Vendetta

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Ma’am . . . ?’ Martin gently cut in.

  Rio could tell something official was coming because he rarely called her ‘ma’am’.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘My performance review came in. Just wanted to say thanks for giving me an outstanding rating.’ He coughed awkwardly at the end.

  ‘You’re a good cop.’

  She cut the call because she couldn’t allow emotion into her life at the moment. She still had a job to do. Rio held the mobile up and over the bottle. Pressed camera. Emailed the picture to Martin. Then Rio drove off past the rubbish dumpsters.

  Mac lifted the lid of the middle dumpster. Peered outside. There were rows of cars parked nearby but not Rio’s. Outsmarting his colleague was a lot easier than he’d thought it would be. He’d expected her at least to get out of her car and search in the nooks and crannies of the car park – stairwells, between vehicles . . . the dumpster. Rio must be losing her street smarts. Either that or she had another lead on Elena’s murder.

  The lid creaked as Mac pushed it fully back. He tried to vault out, but a wave of tiredness hit him, almost making him rock back against the black bags below. He took a minute. Tried to control the drooping of his eyelids. Weariness, that seemed to go beyond the physical. Abruptly alertness made his eyelids flash back into gear and straightened his spine. He stretched an arm outside and leaned it against the dumpster. Then did a smooth lift with his legs and sailed outside, the same way he’d learned to do as a child playing in the park near his grandparents’ house. He leaned up against the wall. Pulled out his phone and read the text. Reuben:

  8.30 at the Town House.

  Mac counted the time left before the delivery at eleven.

  Nine thirty.

  Ten thirty.

  Thirty minutes.

  Two and a half hours left.

  Mac’s face set into a grim expression. Reuben was the only link left to Bolshoi.

  sixty-five

  ‘You were right, the writing on the pill bottle is Chinese,’ Martin told Rio as they cruised through the streets of Camden towards Elena Romanov’s sister’s home.

  The roads on the fringes of Camden Market were unusually dead. The place was a Mecca for young people hanging out at the bars, clubs and eating holes. But tonight it looked like the place had packed up early for the night. Must be the rain or the recession keeping people at home, Rio thought, as she drove through the tired-looking streets. She checked her GPS again. Ten more minutes max to reach the home of Katia Romanov.

  ‘And it’s in Chinese for a reason,’ the younger detective continued. ‘It’s banned over here. The only way you can get it is through the wrong type of hands.’

  ‘Why isn’t it available?’ Rio asked as she eased the car into a different lane.

  ‘Suicide bombers . . .’

  ‘You what?’ What the hell had Mac got himself involved in?

  ‘They’ve been known to take it before heading off to a target. It’s got various names, but its street name is HPS, which is short for happiness because it initially gives the user an intense feeling of well-being and immense power. You know, danger doesn’t mean a thing.’

  Is that what had happened to Mac? He was on an intoxicating power trip?

  ‘Sounds like an alternative to Prozac,’ Rio said. ‘Why ban it if it makes people feel on top of the world?’

  ‘But that’s the problem,’ Martin explained. ‘The good times don’t stay with you for long. After a while, the user finds that they’re see-sawing between wanting to sleep and a raging alertness. Starts to really mess up the mind. Can tip people over the edge.’

  Fuck. Mac was already way out of control and, if he was doing this shit, God alone knew what he might do next.

  ‘Boss, does this drug have anything to with the murders?’

  Rio knew she should tell him. Mac was their primary suspect and Martin should be told the full details of the investigation. She twisted her mouth at that, because she’d been the one to tell him that information-sharing on a team was crucial to solving a case. But if she told him about Mac, she’d have to tell him the rest. Can’t do that. Not an option. Well, at least not until she’d spoken with this Katia character.

  So Rio changed the subject. ‘You planning on staying in the squad now your PR has come through?’ Rio asked, using the slang term for probation period.

  ‘Of course . . . that’s if you want me to stay?’ There was doubt in his voice.

