Bolshoi swung round but was too late. The knife penetrated the jacket and jammed into the flesh of Bolshoi’s shoulder. But Mac was off balance and the strength in his arms had been drained like a battery. The Russian yelped slightly with pain and shock and pushed his attacker onto the ground, the knife skittering further down the road. Mac crawled over to the weapon. Reached it. Picked it up and stood up in one move. He lunged, but the older man was ready this time. Bolshoi grabbed his wrist, and that’s when Mac saw the tattoo on Bolshoi’s arm.
Red star, yellow border, with writing over and above it.
But Mac didn’t have time to dig into its significance as Bolshoi turned, and then hauled Mac onto his injured shoulder. He threw Mac like a wrestler to the ground.
Mac let out a tiny shrill of pain as he landed on his back. He tried to get up, but his body didn’t react. That same weight of weariness that had plunged him beneath the water was back again. But this time he couldn’t move. Just couldn’t do it.
He saw Bolshoi examine his shoulder wound and shrug as if it didn’t matter. Then he walked over to the flick knife.
Get up. Get up. For pity’s sake, get up.
But Mac’s body was a dead weight with nothing more to give.
Bolshoi picked up the knife. Turned his attention with deadly intent to Mac. He used his foot to roll Mac onto his back and then pressed his foot on his neck.
‘And we were getting on so well, you and I.’
Even talking was a strain now for Mac’s inert body, ‘Kill me now. Because if you don’t, I’ll chase you all over Europe until you’re dead. Who did you get to kill Elena? Reuben? Calum? . . .’
Bolshoi leaned his weight on his foot, digging into Mac’s windpipe. ‘I take it you’re talking about Calum Burns. I use his services from time to time, but not to kill people. That’s not his field . . .’ His voice came to a sudden halt. Started again, but this time the tone was much higher. ‘Kill who? Who did you say has been killed?’
Mac said nothing. Bolshoi raised his foot and stamped once against Mac’s chest. Mac hunched inwards with the startling pain.
‘Kill who?’
‘Elena. Elena’s dead.’
The other man turned his head. Even in the dim streetlight, Bolshoi’s face had taken on a strange expression, as if it was him who had been thrown and kicked. He turned back. ‘Where’s Katia?’
‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know . . .’
Finally energy poured back into Mac’s system. He reached for Bolshoi’s foot as a burst of sirens screamed in the background. Distracted, both men turned. Bolshoi jumped away from Mac.
‘Do you buy lottery tickets?’ he abruptly asked Mac.
‘Lottery tickets?’
‘You should – you’re a lucky guy.’
Bolshoi ran into the darkness. Mac tried to get up, but weariness pulled him back.
eighty-one
Mac finally managed to stand up and run. But there was no sign of the other man. Mac stopped. Leaned over, letting his palms slide against his thighs as he pulled in some much-needed air. Then he rose up and looked back over the water at Bolshoi’s yacht. It had been sealed off with police yellow tape, black writing:
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS
No one appeared to be on the small yacht. The only way back was through the water. And going back was essential. But to think about going into the water meant accepting, in his current condition, that drowning was almost certain. So there was no thinking about it, and the whoosh of the dive, the cold water on his face, came almost as a surprise.
But re-crossing the dock was different from his first swim. The freezing water was like a bucket of water in a boxer’s face. The damp clothes that clung to his body, draining it of heat, were set free again and, with no one to pursue, he kept up a slow but steady pace back to the yacht. The quayside was covered with police vehicles and ambulances. Bolshoi wouldn’t be among them, but some indication of where he was going might be on his boat. Unless, of course, Bolshoi wasn’t really the answer.
Mac couldn’t shake the memory of his face in the streetlight as it turned at the news of Elena’s death. Of course criminals were practised actors. They had to be, in their line of work. But there was a world of difference between a gangster, sitting in an interviewing room at a police station, denying everything with a wink of the eye at the law, and a crim standing in the street with his foot on a cop’s neck and a knife in his hand, denying everything. And Mac knew the difference.
