by Rod Reynolds
The risk was worth it though. Through the tiredness and the anxiety, the flutters in her chest were firing strong. Billions and billions of dollars, a scandal with global reach, the chance she’d found her own Skripal or Litvinenko. A story that eclipsed Goddard ten times over. If she could grasp it.
She took her phone out to shoot a message to Michael: Where are you?
Stringer waited by the Tube at Belsize Park, a short walk from the hospital. He stood in a narrow access road that came off the main street, the other end letting out into a low-rise housing estate he’d recced on the way, itself a maze of walkways and dead ends with more than one exit point on the other side. He’d seen nothing to make him think he was being followed leaving the hospital, but Suslov’s men had been on him for weeks without him realising, and that left him in no doubt he’d been careless. But for right now, he was more worried about who might be following Lydia.
The sky was swarming with red-rimmed clouds when she appeared. She looked around for him, then took her phone out. He didn’t move at first, watching instead who came out after her. It was early but a decent crowd made its way out of the station, at a guess the shift-change at the hospital being the cause. Filipinos, Ghanaians, Portuguese, almost all women, flowing around Lydia as she inched towards the street with her face in her phone.
When everyone else was gone, he walked up to the railings separating the exit walkway from where he stood and stuck his hand through to signal to her. ‘Let’s go.’
She looked up, startled.
‘Come on.’
She looped around the railings and he led her into the housing estate until they were in a dead-end alley behind a bin shed.
‘Glamorous,’ she said.
He looked at her neck, the faded bruises still showing. ‘So I’m here, now what?’
‘I need to make someone talk, seems like that’s what you do.’
‘Who?’
‘He’s a lawyer by the name of Simon Shelby.’
Stringer frowned. ‘And?’
‘The woman who shot the video – she’s missing. He’s connected to her disappearance.’
‘In what way connected?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Everything matters. You can’t do this stuff blind.’
‘There’s more – Shelby’s a fixture in offshore circles.’
‘Money laundering?’
‘Yes. Not himself, he’s a facilitator others use.’
‘Where are you getting that from?’
‘I know people who do this stuff day in, day out. They tell me Shelby’s name has been bouncing around for years.’
‘Specifically in relation to mirror trades?’
‘No. Not so far, anyway.’
He took his hand off the wall and paced a few steps, antsy. ‘So his name came to you separately because of the woman?’
‘Yes. But I’ve only just turned up his link to offshore stuff.’
‘How long’s she been missing?’
‘Best guess, since she shot the video.’
‘Then she’s dead.’
She turned away, closing her eyes, and the look on her face made him press his fingers into his neck. ‘Sorry. No sleep makes me…’
‘Forget it,’ she said.
‘So what is the connection between her and Shelby?’
She pushed up the sleeves on her top, eyes locked on his.
‘You want to talk about trusting each other – this is it,’ he said.
She took a breath and held it, finally letting it out as she spoke. ‘I spoke to a neighbour who saw a car watching her house. It’s registered to an address that’s owned by a company that’s run by Shelby.’
He stared at her a second. ‘That’s it?’
‘What, that’s not good enough for you? I’m sorry, I thought I was dealing with an extortionist. I didn’t realise you had standards of proof you had to satisfy before you’ll blackmail someone.’
‘I just meant—’
‘No, fuck off, okay? You have no bloody right to tell me my work isn’t up to it. I’ve got people trying to kill me; I’m not about to let you dictate what leads are worth following or not.’
‘If you want my help…’
‘I’ll do this with or without you. Don’t doubt that for one second.’
‘You’re not the only one in danger here. You’re not the only one who hasn’t been home for days.’
‘Then why are we wasting time arguing about whether to go after Shelby?’
‘It’s not as simple as that. This stuff takes time to set up. That’s why I was asking if there’s more.’
‘You came up with something for Adam Finch fast enough.’
‘I’d done the legwork on him, indirectly. I had something I could use. All I’ve got on this guy is a house and that he moves money around.’
She stretched her arms out to brace her hands against the walls of the narrow passageway. ‘The woman who shot the video, her neighbour identified the guy you photographed in my kitchen as one of the men watching her flat. He was watching the witness’s flat.’
It fell into place then – Angie following her to Whetstone, right after he’d shown her the photo in Soho Square. ‘That strengthens the link, but it still doesn’t give us any leverage over him.’
‘So you’re saying it can’t be done?’
He scraped his heel on the pavement. ‘Have you tried knocking on the door?’
‘Shelby’s? He’s not talking…’
‘No, the address the car’s registered to.’
‘Yeah, of course. No one was home.’
‘So we go back.’
‘It looked empty.’
‘A dirty lawyer’s not going to give up client privilege just because we ask him to. The direct approach has to be worth another try.’
She opened her mouth to say something but hesitated, drawing a breath instead. ‘Okay.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Miles away – Surrey.’
He froze. ‘Where in Surrey?’
‘Somewhere by Hampton Court, why?’
‘Withshaw.’
