One Fell Swoop

by David Linzee

  “Don and his boss have been tipped off. They know something nobody else knows.”

  “That there’s a lake of oil under Parkdale?”

  “Not likely in eastern Missouri.”

  “Or a gun will go off and there’ll be an Oklahoma land rush? Thousands of middle-class people stampeding into Parkdale to rent apartments.”

  Peter smiled. “I saw that movie, too. It’s not going to happen. Tell me about your day.”

  “My day? Not so good. I got a man killed.”

  “What?”

  She told him everything that had happened, ending with, “I think the police are wrong. What do you think?”

  “Of course they’re wrong. And we now know how far Don’s boss is willing to go to keep his name a secret.”

  “So I’m not crazy. Splendid. But I have no idea what we should do next.”

  “I know what you should do. Stay home. Keep the doors locked.”

  She looked at his grave face on the screen. “You mean you think I’m in danger? I suppose it’s possible that this billionaire could find out about me, from Maestro or even the police—”

  “Renata, he’s already found out about you. From Don.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s why Don hasn’t called you back. He called his boss instead.”

  She had not thought of this before. But the moment she heard it, she knew it was true. The realization hit her with sickening force. “He wouldn’t deliberately put me in danger. He doesn’t know what his boss is up to. He’s being used.”

  “You still think so? I think he’s in it up to his neck. Whatever the scheme is, it’s coming to a head in the next few days. Be careful.”

  After they finished Skyping, she turned off the light and put her head on the pillow. But she could no more sleep than fly. Neal Marsh was on her conscience. She went over every moment of their brief acquaintance, thinking about how she might have been more clever, or more cautious, or just luckier, and he would still be alive.

  Her thoughts wandered round and round this maze without a center. Finally she could bear it no more. It occurred to her that there might be a way out. Other people existed who were guiltier of Neal’s death than she was. She had to turn her thoughts to them.

  Opening her eyes, she found that it was light in the room. She washed and dressed, made a cup of tea, and put in a call to DI McAllister.

  After a long wait, he came on the line. “Yes, Ms. Radleigh, what is it?”

  The brusque tone, after his ruminative manner last night, caught her by surprise. “I was just wondering if you’d be wanting to talk to me today.”

  “If that becomes necessary, we shall be in touch.”

  “But you don’t think it will?” He said nothing. She was afraid he was going to ring off, so she rushed on, “Has there been a ransom demand, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you made an arrest?”

  “Not as yet. You will be notified.”

  “But Grinevich is working with you? You’re going to trap this man when he comes to get his money?”

  “Mr. Grinevich has made his own arrangements,” McAllister said bitterly.

  “You mean he paid the killer off without telling you? But he can’t do that!”

  “It’s up to the crown prosecutor’s office to decide how to proceed against Mr. Grinevich. We’ll continue the homicide investigation.”

  “What does that mean? You’ll wait for the next dognapping?”

  “I’m not going to discuss the case with you, Ms. Radleigh. Goodbye.”

  “You were quite happy to discuss it last night,” Renata said, but the line had closed. She replaced the receiver. She was sitting at the kitchen table, and she looked at the windows, high up on the wall. Beyond them, she could see the litter-strewn area and the low iron fence that separated it from the sidewalk. People’s legs were passing back and forth. Peter had told her to stay home today. But he seemed to think she lived in a citadel, not a basement flat. Anyone who wanted to get at her had only to break one of those windows.

  That made it easy to disregard his advice. She put her teacup in the sink and reached for her coat.

  Chapter Thirteen

  This time they didn’t give Renata any trouble at the Whitecroft gatehouse. Grinevich, a late riser, was still at home, and gave the order to admit her.