  Rio took the car into a right turn. ‘I’ll be upfront with you: I was a bit narked when I found out you were one of those fast-trackers. I thought you were going to be a know-it-all about the job on the first day. But you weren’t. You’ve really put your head down and learned the trade.’

  ‘If I can turn into a cop like you, ma’am, then I’ve done my job well.’

  Rio almost laughed at the ma’am; it reminded her of when he’d first started, sticking rigidly to the rules.

  ‘I’ll be proud to have you stay . . .’

  Abruptly her words fell back as she caught sight of a couple walking arm-in-arm on the opposite side of the street.

  The car screeched as she brought it to a shuddering halt. Rio jumped out and rushed across the road towards the couple. The man swore when he saw her, the woman looked confused.

  ‘Fuck. Off,’ Rio told the woman.

  Sensing trouble, the woman moved quickly away, but not before Rio heard what she muttered under her breath in Russian, an insult that someone had translated years back for Rio when a suspect was mouthing off at her – ‘Black monkey.’

  ‘This time I want the truth,’ Rio said to the tattoo artist.

  She backed him into the doorway of a closed shoe shop.

  ‘I told you what I know—’ he started.

  She cut him off. ‘“To live with wolves you have to howl like a wolf.” If you don’t tell me what the fuck it means, I’m going to pin every violation I can think on you and the next time you come into contact with tattoos is when your cell mate is carving the words my bitch on your arse.’

  He sneered, ‘You think I’m frightened of your English prisons? They’re a holiday camp compared to what we have back home.’

  Without warning, Rio grabbed his arm, startling both him and Martin. She frog-marched him to the side street that was more like an alley.

  ‘Stand at the entrance with your face towards the road,’ she instructed Martin as she took the man deeper into the darkness.

  She stopped in the middle. Thrust him up against the wall.

  ‘You’d better start talking or—’

  ‘Or what?’ he sneered. ‘You’re going to close my business down? So fucking what?’

  ‘No,’ Rio said calmly. ‘I’m going to make sure you never do business again.’

  She landed a right to his jaw that had him howling out in pain. Delivered two quick, solid punches to his belly. Groaning and holding his midriff, he sank to his knees. She kicked him in the groin, which had him vomiting into the gutter.

  ‘Boss?’

  Rio looked sideways to see Martin gazing at her. ‘I told you to keep facing the street. Do. It. Now.’

  He did it quickly. She didn’t need to be dragging him into this. If this backfired and tat man here made a fuss with his brief, she didn’t want Martin to be anywhere near the action. If he didn’t see anything, there would be nothing for him to tell. She was shaken up herself. She had never, ever, beaten on a suspect before, despite the advice from one of their training tutors at Hendon that a clip round the earhole was as good an interrogation method as any. No, she’d always played it by the book . . .

  Rio stamped on the man’s right hand. His scream of rage tore up the air. She crouched down and gripped the front of his hair, snapping his head up to her. He gasped for air as she ground out, ‘I’m going to keep stamping on your hand until every one of your fingers is shattered. Try being a tattoo artist –’ the last word wrung out from her with full-blown sarcasm – ‘with a hand that d
oesn’t work any more. So I’ll ask one more time, “To live with wolves you have to howl like a wolf.” What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s the Red Army,’ he finally said, his features twisted in pain.

  ‘What about the army?’

  ‘All I know is that some people in the army wear that tattoo. I told you the truth when I said that I saw it on a man many years ago. People looked scared of him . . .’

  ‘Because he was a criminal? A gang leader?’

  ‘All I know is that some of these army men are . . . how do you say . . . ?’ He waved his hand. ‘Psycho. Mad. Nutcases. It’s as if death means nothing to them. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Then why take off earlier?’

  ‘Because I don’t want anything to do with this. If this involves one of those Red Army headcases, count me out. I don’t want to end up dead, lady, because they find out I’ve been talking. So lying about the tattoo’s meaning means I’d escape . . . How do you say . . . ?’ His eyes rolled back as he fought to find the English word. ‘Retribution.’