She stared at him, the breeze tugging a strand of hair across her mouth. ‘How the hell could you know that? Did you follow me?’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘I’ve been there. I went there myself.’
Her face went white. ‘Why?’
‘The men that killed Tan used a car registered to there.’
‘What?’ She stepped right up to him. ‘What?’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘How long have you been sitting on this?’
‘The car was reported stolen. I went there and it was empty, so I put it on the backburner.’ He kicked the wall. ‘Fuck.’
She turned around with her hands clamped to her head. ‘This is it. This is the whole fucking thing.’
‘The car that took Tan away was a company car registered to an Andrew Pitt. Mean anything to you?’
‘No. Should it?’
‘No. It didn’t to me.’
‘So we find him.’
‘Easier said than done. There’s a million Andrew Pitts on Google.’
She took her phone out and put the name into the image search. ‘Any that look like the guy you snapped in my kitchen?’
‘Shit, I didn’t have that part…’ He came around next to her, his shoulder against hers.
She flicked her finger over the screen, scrolling quickly, shaking her head. She clicked through the pages until the results started repeating. ‘Bollocks.’
‘We’ve still got the address. We try there first, and if not, it’s Shelby.’
The cab dropped them outside Withshaw.
Lydia was out first, gripping one of the driveway gates to peer inside. Stringer came to stand behind her. It was as still and brooding as the last time she’d been there, defying the bright morning sunshine.
Stringer stepped around her and pressed the intercom.
‘What happens if someone answers?’
He looked at her, his finger still on the button. ‘No one’s answering here.’
‘I never even thought this through … What are we supposed to say: Why did you kill Jamie Tan?’
‘If you’re having second thoughts…’
‘I’m saying we need to be prepared.’
‘We find them, we get our leverage. Then we work out how we use it.’ He took his finger off the button.
‘No cars,’ she said, looking at the driveway. ‘Same as last time I was here. No tyre tracks.’
‘Someone’s spent money on it recently, otherwise I’d say it’s vacant.’
‘What about getting inside?’
He looked at her. ‘You know anything about breaking and entering?’
‘No, I meant…’
‘What?’
‘Maybe you knew someone.’
He took his finger off the intercom. ‘I don’t.’ He looked away, sizing up the house again.
‘You’re touchy for someone who had me mugged.’
He flapped open the bronze letterbox built into the gatepost, underneath the intercom. He tried the door to the compartment but it was locked, so he slipped his fingers inside the flap, straining to reach for something.
Lydia checked both ways along the street. ‘Anything?’
‘Hold on…’ He contorted his wrist, the scarred skin turning white with the strain. His hand inched in further.
He slipped his hand out, an envelope between his fingers. He held it out to read. It was addressed to Withshaw Ltd. ‘No help.’
‘Open it,’ she said.
He put his finger under the seal, starting to walk. ‘You ditched your ethics fast.’
‘They tried to fucking kill me.’
He pulled the letter out and looked at it, then passed it over. ‘Addressed to Dear Sir or Madam.’
She took it from him but it was a marketing letter sent by a wealth-management firm touting for business. ‘We’re wasting our time here.’
‘Be the same if we go after Shelby without something to use.’
‘There’s one thing I’ve got.’
Shelby’s office was in a converted Georgian terrace in Bedford Square. It was late morning by the time they got there, Lydia already feeling if she lay down she wouldn’t get up again.
They stood on the wide boulevard that ran around the square. There were gardens at its heart, but no one using them. She saw then that the gates were locked; more important that the bent solicitors had nice views from their offices than risk regular people mucking them up. Lydia took out her phone and called Shelby’s number.
‘Simon Shelby’s office.’
‘Hi, it’s Lydia Wright calling, can you put me through to Simon please?’
‘Is he expecting your call?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you; one moment please.’
There was a pause and hold music came on the line.
Michael was looking up at the windows on the second and third floors.
The music cut out. ‘Hello? I’m afraid Mr Shelby can’t take the call at the moment, can I take a message?’
‘It’s fine, I’ll call back.’ She ended the call and faced Michael. ‘Well, he’s there.’
‘So now what?’
‘Give him till lunchtime. If he doesn’t show by then, I’m setting the fire alarms off.’
Shelby made his appearance at 1.11 p.m., coming out of the door and down the four steps to the street. He was fifty-something with thinning hair around the temples and crown, even more pronounced than in the picture Lydia had found online, but there was no question it was him. He turned towards Tottenham Court Road, the harried gait of a man getting his own lunch as an excuse to snatch five minutes away from his desk.
They were standing in the shade alongside the gardens. Lydia clocked him and set off first, Stringer following without a word. Showtime made her tiredness evaporate. She crossed over to the same side as him, speeding up to catch him before he reached the busier pavements of the main road.
‘Simon.’
He half turned on hearing his name. He was already sweating in his suit. ‘Yes?’
‘Simon, my name’s Lydia Wright. I left you a message a few days ago.’
He shook her hand looking blank, his grip soft and clammy. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m with the Examiner, I wanted to ask you about—’
He let go of her hand. ‘I’m afraid I don’t speak to the press.’
