by A P Bateman
“This is Major Uri Droznedov of the Russian GRU,” Caroline said. “That’s military intelligence,” she added.
“Charles Forester mentioned you,” said Hodges, shaking the man’s hand. “You informed him about the warhead.”
“That’s correct,” Droznedov said without getting up. “You have a prisoner. I wish to question him.”
“A suspect in custody,” Hodges corrected him.
“Whatever,” Droznedov spilled a few crumbs as he spoke. “I feel I could glean something from the man. Maybe he will speak more freely in his mother tongue?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then take me to him,” Droznedov stood up and brushed crumbs off his shirt. “If you please?”
“He’ll need his brief.”
“Brief?”
“Solicitor. A lawyer.”
Droznedov tutted and shook his head. “You will find they talk better without such representation.”
“No doubt,” Hodges said. “Anti-terrorist squad are with him. They might want a break. I’ll see if they can give us a few minutes.”
“Maybe a quick word with yourselves present?”
“Anything he says will be scrubbed from evidence. Inadmissible. Unless a brief is with him and we officially validate his audio.”
“I am not after a successful prosecution. I merely want to know where Zukovsky is and get that warhead back. Gulubkin can walk or rot, for all I care.”
“Five minutes,” Hodges said. “Five minutes with me in the room.” He looked at Caroline. “Perhaps you won’t mind watching from outside?”
Caroline shrugged. She had spent enough time talking to Sergei Gulubkin already with King. She would prefer to stay away and not get caught up in procedurals from now on.
The booth was standard one-way glass. It looked into the interview room which was a floor below the family room and a dozen rooms further inside the labyrinth which was New Scotland Yard. There was video and audio recording equipment running continuously. Sergei Gulubkin sat back in his seat, arrogant and unthreatened. His eyes on the wall behind the anti-terrorist officers questioning him. His solicitor sat beside him, making notes and whispering into his client’s ear.
“He’s a fucking no comment all day long,” the detective in the booth said as Hodges peered inside. “Look at him. Hard as nails. He’s not afraid of us or the system. I don’t know what else to do. He cooperated and gave information up when it was off the books. Told MI5 what he knew, but he’s as tight as a clam’s arsehole now.”
“I have a Russian intelligence officer with me,” Hodges said. Droznedov peered over Hodges’ shoulder into the booth. The detective nodded by way of acknowledgment. “He thinks he might get something out of him. Might be worth a shot. This is Caroline Darby from MI5. She’s the one who Gulubkin spoke to, she’s sitting this one out. We don’t want to mess things up with the CPS.”
The detective gave Caroline the same nod. “We’ll take a break. Better keep his brief in there.”
“Thanks,” Hodges said. He turned to Droznedov. “All right son, follow me in, but don’t you dare touch him.”
Hodges led the way and the two Special Branch officers walked past them, one raising an eye to the detective. Hodges looked at Sergei Gulubkin as he sat down. He glanced at the solicitor, recognised him from other interviews. He was a touchy one with a love of making the police look heavy-handed and bullish. If he’d known who the suspect’s lawyer was beforehand, he may well have declined Droznedov doing this.
Droznedov pulled out a packet of cigarettes. It was strictly speaking a no smoking building, but a grey area. Many suspects loosened up with a smoke. Droznedov tapped one out and offered it. Gulubkin shook his head. Droznedov shrugged and helped himself to one. He lit it and blew a plume of smoke across the table, where it dispersed and wafted into the two men’s faces. The lawyer looked at Hodges and Hodges stared back. The lawyer looked away.
Droznedov started to speak in Russian and the lawyer held up his hand. “In English please,” he said. “Unless my client requires an interpreter.”
Sergei Gulubkin responded and rattled through seven or eight sentences. His lawyer frantically tapped his client on the shoulder. Gulubkin lashed out and knocked the lawyer’s hand aside, physically hurting him as well as shocking him.
The lawyer stood up, held his hands up. “I can only give advice if you are willing to accept it! Please, stop this and wait for an interpreter.”
Droznedov and Gulubkin seemed to be arguing, but it was Gulubkin who stopped talking and sat back in his chair, his arms folded, wearing a scowl. He was agitated and started tapping his foot, his heel clipping the floor.
Droznedov picked up the cigarettes, offered Gulubkin one again, and the Russian took it. Droznedov reached across the table and lit the cigarette for him. He sat back, tucking the lighter into his pocket. He spoke once more in Russian but Gulubkin looked away. Droznedov shrugged at Hodges and stood up. “Nothing more to say here,” he said. “Not unless we get rid of the lawyer and start to throw him around the room.”
Hodges knocked on the door and it opened, he led Droznedov out and the uniformed officer stepped inside the interview room and closed the door, guarding both the lawyer and the suspect and continuing the constant police presence the law dictated.
“What the hell was all that about? I thought you’d open with some questions in English first,” Hodges said. “You two seemed to be arguing, the bloody CPS will love that!”
“I asked, but he just started to tell me what my mother does with goats,” Droznedov smirked.
“Anything else?”
“Besides other farm animals?” The Russian shook his head. “No. He’s going to take his chances, I fear.”
