‘She’s Aussie,’ said Jerry. ‘I’m from Dalston.’
‘Go get some glass, Jerry. We need surfaces like the man said. What’s your name?’
‘Joe,’ said the blonde guy.
‘I’m Siena. He’s Jerry,’ she said.
Jerry got up, brushed past Joe and left the room.
Joe squatted down opposite Siena. He was young and fit. His blonde hair was central-parted. He tucked it behind his ears, stroked his goatee.
‘So how come you got such pure blow?’ asked Siena.
‘I have friends,’ said Joe. ‘My weed you turned down. That’s not just any old weed. My tabs’re not just any old tabs.’
‘What’s so special about your weed?’
‘It’s called AK-47. Grow it myself. Maybe not quite up there with Super Silver Haze but it’s close. The seeds are flown in from California.’
‘And the tabs?’
‘I got me a guy with access to a university lab. He does things like isolate the powerhouse drug from kratom. You know kratom?’
‘Heard about it in Thailand. Never tried it.’
‘Well this lab tech can isolate the 7-hydroxymitragynine from the alkaloids in the kratom leaves.’
‘Whatever the fuck that means.’
‘It means he’s found a way to extract a drug ten times stronger than morphine, but with no addictive qualities, you hear what I’m saying?’
Jerry came back in with a piece of plate glass.
‘So what’s with the blow, Joe?’ he said, happy that he wasn’t going to have to chase down any more stuff.
‘I have a Mexican guy who supplies me with uncut product,’ said Joe.
‘Can we meet him?’ asked Siena.
‘I’d introduce you, but he’s unpredictable. Has a habit of killing people he doesn’t like, and there’s no telling.’
‘You’re fucking with me,’ said Siena.
‘He was born and raised in Ciudad Juarez,’ said Joe. ‘Thirty thousand people a year get killed there. It’s like a war zone but with a death rate ten times higher.’
‘Shall we, like, get on with it?’ said Jerry, bored by Siena fancying yet another guy who could get her high.
Joe produced a tiny bag and a razor. He uncapped the razor, sliced the top off the bag and poured the small quantity of white powder on to the glass. He made three thin one-inch lines with the razor and handed a stainless-steel tube to Siena. She snorted a line and the effort knocked her back into the wall. As Jerry snorted his line Siena’s neck became longer and she let out a little cry as of a distant child playing. Jerry fell back slowly and lay there with his groin slightly raised.
‘Oh, ma-a-a-an,’ he said.
Joe snorted his line, took the hit in his stride, dropped his head back.
‘Oh my God,’ said Siena. ‘Let’s go party.’
They went down into the basement, threw themselves into trance music so dense they could almost chew it. Siena got in close to Joe. The sweat soaked through his T-shirt, showing the edges of his pecs. She slapped his chest, wrapped her arms around his neck. They went back upstairs to the empty room with the orange light. She knelt down, let him know that she was available, looked back at him. Joe clocked the lack of knickers, slipped on a condom. Afterwards they sat with their backs to the wall.
‘You going to let me try one of your kratom tabs?’
‘They’re not cheap.’
‘I got money.’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘That’s how I play it,’ said Siena.
‘So … where’s it come from?’
‘My mother owns Casey Prospecting Limited in Western Australia. We keep China in iron ore.’
‘Whoa,’ said Joe. ‘She know you’re in a dive like this?’
‘She’s knows I’m in London.’
‘Right. So let’s make sure we don’t have an ugly OD scenario on our hands.’
‘You can OD on kratom?’
‘This mix you can,’ said Joe. ‘Strictly one tab … no more’n that.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How old are you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I hope you’re over sixteen.’
She punched him in the arm for taking the piss.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘I was seventeen last week,’ she said, kissing him on the mouth. ‘You?’
‘Twenty-four in October.’
‘Then let’s do some kratom.’
He gave her a tab, which she knocked back with Coca-Cola.
‘You going to take one?’
‘It’s better I keep an eye on you the first time.’
‘You’re different,’ she said. ‘Not many guys give a shit.’
‘Don’t want your mum coming down on my head.’
‘You ever seen my mum?’
‘No.’
‘She’s over two hundred pounds,’ said Siena. She gasped.
‘You OK?’
‘Just getting something from the kratom.’
He waited. They stopped talking. She fell asleep. Ten minutes later he picked her up and put her over his shoulder, tugged her dress down over her bare bottom and walked downstairs. He didn’t meet anybody.
Outside, he walked down the street and a car pulled up alongside him. He lowered Siena Casey into the back seat, got in with her. The car pulled away.
‘Everything OK?’ asked the driver.
‘Perfect,’ said Joe.
‘Great. That’s four in the bag for tonight. Just a couple more to go.’
‘Tonight?’
‘One later this morning, one tomorrow and we’re done.’
2
06.30, 15 January 2014,
St George’s Hill Estate, Weybridge, Surrey.
