by Nick Louth
The second man turned to Zoe. ‘I am Wolf. Are you PC Butter, lady I spoke to on phone?’
‘Butterfield, yes.’ Zoe put her hand on the Hummer’s door handle. The younger man’s face contorted into a proprietorial snarl.
‘What is your name?’ she asked Oleg. He didn’t reply.
‘His name is Oleg Alexandrovitch Volkov,’ Wolf said.
‘There are numerous unpaid penalty charge notices related to this vehicle which must be settled before I allow you to remove it. I suggest you give me the keys,’ she said, holding out a hand.
‘Oleg, give key, don’t produce trouble,’ Wolf said, then turned to Zoe. ‘Come to office. I pay this money now.’
Oleg slapped the keys into Zoe’s hands and stalked off, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. He made his way to a black Mitsubishi Warrior, got in and drove off down the drive at speed.
‘I make apologies for him,’ Wolf said, as they watched the car roar down the drive. ‘Child of cracked home. Never easy, despite all lolly he has.’
‘Lolly?’ Zoe suppressed a giggle.
‘English word for money, yes? In my country we have Only Fool and Horse on TV. Very funny. Lovely bubbly.’
Zoe couldn’t hold back a grin at the misremembered catchphrase. ‘Jubbly,’ she said. ‘Lovely jubbly.’
Wolf repeated the corrected phrase to himself a couple of times. She followed him into the rear entrance hall of the grand house, where a twenty-foot-tall Christmas tree reached only halfway to the teak-panelled ceiling. Zoe had years ago visited Westgrave Hall with her parents on one of its rare public open days in the height of summer. Her childhood memory was of grandiose roofs, spires, chimneys and a Victorian walled garden. The most pungent recollection was of a huge glass hothouse, within which exotic palms and ferns sweated, in what her mother had termed a jungle. She had dreamt of it for years afterwards.
‘A cup of Rosie?’ he asked her.
‘Yes please,’ she said, giggling again. ‘Milk, no sugar.’
‘Now we go round the Johnny Horner and up the apples and pears,’ Wolf said with a wink, as he led her up a grand curving staircase, past a Christmas tree on the landing, and along a corridor hung with Christmas decorations.
‘Why have you been learning Cockney rhyming slang?’ she asked.
‘To fit in. English people don’t like Johnny Foreigner, yes? So I think if I speak local twang, I fit better in.’
She grinned at him. ‘Taking comedy language off the TV or Internet doesn’t make you sound English, but it will make everyone smile.’
‘Well, that is good anyway.’
He took her along a passageway, and into a walnut-panelled office, in which there was yet another Christmas tree. There at a computer screen, she guided him through the online process of settling the congestion charge penalties. She watched him type an enormously complex name, Vakhtang Ashkharmitzvili, then extract a corporate credit card. She turned away while he keyed in the number.
‘Is done,’ he said finally.
‘How do you say your name?’ she asked.
He had laughed, and said, ‘Vakhtang, it means Wolf, so call me Wolf. That easy one. I am from Georgia, and my family name is…’ The sound was as if he was clearing his throat of an annoying fly. ‘Yes, is impossible. I always say, registrar of births he get tired typing my name, and so he fall asleep.’ He mimed his head crashing forward onto the keys of an imaginary typewriter, a splatter of random letters. He gave PC Butterfield a business card, in Russian on one side, English on the other.
‘Mr Hill was very upset about the incident,’ she said.
‘I understand,’ he said, nodding. ‘Oleg has hot blood, like mother. And too much lolly too easy.’
‘I think we can both agree on that.’
‘I will go see Mr Hill to apologise. Saying sorry is important to the English, I have learned this.’
‘That would be much appreciated, I’m sure.’
Wolf gave a shrug. ‘My job always to run behind horse with shovel. Here, many wild Volkov horse, only one shovel.’
Zoe laughed.
‘You have nice English smile, lady constable Butter.’
‘Oh, you have a way with words, Mr Wolf.’ She was grinning all over her face.
‘When you have day off, you want to come for evening in Fox and Hounds in village for a pint of hand-pushed bitter? That is English way, yes?’
