Whatever It Takes

by Barbara Elsborg

  She glared. “Yes. Nothing. The chances were never high of finding a knife in the Thames.”

  “Well look again. They didn’t wear gloves. There’ll be prints. Dima has asked me to destroy my car. Arkady is going to insist I do it. If I refuse, he’ll be suspicious. You need to take my car, destroy an identical one and make sure the car computer and GPS match my vehicle. If you take my BMW into safekeeping, at least you’ll have some evidence.”

  “If we arrest Dima and Qash, we’ll lose Arkady.”

  And there was the rub. “Maybe you have to decide what’s the most important. Catching a few Russian billionaires paying Arkady to wash their money or saving the lives and futures of vulnerable young women who are tricked into prostitution. Some of them not much more than kids. I know what I think is more critical.”

  Helen glared. “And where do you think that laundered money comes from? Prostitution, drugs, trade in illicit goods and weapons, armed robbery, counterfeiting—all activities of organised crime.”

  “Not all of it.”

  She gave a short laugh. “You think Arkady is an angel?”

  “I know he’s not.” But he’d saved Roman once upon a time.

  “What about the Syrian who found the wallet? Zain Nasry? You’re still looking for him?”

  Roman tried to look nonchalant as he shrugged. “No. I don’t want to find him. There’s no need. If he’d been going to say something, he would have. Though Arkady and Dima will never believe that. But I’d never hand him to those sharks.”

  She furrowed her brow. “If we found him, he could testify that he discovered the wallet in your car. That helps our case. Just as well I actually am your alibi for that night or you’d be in the picture for the murder.”

  She laughed but Roman didn’t like the look in her eyes, and although he had been with her, they hadn’t been together all night. He might trust her in part, but no one would ever have his complete trust.

  “Please arrest Dima. Seize his computer and his phones. You must have more than enough to prove he’s trafficking. You stopped the minibus in May, caught those migrants in the Channel. Don’t let him get another delivery through. “

  “We want Arkady.”

  A muscle twitched in Roman’s cheek and he wished it still. “You’re greedy. You’ll always want more. More names. More Russian names.”

  “Copy his phone records.”

  “I’ve already told you I can’t. There’s a safeguard on his system. The duress code will wipe everything. You need Arkady to cooperate. He’s more valuable to you if he does. Take Dima into custody. Come to an arrangement with Arkady. His truth for Dima’s freedom. I doubt Dima was the one who killed Sheripov. He wouldn’t have wanted to get blood on his suit. Qash is the dangerous one.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  “Tough. It ends when we say it ends.” She pushed to her feet, retrieved a phone from her coat pocket and looked at it. “Their car’s gone. I can leave now. I’ll go out through the basement just in case. Don’t forget to check the room.”

  “My car,” Roman said.

  “Is there anything in it you need?”

  “No.”

  “Spare key?”

  “In my study.”

  “Give it me and I’ll send someone to get the car tonight. Report it missing in the morning. I’ll make sure the car we set fire to is identifiable as yours.”

  “That’s not going to work. There’s a fairly easy way to get into a BMW but it requires me being within a hundred yards of it with my key fob. I’ll say I went down to get something at around eleven, and it must have been taken shortly after that while I was close by. There are cameras in the parking area that need to be dealt with.”

  “Fine. Go down at eleven.”

  Roman gave her the spare key, made sure the front door closed silently behind her, then used his phone to check for any recording device. Hard to know how Dima or Qash would have put one anywhere without him seeing. He wasn’t sure if Dima trusted him or not, but it was safer to assume he didn’t. But Roman found nothing. He sat at his desk with the light off and emailed Helen the recording he’d made. It frustrated him that she was so slow to take action. Every day he continued to give her information put him in greater danger.

  He thought about Zain hiding under the stairs and sighed. He might have told Zain he needed to be patient, but Roman had run out of patience. He’d gone into this hoping to save Arkady but maybe that wasn’t going to be possible. He needed this over before it ended in a way he didn’t want. Not just for him but for Zain too.

  Zain. The biggest mistake of his life or the best thing that had happened to him for a long time. He hadn’t set off with the intention of anything more than sex between them and yet he wondered if he was lying to himself. He took pride in owning nothing he couldn’t walk away from. Even his saxophone. Though his piece of meteorite would never be left behind. But now…

  The feeling of not being safe was a constant presence in his head and it was exhausting. Roman needed to stay sharp, keep his wits about him. He knew the danger of this life when he’d gone into it. He didn’t expect to waltz off into the sunset at Zain’s side. Zain had his future all mapped out and he was going to be a brilliant doctor. All Roman had to do was make sure Zain survived what was coming.

  He pushed to his feet and walked over to the window. The room faced the street rather than the river and he stood at the corner of the window and looked down. He hadn’t been for a run today and he didn’t want to. Not with Zain waiting for him. Roman smiled, but as he was about to move away from the window, he froze. Helen had said Dima had left. Their car has gone. But that looked like Qash standing in the doorway of the building opposite. Am I wrong?

  He picked up his phone, called Helen. “Dragon.”

  “You miss me already?” She chuckled.

  “You said their car had gone. Did the car have two people in it?”

