‘Fuck ’em! Fuck the lot of ’em! Rapists!’
Irina and the Filipina cloakroom attendant, responding to her distress rather than any comprehension of what she was saying, fussed over her in competing versions of broken English.
Having checked all the other cubicles were empty, Nicci turned to Kaz. ‘Did you know she was planning to come here and confront the Hollisters?’
‘The Hollisters? They’re here?’
‘She’s the patron of the fucking charity, Karen.’
Kaz whistled. ‘I had no idea.’
The ex-cop looked her up and down suspiciously. ‘What? You just fancied a night out?’
‘I’m here because of Pudovkin.’
‘Who?’
‘Viktor Pudovkin?’
Nicci was seething. Between them, Julia and Kaz had managed yet again to complicate her life when they should’ve left well alone. Her plan had been simple – to corner Paige Hollister and ask her what she’d been arguing about with Helen Warner at the hotel in Glasgow. She and Blake had discussed it and agreed that leaning on the fragrant Mrs Hollister was the way forward.
‘Never heard of him.’ She shrugged in irritation.
Kaz lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. ‘Me neither. Till I was told that he’s the scumbag behind Helen’s murder.’
Nicci’s scowl morphed into a look of astonished disbelief. ‘Says who?’
‘Helen’s old boss.’
It took a few seconds for Nicci to absorb this. ‘Neville Moore? You talked to him?’
‘Last night.’
‘How did that come about?’
Kaz didn’t want to sound too evasive. ‘I knew him from when Helen was my lawyer. He turned up at the inquest. Struck me that he was someone she could’ve confided in.’
Nicci huffed. ‘Might’ve been useful if you’d shared that thought.’
‘You mean like you told me about the bloke at the Labour Party?’
They glared at one another. Julia could be heard retching in the toilet.
The outer door to the cloakroom swung open and two laughing girls sailed in, chattering in Arabic. Early twenties, dripping jewellery, one disappeared into a cubicle, the other positioned herself right between Nicci and Kaz, directly in front of the mirror and began to touch up her make-up. She cast a disdainful glance in Nicci’s direction. Nicci stared back until she broke eye contact.
Kaz sighed. ‘Okay, listen. We need to talk. Properly.’
The ex-cop was still eyeing the interloper. ‘Agreed. First I’ll have to get Julia home. Make sure she’s safe. I mean, if they get any inkling she knows . . .’
‘Yeah, obviously. So let’s meet later. Where?’
‘How about I text you my address?’
‘Fine.’
The young woman seemed to resent the fact that this conversation was taking place across her. She huffed and emptied a compact and lipstick out of her gold lamé clutch bag, then she turned and clicked her fingers at the Filipina cloakroom attendant. ‘Get me a towel!’
Nicci and Kaz exchanged looks. For Nicci it was the last straw.
‘We’re having a conversation here.’ She clicked her fingers in the astounded girl’s face. ‘And you need to learn to get your own fucking towel, sweetheart.’
86
Kaz and Irina rejoined their escorts in the foyer. Yevgeny wore a tuxedo, his younger and cooler brother favoured a dark lounge suit with a collarless black shirt. Yevgeny offered Kaz his arm, they handed in their invitations at the door and strolled into the ballroom.
Kaz surveyed the room; she recognized Paige Hollister from the inquest. According to Nicci she was the patron of the charity, but Pudovkin was the one bankrolling the event. Yevgeny had explained that this was what he did. He provided generous financial backing for a number of worthy causes and this in turn earned him social prestige and a network of connections among the great and good, not to mention all the ambitious wannabes scuttling at their heels.
The man himself stood in a small circle of acolytes. His confident booming laugh singled him out and Kaz took a long hard look at her dead lover’s nemesis.
Close-cropped grey hair, lively features, he was large and solid but not fat. Kaz guessed he was around sixty, though the immaculate sylphlike blonde at his elbow was a good quarter-century younger.