Caroline stepped out of the booth and looked at the Russian. “That was a waste of time.”
“Don’t sugar coat it, honey,” Droznedov sneered. “Be quiet and let the men talk.”
“Call me honey once more and I’ll drop you on your backside.”
Droznedov bent down, prodded a finger into her, just above her cleavage and pursed his lips. “Honey…” He didn’t see it coming but he was on the floor staring up at her, his legs swept out from under him. “What the?”
“I warned you!” she shouted.
Two uniformed officers loitered nearby having seen the exchange, Hodges stepped over Droznedov and blocked Caroline. He eased her backwards. “Look, that’s enough. There’s a bit more going on here, if you haven’t noticed. I think maybe you need to get your head down for a bit. Take a shower, eat something,” he suggested. He ran a thumb over her shoulder. There was a bloodstain. Crimson and dried. It looked like a rose. “Maybe get a change of clothes? A few hours and then you can get back to it.”
She nodded. “All right,” she said, realising the need to back down. She looked at Droznedov as he got back up. “Sorry, but I warned you.”
Droznedov was angry, humiliated. He smirked, tucking his shirt into his trousers. “My mistake,” he said. “No harm done.” He was flushed, and had started to perspire. “You should listen to the detective. I will go back to my hotel. I will make some enquiries and get back in contact with you.”
“Okay. Do you need a lift?”
“No,” Droznedov answered curtly.
Hodges escorted them to the door and agreed to keep Caroline informed of further developments. He had both her mobile and landline numbers, and she had quietly conceded to the fact that a sandwich, a hot shower and a couple of hours’ sleep would make a new woman of her. Droznedov followed Caroline down the steps. She could feel the tension. She turned to him, needed to straighten things out. “Look, I’m sorry about in there…”
Droznedov reached around and grabbed her by her ponytail. He wrenched her head backwards and pulled her into him. She tried to counter, but his height and strength held her at bay. She felt he would pull all her hair from her scalp. She tried to move, but couldn’t. Her head was pulled so far back, she could barely breath and her n
eck felt like it was about to crack. Droznedov grabbed her right breast with his left hand and squeezed so hard she gasped. “You pull shit like that again, honey and I will take my knife and peel the flesh from that pretty little face of yours. Understand?” He squeezed her breast again, she could feel his fingertips ripping something inside, separating muscle. “Understand?”
“Yes!” she wailed. “Please, let go!”
Droznedov released her breast, but circled the nipple with his finger as he spoke, “Very good, now you know your place. I don’t expect to have to remind you again.” He carried on with his finger and smiled. “That’s better. You like that, don’t you?”
Caroline could not see his face; her head was still being wrenched too far backwards. She cupped his hand with both of her own, felt out a finger and wrenched it until it snapped. “Fuck you!” she screamed at him.
Droznedov wailed and released his grip, Caroline fell backwards to the ground. She was lightheaded and her vision was going in and out of focus. Her legs were weak and she struggled to her feet but dropped onto her knees. She looked up, a couple were approaching and doing their best impression of having not noticed. A cyclist rode past her, eyeing her as he pedalled. He didn’t stop. She got back to her feet, looking around, feeling vulnerable and defeated.
Droznedov was nowhere to be seen.
58
“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Caroline said as she stepped in through the front door of her flat.
King had heard her key in the lock and had got his feet off the coffee table just in time. He stood up, a mug of tea in his hand. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“No,” she said. “Something much stronger.”
“Coffee?”
“Funny,” she said, opening the fridge door. She took out a bottle of gin and a case of tonic water. She had an ice dispenser in the fridge door and put a glass under it. “Want one?”
“No. I need a clear head. Driving.”
“Where?”
“I’m going to do some shooting.”
“Well, it’s important to have a hobby.” She poured two fingers of gin into the glass, opened a little bottle of tonic and topped the glass up. “Anyone I know?”
King smiled. He liked Caroline, felt completely at ease with her. “So, why the need for a stiff drink at four-thirty?”
She sighed. “It’s six-thirty somewhere.” She hacked off a large wedge of lemon, dropped it into the glass and waited for the froth to settle. She drank thirstily. “Shitty day. Shitty fucking day…”
“There seems to be a few of those lately,” King said. He muted the television, he had switched on to Sky News out of habit. He walked over to the counter, placed his cup carefully on the floral coaster. It was a feminine touch, but he felt it was at odds with the MI5 agent. Maybe the set had been a present.
He noticed her soothing the back of her head, her expression distant. “What happened to you?” he asked.
She raised a hand to her breast, then seemed to think better of it. “It’s nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing,” King said. “Looks like somebody hurt you.”
“Expert in mind-reading, are you?”
“No. But he seem to be in pain, and you appear distracted.”
“Well, it’s nothing to worry about,” she insisted, but King stepped closer. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s nothing. Really,” she said. She looked at him, then relented and rested her head on his shoulder, she hugged him, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “That Russian shit, Major Uri Droznedov. He was a patronising bastard. He told me to be quiet while the men talked. He called me honey. I told him I’d put him on his backside if he called me that again.”