  She was shown in to the big room overlooking the garden, where Saturday’s recital had been held. A few staffers were perched on purple chairs, with papers on their laps and phones at their ears. They gave Renata empty smiles as she passed. Maestro had the pages of an orchestral score spread out across the gleaming parquet floor and was prowling among them, frowning. He did not notice her at first. Beyond the windows, the sky was gray. The gas fireplace was on. It was a six-foot-broad open trough of flame that would have done the job at a crematorium. On the rug before it, the borzoi sprawled and dozed.

  “How’s Pechorin?”

  Grinevich looked up. “As well as can be expected, considering his ordeal.”

  She picked her way among the pages of the score and sat down on the sofa. “The police are cross with you.”

  “Yes. When I admitted what I’d done, they were very unpleasant. Even made threats. But my solicitor says there will be no charges.”

  “Because of your celebrity and connections?”

  Grinevich smiled. “Because this is a dog-loving country.”

  “Ah.”

  His expression changed. He came and sat on the sofa beside her, a little closer than she would have liked. “I’m not proud of myself, Renata. I feel terrible about what happened to Neal. I wish I could have kept my word to the police. But the phone rang in the middle of the night, and the voice on the other end was very scary. He said I had to bring the money at once or he would cut Pechorin’s throat.”

  Pechorin seemed to sense that they were talking about him. He raised his elegant head and regarded them with large, shining eyes. Grinevich smiled at him.

  “But that’s all bollocks, Maestro, isn’t it?” said Renata. “There was no ransom demand.”

  He turned to her, eyebrows raised. He seemed more interested than offended.

  “You returned yesterday evening and one of the girls in the office told you Neal had just been ’round, and somebody’d been fool enough to give him a copy of the guest list. You remembered our conversation of the afternoon. You looked at the original to see which of your guests had brought Don. Then you warned him.”

  Grinevich was no longer looking at her. After a moment, he said, “Are you waiting for me to confirm or deny these speculations?”

  “Not necessary. I’ve given thought—hours and hours of thought—to how Neal ended up dead, and that’s pretty much the only way it could have gone. You must be very afraid of this man.”

  One of the girls was approaching, heels clicking on the parquet. She had a phone in her hand and an urgent look on her face. Grinevich waved her away. This surprised Renata. She thought he would welcome the interruption. But evidently he had something more to say to her.

  “Afraid?” he repeated. “No. At this moment, I am feeling no fear whatever. And that’s a happy state. I grew up in the old Soviet Union, Renata. I know just how happy.” He eased himself back into the sofa and crossed his legs. Again she wished he wasn’t sitting so close to her. “Growing up there, you learn to avoid ‘brave’ people. They care only about their consciences. When they fall, they pull you down with them.”

  She could feel on her face the heat from the inferno of a fireplace. Grinevich had beads of sweat on his forehead but didn’t seem to mind. “So,” she said, “brave people are selfish.”

  “You could put it that way.”

  “You’re not selfish. Who were you thinking of last night when you made that phone call? Your children and ex-wives? Your mistresses and friends? The world’s classical musical fans?”

  “Yes. And I was thinking of you.”

  “Me?”

  “I’ve al
ways liked you, Renata. You’re very talented. And unlike most talented people, you’re nice. You deserve better in life than you’re getting.”

  “Very gallant of you, Maestro, returning compliments for insults. Or are you trying to throw me off?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not playing games with you. I have no idea—none whatsoever—what this man is doing in America, but it’s safe to say that he’s going to make some money. Well, a very great deal of money. Don’t get in his way.”

  “Or I’ll end up like Neal?”

  “If he wants to threaten you, he can do it himself. This man—he’s not like those selfish people I was complaining about earlier—when he makes money, his friends make money, too. That’s the force that moves the world, Renata. Don’t defy it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  She had just enough time to make it to the Brompton Oratory for rehearsal. If she missed another one, they would sack her, and she couldn’t afford to lose the paycheck. So she went, with the hope that music would do for her what it always had—fill her head, cast out her worries.

