by Rod Reynolds
He crossed his legs. ‘You know what I’m going to ask next…’
‘Interview?’
He nodded.
‘I don’t know. She’s pretty shaken.’ She folded her arms, mirroring him. ‘Are you saying I’ve still got a job?’
‘Do you still want it?’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You know, what you were saying on the phone. About starting over.’
‘That was right after everything. I was all over the place…’
‘I understand.’
‘But I’ve been thinking about it some more. I think what I want now is stability.’
He got up and came across to her. ‘You’re bloody good at what you do, Lydia. That hasn’t changed.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘They’ve got a suspect for Tammy’s murder – you heard that?’
She nodded. The same man Michael had photographed in her kitchen. The papers named him as Kyle Curtis, a repeat offender with a history of violent crime, his whereabouts currently unknown. She’d been piecing it together as much as she could; the theory that best fit what she knew was that the Russian end of the operation had approved Jamie Tan’s murder, sending professional killers directly, Dalton acting as point man. The rest were recruited by Dalton and Kent in the aftermath, Curtis among them.
Some days she wanted Curtis dead – the days she couldn’t stop thinking about Tammy. Her own guilt spurred it. At some point she’d stumbled on the idea that if she’d just said no in the first place, ignored the email, the whole thing would’ve fizzled out, and Tammy would still be alive. It was senseless, she knew that deep down. Didn’t stop her beating herself up with it anyway.
‘So this thing is over now, right?’ Stephen said.
‘I don’t know. If they identify the hitmen who killed Tan, and if they are Russian nationals, that’ll be a massive diplomatic blow-up. Especially when Russia refuses to extradite them.’
He put his hand on her arm. ‘I meant for you.’
‘Singh and Wheldon keep coming back with more questions, but…’ She could sense his frustration and she slipped away from him, nodding to give him the answer he wanted. The promise of a return to normal life.
She went to the window to look out. The daylight was almost gone, the street and the houses opposite falling to the dusk. But the sunlight was still catching the highest branches of one of the trees, the last rays bathing them in a golden light that she would have sworn was receding even as she watched. The promise of something better, slipping away.
CHAPTER 58
Stringer leaned on the wall of the pub opposite Lydia Wright’s office, the drinkers around him in shirts and no jackets looking uncomfortable. The temperature had dropped ten degrees overnight, a hard break with summer that’d caught London unawares.
He hadn’t spoken to her since Borehamwood, too afraid even to try. If he had his way, he’d get one more chance to sit down with her and set the record straight – allay all those fears she had about him that’d led her to go to the police. He couldn’t say for sure why he cared so much; or maybe he could but just didn’t want to admit it.
It would never happen, and he would live with that.
In the end it was his own fault. A miscalculation; telling her about Kent and his deal to give up Dalton, without telling her what was really going down. A notion that she’d be safer if she believed Dalton was dead and buried at Kent’s hands. That she’d go back to a normal life while the authorities broke him down and used him to go after the real players, maybe even make inroads on the Russian end of the scheme. It made sense at the time, fresh from people pointing guns at everyone he cared about, when he still believed there was hope if he could just make the right moves.
Now, with the benefit of distance and reflection, the dull autumn light exposed it for the self-deception it had always been. That Lydia’s moral compass could ever be as broken as his own.
He watched the main entrance, grey rain beginning to fall like a judgement on all of them. He stood there with impunity because he knew she wasn’t inside the building; she hadn’t been back to work since it happened. But the man he wanted was.
Stephen Langham came out of the doors and crossed the road, tacking around the traffic. Stringer slipped into his trail, following him all the way to London Bridge Tube before he approached.
‘Stephen?’
Langham glanced back, still walking, but Stringer caught his eye and he stopped. ‘Yeah?’
‘You don’t remember me, Stephen?’
Langham stared at him, looking blank, about to say something when he cut him off.
‘No, you wouldn’t. It was brief – Sir Oliver Kent’s office.’
‘Sir Oliver’s? No, sorry.’
‘Sure. But I remember you.’
‘Okay. You are?’
‘Sir Oliver was into some very bad shit, and then I see you there, on first-name terms with him. I think you know what I’m talking about.’
‘No, I don’t. And this conversation is over.’ Scrabbling to get away.
‘Stephen, I know who you are.’ He stepped closer, the crowd dynamic coming into play now, Langham looking like he wanted to melt into the pavement but too embarrassed to make a scene. ‘I know you better than you know yourself. In thrall to money and the men that control it. Trying to work out if you hate them for having it as much as you hate yourself for craving it.’
‘What is this psychobabble?’
‘I’ve worked for people like Oliver Kent for years. They use people like us, and they only keep us around as long as we’re useful. I’ve bought off more journalists than I can remember, but Kent went one better, didn’t he? No need to bother with a fixer when you can just buy off the whole newspaper. Just got to find the right man on the inside.’ He nodded his head towards Langham in faux appreciation.
