by Nick Louth
‘My mother! She was probably the one who killed him.’ She reached out and fluffed the ears of one of the dogs, who looked up at her adoringly.
Woodbridge’s eyes widened. He wondered whether the girl had given a witness statement.
‘My mother hated him. She’s a good shot and been scheming to get him for years.’
‘Because of the divorce?’ Woodbridge asked, feeling surreptitiously for some paper and finding nothing in his fleece pocket. His standard-issue notebook was drenched, still sitting in his other jacket with his useless matches.
‘And other stuff.’
‘Would you be prepared to tell the detectives what you know?’
‘What I know? I know what every newspaper reader knows. That sooner or later my dad was going to be murdered, like all the others. Either by the Kremlin, a business rival, or my mother. And my money was always on her.’ She looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Can I have a cigarette, please?’
Woodbridge felt in his trouser pocket. Yes, the rescued packet was there. ‘Are you sure you’re allowed?’ he asked, bringing it out.
‘For God’s sake, I’m eighteen in a few weeks,’ she hissed, holding out her hand. She looked like the kind of girl who was used to clicking her fingers.
He made his way to the bedside, tapped the pack and passed it towards her, then fumbled in his pocket for a lighter, borrowed earlier from a colleague. The cheap disposable flared first time. She leaned towards him, and her hand rested delicately on his wrist as he held the flame. As she sucked in greedily, her narrowed grey eyes scrutinised him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘PC Woodbridge.’
‘Is that what your mother named you?’ she asked, blowing a plume of smoke towards his face. ‘It’s a boy, I’ll call him PC Wood—’
‘—Simon.’
‘And how old is Simon?’ She sucked in another deep inhalation. The smoke drifted from her nostrils as if she was an apprentice dragon.
‘Twenty-two.’
‘Well, well, my knight in reflective hi-vis armour. My Lancelot.’ She stroked the other dog, which rolled onto its back submissively.
Woodbridge didn’t know what to say to this precocious young woman. ‘I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better now,’ he said looking towards the door. Time to be going.
‘I’m not feeling better. My life was shit before, and now it just got worse. No one cares about me, except my lovely Pyramus and Thisbe. If not for them, I might as well be dead.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’ He wondered whether a family liaison officer had been requested for her. He made a mental note to ask.
Anastasia blew a cloud of smoke upwards to the silken canopy of her bed. ‘You know, I actually did see my mother at the party. Not to talk to, of course, she was far too busy. Still, it was the first time I’d laid eyes on her for two years.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Because my upbringing has been outsourced to people who are paid to pretend to care about me, and supposedly educate me.’
‘What are you studying?’
‘Modern media and photography.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘For the last year I’ve been in a Swiss finishing school. To teach me how to be a fucking lady.’
Woodbridge felt like a rabbit in the headlamps of her attention.
‘You must have learned a lot.’
‘Simple Simon, what did I learn? I am fluently bitchy in four languages. I can tell a fake Hermès scarf or Gucci handbag at a glance. I can snort cocaine elegantly and without sneezing, and know exactly how much I should pay for it. I can ski a double-diamond black run without falling.’ She raised her hands behind her head and freed her hair, before fixing him with a stare. ‘And I give truly fantastic head: slow and unbearably delicate. I could make you faint with pleasure.’
Woodbridge gulped.
‘And, really, I suppose that I should do that. It would be my thank-you for saving my life,’ she said, kneeling up in bed, stubbing out the cigarette in an ashtray. She clicked her fingers at the dogs, who slunk off into a corner of the room, shooting hateful glares at Simon.
‘I’m back on shift in an hour,’ he said lamely, parading a fig leaf of duty.
‘Well, I’ll need all of that,’ she said, patting the bed beside her. ‘And I’m afraid I do need to tie you up. It works best when you’re helpless, begging for release, when you can’t take any more.’
The young policeman had lots to consider: she was plain and skinny, with a miserable expression. She was dangerously young. He loved Sally and they were planning to move in together in the spring. And last but not least: if this came out, getting entangled with a witness could cost him his job.
But he was twenty-two and male. And a blow job is a blow job.