Tolya and Irina had turned aside to get drinks, but Yevgeny pressed forward to join the group surrounding Pudovkin. Kaz watched as the big man’s gaze slid round and came to rest on Yevgeny. The eyes were narrow and shrewd, dark as wet slate. He stuck out a meaty, hirsute paw and the two men shook hands, exchanging greetings in Russian. The tone was formal, the body language wary; they were not friends, that much was immediately apparent to Kaz.
As Yevgeny drew her forward he switched to English. ‘And this is Karen.’
Pudovkin’s eyes flitted over her, his smile was bland, impossible to read. ‘Always happy to meet a friend of Yevgeny.’
His English was precise, only mildly accented, he dipped his head politely. Kaz had a cascade of questions she wanted to ask. Who the fuck did he think he was! That was fairly near the top of her list.
She painted on a smile. ‘D’you dig many wells then?’ The hint of sarcasm in the tone was slight enough to be ambiguous.
A glint came into his eye and he chuckled. ‘Not personally.’
Kaz had the odd feeling that if she’d asked: Do you kill many people then? She’d have received exactly the same reply.
A flurry in the vicinity of the door signalled Robert Hollister’s arrival. He entered, flanked by two aides. Kaz noticed his wife studiously ignoring him as she listened earnestly to a tall West African in a Senegalese kaftan and a kufi.
Hollister worked his way across the room, shaking hands, sharing a quip and a laugh. Pudovkin didn’t move. He’d taken up his position, he was the real nucleus and guests flowed naturally round and towards him.
Yevgeny turned to Kaz. ‘Champagne?’
‘Nah, just a juice or water.’
He nodded and headed for the bar.
Kaz let her eyes rest on Robert Hollister. He was gradually moving her way and she allowed a space to open up around her. She stood still and waited. This wasn’t something she’d tried lately, but she had confidence in her powers of attraction. It took several minutes before she caught his eye. He turned and noticed a dazzling woman in a silver dress staring right at him.
Curiosity piqued, he inclined his head and came over. ‘Robert Hollister –’ he extended his hand ‘– I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.’
She slid her palm into his. ‘Karen.’
The heat of his hand was surprising, but it was dry and soft, not clammy.
He held on a few seconds longer than necessary and gave her a knowing smile. ‘I agree, surnames are so boring. And I prefer a woman of mystery.’
‘I’m not mysterious.’
‘You disappoint me.’
She ran her index finger through her hair; he was absurdly easy to hook. ‘Depends what you’re looking for?’
His smile widened, he narrowed his eyes and peered at her. ‘Me, I’m always looking. So what interests you most here – digging wells in Africa or photography?’
‘The wells, obviously.’
He chuckled. ‘Now I think you’re mocking me.’
‘Maybe I’m mocking your wife.’
His lip curled into a sardonic smile. ‘Paige is very serious about her charity work. But she’s also a woman of great good sense, one of life’s pragmatists.’
‘That’s useful.’
‘It certainly is. So can I ask for your number?’ The look he gave her was one of undisguised lust. Kaz wondered if this approach usually worked with women. Presumably it did. He was a powerful man, handsome, he simply expected to get what he wanted.
‘What if I tell you I have a boyfriend?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m open-minded. I could take you to dinner and we could take it from there. Your boyfriend
need never know.’
‘So I give you my number and wait for a gap in your busy schedule? I’ve got a better idea, you give me your number.’ She gave him a sultry pout, her eyes half closed. It sealed the deal.
He reached in his pocket, pulled out a business card. ‘The bottom one’s my private number. Send me a text. You’ll be glad you did.’
She took the card just as Yevgeny joined them, a glass of champagne in one hand, orange juice in the other. Hollister smirked and beat a hasty retreat.
The Russian handed her the juice. ‘You want me to scare him off?’
‘No. But maybe you’ve got a nice compact, untraceable handgun that I could borrow?’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I find you one.’
87
With some discreet assistance from the hotel security staff Nicci got Julia Hadley into a cab and they headed across town to her parents’ house in Blackheath. Julia slept for most of the journey, her head slumped on Nicci’s shoulder.
Nicci texted the address of her flat to Phelps, as promised, then made two phone calls. The first was to Blake.