Langham came towards him, a sense of urgency creeping into the crowd as the rain fell harder. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I know what Kent was into, probably know more about it than you do. Maybe you thought it was just some white-collar shit – rich fuckers moving their money around the world, so who cares? But I’ve seen the real cost, and it’s people getting killed and people pointing guns at innocent women and children. I know the scale of what you were hiding for him by keeping his name out of your papers. I want you to keep that in mind when I tell you this.’
‘I don’t work for Oliver Kent. You don’t know what you’re talking about so get the fuck out of my face before I put you on the—’
Stringer held up one finger to silence him, and Langham’s bravado evaporated. ‘Kent’s dead, but there are others and they’ll pick up where he left off. They’ll find you, if you’re not in with them already. I don’t care what you do for them, or what stories you write or get quashed on their behalf, but I want you to keep one name in mind: Lydia Wright. If you hurt her, or her career, or she gets hurt because of you, I’ll take you apart. I’ll be watching. You think you can knock people down with your newspapers, you haven’t got a clue what I can do to you.’
CHAPTER 59
Lydia stepped out of the lift into a small, well-lit landing. The carpet underfoot was new, still had that smell about it, and the walls had been recently painted a powder grey. It was bland, anonymous, and safe; at last, after the fact, one of her assumptions about him was on the nose.
Michael answered the door a few seconds after she knocked. It was the first time she’d seen him caught off-guard. It brought a half-smile to her face, to know she’d wrong-footed him for once.
‘Hi.’
He was standing there in jeans and a shirt, barefoot. He looked strange in anything other than a suit – younger, less stressed. ‘If you’d rather I go…’
He leaned on the edge of the open door. ‘Go?’
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be pissed off at me.’
He looked down, shaking his head. ‘No. No, of course not.’
‘Can I come in?’
He straightened up,
faltering opening his arm out. ‘Sure.’
She walked down the hall into an open-plan living room. The décor was different from the Finsbury Park flat, but just as impersonal. There was an empty glass on the table and a laptop on the kitchen counter, but nothing else on display – no pictures, no personal effects. A pair of doors were open, leading onto a small private balcony that caught the sunlight, the jagged London skyline in the distance beyond it. ‘Nice view.’
‘How are you?’
She tilted her head. ‘I’m okay.’
‘How did you…?’
‘Your car. I’ve been here before, remember? The flat numbers are on the parking spaces.’ She drifted back to the end of the counter where he was standing. She pointed to the laptop screen. ‘Florida Keys – nice. Thinking of a holiday?’
He flipped the screen shut, a look on his face she couldn’t read. ‘One day. Not yet.’
‘If you’re looking at getaways, should I be worried?’
‘About?’
‘Retribution.’
He planted his hands on the countertop. ‘Honestly? I don’t know. But that’s not why I was looking. I’m not running away.’
‘What does Andriy Suslov think about that?’
‘I don’t know. He knows I did him a favour though, so…’
‘You think he’s happy Dalton’s in custody? He probably doesn’t want him talking any more than Kent did.’
He was already shaking his head. ‘Dalton was a nobody to Suslov, that’s why he was trying to move up by latching on to Kent. I don’t think he can say anything to hurt him.’
She closed her eyes, nodding. ‘Is your sister okay? And her kid?’
‘Yeah.’ He looked away. ‘Ellie hasn’t spoken about it once. We’re hoping she thought the whole thing was a bad dream, but maybe she’s burying it. Abi’s shook up but she’s the toughest person I know. She’ll come through it.’
‘I feel for them. I wish … I could’ve done more.’
‘You saved their lives. And mine.’
‘We’re quits then.’ She shrugged saying it, enjoying his discomfort when he looked down and nodded. ‘You heard about Sir Oliver Kent?’
‘Yeah. Suicide.’
‘You buy it?’
‘Do you?’
‘Not for a second.’
She gripped the end of the counter. ‘I’m breezing around your flat like we’re old friends and you haven’t even asked me what I’m here for.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve got the right to ask you anything.’
‘You know you fucked up, then. That’s a start.’
‘I made missteps. I don’t blame you.’
‘I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. If that’s worth anything.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘No charges?’
He shook his head. ‘Not so far. Davey – DCI Davidson – vouched for my actions that night.’
‘How much does he know?’
‘Less than you and me.’
‘And Dalton?’
‘They wouldn’t tell me even if I asked. He’ll be co-operating though – it’s his only out.’
She looked at him looking at her; she’d never known another human being so comfortable in a pointed silence. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you’re ex-police?’
‘What difference would it have made?’
‘Maybe would’ve been easier to trust you.’
‘It was a long time ago. It’s irrelevant.’
She looked at the wall, clearly more to the story. The man never gave anything away for free, but there was a note of shame in his voice that hinted at the truth. ‘I wouldn’t have called Singh and Wheldon in if you’d been honest with me. If I’d known what you were planning.’
‘I thought…’ He ran his hand over the laptop absently, regrouping. ‘I thought I was protecting you.’
‘By making me think you were giving him up to be killed?’
‘I already said I got it wrong.’
She leaned over the countertop. ‘I think you’ve got a problem with telling the truth. I think you default to lies because it keeps you in control. So that only Michael Stringer can know the real story.’
