’
Nicci shook her head. ‘No. Ray goes under a tube train, how would his assailants recover it from his body? Too complicated for them. More likely that it was Ray who had the memory stick and he passed it on to the lawyer. He gets eliminated. No loose ends.’
‘So Paige Hollister visits him to try and get it?’ This was going far better than Eddie had expected.
Nicci tapped the desk with her finger. ‘We need to talk to this lawyer.’
‘Here’s the odd thing, his office insist he’s in Australia.’
‘Hang on, you said she went to see him.’ Nicci turned to glare at him.
‘Well, she went to his house, in Godalming. Stayed half an hour, left. I don’t actually know who she saw. But it must’ve been him.’
‘I presume you’ve been tracking her phone?’
Eddie had a feeling shit and fan were about to connect. ‘I would’ve followed her, done it the proper old-fashioned way. But I was on a train coming back from Glasgow. Can’t be in two places at once, boss.’
Nicci raised her eyebrows, then she chuckled. ‘Simon says you’re a resourceful bloke. And I guess he’s got a point. You do deliver.’
He gave her an impish grin. ‘No IPCC looking over your shoulder now, boss.’
‘That doesn’t make it right. But – what the hell? Just stop calling me boss, okay.’
‘No probs.’
The Mourner Page 33