  Not this time. The act of pushing air over her vocal cords to make them vibrate had never seemed so pointless. She was distracted and irritable. She wanted to snap at the choristers for singing so badly as to throw her off, at the music director for imposing his odd ideas about Latin pronunciation, at Franz Josef Haydn for writing notes that were difficult for her to reach.

  Finally, they were released, and she went over the road to catch the Fourteen bus. She had booked a rehearsal studio and an accompanist at the University of London, to work on “Una voce poco fa.” With the help of a coach, she had recently revamped the ornamented sections to show off the agility of her middle range. Sopranos had largely taken over the role of Rosina in Rossini’s Il Barbière de Siviglia, as they had Carmen, and they could put in flashy high notes, but they had trouble moving their voices in the middle range and lower sections, and some traditionalists still preferred a plummy mezzo quality overall. Renata still had the chops to handle the lightning-fast fioratura sections. She had almost finished memorizing the entire role. You never knew when the scheduled Rosina would fall ill, leaving an opening for a last-minute replacement to save the day.

  What ambition and discipline she used to have, as recently as last week! Don liked to make fun of her for frittering away her life making pretty sounds. She knew nothing about how money was made, he said, how things really worked in the world. She’d never been so close to agreeing with him.

  She boarded the bus and mounted the spiral stairs. It was her habit to sit near the front of the upper deck. Buses made very slow progress through London, and it helped her be more patient if she was above the traffic. Approaching her stop on the Tottenham Court Road, she looked down on a strikingly fashionable woman waiting to board—a tall, slender Indian in a well-tailored pearl-gray trouser suit, with a deep-burgundy purse and matching high heels. Her beautiful, dark-brown face, with its large black eyes, high cheekbones and long, high-bridged nose reminded Renata of Maestro’s borzoi. Her hair was covered by a fine foulard scarf. Only the way it was bound tightly round her neck indicated that it was a religiously mandated head covering and not a fashion accessory.

  The bus was juddering to the curb, and Renata made her way down the stairs and out the door. The Indian woman was not boarding. She was waiting for Renata. She smiled and waved, then approached with hand outstretched.

  “Hello, Renata. My name is Jhumpa.”

  Renata automatically took the offered hand. It was slender, almost bony, and the grip was light.

  “I’m happy to meet you,” Jhumpa went on. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “From whom?”

  “From Don. We work together.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve spoken to Don, just this morning. I’d like to tell you what he said. May I walk along with you?”

  Renata hesitated, glancing around. It was mid-afternoon, and the sidewalks were thronged with people. This lovely young woman seemed to mean her no harm. Don was talking to her and wasn’t talking to Renata. It was irresistible to hear what she had to say.

  “All right.” They turned and set off down a side-street named Torrington Place. Jhumpa seemed to know where she was bound. Renata said, “May I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you having me followed?”

  Jhumpa laughed. “Oh, no.”

  “But you were waiting for me.”

  “Well, I knew your schedule.”

  “That I was going to the rehearsal studio? How did you know?”

  “That’s another department. I don’t know how they find out these things.”

  She spoke softly, and Renata had to strain to hear her on the noisy street. Renata was very good at accents—at anything to do with voices—but so far could not place this woman. The way she pronounced her name, Jooompa, sounded more North of England than Indian, and she pronounced “schedule” the American way, skedjl. Don had told her that his boss employed people who belonged to no particular country.

  “What did my brother say to you?”

  “First, let me say, I am entirely on your side.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes. Don is quite maddening. He’s acting the way my brothers do, telling me bits and snatches of what they’re up to, leaving me worried sick. I really do feel for you.” She was twisting at the waist, turning not just her face but her whole upper body toward Renata as they walked. Now she reached out and stroked Renata’s sleeve.

  “I appreciate that,” Renata replied, though she was more puzzled than reassured.

  “But really, you needn’t be concerned. Our boss has given Don a great opportunity, and he’s handled it brilliantly so far.”

  “You know what he’s doing, then?”

  “Well, not all the details.”

  “But you know why your boss is so interested in Parkdale.”