He answered on the second ring. ‘Nic? Did you get to speak to Paige Hollister?’
‘No. Events overtook me a bit.’ She went on to explain about Julia.
She heard him sigh. ‘Understandable I guess. The poor woman’s been under considerable stress. Realizing her house had been bugged probably tipped her over the edge.’
‘Well I think I might’ve got a line on that.’ Nicci paused. She’d already decided not to reveal Karen Phelps’ involvement. That would be likely to produce a negative reaction. ‘At Paige Hollister’s charity beano there was a Russian called Viktor Pudovkin. Ever heard of him?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well, we need to do some urgent digging because he could be a significant player in all this.’
‘Who do we think he is?’
‘No idea really. I was going to get Eddie on it. But given all that surveillance kit in the house and the fact Hollister is a politician, I’m wondering – well, you know what I’m wondering.’
Silence. She could hear a television in the background. Sounded like cricket. Blake and his sons were avid Twenty20 fans.
When he came back on the line his tone was brisk. ‘Right. I’m going to talk to some people. You ring Eddie. Cover all bases. I’ll see you at the office first thing.’
‘Okay.’
He rang off. Nicci glanced at her sleeping companion. Julia’s face was damp and heavy and her eyelids twitched as though she was caught in some private dream, or nightmare.
The conversation with Eddie Lunt was brief. He didn’t seem at all bothered to have been called at home and his evening disrupted.
A rhythmic munching underpinned his response. ‘Couple of reporters I know specialize in doing stuff on rich Ruskies – y’know the form – more money than taste, billionaires whose wives wanna be pop stars. I’ll see if he’s on their radar.’
Nicci thanked him and hung up. The traffic had thinned and the cab cruised through Deptford and the edge of Greenwich to Shooters Hill Road and up on to the dark expanse of the heath.
Julia awoke with a start and a gasp. She blinked several times and rubbed her face, clearly confused about where she was. Nicci had ridden out enough hangovers in her time to know exactly that feeling of panic as the effects of the drug subsided and reality kicked back in.
She pulled a plastic bottle of water from her bag and unscrewed the top. ‘Here, have a drink.’
‘Where are we?’ Julia took the bottle.
‘Just going over the heath, I’m taking you back to your mum and dad’s.’
‘What did I do?’
‘Not a lot. We got hold of you in time.’
Julia frowned as memory came flooding back. ‘Oh fuck, now I remember. I went to Paige’s charity thing.’
‘What exactly did you have in mind?’
‘I wanted to make them confess.’
Nicci smiled. ‘A nice idea in principle.’
Sighing deeply, Julia took a long draught of water. ‘It’s just that I’ve been thinking about the recording Helen made. Of him and . . . well, I know it’s important evidence.’
‘Would be if we could find it.’
The cab was passing through Blackheath Village and the streetlights threw Julia’s face into garish relief. Nicci realized she was crying. She took her hand and squeezed it.
‘It’s the thought of it being played, in court, on the Net.’ She choked down a sob. Whatever Helen had done, in spite of the lack of trust, Julia still loved her. ‘Everyone seeing what that bastard did to Helen. And seeing Helen . . . like that.’
‘That’s presumably what she planned to do to nail him.’
‘I know. But now she’s dead. Once it’s out there, that’s how she’ll be remembered. Sweaty perverts getting off on it. Her memory will be defiled. I don’t want that, Nicci. I don’t want people to see her degraded like that, turned into cheap porn.’
Nicci sighed. ‘I guess we hadn’t really thought of that aspect.’
She could just about see Julia’s eyes, and the look in them was desperate. ‘Promise me you’ll protect her. Protect her memory. ’Cause that’s all that’s left of her now.’
88
Nicci asked the cabbie to drop her at the edge of Newington Green so she could visit her favourite Indian takeaway. Julia had been deposited safely into the care of her concerned and bemused parents.
The ride home had taken the best part of three-quarters of an hour and afforded Nicci some quiet thinking time in which to try and piece together the bits of the puzzle.