PC Simon Woodbridge didn’t realise he’d even made a decision, so was surprised to see his own trembling hands almost blurred with haste unbuttoning his jacket and shirt as she reached across for the belt on his trousers.
Chapter Seven
It was 9:07 a.m when PC Simon Woodbridge lurched down the corridor from her room, a smile plastered across his face that would take some shifting. She hadn’t lied. It was amazing. Truly amazing. To get him out, she’d initially tried waking him up with a kiss, and when that didn’t work, she’d pushed him out of bed. She’d bundled him into the huge en suite and almost thrown his clothes at him. Straight after the scalding shower, he turned on his radio, and logged in with the sergeant, saying that he was on his way.
That gave him five minutes’ grace to steady himself.
Down the corridor, just a few yards down from her room he found a staff bathroom to get his breath back. It was a cramped place with two cubicles and a single washbasin. In the small mirror his face was flushed almost scarlet, his eyes bloodshot. He also had a sore throat. He remembered that at one point she had clamped her hand over his mouth, telling him to be quiet.
Woodbridge threw cold water over his face, but it did nothing to eradicate the smirk. That would be there for years.
As he emerged into the corridor, he almost collided with one of the security guys he had seen before. A rangy fellow, a good six-three, with a blond ponytail and five o’clock shadow.
‘Are you lost?’ the man asked, his accent vaguely Eastern European.
‘No. I just came to see Anastasia, to check she was all right.’
The big man’s face tightened, and his brown eyes narrowed. He ran his gaze over the constable’s features. ‘She’s fine. I think you should get back to standing in the rain or whatever it is you do.’
Woodbridge could feel a proprietorial edge to this man’s stare. There was no doubt that he was currently an intruder in enemy territory. Not welcome at all. But a young man who has just had an illicit blow job is not easily cowed. The corners of the constable’s mouth were twitchy, heralding that irrepressible grin. He turned away to hide it, and walked off jauntily towards the staircase, feeling the bodyguard’s eyes boring holes in his back.
* * *
Woodbridge grabbed a breakfast sandwich in the village hall kitchen, then checked in at the bunkhouse where Sergeant Vince Babbage looked him over. ‘Hero of the hour, I see.’ He stared at the young constable’s face and walked slowly around him as if inspecting a statue. ‘Looks like you’ve been awarded the bloody life-saving medal already, son.’
PC Woodbridge continued to stare straight ahead, trying to suppress his smirk as much as possible. ‘Well, well, well. That takes me back a few years,’ Babbage said, standing behind him. ‘PC Collins, may I borrow you?’
‘Yes sir,’ said a young constable about the same age as Woodbridge, who was half dressed and had been shaving in a portable mirror.
‘You’re a young man of the world, Collins. Come and have a look at this,’ Babbage said.
Woodbridge was thoroughly alarmed by this unwelcome attention. He just couldn’t think. He had certainly dressed in a hurry and may well have got his collar creased.
‘What is your forensic o
pinion of this, PC Collins?’ Babbage had his finger pressed about two inches below Woodbridge’s ear.
‘Looks like a love bite to me, sir. And a big one.’
‘A love bite, yes indeed, just what I thought. One big enough to have its own fucking postcode, I would say.’ He thrust his face back in front of the constable. ‘Wouldn’t you say so, Woodbridge?’
‘I don’t know, sir, I can’t see it.’
‘Then you need to get yourself a pair of spectacles, don’t you, constable? Get yourself down to Specsavers, because you must be going fucking blind, boy.’ The sergeant clicked his fingers towards Collins, who passed across the shaving mirror. ‘Take a look at that, it’s as glorious as a Baywatch sunset.’ He held the mirror at an angle to the PC’s neck. Woodbridge had to look sharply to the right to see the mirror. Only half the love bite was visible above his shirt collar, a two-inch purple semicircle.
‘Looks like you spent the night with Mick Jagger, constable. Someone with a gob big enough to do that to you.’
His throat went dry. He had no recollection of her even kissing him there. Maybe it was as she was waking him up. ‘I wasn’t on duty at the time, sir,’ he croaked.