‘I’m very flattered,’ she replied. ‘But it wouldn’t be appropriate, given that we have official dealings.’
Wolf pressed his hands to his chest. ‘My intention honourable, lady Butter. Not shag. Just friendly.’
She snorted helplessly with laughter. ‘I have a boyfriend, but thank you.’
As she left, she was grinning from ear to ear.
Chapter Three
It was one a.m. on Christmas morning. The Surrey Police patrol car slid down Westgrave Lane under the glare of a crane-mounted arc light, high in the sky, which seemed to be lighting up half the county.
‘Feel like we’re the wise men, following the star,’ said Constable Paul Thorne, as he squinted into the light and guided the vehicle up the shadowed lane.
‘Hope you’ve brought the frankincense and myrrh, then,’ answered PC Zoe Butterfield.
‘Yeah, gold they do not need.’
Even at this hour, parked cars lined the narrow lane for half a mile before they reached the main gates of the Palladian country house.
‘Wow, look at that,’ Butterfield said, as she peered through the intricate wrought-iron gates and up the half-mile drive to the honey-stoned turrets and frontages of Westgrave Hall. The place was even more magnificent now, as the entire approach to the house was coated in a thick blanket of snow, and the mature lime trees which towered over the drive were individually decked in densely packed fairy lights. From a distance it produced the effect of a sparkling frost.
‘It’s like something from Dr Zhivago,’ she breathed.
‘Bet they’ve had snow machines working on that all day,’ PC Thorne said, always down to earth. ‘Must have cost a fortune.’ He looked at the vehicle dashboard, which gave a temperature of 3°C. ‘Half of it will have thawed by morning, I would have thought.’
‘You’ve got no romance in your soul, Paul.’
‘Just wait until you’re married. That will knock it out of you. I see parties and I think drugs, vice and illicit cash.’
‘I never get invited to parties,’ Zoe said wistfully.
‘Parties like this are beyond us mortals,’ he said. ‘Let’s go in and take a look.’
The drive here was blocked by a giant log. ‘See the sign? You have to go in by the Oakham Gate, that’s round the west side,’ Zoe said.
Thorne put the patrol car back into gear and drove for two miles along the high stone walls of the estate until they came to the junction of Oakham Road. Turning right, he then drove north up the western edge of the estate. After four miles they saw Oakham Gate. The large wooden gates were open, but there was a chain across the road, decked with reflective plastic snowflakes. The snow machines had been busy here too, covering the meadows and the dense yew trees, in which were hung many flickering lanterns. Three shaven-headed and beefy security men stood by a Mitsubishi pickup. They were dressed in quilted jackets and big boots, with radio handsets and earpieces.
‘Ah, there he is,’ Butterfield said. ‘Wolf, Volkov’s head of security.’ She pointed him out, the shortest and widest of the three, with tinted glasses and a goatee. He was muttering something into his radio in a foreign language. ‘He’s a hilarious guy, offered me a cup of Rosie Lee when I first came to talk to him.’
‘Well, would you Adam and Eve it,’ said Thorne. ‘Who’d have thought Cockney rhyming slang would have reached Russia.’
She buzzed down the window. She could hear loud church choral music. At first she thought it was coming from the Mitsubishi, but then realised from the echo that it was over a PA system.
‘Just wanted
to check that everything is okay, Wolf,’ she said.
‘Is fine, Miss Butter,’ he replied. ‘Everyone is having a great time.’
‘Well, not quite everyone,’ she said. ‘We’ve had complaints from the residents about the noise. You really should turn it down this late.’
‘Always they complain,’ Wolf said with an expansive shrug. ‘Too many noise, too much traffics. We told them months ago. It’s Christmas, yes?’
‘Yes, I’ve seen the notification. But the music was supposed to be turned down at midnight.’
The shrug again. ‘It is turned down.’
‘You could hear this in Trafalgar Square, mate,’ Thorne said, leaning across his colleague. ‘Think of kids trying to sleep.’
‘Children, in this village? I don’t think so. They are all older than the dinosaur,’ he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘They reminisce together about good old Jurassic times.’ He laughed, a booming baritone.