  Jhumpa lost her smile. Only for a moment, then it was back. “Don didn’t tell you that. You found out on your own. Aren’t you clever?”

  “Not especially. The information is all on websites.” She did not know if Don had told Jhumpa about Peter. Best leave him out of it. “But why is your boss interested?”

  Jhumpa replied, but her words were obscured by a car’s bleating horn.

  “Sorry, what?”

  Jhumpa took her arm and steered her into a narrow mews that dead-ended against the back of a high building. It was lined with parked cars, but there were few people about, and it was quieter.

  “I said, property values in Parkdale will go up.”

  “That’s hardly worth the sotto voce.”

  She laughed again. “No. What we do in our office is ordinary business. Buy low, sell high. Or try to. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. I want to explain why Don hasn’t called you back.”

  “I’ll be fascinated.”

  “He is resentful that you’re bothering him. He’s involved in delicate negotiations. Carrying a lot of responsibility. This is his big chance.”

  “You said that already. This is all rather vague. Have you really talked to my brother?”

  They had come to a stop and were facing each other. Jhumpa said, “I’ll tell you his exact words. He said, ‘Last spring when I was in trouble, Renata saved my arse. I don’t pretend otherwise. But now she thinks it belongs to her. That I’m incompetent to manage my own life and she has to do it. Well, I want my arse back.’ ”

  Renata sighed as her doubts disappeared. That was Don, all right. He had his blinkers on, eyes on the prize, blind to all else. “Did he tell you what I said?”

  “Well, in general, he said you were worried—”

  “Did he tell you I said his boss was a murderer?”

  Jhumpa looked away. She wasn’t just avoiding Renata’s eye. Renata followed the gaze and saw a man coming up beside them. He was an Indian, too, with the gleaming black hair and mustache of a ’30s movie star. His fashionably
tight suit showed a powerful physique. He walked right up to Renata and grasped her arm. Jhumpa had the other one. They dragged her along toward a parked panel van. Its rear door was sliding open.

  Renata tried to dig in her heels, drew in her breath to scream.

  A man came around the van, bent down, swept her feet out from under her. They quickly bundled her into the van. She was crying out for help, knowing as she did that the cry would not reach the mouth of the mews and penetrate the din of the street beyond. The door slammed shut.

  The three sets of hands settled her in a bench seat and let her limbs fall. The mustached man opened a jump seat and sat facing her, within arm’s reach. She heard the other man sit down behind her. Jhumpa was standing, bent over, talking on her mobile in Hindi. She ended the call and said, “He’s on his way.” Then she maneuvered her slender, long-limbed body into the van’s front passenger seat.

  Renata was afraid they were going to tie and gag her. But there was no need. The van had no side windows. She could see out the windscreen, past Jhumpa’s scarfed head, but beyond was only the back of another parked van. She could no longer hear the traffic from Torrington Place, fifty feet behind her. There was only the breathing of the people in the van.

  For the next twenty minutes, all anyone did was breathe. Jhumpa kept her back turned. The mustached man watched Renata’s hands, which were lying in her lap. She could feel the gaze of the man sitting behind her. She was too frightened to move a muscle. The others, she supposed, were just used to waiting for their boss.

  She heard a car pull up beside the van. The front door opened and a man sat in the driver’s seat. The springs shifted under his weight. He brought with him a faint, citrusy scent of expensive aftershave lotion, and something else. The atmosphere changed. She could sense the alertness of the three Indians. The man did not turn his head. She could see only his dense gray hair, long enough to cover the tops of his ears, a roll of brown skin at the nape of his neck, the white collar of his shirt, the shoulders of a dark, pinstriped business suit. He reached up to adjust the driving mirror. As it swiveled, she caught a glimpse of the lower part of his face, heavy jowls pulling down the corners of a wide, thin-lipped mouth, bending it in the sickle shape of a shark’s. He settled the mirror so that he could watch her face. She could no longer see his.