He choked, his head hanging too low in the water as his mind played over the previous hour’s events. Jerking it back upwards, he spat out the oil-tainted filth in his mouth. But he was near now. Mac pushed his legs across the last few yards and held his hand against the side of the yacht. Working his way round the vessel, he came to the anchor chain. Above it was the smashed window Reuben had used to get inside. He searched for the chain attached to the anchor, but couldn’t see it. Shit, he didn’t think he had enough puff left in him to leap up to the window. He didn’t have a choice . . . One . . . Two . . . Three . . . He leapt up . . . Missed. The bounce of the water caught his flagging body as he re-entered it.
He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t do this. Couldn’t..
He jumped up again. This time one hand caught in the window frame. His arm muscles stretched in pain as his body swung to the side. He kicked his legs out. His other came up. He grabbed the window. Wiggling like a creature from the sea, he pulled himself up. And in. He landed on the cabin’s floor, wet, breathing like crazy.
Finally, he looked around as he stood up. The bed was still there, of course, and the covers showed where Bolshoi had been sitting while he spun his stories of Andreas Schmidt and Andrei Popov. The guns. The magazines. Some kitchen utensils and expensive food with German labels. But not much else. Nothing that would throw any light on what Bolshoi had really been up to in London or what his connection had been with Elena’s killing.
Mac picked up the charred photo that he’d left on the table by the bed. There was no point in putting it in his pocket to become soaked, so after a moment he returned it. And on the table next to it was a mobile phone. Mac sat on the bed, the ship rocking gently under him, and began to go through its various functions. He found calls from and to Bolshoi with Reuben’s name, together with some from Calum, interspersed with dozens of others to persons unknown. And calls, lots of them, from and to Elena and Katia. But of course Bolshoi knew the two women, he’d admitted it himself.
The text inbox showed messages from Elena and Katia. He went to the last one from Elena and opened it up. But he never got to read it. So engrossed was he that he hadn’t noticed a figure walking down the steps into the cabin. As Elena’s message appeared on the phone’s screen, he heard a voice say, ‘I’ll take that, Mac.’
Phil Delaney.
eighty-two
11:53 p.m.
Mac was sitting in the back of his superior’s car in St Katharine Docks. The tension between him and Phil was as taut as the blanket he had wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the night cold.
‘Have you found Bolshoi yet?’ Mac snapped.
Phil lifted an eyebrow at his disrespectful tone. ‘You were ordered to leave this investigation alone. I wouldn’t worry about Bolshoi if I were you; you’ve got more important things to take care of. Like what you’re going to say to DI Wray when she gets out of hospital and arrests you for the murder of that Russian girl.’
Mac twisted to face Phil, the blanket slipping back on one side. ‘I didn’t kill her – but Calum Burns – don’t know what kind of game he’s playing –‘ Mac remembered how the other man had saved his life recently. ‘But he’s connected to both Volk and Bolshoi. I saw Bolshoi’s phone. He was in touch with Calum. What was that about? Yachting tips?’ His voice became uncertain. ‘What if he murdered Elena?’
‘Don’t talk crap, Mac. You killed the girl. And yes, I do remember Calum, but I don’t see what he’s got to do with this mess.’
‘Don’
t you?’ Mac stared at Phil, but his superior held his gaze. ‘Your security files say different,’ Mac continued. ‘You knew all along that Calum is deep in this.’
Phil reared into Mac’s face, irritation twisting his features. ‘Right, you need to listen to me carefully, because I’ve got a proposal to make and I need you to have a clear head.’ He eased back slightly, away from Mac. ‘I don’t know what happened to that girl and, I’ll be brutally honest, I don’t care – I’ve got more important fish to fry. But Wray appears to have solid evidence against you. Add in whatever you’ve been up to today, including your wild escapade at The Fort, you’re looking at a charge sheet long enough to put you behind bars for the rest of your natural life.’