‘What about these lights, mate?’ Thorne said. ‘Poor bloody owls will be colliding with each other.’
Wolf turned to look. As if on cue, the lights went off, throwing the small group into a ghostly shade, lit only from below by the glow of the snow. Then the sky was torn open by a series of ear-splitting explosions and dazzling showers of red, green and golden sparks as the firework display began.
‘So much for kiddies’ bedtime,’ Thorne said to Butterfield, thinking wistfully of his own young children, tucked up in bed in Woking. ‘These people think they’re untouchable.’
‘That’s money for you,’ Butterfield responded, as she watched a blue and violet starburst almost overhead, sending spirals of glittering motes in all directions.
‘Come, see display,’ Wolf said. ‘I will bring you to big house.’
Butterfield turned to her partner, and he said: ‘Go ahead, Zoe, and see if you can speak to the boss about the racket. I’ll stay here. But just make sure they don’t think you’re the kissogram,’ he winked at her.
* * *
PC Butterfield followed Wolf as he led her through a maze of outbuildings at the back of the hall. Once she was beyond the Victorian walled garden and could see the house itself, it was clear the snow machines had neglected nothing. The entire structure had been decked with thick layers: roofs, battlements, terraces, even window ledges. Icicles were already beginning to dangle from the gutters, gargoyles and turrets, spattering icy drips onto the ground. It looked like something from Hans Christian Andersen. Lights blazed from within, and guests could be seen at the upper windows, gazing out.
‘Tonight, over one thousand guests, fifty-three different nations,’ Wolf said. ‘We have nine members of royal families. Kings, princes from all the world, including the important Prince Andrew, yes. Strong industrialist, much money from Silicon Valley and China, finance kings from New York.’ He turned to her. ‘Hey, Ms Butter. You too late for Beyoncé.’
‘He hired Beyoncé?’ she gasped.
‘Yes, she arrive by helicopter.’ He mimed the clatter of rotors. ‘She lower on rope ladder onto stage for two-hour set at eight p.m. Two Siberian tiger babies on stage with her.’ He mimed a growl and claws. ‘They have special man to control for her. Is very good.’
‘My God!’ Butterfield knew that Volkov had money, but this kind of cash was almost beyond imagination.
A waitress approached them, all legs and cheekbones, carrying a tray of champagne in fluted crystal glasses and a pot of caviar in a bowl of ice. Wolf gestured to the constable. ‘Help yourself.’
‘I can’t drink when I’m on duty. But I will try a little of this,’ she said, helping herself to a teaspoonful of the tiny black fish roe. ‘Mmm, delicious,’ she said. ‘I had expected it to be more fishy.’
‘The caviar is malossol, low in salt, meaning it is the best,’ Wolf said. ‘Hint of ocean, a breeze of coast, not a strong taste fishy.’
‘So how did he become so rich?’ she asked, through a mouthful of caviar.
Wolf’s broad smile betrayed this as the most naïve of questions. ‘Breaking rocks for metal in hole. But is politics, also. Right place, right time. In Russia you have to smell the opportunity.’
‘I understand that Mr Volkov was getting engaged at this party?’ Butterfield said.
‘Yes. The beautiful Dr Sophie Cawkwell.’
‘The dinosaur lady from Channel Four, well, well.’ She was aware of the carefully curated appeal of Ms Cawkwell. Butterfield’s own father, who had previously shown no interest whatsoever in palaeontology, had been glued to every episode of Dig! ever since he had watched her wading through some tropical river, apparently bra-less beneath her clinging shirt, glistening sweat on her neck as she pointed out some obscure lizard which was the nearest living relative to a dinosaur.
Sex sells.
It was only when Zoe rounded the corner to the front of the house that the true opulence of the party became apparent. There were three ranked snowy terraces, each the size of two tennis courts, leading down towards the main drive. The first and highest one was packed with waltzing couples, in full evening dress. Many of them from their poise and grace were clearly professional dancers. It made Strictly look like a village fete. The terrace below had been turned into an ice rink, on which dozens of skaters in glittering costumes circled around a team of four white-plumed horses, fastened to a sleigh. The sleigh itself was a seven-foot high-diamante pumpkin, as dazzling as a disco ball, its open door revealing a blood-red velvet interior. Around the edge of the rink were dozens of space heaters, each one encircled by a chest-high table, around which guests chatted.