‘Ah, yes. Not on duty. The classic get-out.’ The sergeant paced around him. ‘Nevertheless, constable, you are in a public place, an ambassador of Surrey Police. What kind of impression do you think it gives the great British public, if they see a member of the thin blue line looking like he’s been attacked in the night by a deranged bloody vampire?’
‘Not a good one, sir.’
‘Indeed. Not a good one.’
PC Collins had his back turned while he finished dressing, but it was clear he was killing himself laughing.
Babbage hadn’t finished with him yet. ‘I hesitate to speculate, Woodbridge, but I don’t suppose this was the only part of your putrid undernourished body that this particular succubus had her gob on. But those parts are, thank God, not normally waved around in public like the back of your neck is. So I shall draw a veil over further inquiries. Just make sure you get a big Elastoplast right over that abomination and start behaving professionally.’
‘Yes sir, right away sir.’
Babbage had had his fun. ‘All right, I’ve taken pity on you. PC Alison Smith is taking the all-nighter tonight. Presumably I won’t see her with her throat torn out in the morning, but of course these days you never know. Anyway, gives you the chance to get some clean clothes and wipe that grin off your face. You’re directing traffic in the lane today outside Steeple Risby, then back at Mount Browne tomorrow morning.’
Woodbridge was relieved to be able to escape from the village hall. A few minutes later, a dressing carefully placed on his neck, he was making his way back up the drive to Westgrave Hall to retrieve his wet police-issue jacket, when he saw DCI Gillard walking in the other direction. ‘Ah, Woodbridge. I understand you rescued the lady from the lake last night.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Give you a sword, did she?’
‘No, sir.’ Woodbridge fought to stop the stupid grin returning to his face.
‘Good work, anyway. How is she this morning? Well enough to be interviewed, would you say?’
‘I should say so, sir.’
Gillard drew the young constable aside, and led him into the Victorian walled garden, away from prying eyes. They stood side-by-side looking at the watery sunlight filter amongst the bare branches of the lime trees. ‘Have a cigarette if you want. I won’t tell Babbage.’
Woodbridge needed no encouragement. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He lit up and took a deep inhalation.
‘Was she really trying to commit suicide, do you think?’
Woodbridge nodded. ‘I think she’s very confused.’
‘Yes. Not the best way to commit suicide, wading into a lake.’
‘She’s grieving for her father, sir. Kept crying when she mentioned him.’
‘Understandable.’
‘Hates her mother. Blames it all on her.’
The detective turned to look at the younger man. ‘What exactly did she say?’
‘She said that her mother probably killed Volkov.’
‘That’s very open of her, to tell you, a perfect stranger, all that.’
‘I suppose so,’ Woodbridge said.
‘Nice girl?’
Fighting the reappearing smirk, he couldn’t quite find the mental tools to articulate his opinion. ‘I suppose so.’
Gillard peered at the dressing under the constable’s ear. ‘I sincerely hope that it wasn’t her that gave you that. Daughter of the murder victim. Key witness, potentially.’
Woodbridge couldn’t believe he already knew. He didn’t say anything, but the smirk kept resurfacing, even though he knew he was in trouble.
‘So it was her.’ Gillard sighed.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Trouble is, Woodbridge, I don’t think you are. That compounds your grievous error of judgement, and since you paraded it through breakfast at the village hall, everyone knows. I’m sorry, but I can’t have you on the case any longer. What duty are you on today?’
‘Directing traffic in the lane, sir.’
‘No, much too prominent. Can’t have you running into her again. I’m sending you back to your station, go and tell Babbage. And think yourself lucky you’re not on a disciplinary.’
‘Yes sir.’ As Gillard walked off and left him, Woodbridge’s smirk finally disappeared.
* * *
Gillard recognised Anastasia. She was the willowy girl he had seen in the ballroom wailing in the comforting arms of a portly man. Today, when she sat down opposite Gillard in the Fitzroy Room, she looked a lot more casual: jeans, sweatshirt, ankle boots. Her hair had been neatly combed, but she retained an unnatural pallor.
