The Bodies at Westgrave Hall

by Nick Louth

  With Sophie Cawkwell it was even more difficult. She had been standing in conversation with Lord and Lady Fein up until the time of the shootings. The Russian TV footage had shown her clearly. She had stepped away to check her phone, around the time the shooting started, perhaps giving someone the order, but it was circumstantial without the smoking gun. Given that the murder weapon belonged to Oleg, it was even more of a stretch to see how Sophie Cawkwell could have managed to get it without his permission and then pop it back into his car.

  So who else could have got access to Oleg’s gun? His own bodyguard, certainly. Anastasia, possibly. She certainly may have known of its existence, and it wasn’t hard to believe she hated him. Who wouldn’t? But she had been caught on the same Russian TV video, on her own balcony, next door to her brother’s, during the early part of the firework display.

  Another cast-iron alibi.

  A wave of sleep passed over him, and he felt himself flying, hovering over the great slab of fossil rock that lay at the heart of the case. Something hit his forehead and he realised he had been dreaming. He lifted his head off the desk and stared again at the screen, which had reverted to its screensaver. He looked at his watch. Must have been asleep ten minutes. Rubbing his eyes, he realised he was being stupid even considering anyone in the family. Whoever had gunned down three people in the library at Westgrave Hall was also implicated in the car bomb, which had just killed the only surviving witness. Basford had hinted at other motives, but eliminating Yelena was surely no coincidence.

  These were both sophisticated attacks, which would indicate a professional. The Kremlin was never far from consideration. After all, that’s what most of the newspaper coverage seemed to be implying, even before the car bombing. From what MI5 were hinting, the Kremlin’s instrument was none other than Jason Lefsky. Despite his appearance outside the library at the time of the shootings inside, he was still the best candidate for involvement. Perhaps an assassin had been brought in too. Levin’s feared Ghost, maybe. Maybe even Marcus Dolan, Oleg’s giant bodyguard.

  There was only one other person with the right kind of pedigree to have pulled this off. The unpronounceable Wolf had a security background, access to all parts of the building and the electronic systems. He was the sole person who could have remotely turned off the library’s internal CCTV. There was only his word that it was ordered by Volkov. Like everyone else, he was outside when the library shooting took place, but he had unique qualifications to be involved.

  Except for one thing.

  It was almost certainly him driving the limo. If Wolf was the assassin in the library, he couldn’t have known about the bomb. That didn’t make it impossible. After all, it would be clever of the Kremlin to dispose of the killer and the only witness with a single bomb.

  * * *

  Gillard awoke at seven a.m. to a ringing phone. It took him a moment to recall what day it was. Saturday. He lifted his head from the desk, grappled with the landline, then briefly dropped the receiver. He tried to speak, but the inside of his mouth felt as hygienic as a Portaloo at the end of a rock festival.

  ‘You sound quite groggy, Craig,’ the chief constable said. ‘I hope you’re getting plenty of sleep, you need to be rested.’

  ‘I’m doing my best, ma’am.’

  ‘As I was saying, that’s one less variable to worry about. I suppose you could call it good news, though it hardly makes this case any less mysterious.’

  Gillard clearly had missed whatever it was she had initially told him. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, could you just repeat what you said at the beginning?’

  ‘The dead male in the limousine. He met Yelena Yalinsky from the plane at London City Airport and was caught on CCTV escorting her across to the waiting vehicle. So I think that MI5 are completely baffled, because it drives a coach and horses through their main theory about who was behind the killing.’

  ‘Right.’ But who was it? He didn’t dare ask again.

  ‘So, Craig, hopefully you’ll be able to get me a result before the Cobra meeting.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Monday, Craig. Don’t disappoint me.’ She hung up.

  What had he missed? He scrolled through his phone, checking texts or emails that had arrived while he was asleep. There was nothing from Corrigan, but he was CC’d into one email from Chief Superintendent Clive Basford from the anti-terrorism branch, which gave him the name of the dead man inside the limousine.

  Jason Lefsky. The ponytailed bodyguard. ID found on the body, and the DNA checked out.

  Shit.

  That really threw a spanner in the works. Lefsky was Gillard’s number-one suspect for actually planting the bomb, but now he was a victim. The email also mentioned that Wolf was confirmed as the limousine driver. He was expected to live but remained in intensive care.

  Attached to the email were dozens of graphic photographs of the crime scene which showed just how severe the damage had been. Fortunately, none of the bystanders had died, despite initial reports to the contrary. Most of the blast had been channelled upwards and injuries were largely the result of broken glass.

