by R. J. Dillon
‘It’s fine, I’ll walk.’
‘Shall I wait for you, sir?’
‘No, I’ll manage, thanks,’ said Nick, sliding out.
Drawn up at the head of the bridge he saw that the circus had really come to town. Area cars, traffic cars, unmarked Fords and Vauxhalls were parked at awkward angles surrounding the bridge like lifeboats around a listing ship. A far away headache threatened more pain and Nick lit a cigarette before committing himself to another place of death, a moment of contemplation and assessment, enjoy. Had Hawick some perverse wish to pin something else at Nick’s door? he wondered, marching forward. Coming up behind him the steady drone of a vehicle negotiating its way; moving to one side Nick made way for a private ambulance that had to wait at the perimeter police tape for admission. Three police constables in their absurd high-visibility jackets wound back a length of tape, letting the ambulance through. As Nick was halted by one of the constables a series of camera flashes bounced out from under the bridge, and with his name and ID checked against an official list, Nick was logged as entering the crime scene. Deviating from the old trackbed he climbed a grass embankment. Steeper than Nick originally thought, he had to prevent himself slipping with his hands as he sought a vantage point on higher ground. When he stepped onto a concrete wall forming a buttress into the bridge, his palms were smeared with mud and his cords were grubby around the hems.
From up here he could make out senior uniformed police officers, CID and Special Branch detectives, officers from the Security Service and SIS, hurrying backwards and forwards, holding snatched discussions in random groups then floating away. In their own small select huddle, Hawick, Rossan and Blackmore attended by a tactical commander; their attention on what seemed to be a very slight figure suspended from the bridge, and Nick knew at once that Angie was safe.
Skidding back down the embankment Nick walked over and stood at Rossan’s side.
‘Who is it?’ Nick asked.
‘Jo Lister, one of Parfrey’s,’ Rossan said.
Acknowledging Nick’s arrival with a scowl, Blackmore looked skywards and yelled at a senior police officer to get those news helicopters grounded and keep the soddin’ cameras away. ‘And bring me the head of the lunatic who briefed the ruddy press,’ he added for good measure.
In the inky gloom the body moved gently in the cold air, forwards and back, a black pendulum keeping its own beat; swinging rhythmically under and out from the railway bridge.
‘Is it being treated as suspicious?’ Nick asked.
‘We don’t know.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘A courting couple, God help us. Said they saw a van, a beat up thing, something you get at second-hand auctions, partial name of a company down its side. Two or three males and a female were apparently lurking around it. We’re working on it,’ disclosed Rossan with a dog weary sigh.
‘What time did she die?’
‘God knows.’
‘So why she’s still up there?’
‘Health and safety,’ snarled Rossan. ‘Bloody police, they’re trying to locate some contraption that will allow them to get her safely down.’
Hawick in a complete lather, turned from the bridge and irritably ordered Rossan that they must have a complete news blackout for reasons of national security.
‘A D-A Notice, Paul, as fast as you can,’ he said.
Giving Nick a weary shrug, Rossan moved off punching in a number on his phone.
‘Where’s our G.I. Jane?’ yelled Blackmore and Rossan flung up his arms, saying he’d put a call out for her. ‘Nicholas… you finally made it,’ called Blackmore, zeroing in on Nick.
‘Thought I was unwanted, an outcast,’ Nick said.
‘This, Nicholas, is getting out of hand,’ said Blackmore blithely, ignoring Nick’s point.
‘Can’t somebody stop that thing rotating like that,’ pleaded Hawick, distracted by Lister’s body moving in the wind, before being taken off to a discrete distance for an impromptu conference by the tactical commander.
‘It’s a bit late to start worrying about things getting out of hand,’ Nick suggested, his mood quickly souring.
‘Parfrey’s been informed,’ snapped Rossan walking by, banging in a new set of numbers on his phone.
After being briefed by the tactical commander, Hawick returned. ‘Too early to tell if it’s suicide or not,’ he explained, as though this was a crime in itself.