“And he did?”
“He did. Peter always said you had to do what you say in a confrontation or you’ll be seen as weak.”
“He was right. So you put him on his backside?” King ventured.
“Just a simple trip. I hooked out both feet with my foot. He was off balance anyway, I just sent him the other way.”
“And he didn’t like that? Strange.”
“Oh shut up!” she laughed. She nuzzled in a little closer. His arms were strong and firm. She had missed being held. “He lost face. When we were back outside, he found it again.”
“Are you going to report him?”
“No. He’s liaising with us. I’m not going to start something. But if he tries anything again, I’ll certainly finish it. I broke his finger this time. I’ll break his bloody neck if he tries anything else.”
King held her away and looked at her closely. “I believe you.”
Caroline looked up at him, holding his gaze. She moved a little closer and he reacted immediately bending his tall frame and kissing her on the lips, softly at first and then more firmly. Their tongues explored each other’s, their hands reaching and touching, King’s down to her buttocks, Caroline’s over his firm chest.
Caroline’s heart was racing. It had been almost two years since she had been intimate with someone and although she felt a slight pang of guilt, the overriding passion was difficult to ignore and she wanted this moment more than anything. It enveloped her, consumed her, fuelled her. She kissed harder, wetter, her hands wandered, smoothed over King’s chest, her fingers probed between the buttons of his shirt and brushed through the short hair of his chest. She fingered the buttons and let her hands smooth over his tight stomach, her nails tracing the lines of his muscles, his scars the ridges of his abdomen.
King had not expected the kiss, but he was not going to turn it down. He had spent three years without physical contact after the death of Jane. He had been intimate with another woman recently, but there had been no future in it. The experience had finally helped him put the death of his wife to bed. He missed her terribly, but he also wanted to move on. The kiss with Caroline was about as charged and passionate as he had experienced and he needed her as much as she needed him. His hands wandered slowly, cupped her firm breasts, but she winced, both at the pain and the reminder. She cupped his hand and she ran him down her flat, but soft stomach. He worked at the buttons of her blouse, unfastened the zip of her skirt. She pulled at his clothes and in a few moments they were both naked. She pulled away from him, took his hand in hers and led him confidently and purposefully into her bedroom.
59
“You’d better get down here!” An over-weight, middle-aged detective had barged the door open and Hodges looked up from his desk, startled by the intrusion. There was and always had been a two knock rule. He had overcome his demons, for now, and had ignored the bottle in the drawer. Something was eating at him, gnawing at the furthest-most recess of his mind. And he wasn’t going to find it now.
“What the hell?” Hodges snapped, but the detective had already gone. When he got to the door he could see the detective running out of the office and barging his way into the corridor. Hodges looked at the staff at their desks. They looked as puzzled as he did. He gave chase and although he kept the man in sight, he didn’t get close until they were down two flights of stairs. “What’s going on?”
The detective was breathless, but he kept running as he panted. “Russian suspect,” he heaved. “Gulubkin. He’s having a fit!”
“Has somebody called a medic?”
“First-aiders are on him and an ambulance has been dispatched!” the detective shouted.
They hit the corridor together and Hodges got out in front. He could see a gathering of people ahead and they saw him too, they parted and allowed him through. A uniformed male officer was straddling Gulubkin’s prostrate form and pumping out the rhythm of Staying Alive on his chest. The Russian wasn’t moving. A female uniformed officer was panicked and attempting to unfasten a single-use respirator. It was complete with a clear plastic sheet fixed to it to avoid blood or vomit or saliva. She gave up on the package, handed it to a detective to try and pinched Gulubkin’s nose. She leaned forward to start mouth to mouth.
“Stop!” Hodges shoute
d. The woman glanced at him, but continued to lean in. “I said stop!” Hodges pushed through the crowd and sniffed the air. He bent down, the man pumping his chest halted while Hodges sniffed Gulubkin’s lips. He grabbed the first-aid kit and took out a pair of surgical gloves. He slipped them on, then with his forefinger he opened the Russian’s mouth and bent down to sniff once more. And then that’s when two things hit Hodges at once; the nagging feeling of doubt, something intangible that he could not place, and the smell of bitter almonds which was overwhelming. So much so, it burned his eyes and nose like mustard. He backed away and shook his head at the two first-aiders. “Cyanide,” he said quietly. “Just stop.” He looked at the floor near the table and saw the cigarette butt. It was burned down to the filter. He picked it up, cautiously smelled it and then placed it next to the corpse.
“Bag that,” he said, pointing at the cigarette butt.
Hodges pushed his way out of the crowded room and rubbed his face as he walked back down the corridor. That nagging, gnawing feeling that had played on his mind and kept him from focusing on anything else had gone, replaced by the realisation of what now seemed obvious.
It was in the family room. Not two hours ago. Droznedov had said, Gulubkin can walk or rot, for all I care. But nobody had told Droznedov the suspect’s name.
Hodges sat back at his desk. The bottle was still there, for now. He picked up the telephone and called the central desk. “Hello, Detective Inspector Hodges, I need a Russian translator asap.”