by Rennie Airth
‘Don’t understand …’ Pushed up against the balustrade, choked by the arm around his neck, he could barely speak.
‘You will, Bela, you will.’
Letting go of his hand, Charon bent swiftly and took a grip of his thighs.
‘You’ve got time.’
Hoisting him up in one movement he held him balanced, teetering like a seesaw on the bar of the balustrade.
‘… time …?’
‘It’s a long way down.’
He tipped the body over. A diminishing scream punctured the night air.
Charon leaned over the balustrade. He cupped an ear.
‘That music has a dying fall.’
Charon could feel his heart racing like a turbine engine: his nerve ends tingled with the thrill of it.
‘Divided by two? What can you have been thinking, Bela Horvath? You knew me better than anyone. You said so yourself.’
Stepping back, he wiped the handle of the door with his handkerchief, shut both of them and then retrieved the glass he’d used, took it to the kitchen, washed and dried it and then replaced it in the drinks cabinet. Had he touched anything else? Perhaps the wooden table by the chair where he’d been sitting? He wiped the surface carefully, and did the same thing to the front door handle as he went out.
He took the elevator down to the second floor and then walked down the stairs into the lobby, which was deserted. The door to the outside was open. No doubt the night porter had heard the scream and gone out to investigate. Charon had taken note of the CCTV camera mounted in the lobby and was careful to keep his face turned away from it. Without haste he walked out into the forecourt. Stars were beginning to appear in the night sky. The clouds were clearing. A small group had gathered away to his left in front of the building. He heard a woman’s cry, but paid no attention to it, walking towards the river, limping towards the river, a grey-haired man, too old and too handicapped to offer any assistance.
TWENTY-THREE
Looking down at the expanse of trampled, soiled snow – he was on an upper level of the National Theatre, leaning over a parapet that overlooked the broad walkway running alongside the river below – Charon was reminded of a scene he had witnessed years before on a dry, dusty plain in Africa. Tanganyika it was, the Serengeti Reserve.
He had offered his companion at the time a choice of holiday destinations. She had plumped for a safari, and in due course they had found themselves perched on a low hillock looking down at a herd of wildebeest with only a guide for company. A grizzled settler-type wearing soiled khaki – the words white hunter came to mind – he had the purplish nose of a drinker, a face the colour of mahogany and a vocabulary so limited it was all they could do to get a word out of him. Sign language had seemed to be his sole means of communication.
Without warning, he had pointed, and, following the direction of his nicotine-stained finger, Charon had noticed a slight difference in the colour of the grass below and a little to one side of the hill where they were sitting in the sparse shade of a thorn tree. Peering hard at the spot through his field glasses, he had eventually made out of the shapes of two – no, three lionesses. They must have been lying there for some time since he had not noticed their approach through the waist-high grass.
As he’d watched, the group had begun to stir. First one, then another of the animals had risen and begun to move off in a leisurely manner, though in different directions, their slow passage making little impression on the swaying grass, leaving the last of the trio alone and unmoving.
The herd had also begun to stir, though not in a noticeable way, there were no signs of panic among them, but like a ripple on the surface of an otherwise still pond, a shared feeling seemed to pass through the scattered herbivores and they began gradually to move off. Meantime, the two lionesses had quietly disposed themselves around the back of the herd, but keeping their distance, not ready yet to spook their prey, simply setting themselves up for the action that was to follow.
Only then did Charon spot their target. It was one of the cows near the edge of the herd. At first glance there seemed nothing wrong with her, but when you looked closer, you could see she was moving a little awkwardly – a torn muscle perhaps – not limping exactly but hampered in some way.
The lone lioness rose to her feet. She began to move forward, crouching low, crawling through the barely stirring grass. As though connected to her by some invisible medium, the other two began to advance at the same time, drawing closer to the herd, which by a similar shared instinct broke suddenly into a run, all but one galloping away across the dusty plain, leaving only the injured animal in their wake, struggling to keep up, but almost at once falling behind. At the same instant the crawling lioness rose to her full height and like a tawny arrow shot from a bow burst out of the tall grass. Coming at the straggler from the side, she easily caught up with it and then sprang on to its back and, with claws and teeth sunk in its neck, dragged it to the ground.
The kill had sent a thrill akin to an electric charge racing through Charon’s veins – for a moment he had sensed the claws, his claws digging deep into the unresisting flesh – and with the memory now fresh in his mind and something of the same excitement starting to build in him, he watched the three men he’d been observing for the past ten minutes slowly adjust their positions on the terrace below. Curly, Larry and Moe he’d named them, and stooges they were, creatures at the beck and call of a fourth man who was sitting at a table behind the plate-glass windows of a café some way to the left of where Charon had posted himself apparently reading a newspaper.
‘Anton Pavlovich …’
Although it was some years since he’d last set eyes on the Russian agent whose codename was Chekhov, Charon recognized the balding, stocky figure seated beside the window. The scene was set. It remained only for the ringmaster to give the signal.
Chekhov folded his newspaper and rose, buttoning his coat.