‘I hope you’re feeling better today,’ Gillard said.
She shrugged and looked out of the window.
‘I am sorry about your father. We do have family liaison officers if you feel you need support.’
She nodded and stared down at her nails. This was clearly going to be hard work.
‘Anastasia, you made some comments to my colleague PC Woodbridge, about your mother.’
Finally, she looked at him. Her pale grey eyes betrayed no emotion. ‘You want me to accuse my mother of murder?’
‘PC Woodbridge reported that you felt Ms Yalinsky may have had some responsibility for what happened last night.’
She shrugged. ‘It was a private conversation. My mother hated my dad and wanted to screw every penny out of him in the courts over the divorce. So, yeah, if she had a hand in it, I wouldn’t be surprised. But I’m not going to stand up in court and point the finger.’
‘I’m not asking you to do that.’
‘So what are you asking?’
‘Did you ever witness any violent confrontations between your parents?’
‘You seem to assume that because we are biologically a family we spent any time together. I was a nuisance from a young age and was farmed out like a loss-making business. Who did I grow up attached to? Nannies, private tutors, chaperones and bodyguards. In the last five years I’ve seen my parents within slapping distance of each other maybe three times.’
‘Overall, you spent more time with your father?’
She chewed her nails absentmindedly. ‘I was at boarding school here in Surrey for a few years, that was before I got expelled and sent to Switzerland. Dad was nice, and I loved him because he actually tried. He used to take me out to lunch. But he was always busy, and he didn’t know what to say to me. I mean he didn’t know me, or who I am. He spent half the time on the phone, while I played with my food. Then after an hour so I’d get taken round the shops by Natasha. I just pointed at things I wanted, and they got sent to me.’
‘Natasha Fein?’
‘Yeah. Slimy bitch. She was screwing him for years.’
Gillard tried to assimilate these insights into a ruined childhood. ‘What about your brother, was it as bad
for him?’
‘Oleg?’ she laughed. ‘My mother adores him. Oh! The toddler who never outgrew the playroom, a boy who can do no wrong.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Maybe he killed my dad. They didn’t get on well. And before you ask, no, I never heard him threaten to kill anyone, except some guy in the village who got in the way of his Hummer.’
‘I was hoping to interview your brother, but he’s apparently left, even though he said he would stay.’
‘Yeah, that’s Oleg.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Maybe to his flat in Knightsbridge. He’s got a place in Italy somewhere too, near our castle. There are quite a few brain-dead gold-digger girlfriends and hangers-on he might be staying with. He could be anywhere. But one clue you might find useful. If the Hummer is still here, he’ll be coming back soon.’
‘Well that’s good to know.’ He could feel the interview sliding away into irrelevance and tried hard to get back on track. ‘Can I ask you about the evening of the shooting. Where were you?’
‘I was in my room some of the time. I was sick, too much drink probably. I’d been dancing earlier and watching the skaters.’ A slight smile stole across her face, the only hint that she was capable of enjoyment or happiness. ‘I heard the fireworks but didn’t get that there was any shooting. It must’ve been fifteen minutes later when Uncle Dmitry told me. I couldn’t believe it.’
‘Had you met Maxim Talin?’
She snorted in derision. ‘Yeah, once. Mum brought him over to Geneva to meet me and we went out to lunch. The love of my life, she introduced him as. “The only person I ever really loved.” Well, thanks a bunch.’ She rolled her eyes again. ‘A sweaty toad of a man. Dyed his hair blond. I know the idea is you’ve got a kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince, but if you read the instruction manual it says once you discover an amphibian you move on. For some reason she decided to stay in the pond with him and raise frogspawn.’
Anastasia glanced up at the puzzled expression on Gillard’s face. ‘Okay, you probably don’t know this. She was having fertility treatment, can you believe? Had her prehistoric eggs frozen in some clinic. She’s forty-seven! It’s like Frankenstein or something. And Toadman had apparently been freezing his sperm for decades.’ She shivered. ‘Disgusting. It didn’t work. Just as well. Whatever they produced would have been an abomination, fit only for a forgotten cage at the back of the circus.’