Irina Yermilov was up early. Sergei, her husband, always liked her to be dressed and ready to see him off whatever the time. And dressed meant dressed up, not just jeans and a T-shirt. It had always been like this, even in the days when he’d been a lowly mafia soldier in Prague living in a hotel on Wenceslas Square. She’d always had to get up in the morning, put on full make-up, her best spray-on minidress and high heels to accompany him down to the roped-off breakfast area where they would eat in conspicuous isolation in front of the tourists and other idiots who thought that Prague was still working in the spirit of Vaclev Havel. At least he treated her with respect. None of his cronies could bring their prostitutes to the table. And some of them came down with three girls to show what real men they were.
The cook was laying out the breakfast: blinis, sour cream, caviar, syrniki, rye bread, sausage, cold cuts and scrambled eggs. Irina was looking her devastating best as Sergei came downstairs. He was flying to Moscow for a high-level government meeting and was in no mood for conversation. The breakfast room overlooked the St George’s Hill golf course. Yermilov didn’t see it, didn’t care about it, didn’t even play golf.
‘Is Yury coming down to say goodbye?’
‘He’s just getting dressed,’ said Irina. ‘You know what he’s like in the mornings.’
‘Is he playing today?’
‘Yes, the under tens are playing Downsend this afternoon.’
‘You will go and watch?’
‘Of course,’ she said, giving a little hurt pout.
‘Sometimes you have your other things,’ said Yermilov, as if they were trifles.
Irina said nothing, served him his black tea in a glass in an ornate silver holder, which was just about the only thing she did for him in the mornings.
Sergei tucked a napkin into his neck, covering his tie, shirt and jacket. He ate. A lot. He weighed in at two hundred and fifty pounds. His eyes had got smaller, pig-like, as his face had grown around them. He breathed heavily through his nose. He looked at his 18-carat gold Rolex, which pinched into the skin of his wrist, assessing the time he could devote to this meal. He wolfed blinis, sour cream and caviar, followed by several syrniki, before starting on rye bread, eggs and sausage. He washed it al
l down with the strong, sweet tea provided by Irina, who was a little under half his weight and still had the figure of the promising tennis player she’d been when she’d first bumped into him.
She’d got to the point where almost every day she regretted that extraordinary meeting in a Moscow nightclub. She knew his type from the company he was keeping and the way the nightclub owner was falling over himself. In fact it was the nightclub owner who’d asked her if she would care to join Sergei at his table. She refused and the sweat came out on his face. No, she wouldn’t go to him. She wasn’t some whore. He had to come to her. Which he did. On the dance floor. He was young and beautiful in those days, and loaded with money, which he was keen to blow on her at every opportunity.
Then they went to Prague and she saw what he was doing. He beat up people who didn’t pay his extortionate protection rates. He had his men smack the girls around who weren’t getting enough customers. She’d heard he tortured people whose relatives had run up casino debts and that he killed debtors if they couldn’t come through with the money. But by then it was too late. There was no way out and somebody else had come along to make sure she would never leave. Yury.
There was the thunder of small hooves as her nine-year-old son hurtled down the stairs. He was washed, brushed and dressed in the Danes Hill School uniform of black trousers, white shirt, tie and grey pullover with a blue V. He went to his father, who hugged him and kissed his neck, stroked his head. Sergei loved his son with an intensity that surprised Irina. She’d never felt anything like that passion from him in the twelve years they’d been together. In fact he’d kept her at arm’s length in almost every aspect of their lives, and lately, thank God, that included sex.
She had no real idea what he did for a living now. She knew it was business and that he had powerful connections in government. She also knew that it wasn’t the straightforward brutal stuff that he’d been doing in Prague. He was in that strange middle ground that only modern Russia specialised in, somewhere between industry, government and crime.
She fussed over Yury, got him eating and happy, which she knew Sergei loved to see: a healthy appetite and humour were the essentials. Sergei responded by making funny monster faces, which made Yury giggle but only convinced Irina that he was revealing the aberrations of his inner life.
Finally the company car rolled down the drive to the neoclassical pedimented building that had recently been valued by a local estate agent for insurance at £14.5 million. It was an armoured Mercedes with a heavyweight driver and a bodyguard in the back. The same way Yury would travel, except the boy’s Mercedes wasn’t reinforced. Sergei stood up, ripped the napkin from his neck and wiped his mouth. He beckoned to Yury, who hopped off his chair and gave his father a huge hug, arms stretching around his full girth, face buried in his stomach. Sergei kissed the boy’s head. They parted. Irina was given a dismissive flap of the hand over his shoulder.
‘See you Tuesday,’ he said.
Irina and Yury went to the window, which made the picture Sergei Yermilov demanded to see – mother and son waving goodbye. The Mercedes pulled away. There was a palpable relaxation in the room. The troublesome monster had departed. Now they could start enjoying themselves.
Fifteen minutes later, a VW Passat arrived with driver and bodyguard. They parked by the garage, opened the door and drove out in the family Mercedes, stopping in front of the house. The bodyguard got out and looked around warily, as if he was on a Moscow street rather than outside a luxury house in St George’s Hill. He rang the bell. Irina busied herself getting Yury’s laptop and books together and the case of clean games kit that the maid had washed and ironed. Yury held his iPhone to his chest with both hands. Irina gave him a big kiss on the lips. His eyes shone back at her.