‘Yeah, but—’
But Phil wasn’t in the mood to let him finish. ‘You’re one of my best men and I don’t want to see it go that way for you. I can make all this go away, speak to the right people and your name won’t even be mentioned in relation to this investigation. You’ll remain a member of my squad, even though you blatantly disobeyed orders. But in return, I need you to do something very simple. Go. Home. Forget about Bolshoi, Calum, Reuben, arms deals, shootings – and everything else you’ve seen and heard today.’
Mac looked at him with contempt. ‘You’re no better than Calum, are you? You’re just another cop for hire like him. You and the rest of them. Like your mates in the Home Office—’
Phil interrupted, ‘Home Office? Who said anything about H.O?’
‘But I saw it in the computer files . . .’
‘Did you?’ The other man’s voice was hard. ‘Like I said Mac, forget everything you saw today. Go. Home. This is my final offer. I can’t help you otherwise.’ Then he added, ‘We’re talking about the national interest here.’
Mac burst out laughing. ‘National interest? You sound like a bent MP. I’ll say this for Calum – at least he doesn’t pretend to be doing his thing for anything other than raw cash.’
But Phil wasn’t listening. Instead he was focused on a car that had pulled up abruptly behind police lines. Someone jumped out, but in the dark Mac couldn’t make out who it was. Whoever it was was determinedly heading their way.
‘Oh great, that’s all I need. Supercop . . .’ Phil said through gritted teeth.
A splash of streetlight caught the newcomer.
Rio.
From what he could see of her face, she looked pissed, really pissed. He could just see the base of the bandages on her wrist, now mainly covered by her coat.
The first thing she did when she reached them was to wrench open the back door in typical don’t-mess-me-around Rio style. ‘Someone’d better tell me what the effing hell is going on here.’
Mac spoke, not giving her an answer to her question. ‘Shouldn’t you still be in hospital? When I found you—’
‘So you’re the man who called the ambulance,’ she interrupted, her deep brown eyes slightly widening. Then her gaze tightened as she continued, ‘Well, thanks for saving my life. Now Mac, I’m arresting you for the murder—’
‘No.’ The single word from Phil stopped her. ‘You need to speak to your superior officer, because this case is now being run by my team, like I informed you earlier . . .’
That stubborn expression covered Rio’s face. ‘No, I’m taking him in.’
‘I’m giving you a direct order as a higher-ranking officer to turn round. Exit this crime scene. Check yourself back into the hospital . . .’
‘And what, Phil? Contact Detective Martin’s parents to let them know that we’re doing sweet FA to find their son’s butcher while another killer is sitting pretty in your car?’
Phil? Since when did Rio call the head of The Research Unit Phil? Mac’s gaze swung between the two of them.
‘If anyone has to atone for his death, maybe you should look closer to home,’ Phil threw back, his body jamming slightly forwards.
The air became charged as Rio battled with her emotions, her face almost crumbling. That got Mac sitting up straight. There was something familiar, almost intimate, about the way his superior and Rio were head-butting and bitching.
‘You both sound like Mr and Mrs.’ Only when it was out did Mac realise he’d said his thought aloud.
Immediately Rio and Phil snapped their intense gazes away from each other. What was going on here?
‘That was meant to be a joke,’ Mac let out slowly, as it finally dawned on him that there might be more going on between the two than he’d realised.
Rio slammed her gaze back onto Phil. ‘Screw. You,’ she spat at him. ‘You don’t give a toss that Mac obviously isn’t well, that he isn’t coping. That I was attacked by some mad person with a tattoo that was exactly the same as the victim’s . . .’
Tattoo.
The only other person he knew, apart from Elena, who had that tat was Bolshoi. Blinding anger swept through Mac’s bloodstream with renewed killer energy. Fuck Phil and his ‘I’ll look after you’ routine.
As his superior and friend got deeper into their verbal clash, face to face, eyeball to eyeball, Mac slowly eased out of the other side of the car and slipped away.
eighty-three
Midnight
The new day began with Mac knowing he didn’t have a back story on Bolshoi. Mac cursed his disadvantage as he found Club Zee’s fake paramedic motorbike. He put the helmet on and started the engine. He wasn’t sure where to begin the hunt for his man without some Intel on Bolshoi’s associates and potential hangouts in London, but he had to start somewhere. Finding Bolshoi was a long shot, but he had no other options, and it was more than likely he was still on the streets somewhere. A strange man, in a strange city, unfamiliar with the streets, it was just possible he was out there. Mac refused to believe that he wasn’t.