  “Wait.”

  Roman dragged his fingers through his hair.

  “He’s not sure,” Helen eventually said. “Possibly not. Why?”

  “Because Qash is standing opposite my building.”

  “Do you want to do anything about it?”

  Roman looked back outside. “He’s gone.” Moved anyway.

  “Maybe it wasn’t him.”

  “Maybe.” But Roman hadn’t made a mistake.

  “It’s all sorted for tonight.”

  As she ended the call, another came through. Qash.

  “What do you want?” Roman said.

  “Why didn’t your girlfriend eat with you?”

  “She had dinner with a client.”

  “Where did you get food?”

  Roman’s stomach churned.

  “Restaurant on Leman Street. Why?”

  “Thought I try. Smell just like home. What dish you recommend?”

  “I always have lamb. But it’s all good.”

  Qash cut him off. It could be nothing. It could be the beginning of the end. Roman wasn’t going to admit having travelled halfway across the city to go to what the internet said was the best Syrian restaurant in London. The place on Leman street was one Roman had been to before and a mile and a half from his apartment. But was that really what Qash wanted?

  It hadn’t escaped Roman’s attention that Qash had not sent the photo of Zain that he’d promised. Roman wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Should he have asked him about it? Was not doing so an indication that he knew Zain was the one Qash was looking for? Shit. Whichever he jumped, he was in trouble.

  Roman went into the hallway, opened the hidden door and pulled up the section of stairs.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a girlfriend?” Zain asked.

  Chapter Eleven

  Zain had thought hard about whether to say anything when he came face to face with Roman, along with what to say and when to say it. All to no avail because the wor
ds had just spurted from his mouth, the hurt clear in his tone. Shit.

  “You could hear?” Roman asked.

  Which wasn’t an answer. Because obviously he’d been able to hear. Zain’s hopes that Roman would just tell him it wasn’t true evaporated. Though he wouldn’t have believed him. Zain knew what he’d heard. He clambered out of the hole.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” Roman said. “What did you hear?”

  If he’d not added that last part… Zain sidled past, being careful not touch him, slunk to the couch in the living area and sat down. Roman followed but didn’t sit down.

  “What did you hear?” Roman repeated.

  “Why does it matter? I heard enough. You have a girlfriend called Helen. I guess you’re bi. That’s fine. I have no problem with you being bi but I do have a problem with you having a girlfriend. What’s the English expression? Having your cake and eating it?”

  Zain stared at Roman. He could almost see him working out what he needed to say. He looked upset. Because he’d been caught?

  “I’m not bi. Helen’s not my girlfriend. She’s pretending. We’re both pretending.”

  Zain gaped at him. “Why?”

  “Because it reduces the risk of anyone thinking I’m gay. I don’t want to lose my job. Helen’s an old friend. She’s just doing me a favour. I called her and asked her to come when I knew Dima and Qash were on their way up. Apart from the fact that it was a way to show them she existed, I didn’t want them hanging around the entire night while you sat under the stairs.”

  Zain exhaled, his gaze fixed on the floor. There was something not…right about that.

  “Anyway, it worked. They’re gone. Helen’s gone.”

  “So has the mood.” Though Zain didn’t want it gone. Even though there was something he wasn’t getting, he wanted to believe Roman.

  Roman dropped down by his side. “I’m one hundred percent gay. I’ve always liked guys. Now I like one particular guy. More than I should. More than is safe for either of us. But I seem unable to resist you.”

  “Am I even your type?” Zain glanced at him. “Be honest.”

  “My type?” Roman let out a shaky breath. “When you rarely fuck someone more than once, a type doesn’t come into it. I’ve never thought about having a type. Maybe… Someone who looks as though they want a sweet and slow fuck but they really like it hard and fast. Someone who isn’t like me. Someone who’s not a selfish arsehole. Someone who cares. Someone who could maybe make me care, be the beautiful thing in my life, remind me that I have a soul.”

  Zain gazed at him, Roman gave a tentative smile and Zain was lost. This was the man he wanted. There was nothing he could do to change that.

  “So what’s your type?” Roman asked.

  You are.

  “I like guys littler than me. Small feet. Blond hair. Shy. Cute. With angel wings tattooed on their back. Oh and they need to be able to play the saxophone.”

  “I have big feet.”

  “I can forgive you that.”

  “I could dye my hair.”

  “True.”

  “I could pretend to be shy.”

  “That’s a cute thing to say.”

  “I guess I could get the tattoo.”

  Zain winced. “No don’t. What if it was messed up and you got chicken wings?”

  Roman laughed.

  “Would you play your saxophone for me?”

  There was a long pause and Zain thought he was going to say no.

  “Okay.” Roman stood and Zain followed him up to the room on the roof.

  Roman knelt on the floor and opened the case. “I need to moisten the reed so I can’t talk for a minute.”

  He put a reed between his lips and stared at Zain.

  “Do you have to suck it?” Zain asked.

  Roman raised his eyebrows.

  “Lick it and suck it? How does it change? Oh, it will go softer, won’t it? More pliable.”

  Roman took it out of his mouth, turned it round and put it back in. He hung a strap around his neck, picked up the mouthpiece and took the reed out of his mouth.