Karen Phelps had known Warner well enough to take a better guess than anyone else at who she might’ve trusted. Or if not trusted, who she might’ve involved in her plan. Neville Moore, the lawyer, may well have received the vital evidence from Ray. And Ray, like Moore, was a colleague, part of Warner’s professional world.
Gazing out of the cab at the night-time hustle of the streets, Nicci had begun to sense a window opening up on the dead woman’s thinking and the emotional struggle behind it. It was about the separation of personal and professional, the division of her life into private and public.
The years of abuse that the Hollisters had visited on Helen had been messy and clandestine, a secret so private she shared it with no one. But when she entered politics and tried to make her relationship with Robert Hollister purely professional, he kept dragging her back into the personal realm. She realized that the only way to stop him was to make the whole thing public, and she deliberately chose the allies to help her do that from the professional sphere. Nicci could see why that detachment helped her. It was because she refused to be cowed. She wanted it to be clear in her own mind and everyone else’s that the shame was on him, not on her.
Nicci sat next to the window in Sea of Spice nursing a beer while she waited for her order. It was a regular haunt of hers and she chatted to Sanjay, the proprietor, as he watched his team, Arsenal, battling it out in a pre-season friendly on the television screen above the bar. It was a relief to escape even for a short while into his rollercoaster world of outrageous tackles and missed penalties. As she left the restaurant with her dinner in a paper carrier, he was shaking his fist at the referee’s incompetence.
She walked the few hundred yards down the street and crossed the road towards her block. Her mind was on the aroma and heat wafting up from the bag – she hadn’t eaten since lunch – and she didn’t immediately notice the figures bunched in the shadows by the door. Her key was in her hand and as she reached out to insert it in the lock she was barged sideways.
Regaining her balance, she spun round to face her assailant. He seemed to hesitate.
Then a low female voice behind him growled. ‘Fuckin’ do ’er, Leon!’
Nicci saw light flash on a blade and she swung her carrier bag at it. The knife clattered to the floor. Leon froze. Nicci lurched sideways to make a run for it. But her way was blocked as three
more bodies moved in to back him up.
‘Wot? I ’ave to fuckin’ do this for yer ’n’all?’ She was large in all senses, feral eyes framed by an outsized baggy hoodie, she raised her pudgy fist and pointed a steel-bladed sheath knife at Nicci. ‘Now we gonna teach you some fuckin’ respect, bitch!’
Nicci kicked out, went for the kneecap and the howl from the fat girl told her she’d hit the target. Then they rushed her.
Throwing up her forearm to parry the thrust of the blade, Nicci felt a sharp sting as it sliced into her arm. A fist rammed the side of her head and she felt herself spinning downward into a yawning chasm. Her brain scrabbled to hold on but it was useless. The darkness rose up to swallow her, she was falling into the void and it was pitch-black.
89
The voice seemed to be coming from a vast distance away. Someone was holding her, cradling her head and shoulders. Nicci managed to open her eyes and peer up.
Kaz Phelps looked down at her. ‘It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.’
Was it really her? She remembered – they’d arranged to meet up. Her right arm was extremely sore and sticky with blood. Kaz appeared to be trying to hold it straight as someone else – was it Sanjay? – wrapped some kind of cloth around it.
Nicci felt woozy and slightly sick. She drifted off.
When she woke again there were bright lights. She was on a trolley in A&E. Her right forearm felt heavy and stiff; it was bandaged from palm to elbow.
The pale-blue curtain was pulled back and a nurse appeared. She was small, twinkling dark eyes and a sunny smile. She stroked back Nicci’s hair and gave her some water. She spoke but Nicci couldn’t quite seem to latch on to the words.
Nicci dozed. They came and moved her trolley. Her eyes were heavy and she fell back into the same languid slumber.
She dreamt of wandering through a derelict house. The rooms were dusty and dilapidated, old bits of broken furniture littered about. She opened doors and was surprised to find another shut-up room and then another. She wrenched open a shutter, the wood was rotten and splintered in her hand. But light flooded in through the window and dust motes danced around the room.
The Mourner Page 35