‘This had better not blow up in our faces,’ Blackmore fumed, as Hawick shouted at one of his own officers to find Stratton, and make it quick. ‘Because relations between Downing Street and us are fragile to say the least.’
‘When have they ever been anything other,’ lamented Hawick.
‘Now we’ll have the bloody Yanks thinking twice about blowing their noses in front of us,’ complained Blackmore. ‘So what do you deduct from all this, Mr. Sherlock, bloody Torr?’ demanded Blackmore, pointing at the body. ‘Suicide or foul play?’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence,’ Nick suggested.
‘Course it bloody is,’ Blackmore agreed. ‘What do we concur then? This slip of a girl was a suspect apple planted into our barrel by the Ruskies? Or did she know something she shouldn’t?’
‘She knew something,’ proposed Nick, as another camera flash illuminated the rusty girders under the bridge.
‘And what would that be?’ Blackmore demanded incredulously.
‘It’s a bit late to ask her,’ retorted Nick.
Hawick warned him not to be facetious and concentrate on what was going on.
‘As far as I was aware, nothing is going on,’ answered Nick.
‘Just as nothing went on at your cottage,’ Blackmore reminded him.
‘We do get to hear things,’ Hawick informed him. ‘And whether your attacker was Spetsnaz will be something else to be determined at the inquiry. You know how C is particularly paranoid that the past should not intrude into the present,’ declared Hawick.
‘Well he would, wouldn’t he,’ quipped Blackmore, ‘One of the reasons that he was appointed wasn’t it?’
Hawick on the back foot couldn’t compete with Blackmore’s onslaught, throwing up his arms up in despair.
Reappearing through a scrum of police, Rossan was grimmer than Nick could ever remember seeing him. ‘We’ve just had confirmation that our dear departed friend,’ he said nodding to Lister’s body, ‘had requested an interview with our internal security people tomorrow morning.’
‘That is all we need,’ groaned Hawick.
‘What? Another examination of the Service by the PM and his cat,’ snorted Blackmore. ‘This girl a Moscow agent? And they topped her to save a bigger fish? Ruddy far fetched, if you ask me. It’ll be boy trouble, or girl trouble, it usually is, and I’ve directed Special Branch to make enquiries into her love life,’ he added quite pleased with himself.
‘Or Moscow trouble,’ offered Nick.
‘This a confirmed lead from your Latvian source, is it?’ Blackmore asked in a low aside, a sharp smile on his lips. ‘Little bird told us all about it.’
‘We cannot and must not start making wild connections between the events in Moscow, Hamburg and here,’ Hawick asserted.
‘I didn’t,’ said Nick, as the private ambulance passed through carrying Jo Lister’s body away.
‘God almighty,’ said Blackmore, turning serious, urgent.
Heading towards them Sir Martin Bailrigg, Chief of the Service, escorted by an Assistant Commissioner who was providing a private tour of the scene.
‘Thank you,’ Bailrigg said joining them, dismissing his guide.
Standing in front of Nick, Hawick and Blackmore he took them all in, one at a time. A tall thin figure, his hair combed back but tugged out of place by the wind. He wore a waxed Barbour jacket, his hands jammed into the pockets and he gave the impression of a head gamekeeper briefing his beaters.
‘Disaster, after unmitigated disaster,’ he told them, his shoulders slouched. ‘I have j
ust come from Downing Street and I anticipate…and the Prime Minister anticipates…from here on in, that this will be handled with discretion,’ Bailrigg declared.
‘That would be a first,’ Nick said under his breath, though it wasn’t low enough because Blackmore whipped round in his direction.
‘As for your future,’ Bailrigg sniped, turning on Nick, ‘there can be no other decision other than continued suspension,’ he stated curtly. ‘And, gentlemen, we need to be prepared for a cold shoulder from all our friends,’ he warned, taking a few steps away from Nick his broadside not over, ‘because I can see that there are going to be more questions about our standing in the days ahead.’ With his authority bestowed on them, he straightened his hair before stomping off.
‘Ah, at bloody last,’ Blackmore roared as Jane appeared, ‘glad you could make it to the party.’
