by Rod Reynolds
Alicia was a pro; Lydia had gone in all guns blazing and she showed no reaction to any of it. She looked at Stringer. ‘Is she always this friendly?’
‘I just want to establish that we’re on an even footing when it comes to information,’ Lydia said.
‘I don’t even know who you are.’
‘Lydia Wright. I’m a journalist.’
‘A journalist.’ She glanced at Stringer again. ‘The one with the video?’
Lydia nodded and Alicia shot her a look. ‘Five minutes of fame off the back of my husband’s murder.’
‘You chose your life. I didn’t ask for any of this.’
Alicia’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you honestly standing in my house telling me my husband deserved it?’
‘No. I’m saying you both knew the risks.’
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’
Stringer cut in. ‘This act would be a lot more convincing if you’d gone to the police like you said you did, Alicia.’
She breathed out slowly, uneven.
‘I should’ve worked it out then,’ Stringer said, ‘in the flat. You owe me for that, if nothing else.’
‘Owe you, how?’
‘I bought you time and space to work out your deal with Suslov. Unwittingly, but it was a godsend for you. Disappear off the fucking earth at just the right time. Kent was looking everywhere for you.’ He thought back to the underground garage, Dalton’s questions about Alicia’s whereabouts, Kent probing him for the same in his office. Giveaways he should’ve recognised at the time.
‘You must feel so used,’ Alicia said.
‘I’ll live.’
‘If you came here for money, I think you know I’m not the person to threaten.’
The bodyguard took a step closer to her, apparently oblivious to the whole different scale of protection she was referring to, stretching two thousand miles to the east.
‘He’s already told you what we want,’ Lydia said. ‘Does it end with Kent?’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Lydia drew nearer. ‘Look, I don’t give a shit about you or your scheme, or any of the other bullshit. I just want my life back, and to know I can walk around without looking over my shoulder.’
‘Then my best advice to you would be to keep a very low profile.’
‘That costs you more.’
Alicia started backing away. ‘This really isn’t a negotiation—’
‘Peter Goddard,’ Lydia said. ‘Three years ago you were trying to arrange a meeting between him and Andriy Suslov. Tell me what was discussed, and I’ll forget I ever heard of you.’
Alicia stared at her, showing no reaction.
Stringer watched the bodyguard, his hand slipping to his pocket.
Alicia blinked and said, ‘Come into the kitchen.’
She talked without emotion or eye contact. At first the phrase ‘ice queen’ kept running through Lydia’s head, but as Alicia went on, even that label didn’t fit quite right – too caricatured and stylised. This was a businesswoman engaging in a business transaction – a dispassionate exchange of information for a perceived advantage.
Andriy Suslov had been her client at Cawthorne Probert and that had brought Peter Goddard to her door. Goddard talked up a business opportunity he was fronting, aimed at super-rich foreigners: investment in luxury London developments on preferential terms – the kind of terms only Goddard and his political cronies could deliver. Goddard talked up his construction partners, and introduced them to his liaison with the industry – Sir Oliver Kent. ‘Goddard used to say the name as if it was a synonym for probity. The overseas guys loved it – they’d hear “Sir” and think “establishment”. As if that was some stamp of officialdom that made it all legitimate – even when we all knew it wasn’t.’
Suslov had given them an audience, but ultimately decided to pass – for the reason that only a billionaire could turn down the chance to make an easy couple of mil: ‘It’s not enough. It’s not worth my time.’
But Alicia had recognised an opportunity none of the others could see; something she’d been working on in the background ever since she first helped Andriy Suslov get his money out of Russia: mirror trades. And in Sir Oliver Kent, she’d found the last piece she needed: someone crooked enough to funnel the money to, who could offer a return to make it worthwhile. He’d near enough bitten her hand off to get involved, and once they’d put everything in place, it all ran smoothly for a couple of years – that was until Andriy Suslov got wind of it all and decided to muscle Kent out.
Michael asked a question then, but Lydia couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. All she could think about was Stephen’s betrayal.
All the time spent doubting herself. The self-recrimination. The sanctimonious fucking lectures about how she needed to learn patience. All of it a lie, in truth him spiking the Goddard story to protect Oliver Kent. She felt sick at the thought she’d let this man into her bed. Into her life. Violated by the person she trusted the most.
Alicia was speaking about Jamie Tan – answering Michael’s question. How easy it’d been to talk Jamie into being the front man for the scheme while Alicia stepped back from the industry for cover. ‘Greed was Jamie’s North Star. He hated himself for it but he wasn’t strong enough to change or do anything about it – except light a few candles.’
Lydia tuned her out again, sick of all of them – Jamie and Alicia, Suslov, Kent – rich people willing to trample over anyone and anything to take even more. Attended by simpering fucks like Stephen Langham. Tammy came into her mind then, all the rumours that she’d turned into a crackpot, cutting her career off at the knees, and wondered if he’d been behind that too. Destroying the best investigative reporter of her generation just to protect his masters – and covering up for them when they had her killed.
Everything she’d worked for, everything she’d believed in, everyone she’d trusted, ground to dust.
Stringer climbed behind the wheel, Lydia looking straight ahead through the windscreen.
‘She doesn’t know about Dalton,’ he said.
‘Nope. She’s screwed.’ She sounded faraway, her jaw set like she was ready to go to war.
The details Alicia provided didn’t mean much to him, but the gist was easy enough to grasp – Goddard touting preferential terms on large-scale property developments to selected investors. Terms he was able to secure by using his clout in City Hall. Its significance to Lydia was harder to gauge. ‘Is it enough?’
‘Enough for what?’
‘To get him?’
She lifted her eyes, focusing on the light playing off the treetops like it was an answer to a question only she knew. ‘Fuck getting him. Let’s make some money.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My sincere gratitude goes to everyone who helped in the creation of this book. In particular, I’d like to thank:
My agent, Jane Gregory, her editor, Stephanie Glencross, and the whole team at David Higham Associates for all their input and encouragement with this manuscript as it evolved.
My publisher, Karen Sullivan, for seeing the potential in this book, and the wonderful team at Orenda Books.
Beverley Fox and all the staff at Weybridge Library, for the truly amazing support they’ve shown me – it makes such an incredible difference.
Richard King, for his invaluable help with all matters financial (and time-zone related).
Mark, Flick, Laura, Hannah, Sara, Megan and the rest of the crew, for keeping me sane by trying to kill me twice a week.
My fellow crime authors: writing can be a lonely business, and the encouragement and comradeship from the crime community is invaluable.
My family, for putting up with the endless hours of me sitting at a laptop staring at the wall.
And most of all, my readers, who have come with me through four books now, and I hope will join me for many more.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rod Reynolds is the author of four novels, i
ncluding the Charlie Yates series. His 2015 debut, The Dark Inside, was longlisted for the CWA New Blood Dagger, and was followed by Black Night Falling (2016) and Cold Desert Sky (2018); the Guardian has called the books ‘pitch-perfect American noir’. A lifelong Londoner, in 2020 Orenda Books will publish Blood Red City, his first novel set in his hometown.
Rod previously worked in advertising as a media buyer, and holds an MA in novel writing from City University London. He lives with his wife and family and spends most of his time trying to keep up with his two young daughters.
Follow him on Twitter @Rod_WR.
COPYRIGHT
Orenda Books
16 Carson Road
West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books, 2020
Copyright © Rod Reynolds, 2020
Rod Reynolds has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–913193–24–9
eISBN 978–1–913193–25–6
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