Curly was first to react. Tall and stooped, he had been standing not far from where Chekhov had been sitting, studying a pillar covered with posters advertising forthcoming attractions – for rather longer than was necessary. As he turned away, the second of the trio, Larry, balding and bull-shouldered, rose from the stone bench where he was seated almost directly below Charon and stretched luxuriously like a man tired of sitting and ready to move on. His gesture in turn triggered a reaction from Moe, the smallest of the three, who was dressed formally in a business suit and coat and carried an attaché case. He had been standing further along the walkway, glancing at his wristwatch every few minutes as though expecting someone to join him. Now he shook his head in apparent exasperation, making it clear he would wait no longer.
In fact, their prey had arrived some minutes earlier. Charon had spotted Gogol’s meandering progress as he came along the walkway from the bridge and even from a distance it was clear the man had been drinking. Twice he had bumped into pedestrians coming the other way, seemingly unaware of their presence, and although he appeared vaguely alert to possible danger, glancing behind him now and again, his movements were clumsy, uncoordinated: the straggler in the herd. The paved surface of the pathway, though much trampled, was still covered with snow and slippery enough for Gogol to have fastened one hand to the rail bordering the river as he walked alongside it. Meanwhile, with the weather clearing, it seemed Londoners along with the inevitable tourists were making the most of the opportunity to stretch their legs or simply bask in the spells of intermittent sunshine that broke through the scattered clouds overhead, and although the terrace below where Charon was standing wasn’t crowded it had remained busy for the half hour or so that he had been waiting there.
Following the directions Charon had given to him, Gogol had taken up a position almost directly below and in front of Charon, who had added a close-fitting woollen cap to his appearance and wrapped a large scarf around his neck which, pulled up as it was now, covered the bottom part of his face. In addition, he had provided himself with a camera and ha
d spent the time he was waiting apparently taking snaps of the river and the buildings lining it. Now he fixed his gaze on Gogol, who was standing with his back against the railing, head bowed, and with the brim of his black felt hat pulled down low so as to hide the bulging eyes, which half the police force in London must now be on the lookout for, or so Charon surmised.
With the pieces all in place, Chekhov had quit the café and come out on the terrace. Standing with his back to Gogol, he was apparently checking his phone, but Charon could see that his lips were moving and he was speaking into the lapel of his coat. At least one of his crew – the thick-set one who had been sitting on the bench below – had what looked like a hearing aid in his ear and Charon assumed the other two were similarly equipped. All three were moving in Gogol’s direction now, making their slow way through the strolling throng, none of them seeming to have any particular purpose in mind.
The next act would be choreographed and Charon felt he could have penned the script himself had he chosen to. The Russians were good at this sort of thing. The three men would group themselves around Gogol, none of them too close, none of them looking at him. Once in position they would go into action.
One of their number, most likely Larry, the heavy-shouldered one, would jostle their victim, pushing him off balance for a moment, long enough to distract him while a second – Curly perhaps – jabbed a hypodermic needle loaded with a knockout drug into his neck. As he collapsed suddenly to the ground, panic would ensue among those nearest to him. Cries for help would be heard. The first two would be down on their knees trying to render what help they could while the third, Moe, showing more presence of mind, would already have his phone out while announcing to the world that he was calling for help.
Later, those who had witnessed the incident would comment admiringly on the speed with which an ambulance had arrived in the road behind the theatre and on the calm and efficient way in which the two medics who had run in carrying a stretcher had dealt with the unfortunate man lying prone on the cement, transferring him into their vehicle after only the briefest delay and driving him off at speed, siren wailing.
So much for the script, but Charon had a scenario of his own in mind, one that had occurred to him during the last few minutes and which had been brought on by the sight of Gogol standing where he was by the hand rail bordering the river. It was a long shot, but worth trying (and something of a coup de théâtre if he could pull it off). And he could also claim if he cared to that he’d be doing the man a favour considering what lay in wait for him at the hands of his captors.
But the question remained: how would Grigor react? Even given the right incentive, would the lab rat respond as expected? It was a field in which Charon, all modesty aside, quite rightly regarded himself as an expert. People were predictable. He had always said so. It was just a matter of pressing the right buttons. Speaking of which …
He took a phone from his pocket and tapped out a number. He watched as Gogol reached for his own phone.
‘Da?’
‘It’s me, Grigor. You’re in trouble.’
‘What … what …?’
‘I just got here and saw Chekhov. He’s over on the other side of the terrace near the café. He’s got his back to you. He has a crew with him. See the tall one to the right of you? And the big man in front?’
Gogol swore in Russian, his gaze switching from side to side.
‘Oh, and the little man with the briefcase – he’s one of them.’
More swearing. Gogol stood rooted to the spot, the phone pressed to his ear: a cornered wildebeest.
‘Don’t let them take you, old friend. You know what will happen. You’ll tell them the truth, but they won’t believe you, not till they’ve broken every bone in your body, and that’s just for starters. There’s nothing I can do to help. Look behind you.’
‘Behind?’ The word came in a gasp.