‘I didn’t feel too well,’ she explained, not looking at Nick.
‘One of Parfrey’s,’ Blackmore told her, leading Jane away.
Hawick left flapping, embarrassed by C’s unexpected visit, quickly attempted to rebuild his self-esteem and standing. ‘You still have many answers to provide,’ he insisted, turning on Nick.
‘I’ve nothing to hide,’ retorted Nick.
‘We shall see,’ Hawick said, fully wound up. ‘No official contact with anyone and I expect you to be at Aspley first thing in the morning.’
Not answering, Nick walked away thinking how it was such an awful and lonely place to die.
• • •
Vyacheslav Cheboksary avoided publicity. A billionaire who’d made his fortune from the Russian gas and oil industry, he assiduously refused interviews, appeared rarely at public functions and regarded London as the preferred home for his family. His Cadogan Place house covering five floors peered imperiously over private gardens, and seemed to Nick that morning to resemble more of an embassy than a family home. He held his briefcase tight in his right hand on his measured approach to the house, going over what Mike Stanhill, a Special Branch Detective Chief Inspector had told him over the telephone. ‘Galina Myla entered a year ago as an INF 17. That’s overseas domestic worker status to you and me, employed as a nanny. She entered when the family brought their entire Moscow household with them. She went walkabout six months ago and nobody’s clapped eyes on her since.’ So how did she know the little accountant? wondered Nick.
Security cameras tracked him along the pavement, tilting to follow him up the steps to the front door. A door so shiny Nick could see his reflection quite clearly, a door opened by a former butler to the royal family. Scrutinising Nick’s UK Border Agency ID with measured disdain, he pointed him down the basement steps to a door marked ‘Domestic Office and Visitors’.
Before Nick had even given half of his false name into an intercom, a woman in her thirties snapped open a frosted glass panelled black door. Dressed in a smart business suit, she gathered her hair into a bunch and expertly applied a plain band to form a high ponytail in one movement.
‘It is Sunday,’ she began, her English good but not enough to mask her native Russian accent. ‘And uninvited callers never, never use the main door of the house,’ she continued, ripping into Nick.
‘I’m from the UK Border Agency,’ he replied, offering an official measured smile from an overworked officer who is routinely abused, offering also his false ID for inspection. ‘I’d like to ask some questions regarding Galina Myla. You are?’
‘Katya Malova, the household manager,’ she announced waspishly, thrusting back the ID.
‘Well, Ms. Malova, I’m afraid that investigations into breaches of visa regulations cannot be confined between Monday to Friday.’
‘You should have rung to make an appointment,’ she countered, not prepared to admit Nick.
‘Some visits have to be made unannounced,’ Nick said dryly, ‘that way we find individuals haven’t prepared themselves.’
‘To lie, to be dishonest?’ Malova snapped.
‘Sometimes,’ Nick retorted sternly, ‘people do employ all manner of strategies to remain in this country beyond the limit of their visas and work permits.’ He lifted his leather briefcase and clutched it to his chest as he tried to find something it contained. ‘Do you mind if we continue our interview inside?’
Malova seemed to mind a great deal and Nick thought his visit was about to collapse, but Malova’s sharp blue eyes scanned him and sensing no threat she stepped aside and invited Nick into her office.
Taking a seat behind her desk, she pointed Nick to a two-seat sofa in a corner between filing cabinets. Opening a jotter, uncapping a fountain pen she signalled she was ready for business.
‘I’m investigating Galina Myla,’ Nick started, opening his briefcase taking out a folder he’d bulked out with random, unrelated documents. ‘According to our records,’ Nick admitted, as though he had many records to read, ‘Galina Myla proved to be an entirely reliable employee during her initial employment in London.’
‘Mr. Thompson,’ she said with a world-weary sigh. ‘I have been over this girl’s disappearance already, five times. I believed I had carried out my duty and notified the authorities in the first place.’
‘Thank you for your public sense of duty, but as the reviewing officer in this case, I have to go over the facts and make sure nothing has been left out. So could you please begin again for my benefit?’