‘You know of the library and what is within?’ Wolf asked, pointing to Westgrave Hall’s newest building, its enormous smoked glass windows reflecting the full glory of the fireworks. Subdued lights were on inside the upper floor.
‘The fossil? Yes, but I’ve not been inside. Will it be open to the public?’
Wolf shrugged. ‘I no think so, maybe few special occasions, who knows? Mr Volkov is a very private person, very careful about security.’
‘A private person!’ Butterfield laughed, gesturing to the hundreds of partygoers milling about in the snow-covered surroundings, and a TV crew which seem to be interviewing someone in Russian.
Wolf smiled, and pointed her towards the graceful marble bridge, a thirty-yard swan’s neck over the moat which divided the main house from the grassy promontory on which the library was built. ‘You get best view of the house from there,’ he said. ‘I hope you will excuse, I have to organise stuff.’ He turned and headed off back towards the main house.
As she crossed the bridge, a dazzling woman emerged from the library. It was Dr Sophie Cawkwell herself, resplendent in a long, tight peacock-blue dress, her hair piled up like Marie Antoinette. She shuffled her way carefully along the slushy pavement to the bridge where she greeted two other people with air-kisses, one of whom lit her a cigarette. Butterfield recognised him as Lord Fein, a former government minister well-known for his networking skills. With him was his Russian wife Natasha, a famous socialite and fixture of the celebrity magazine pages. Beyond them stood a tall ponytailed security man, all Slavic cheekbones and five o’clock shadow. He didn’t even glance at the fireworks but seemed to be watching over the Feins.
A waiter came up with a silver tray of fluted glasses and offered drinks to the group. Zoe admired the skill with which the two women balanced handbags, cigarettes, canapés, phones and drinks, even as they tottered on high heels in the slush. She couldn’t follow what they were talking about with all the noise, but it didn’t give the impression of being very consequential. The policewoman looked out across the bridge, to a large lake behind the library, where a giant fountain in the shape of a fish squirted water a hundred feet into the air. Beyond the lake lay dark woodland, its edge silvered by the lights. The whole place was more than 4,000 acres, reaching west into Hampshire.
All eyes returned to the heavens as the firework display reached its climax, a fizzing explosion of gold
and royal blue sparks. With an enormous bang, the sky seemed to shatter and billions of silver petals drifted down all over the house, grounds and lake. Soaring strings throbbed Tchaikovsky over the PA system.
Then a dozen irregular cracks echoed across the snow. Guests looked above in vain for fizzing sparks above which might have spawned the discordant coda. For a few seconds there was nothing but music, then more bangs, a dozen in quick succession, then a gap. Then more.
Butterfield just happened to be staring at the grand front of the library, and it looked to her that one of the big panes of glass upstairs had frosted. Then, right before her eyes, another bang was followed by a small shower of glass fragments, tumbling down the front of the building.
Gunshots?
There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Then a lot of things happened at once.
Dr Sophie Cawkwell broke off her conversation, looked over her shoulder, and started to run as best she could through the slush back towards the library door. The ponytailed security hunk got on his radio, yelling in Russian, his brow furrowed. PC Zoe Butterfield suddenly realised she was in the middle of a crime scene. She checked that the bodycam on her tunic was working, found a pair of unused latex gloves in her tunic pocket, then radioed in to Thorne to come and join her.
‘What’s happening, Zoe?’ Thorne asked.
‘I don’t know. Gunshots, possibly.’
She saw a tall dark-haired man in evening dress sprinting from the direction of the house. He vaulted a table and tore towards the bridge as if his life depended on it. Ponytail guy shouted to him as he passed: ‘Got the code?’
‘Yes, but it shouldn’t be locked,’ he yelled as he ran past Butterfield, overtook Cawkwell and reached the glass door of the library first. He leaned back and pulled the handle. The floodlit reflection of Westgrave Hall flexed in the glass, but the door remained closed. Locked.