Yury was unfazed by the fearsome bodyguard, who smiled at Irina revealing a gold tooth and a grin so lacking in humour she was concerned at letting her son go into his care. The boy threw himself across the back seat, followed by the bodyguard. The car pulled away and headed for the road outside the perimeter of the exclusive estate. Yury’s thumbs danced over his iPhone.
In a few minutes they came out on to the Byfleet Road and headed for Oxshott and Yury’s school. They were early so as not to get caught in the school rush. Sergei Yermilov did not like his son’s car being stationary in traffic, where there were fewer options for escape, and so Yury was sent to school about forty minutes before all his school friends.
As the driver pulled away, a truck eased out into the road behind the Mercedes and stalled across both lanes. The Mercedes travelled fast along a stretch of road with no traffic in either direction. As it passed the turning to the Silvermere Care Home, a police car pulled out from a side road on the left and the driver was forced to stop. At the same moment another police car pulled out behind them, blocking their rear. Two officers got out of the car in front. They were dressed in peaked caps and flak jackets and had holstered weapons on their hips. The driver checked the rear-view, saw two similar officers coming from the other car. He looked at the bodyguard, who shrugged. Yury looked up from his iPhone to find that real life had become more interesting.
The driver stared at the approaching officers with eyes narrowed, full of suspicion. His legs were squeezed shut with a PSS Silent Pistol between them. The bodyguard had access to an MP-443 Grach. The four officers drew level with the car. In each case one was slightly ahead of the other and the rear officer had his hand on the Glock 17 in his holster. The lead officer in each pair asked the occupants of the car to open their doors, making a gesture so that it was understood.
Even the driver wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what triggered his next move – some intuition bred from frequent assaults– because he suddenly kicked open his door, which knocked over the lead officer, and produced his PSS. He had no time to fire. The rear officer drew his Glock 17 and put three bullets in his chest and one into his head before he’d even fired a shot.
At the same moment the lead officer at the rear yanked open the door and fell away so that the shot that came from the MP-443 Grach shattered the window but didn’t touch him. The officer behind already had his Glock out and shot the bodyguard in the head. The blood spray speckled the bewildered Yury’s face. He was still holding his iPhone. The lead officer recovered, reached in, knocked the iPhone out of the boy’s hands, grabbed him by his pullover, shirt and tie and hauled him over the inert bodyguard’s legs. Yury started kicking and screaming. The rear officer produced a handkerchief, put it over the boy’s face and he immediately slumped. The lead officer walked back with him draped over an arm while the other officers kicked the doors shut and trotted back to their cars. They moved off. As they approached the Silvermere Haven Pet Cemetery, they flashed the truck, which pulled into the lane so that they could pass.
The police car in the rear turned and drove back, flashing the truck stalled across the road. It manoeuvred out of the way and they drove past heading for the M25. The operation had taken three and a half minutes.
By midday, DCS Oscar Hines, the new head of the Metropolitan Police’s Kidnap and Special Investigations Unit, had made all his decisions. He had told no one. Since his appointment, which had come with the news that DCS Peter Makepeace was now the new head of the Organised Crime Command, he’d realised that the offices were rife with rumours of cuts and redundancies. Under those circumstances nobody liked to see their new boss working in total secrecy on new plans.
He looked through the numbers on his contact list and made his first call of the day to DI Mercy Danquah, who was away giving a course on Special Investigations techniques.
‘This is DCS Oscar Hines,’ he said.
‘Hello, sir. How can I help you?’ said Mercy tentatively.
‘I’d like you to come back to the office and present yourself here first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Can I ask what it’s about, sir?’ she said. ‘As you know, I’m giving a course here. I can’t just walk out. Something has to be said.’
Mercy clicked off her phone and looked around the people sitting with her in the canteen. They all stared back, some with food on the way to their mouths.
‘Got to go,’ she said, standing. ‘Sorry.’
She went into the lobby and out into the rain, where she stood under the canopy of the entrance and made a phone call to her lover, Marcus Alleyne.
‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘It sounds like I might be doing something with you, whereas I had been thinking of having a quiet night in on my own,’ he said. ‘You all right, Mercy?’
‘No, I’m all wrong,’ she said. ‘I’m booking a table and we’re going out to dinner. You come round to mine and we’ll catch a cab. We are drinking tonight.’
‘You’re sounding very … purposeful, Mercy.’
‘This might be the last time we go out for quite a while,’ she said.
‘And why’s that?’
‘I think I’m about to lose my job.’
3
17.00, 15 January 2014
LOST Foundation offices, Jacob’s Well Mews, London W1
‘I want you to find my father,’ she said, in a deep voice with a little croak in it, sexy.
‘How long ago did he disappear?’ asked Boxer.
‘Three days,’ she said, sitting back in the white leather chair.
‘Only three days,’ said Boxer. ‘You know the LOST Foundation doesn’t—’
‘Yeah, I know it doesn’t.’
‘So what are you doing here, Siobhan?’ asked Boxer. ‘The nearest police station is where you want to be.’
‘I don’t want to go to the police.’
‘Any reason?’
‘I know my father wouldn’t want them – or anybody else – nosing around in his affairs.’
Stealing People Page 2