Sitting back Katya Malova folded her arms across her chest and did just as Nick requested, recounting how Galina worked for the family in Moscow for seven months before business brought the household to London. Katya had interviewed Galina personally and although she found no fault with her qualifications or work as a nanny, Katya sensed Galina would somehow be trouble.
‘Did this side of her character show itself in London?’ asked Nick.
‘At first no,’ Katya stated, adding for the record that here in London her work, if anything was exemplary and as a reward her pay was increased and she was given extra leisure hours. ‘That is when the problems started. Galina would be late, too much drink in her little head from the night before, and,’ Katya lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Galina was maybe starting to experiment with drugs.’
‘You confronted her about this?’ Nick asked in his best strident official tone, writing slowly.
‘I challenged her a few times and she laughed it off, but as her behaviour and attitude grew worse I,’ and she paused for full effect, ‘with the backing of the family who were now extremely concerned for Galina and their babies in her care, told Galina that she would have to undergo random drug tests. Fine, Galina shouts in my face, fine, you will find nothing and the next morning she doesn’t report for work.’
‘And she slept on the premises?’ Nick asked, ‘She had her own room here? I thought looking after small children would require that?’
Katya ran her fierce gaze over Nick as though she’d just met her first imbecile of the day. ‘Of course there is provision for the nannies next to the nursery, but there are three nannies in the household, they work shifts.’
‘Are they all Russian?’
Her patience pushed to its short limit, Katya unfolded her arms and swung forward, planting her elbows on her desk. ‘Of course they are Russian,’ she answered in a high insolent hiss, ‘the family speak Russian and yes, all their papers are in order also.’
‘So where do the nannies live when they’re not working?’
‘There is a separate house in Bow bought by the family as provision for the staff,’ she announced proudly.
‘And did Galina leave any of her belongings here, or at the house in Bow?’
‘What she left behind we keep in a suitcase in the staff house,’ Katya told him.
‘What about visitors from home?’
‘Her mother, perhaps, yes, her mother came over regularly,’ Katya slowly remembered.
‘Was she friends with other members of staff?’
‘Galina was good friends with Marfa Dobrya, another
nanny, they shared a room in the staff house and of course, Grigori Tesov he is a chef.’
‘Of course,’ said Nick, as though he should have known. ‘I will have to examine the suitcase and speak to Marfa and Grigori,’ said Nick, putting his biro and papers away.
Ripping off a sheet from a desk memorandum pad, Katya dashed off an address and handed it to Nick, a declaration if one were needed that he had reached, if not surpassed, his quota of questions.
Standing, pushing the clasp closed on his briefcase, Nick said, ‘Could you ensure that they will both be available for interview on Monday afternoon.’
Irritably, Katya brought up the household staff rota on her laptop. ‘They are both working.’
Pushing his official act as far as he dared, Nick shook his head. ‘This is a serious matter, please have them at the staff house between four and six p.m. on Monday.’
Not waiting to find out if Katya had accepted his terms, Nick had already stepped out to the base of the steps and closed the door behind him. Up on the street his phone rang, and checking that Katya hadn’t followed him to object to his demand, Nick took the call. ‘No problem,’ he said, setting off.
Six
Asking Some Delicate Questions
London, November
An outdoor palm tree had been lovingly wrapped and taped to beat the winter frosts. Standing proud it dominated the front garden of the house in Priory Avenue, Crouch End. At some point in its past the house had received a liberal coat of dark green paint to its exterior boards, guttering, frames and down pipes, but the recent addition of cream window blinds jarred with the colour scheme, something not quite balancing thought Nick. A small neat woman answered the door, almost apologising for being Steve’s mum after Nick had let her take his ID to slowly read. She guided Nick down the hallway past a mountain bike parked under cornice shelves holding an ensemble of figurines. Steve Milneshaw was in the back room and a Met Family Liaison officer asked if she could help. Nick showed his ID made out in the workname of Jeffries from internal security and she retreated along with Steve’s mum, who faltered in the doorway.