‘This is off the record. What can you tell me about your involvement with Withshaw?’
His mouth became a thin line. ‘Again, I don’t talk to the press.’
‘Will you be talking to the police?’
He started to move off but stopped. He turned around again slowly, wearing a smile that said he should know better than to bite. ‘Alright. Why would I need to do that?’
‘My enquiries have linked two cars registered to the property known as Withshaw to the disappearance and probable murder of one man and the disappearance of a young woman who witnessed it. You are a director of the company that owns Withshaw, aren’t you?’
He glanced at Michael and then back at her. ‘I don’t know anything about that. Am I supposed to assume this gentleman is a police officer?’
Michael shook his head slowly, staring at Shelby.
‘I didn’t think so. I’m not sure what your agenda is here, so if there’s nothing else…’
‘Is it linked to your work for Andriy Suslov, Mr Shelby? Is that why?’
She sensed a change as she said it. A charged silence, the air between them starting to crackle.
Shelby took a slight step backward, his tongue curled around his teeth. Michael was staring like he was about to run through him.
‘Mr Shelby?’ she asked.
He forced a smile. ‘I really have nothing more to say to you.’ He took another step back, then turned and walked off.
Lydia started to go after him, but Michael put his hand on her arm to stop her. ‘Leave him.’
She watched Shelby go, jinking in front of a cab to get across the road and then fast-walking onto the opposite pavement and away.
Michael looked at her. ‘What was that about Andriy Suslov?’
CHAPTER 45
Stringer left Lydia at Tottenham Court Road station. He couldn’t ditch her fast enough. He’d seen she’d sensed something was wrong, maybe even that hearing Suslov’s name had set him off. That would have to be unpicked later. For now, all he could focus on was buying himself some space to think.
Once she was out of sight, he doubled back and merged into the crowds on Oxford Street. Losing himself, losing his mind…
Withshaw to Shelby to Suslov.
To Jamie Tan.
A straight fucking line that said he’d been played. He drifted through the crowds like he was underwater, somewhere so deep down that no light could penetrate and he couldn’t tell which way was up anymore.
Running from a Ukrainian oligarch with the power to eliminate anyone he wanted. Certainly Jamie Tan. As ruthless as Suslov was, the missing part had been motive. But with every piece of evidence pointing his way, one answer started to make sense: whoever Tan was moving money for, it wasn’t state-sanctioned after all. There was one degree of separation between the Kremlin and Andriy Suslov; if they’d leaned on Suslov to shut down a rogue money-laundering network, everything else fell into place. Using oligarchs to do their dirty work was an established part of the Kremlin playbook.
The only part that hadn’t fit was why Suslov had hired Stringer in the first place. Now it hit him like a spotlight had found him in the murk.
He was being set up.
That’s why they were shadowing him while he was following Tan. Building an insurance policy. Tan disappears and hopefully the police get nowhere, but just in case they don’t, here’s a readymade fall guy to hand over. He’d made it easy for them by fronting Tan, and that picture had to mean there
were more. Photos of Stringer staking out Tan’s house, following him all over London – probably of him at High Barnet the night of the murder. They could’ve even planted evidence – Suslov had made a point of showing he knew his address.
Even as he was sinking, a new depth opened up beneath him: the most effective fall guy was always a dead one.
He looked up and saw he’d walked almost the length of Oxford Street, Marble Arch up ahead of him. He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and pulled it out. Abi. He swiped to answer but he was too slow and the call ended. When the main screen came up, it showed she’d tried him four times already.
Stringer swept into the hospital room and found himself face to face with the old man, hovering by the end of the bed. Abi was in the chair next to her with Ellie on her lap.
Stringer raised the bouquet of flowers and pressed them into the old man’s chest. ‘Find a vase for these.’
His mother was watching Ellie with a sidelong glance, her head barely turned but the hint of a smile on her face.
‘And then we played family and I was the mum and Jessie was the sister and Martina was the baby but then Martina wanted to be the mum and I didn’t want to be the baby and so we didn’t play that game anymore and…’
Abi bounced her on her knee, trying not to laugh. ‘Slow down, sweetheart. Look who’s here…’
Ellie looked up at him. ‘Uncle Mike!’ She put her fingers in the corners of her mouth and pulled a face. ‘I’m a monster, blargh!’
His mother’s eyes followed Ellie’s gaze slowly, turning by degrees rather than a smooth movement to look in his direction. She still had an oxygen tube under her nose.
He stepped closer to the bed. ‘How you feeling?’
She closed her eyes, looking pained, and he glanced at Abi, but she shook her head to signify it was okay. ‘She’s having trouble getting her words out.’
‘Can you ever imagine that of her?’ the old man said behind him, smiling to himself. He laid the flowers on the window ledge.
Stringer came closer again and reached for her hand, and Ellie tugged at his suit coat. ‘Uncle Mike, can we play a game?’
‘Maybe in a minute, kiddo.’