Mac took the bike back to where he’d fought his battle with the gangster and then slowly drove around the neighbouring roads, down to the riverfront and back again.
Nothing.
He mounted the pavement and drove down alleyways, across patches of grass and through the forecourts of flats, both social housing and expensive.
Nothing.
Frustrated, Mac brought the bike to a shuddering halt. He wasn’t getting anywhere by just driving around; he needed to think.
Where would he hide in a situation like this if he were Bolshoi?
Think, think, think.
The last place the cops would be looking for him was near the yacht. He’d worked a case, years back, a people-trafficking ring, where the main man had escaped. Turned out that he’d been lying low for a day and a half in a neighbour’s garden shed, waiting for the cops to leave his house. He would’ve got away with it as well, if the neighbour’s bruiser of a dog hadn’t started sniffing and snarling at the shed.
Feeling defeated, Mac knew there was no way he was going to find Bolshoi. And the cold was getting to him as well, making him shiver violently as it settled deep into his bones. Maybe he should listen to Phil and go home. Rest up and then plan how he was going to find Bolshoi tomorrow. He thought about Rio. How she’d almost died. She was the only real friend he had left in the world and he’d almost lost her. He’d seen the pain in her face when she’d talked about the death of Detective Martin . . . And what had he offered her? Fuck-all. Hadn’t even said sorry, placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. He needed her to know that he would be there for her just like she’d been there for him after Stevie.
So he revved up the bike engine and headed back to where he’d left Rio and Phil. The night and shadows danced over him as he made his way there. He saw the headlights of a car coming his way. He dipped closer to the other side of the road as the car came into view. It must’ve been a dark colour because it blended in with the night. But he wasn’t really paying attention to the vehicle; all he could think about was finally getting some peace as he placed his head on his pillow. Well, as much peace as he could, with Elena’s murderer still out there. He drew up to a traffic stop the same time as the car. Red light
. He stopped, so did the car. The beat of the engine throbbed through him as he turned his head slightly to the side. Towards the car. That’s when he got a good look at it close up for the first time. Merc. Different from the gunmen’s one earlier, which had had raised ridge lines on the bodywork; this one was simply plain, a dead ringer for Phil’s, in which he’d been sitting not that long ago. He leaned forward slightly and saw the driver’s face – Phil. He noticed his superior’s mouth moving and realised that he was talking to someone in the back. Must be Rio, Mac decided, taking her back to the hospital. Good, that’s where she belonged.
Mac moved his head slightly back to see if he could catch Rio’s eye. Stupid, she isn’t going to realise it’s you with your helmet on. So he moved back as he started pulling the helmet off.
Saw who was in the back seat.
Not Rio.
Bolshoi.
So Phil had already picked him up. Suddenly another face came into view. Mac shook his head. No, he couldn’t be seeing straight. No way could that be Calum, sitting next to the Russian. But it was. And there was Phil, driving in the front, like it was the most ordinary day of his life.
eighty-four
Mac gave his head one quick shake. Maybe the cocktail of drugs in his system was messing with his mind again. No, they were still there. And now Bolshoi was laughing at something that Calum had said. Laughing. Bitch. He wasn’t allowed to laugh while Elena was dead. Mac’s already chilled blood ran colder as he wondered if all three of them had been involved in Elena’s death.
The Merc pulled away. Mac twisted the motorbike round. Cut the lights. Followed, keeping a distance between them. On the narrow roads and with traffic diverted because of the gun battle down by the river, they weren’t hard to keep up with. He kept tabs on them for a couple of miles before they turned into a smart four-storey terrace in Victoria Park, still in East London. He knew the house. It was owned by the government and occasionally used by The Research Unit as a safe house for people they were ‘looking after’. Why was Phil taking Bolshoi to a safe house?
Vendetta Page 26