He took a breath to say something but then looked at her as if he was thinking about it. ‘I don’t know what to say to that.’
‘Don’t look so crestfallen. It’s an observation, not a moral indictment.’
She started to smile and he mirrored her, but embarrassed, bowing his head in a way that said she’d understood him better than he understood himself.
‘Are you back at work now?’ he said. The abrupt change of subject confirmation of his embarrassment.
‘I will be, soon. Why?’
‘There’s something you need to know.’
She straightened up, his tone making her wary – not the idle distraction she’d thought.
‘Your boss, Stephen Langham.’
Her hairs on end now. ‘How do you know who…?’ She shook her head, remembering who she was dealing with. Eyed him, waiting.
‘He was on Oliver Kent’s payroll.’
‘What? How…?’ She closed her eyes, trying to make sense. ‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘I saw them together. So I asked him about it.’
‘You … And he just admitted it, did he?’
‘Of course not. But as good as.’
Holding on to the counter for dear life now. ‘What … I don’t understand, what for? Access?’
‘Denial of. Kent probably had someone at the top of every paper – shooting down stories to keep his name and his dodgy schemes out of the news. Usually they use a fixer or a middleman, but I guess the stakes were higher for him.’
‘Shooting down stories’: the phrase stopped her dead. Exactly what had happened to her, Stephen quick to shift the blame onto management. The implications cascading – Goddard and Oliver Kent collaborating on various deals over the years. Goddard trampling planning rules so developers and investors would make more money… ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘I know, it’s a lot to take in, but…’
‘No, it’s … it’s not that.’
He looked at her, waiting for more, concern on his face. ‘What?’
A picture coming together, incomplete but taking shape. ‘About Oliver Kent,’ she said, ‘I keep turning it over.’
He came alert now, the first signs of the old intensity in his bearing. ‘Go on.’
‘Kent and his backers had Tan killed to keep Suslov from getting him, right?’
He said nothing, watching her.
‘But I keep thinking, if Jamie Tan was running the whole scheme, why would they kill him? Doesn’t that cause them more problems than it solves?’
‘I had the same thought.’
‘But then Kent turns up dead, supposedly suicide. So what’s your best guess on what really happened there?’
‘Someone on the Russian end wanted him silenced. Maybe serves as a warning to Dalton, too.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
He tilted his head, sloughing off his own theory. ‘We know they’ve got more than one scheme moving money out of Russia. Tan’s replaceable, Kent less so if he’s the facilitator on the UK end.’
‘Exactly. The backers are the ultimate power here. The people with the money.’ She traced a circle on the countertop. ‘So what about this: what about if Jamie Tan wasn’t the brains behind the mirror trades? What if he fronted it, carried out the actual transactions and stuff, but there was someone more valuable behind him, out of sight? Someone who made the connections, brought in the clients, brokered the deals.’
He was nodding as she said it. ‘That would mean the scheme could carry on. No interruptions.’
‘And if that person had cut their own deal with Suslov, with the approval of the Russians, then Oliver Kent becomes yesterday’s man. Expendable.’
‘More than that – a loose end. A threat to expose them.’
Michael was watching her
– blue-grey eyes resonating with the same certainty she felt. ‘Say her name,’ he said.
‘Alicia Tan.’
CHAPTER 60
Stringer parked his car across the driveway gates. Straightaway he noticed Alicia’s Lexus was in a different position on the gravel.
Lydia jumped out before he’d even stopped the engine, holding down the buzzer on the entry panel. Stringer came to stand behind her.
The front door opened and a man in a suit with an open collar came across the drive. He was cut from the same cloth as Suslov’s bodyguard on the boat.
‘Yes?’ His accent was Eastern European.
‘My name’s Lydia Wright, I’d like to see Mrs Tan. It’s in her interest to talk to us.’
Alicia appeared in the doorway, hesitating as she looked out. She made eye contact with Stringer and held his stare. Then she called out to the bodyguard, her voice strong but quiet. ‘It’s alright.’
The man looked back at her for confirmation and she nodded.
Silence. Then a buzz as the electric motor came to life, the gate sliding open.
The man shadowed them across the driveway.
Alicia Tan stepped back to wait for them inside. Lydia went in first, but it was Stringer she kept her eyes on as they came close. When they were through the door, the bodyguard closed it behind them and only then did Alicia speak. ‘You promised me if I walked out of that flat I’d never see you again.’
‘Things change,’ Stringer said. ‘I wanted to be sure you were still alive.’
She opened her hands out, fingers splayed. ‘Then you’ve got what you came for.’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet. I need to know if this ends with Oliver Kent.’
She crossed one foot in front of the other. ‘I don’t understand.’
Lydia swore under her breath. ‘Oliver Kent had Jamie killed as a warning to you. He knew Suslov was trying to squeeze him out, and he thought that would scare you back into line. He underestimated you, and you defected to Suslov anyway, taking all your influence over the mirror trades with you. You and Suslov go back, from when he was your client at Cawthorne Probert.’