  Rio kept her gaze directly on his, trying to suss out if he was telling the truth. But all she could see was a man who looked terrified for his life.

  She stood up. ‘Piss off,’ she told him, and he needed no further prompting to hit the street again.

  ‘Red Army?’ Martin questioned behind her. Rio turned.

  ‘Elena Romanov’s father was in the army, and your man at the embassy said he possibly died in suspicious circumstances,’ Rio said.

  ‘And the murders all have a Russian angle – Elena Romanov was Russian, Doctor Masri was killed in an execution style known to be used by Russian gangs. But the victim having a tattoo that was obviously worn by a unit in the Red Army doesn’t make any sense, unless she was a member.’

  ‘Let’s hope Katia Romanov can fill in the gaps.’

  sixty-six

  8:31 p.m.

  ‘What were you doing at that police station?’

  Reuben’s question took Mac by surprise. They were both seated in a room that was expensively decorated, with a deep carpet on the floor, an antique bureau, a cosy fireplace with a large portrait of Peter the Great over it and sweeping red curtains over the large window. The Town House masqueraded as a members’ drinking club but was in fact a slightly upmarket whorehouse.

  Before Mac could answer, a young woman entered, who was wearing a short pink dressing gown and stared at them with autopilot happy eyes. She carried a tray with two glasses on it and what looked like a bottle of vodka. Laid it down on a glass table and then left them alone.

  Mac countered with his own question. ‘How did you know I was there?’

  Reuben reached for the bottle and poured them both a shot. As he handed Mac a glass he said, ‘My lawyer was down there in connection with the car wash. He was looking after the interests of the wounded car-wash workers the police picked up. He passed you as he was leaving.’

  Mac calmly picked up a glass. Sipped. Yep, vodka, but with a splash of a sweet liqueur; he hated the stuff. But he took a bigger mouthful, his jaw clenching as it burned a path down his throat.

  He kept the glass in his hand as he finally answered, ‘It was only a matter of time before the cops came looking for me, so I went in for a little chat. I didn’t need them turning up just before the delivery, because that could’ve really messed things up.’

  Reuben crossed his long legs, keeping his cold gaze on Mac. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that I might have a set of eyes there? My work is always eased by the cooperation of those in important places.’

  ‘Like Calum?’ Mac threw back. ‘You do know that he was once a cop?’

  That drew a rusty laugh from the other man. ‘I know everything there is to know about Calum. Just like I know everything about you, Mac.’

  Mac froze. Had Reuben found out who he really was? He carefully checked the other man’s face, but it was expressionless.

  ‘Oh, you mean that I was screwing Elena?’ He tossed her name out like a bone to a dangerous dog and shrugged his shoulders to suggest it was a small matter.

  And it seemed Reuben agreed with him. ‘Why didn’t you say anything when I asked if anyone had seen her?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  Reuben assessed him. Took a drink. Spoke. ‘You know she’s dead?’

  ‘What?’ Mac let out, with all the shock of someone finding out the news for the first time. His glass smacked against the glass of the table as he settled it back down. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘She was found in some nasty hotel room with her face shot off. Did she tell you about having to meet someone?’

  Mac shook his head, keeping up the dazed routine. ‘Do you think her murder is connected to what happened at the car wash?’

  Reuben twisted the side of his mouth. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Someone, somewhere, is snuffing the life out of my people one by one.’

  Mac let the harshness of his words grind in the room before saying, ‘What are you planning to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing. Not yet, anyway. But once the delivery has arrived . . .’

  ‘But what if someone is making sure you never make the delivery? Half your guys went down at the car wash. It could be another gang . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t you think I’ve considered that,’ Reuben snarled, turning the atmosphere in the room ugly.

  Mac sensed this was his moment and took it. ‘But what about Bolshoi . . . ?’

  Reuben’s gaze became fierce. ‘Who told you about Mister Bolshoi?’

  ‘Look, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but it wasn’t only her lips between her legs that kept opening up when we were getting it on.’