  “Have you ever cut your tongue doing that?” Zain asked.

  “Couple of times. You can use water to moisten it, but this was easier.”

  Zain watched as Roman carefully assembled the mouthpiece, setting the reed in place, then tightening the small bolts. He rubbed Vaseline onto the neck of the instrument and twisted two sections into place. Zain was turned on by how careful he was being, how gentle.

  A moment later, everything was fastened together and the sax hung from his neck.

  “An alto sax, right?” Zain asked.

  “Yes. The tenor is heavier. I could manage it now. It has a richer more mellow tone, but this instrument is very important to me.”

  Zain knew why.

  “What would you like me to play?”

  “Flight of the Bumblebee.”

  Roman groaned. “That’s too fast.”

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star then, or if that’s too difficult Row, row, row your boat.”

  Roman laughed.

  “Or Kalinka. That’s a famous Russian song. Or your National Anthem. I actually do like that. It’s…brave and majestic.”

  Roman played Twinkle, twinkle. They were all right again, weren’t they? Zain knew there was stuff Roman wasn’t telling him but he sort of understood there were good reasons for that. Zain opened the glass doors, went outside onto the roof and Roman followed as he finished the song.

  “Do you play out here?” Zain asked.

  “I haven’t.”

  Zain sat on a chair. “Entertain me.”

  He knew the first piece Roman chose. Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street. Fuck, he’s good. He looked better than good. Zain hadn’t thought about how cold it was but both of them were barefoot and not wearing enough to be outdoors. But Zain was mesmerised, and Roman looked lost in the music. The notes sailed out into the sky and Zain wondered how far they travelled, who could hear them, what they thought of the solo saxophone crying into the night.

  Roman segued into another tune. “Know it?” he broke off to ask.

  “No.”

  “George Michael. Careless Whisper.”

  Zain closed his eyes and let the music flow over him. Roman switched to a classical piece Zain had heard before. He felt as if he was being carried on a magic carpet through a market in Aleppo. The music was haunting, mysterious and brought a lump to his throat. When the last note floated off to be swallowed by the darkness, Zain opened his eyes.

  “That was wonderful. Elton John?”

  Roman rolled his eyes. “Mussorgsky. Pictures at an Exhibition. Have you heard it before?”

  “It sounded familiar.”

  “It’s a musical representation of wandering through an art gallery of paintings done by Mussorgsky’s best friend. They both liked traditional things, Russian legends and folktales. The piece I just played was inspired by a painting called The Old Castle but sadly the artwork’s been lost. My father… It was his favourite piece.”

  Zain’s heart clenched. “Thank you for playing it for me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Roman took his phone from his pocket. “One more before I freeze to death. This is from Miss Saigon, the musical. Heard of it?”

  “Yes.”

  Roman played to accompany two singers, a woman and a man. A song about a love that goes on and on. Roman stared at him as he played and Zain’s heart dragged him to his feet and took him to stand in front of Roman. The lyrics… This was the soul Roman was hiding and he’d finally let Zain see it. Except the one thing Zain knew about Miss Saigon was that it was based on Puccini’s Madam Butterfly, a doomed romance that ended in death. Zain really hoped that wasn’t a warning.

  Back downstairs, the spicy scent of the food they’d eaten hit Zain full on.

  “Qashim noticed the aroma, didn’t he?”

  “I told him it was Lebanese. I’m assuming that’s close enough.”

  �
�It should be.”

  “But it was a reminder of how careful we need to be.” Roman came up close behind Zain and rested his chin in the crook of Zain’s shoulder. “Qash didn’t leave with Dima. He hung around outside for a while. He doesn’t live anywhere near here. He’s suspicious. I don’t like uncertainty. I’ve been thinking…”

  “Quick. Sit down in case you go light-headed.” Zain pulled him down.

  “Were you serious about being able to paint walls?”

  Zain gave a short laugh. “That was not the question I expected. Yes, I can paint walls.”

  “There’s a house in Mayfair that Arkady’s been commissioned to sell. One of the bedrooms needs repainting. The house is fully furnished. They’ve left everything. I was thinking it might be safer there. I have the only key and a week to get it ready for sale. I can stretch it to ten days. You can stay there until you’ve done the UCAT. What do you think?”

  Zain was disappointed. Then what?

  “There’s a swimming pool in the basement. And a hot tub and…and a surprise.”

  “A good-looking naked guy in the hot tub with angel wings on his back?”

  Roman pulled Zain onto his lap. “I don’t like to share.”

  “You mean I can’t get in with you?”

  “What do you think?”

  Zain’s capacity to think anything was being eroded by the way Roman was trailing his fingers along the waistline of his jeans. Zain’s skin was jumping.

  “I’d feel happier with you there,” Roman said.

  “What if the owners come back?”

  “They’re in Spain. They won’t. We can spend the night together. During the day you can paint that room, swim in the pool and pack up the clothes and personal items the owners left. There’s more space than here. You won’t feel so caged in.”

  That sounded better. And if Roman spent the nights there… “Okay. When do I move in?”

  “Tomorrow night or the night after.”