‘The river …’
Charon watched, fascinated. Had it worked? For a moment, he thought not. Then all at once Gogol spun on his heel, and clutching hold of the railing dragged his body up on to it. The three men who were near now saw what he was about to do and began to barge their way through the crowd. One of them, Larry, the biggest, lunged forward, knocking a young couple walking hand in hand aside, but he was too late. Not hesitating for a second, Gogol hauled himself over the railing and vanished.
There were screams now; people flocked to the edge of the terrace and leaned over the rail to peer down. Chekhov’s crew were lost in the crush.
Charon hurried to the end of the parapet where the view was clearer. His sometime partner had vanished for the moment, but presently he caught sight of Gogol’s head and his desperately flailing arms. He was being swept along by the muddy current and stayed afloat for only a few seconds. First his head sank beneath the surface, then his arms until finally there was nothing to be seen except for a small black object that spun round and round as it continued on its way downstream. It took Charon a moment to recognize what it was: a black felt hat.
The moment called for a suitable epitaph and he had one ready.
‘Sweet Thames, run softly …’
TWENTY-FOUR
It was Rose in her dream, but not the Rose she’d known: this was the Rose she had glimpsed for a second in the uncertain light of the hallway before they went out into the mews. Rose with her eyes wide and staring, mouth twisted in anguish. Rose on the edge of madness.
She was speaking to Addy, trying to tell her something; her lips were moving, but no sound came out, and Addy felt helpless. Trapped in the deep silence of the dream, she struggled to break through the invisible barrier that kept them apart, but try as she might she could get no closer to her aunt and then the dream ended as dreams did and she woke with a start and lay shaken and sweating.
The Rose in her dream wasn’t Rose. She knew that. People didn’t come back from the dead with grim warnings for the living. That was all crap. Most likely it was her own subconscious’ way of trying to tell her something and to fool her into thinking that if it was Rose talking to her, she just might believe there was something she had forgotten or hadn’t understood.
Which was?
Addy had no idea, and the struggle to recover it kept her tossing in bed for what felt like hours. It took for ever to get back to sleep, and when she woke next morning, with a solitary beam of sunshine showing through a crack in the curtains, she found that for once she was able to remember her dream in detail. It hadn’t melted away as they often did. Something was nagging at her, something important; it was there at the back of her mind, some idea she couldn’t quite get a hold of.
Waking later than usual, she went downstairs to find that Molly had left her a note on the kitchen table.
Had to pop out for an hour or two. Breakfast roll in the oven if you want it. Have you had any thoughts about the funeral? Christ Church and St Luke’s are both nearby if you want a religious ceremony. I could arrange that for you. Otherwise there’s the Golders Green crematorium. Let me know what you want. Molly
Addy was glad she could have breakfast on her own. They’d had dinner together last night and Molly had been in overdrive, going on and on about Rose, reliving the last few years, the things they had done together, and then wondering what had gone wrong in her friend’s life. Was it this man Philip Moreau? Was he behind it? Or was it someone else, some other man they didn’t know about? It was Molly’s way of trying to deal with the tragedy, Addy supposed, to talk it to death, and she felt bad about not being allowed to tell her that Philip Moreau wasn’t Philip Moreau; he was some badass killer that Rose had somehow got tangled up with, and would she please just shut up. What Addy wanted was quiet; a chance to ponder, to put all the pieces together, to think it through. No wonder then, with all that in her mind, that her sleep had been so disturbed. Perhaps her dream had been nothing more than the backwash of her waking thoughts. Yes, maybe … but Addy didn’t think so. There was something else there, hidden in the tangle
of half-formed ideas, a stray thread she hadn’t grasped yet.
She had just taken the roll Molly had left her from the oven when her phone rang.
‘Hi there.’ It was DS Malek. ‘Have you heard the news? That bloke I mentioned yesterday, the one who told us all about Charon and Moreau and the memory stick, the Safe Solutions guy, Bela Horvath – he fell off his balcony last night.’
‘He what?’
‘Ten floors down. Fell or was pushed. I thought I’d better tell you, and to warn you again not to talk to anyone about this. We don’t want what I told you yesterday to get into the newspapers until we can find out what’s going on.’
‘Pushed, you say?’
‘He had a visitor last night, a Russian. The hall porter can’t remember his name, but said he had an accent. He ran outside when he heard the commotion and didn’t see the man leave. But it must have been just after Horvath hit the ground. His visitor was caught on CCTV, but he kept his face hidden, and he was also spotted walking away.’
‘Could it have been the same man who killed Rose … what’s his name?’
‘Klepkin? We don’t think so. It sounded like an older man. One of the witnesses said he was limping.’
Addy was silent. She was staring at a calendar that was hanging on the wall. There was something about it …
‘Addy? Are you OK?’ He sounded concerned.
‘Sure.’ She pushed the thought, whatever it was, from her mind. ‘I was just thinking. It’s all part of the same thing, isn’t it? It’s to do with that memory stick.’
‘I would call that a reasonable assumption.’ He laughed drily.
‘So what is going on, for Christ’s sake?’
‘I wish we knew. But don’t tell anyone I said so. We can’t have the public thinking the Old Bill is baffled.’
‘Especially when it’s true.’
‘And no sharing any of this on social media.’