  Reuben flung the glass at the wall with such force it shattered into tiny pieces before it hit the carpet. ‘That . . .’ The rest of his words were a stream of furious Russian that Mac didn’t need to understand to know they weren’t complimentary about Elena. ‘I told Mister Bolshoi we shouldn’t have her in the crew, but he insisted . . .’

  Mac straightened his spine. ‘So Elena knew him?’

  Reuben stopped pacing and turned to Mac. ‘The only way he was going to let me set up in London was to take her on as my communications person.’ He sneered. ‘I hate working with bitches. They only bring trouble.’

  Mac leaned over and picked his glass off the table. Held it out to Reuben. The other man just stared at it. Then moved forward and snatched it. Drained the remainder of the liquid deep into his body.

  ‘So who is Bolshoi?’ Mac asked. He knew he had to tread really carefully here.

  ‘Mister Bolshoi,’ Reuben threw back as he slammed the glass onto the table. He pushed down into his seat. ‘Call him Bolshoi and you’ll be lucky to still have your balls left. He’s “Mister” to everyone. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it wasn’t for him.’

  Mac kept his tone light. ‘You sound like you know him well.’

  Reuben crossed his legs again, his breathing easing back into a regular rhythm. ‘I got myself into the army young. No one cared. There wasn’t exactly a queue of kids volunteering to play soldiers in the mountains of Afghani—’

  ‘You were in the Afghanistan war? But that was back in ’79 . . .’

  ‘I joined right near the end in ’87. I thought I was going to be some kind of hero like my grandfather who fought the Nazis. Instead I was fucked up and scared – it was like Vietnam had been for the Americans. I got into drinking. I was swigging medical alcohol, anti freeze – anything I could get my hands on. I was going off the rails, but luckily one of the officers took pity on me . . .’ Reuben tailed off, his eyes heavy with sadness. Then he seemed to notice what he’d been saying and stiffened. ‘Don’t worry about Mister Bolshoi, my friend. It’s safer.’

  Silence surrounded them. Mac knew his line of questioning was at a dead end.

  ‘How’s Milos doing?’

  Some of the strain left Reuben’s face. ‘He’s out of danger and I’ve got you to thank for that
. And I won’t forget it. I’m in your debt now. For this is all about my son. The world is in a permanent state of war these days, and now I’m fighting for him rather than my country.’ He straightened his legs and leaned forward, his tone reverting to that of Reuben the arms dealer. ‘Later I’ll need you to meet me at Club Zee and we’ll go to the delivery together.’

  ‘But where is the delivery happening?’

  Reuben laughed, not a lick of humour in the deep sound he made. ‘When we meet, you’ll know where we’re going.’

  Mac’s mind quickly shifted through the information he now had about Bolshoi. Mister Bolshoi.

  He was the real face behind Reuben’s operation, just as Calum had confirmed.

  He’d been an officer in the Red Army.

  He’d known Elena before she came to England.

  Reuben, Elena, Mister Bolshoi. The only thing that tied them together was this delivery.

  He was just going to have to sit it out for now, until the delivery arrived, before making his next move. Then Reuben dropped a bombshell into the room.

  ‘I hope Katia went the same way as her bitch-sister.’

  Mac looked confused. Whoever the other man was talking about was bringing the heat of anger back to his face.

  Reuben saw the expression on Mac’s face. ‘Elena’s sister, Katia. I just found out that the whore was screwing Sergei. I told Elena to keep her sister well away from him . . .’

  Mac didn’t hear the rest. Elena had a sister? Here in London? Then he remembered the gym membership database and the name Katia Romanov. What a fool to dismiss the name and not realise she was connected to Elena. Double fool, because the database would have given him her address as well.

  ‘Did her sister stay with her?’ Mac asked, remembering the makeshift bed on the sofa at Elena’s home.

  ‘I think she stayed there sometimes, but she had her own place.’

  So her sister had probably spent the night with her. And now she was missing. Maybe even dead?

  ‘Does she know about Elena and Sergei?’