  Feeling fairly bilious at seeing all this on an empty stomach, Gillard pulled himself upright, stretched and yawned, then lurched to his feet. He decided to seek out the bunkhouse, where breakfast might be available. Once there, he found Carl Hoskins doing what he loved best, eating. With him were a couple of uniforms, one of whom he recognised as last night’s custodian of the Khazi.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind me saying, sir, but you look terrible,’ Hoskins said to the suppressed amusement of his colleagues.

  ‘I only got a couple of hours sleep,’ Gillard said, rubbing his jaw, where a sandpaper-like growth of five o’clock shadow was making itself felt.

  ‘Seems like all the suspects are killing each other off,’ Hoskins said.

  ‘Yeah, when there is only one left, we’ll certainly know who to charge,’ said one of the uniforms.

  ‘Yes, it’s so very simple isn’t it?’ Gillard said, as he walked up to the counter and ordered a full English.

  * * *

  He was making his way up the drive back towards the Khazi when Claire Mulholland rang him.

  ‘Morning, Craig. Busy night, by all accounts.’

  ‘Tell me about it!’

  ‘I’m on my way to Sophie’s, as requested. I’ve read your list of questions, though I don’t quite get what you’re driving at.’

  ‘Well, it’s just a hunch at the moment—’

  ‘Oh, before I forget, Sussex Police has made progress. Lots of evidence has emerged around Daniel Levin’s camper van. Footprints, and some tyre marks. There were indentations on his wrists, which might indicate he was tied up.’

  ‘Tied up, then drugged and left to die by asphyxiation in the exhaust fumes. It was an old diesel, so he had no chance.’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking,’ she said. ‘But we’ll never get the chance to ask Jason Lefsky about it.’

  ‘Nor about the shootings in the library.’ He made his apologies, then rang off to take a call from DC Rob Townsend. The research intelligence officer had already texted him to say he had found something exciting.

  ‘Hi Rob, what have you got for me?’

  ‘Something I hope will be very useful,’ he replied. ‘It’s a text. I’ve been working with the anti-terrorism guys, and I suggested that we try to find any phones that were in the exact location outside Buckingham Palace when the bomb went off. We have that timing to almost the second.’

  ‘There must have been hundreds of phones,’ Gillard said.

  ‘Yes, of course. But we were able to use some new software from GCHQ which analyses tower data to separate out all the phones which stopped giving out their location at the exact moment of detonation.’

  ‘You mean any phones that were destroyed?’

  ‘That’s essentially what it tells us, yes. In theory, any bystander phones that were just turned off at that moment would be caught too. But at a moment
like that, phones are turned on, not off. Anyway, we traced two pay-as-you-go phones, one which we think from its history belonged to Lefsky, and the other which was bought at Geneva Airport on Boxing Day.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘The text we found gives it away, even though it’s unsigned. It was sent to Oleg the same day the phone was bought, and almost immediately deleted on his phone. It’s in Russian, but I’ve appended a translation.’

  Gillard held the phone in the crook of his neck while he opened his iPad, and checked emails. It was there.

  Я видел пистолет, Юрий. Я знаю, что это ты. Ради бога, почему?

  I saw the gun, Oleg. I know it’s you. For God’s sake, why?

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Yelena knew it was his gun,’ Townsend said. ‘Presumably the fact it was golden.’

  Gillard thought for a moment. ‘Rob, there is something really strange about that. To me it indicates that Oleg wasn’t holding the gun, because she would have talked about recognising him, not recognising the weapon.’

  ‘Unless he was in disguise. The mask, and the beard she mentioned.’

  ‘I don’t buy that. Any mother would probably recognise her own son, even if he had a false beard. She must’ve been on the balcony across from the shooter for a good half-minute.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Likewise, she would have identified the big bodyguard, had it been him,’ Gillard said. ‘Dolan has been with Oleg for a couple of years. Rob, let’s suppose you’re right and she didn’t recognise the assailant. If someone comes for you with a gun, right, even if you don’t know him, your first thought is that he is the murderer, not whoever owns the weapon. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  Townsend was silent for a moment. ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s a really odd thing to say?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Townsend said. ‘She had already rung Oleg’s Knightsbridge landline. The call was connected for two seconds, not long enough either to talk, or leave a message.’

  ‘I remember seeing that logged before, but I can now see its significance,’ Gillard said.

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Yes. Look at it this way: Oleg and his mother were close, by all accounts. There was a huge volume of calls between their mobiles logged in the days running up to her arrival for the party, as you might expect. Far more than there were between her and Anastasia. There were quite a few calls from Oleg to his mother in the days after, but none going the other way.’

  ‘MI5 had her phone for most of a day, that’s probably why. And she hadn’t yet bought this burner.’

  ‘Okay, but his were short calls, probably messages left and not returned.’

  ‘Not returned initially because of what she’d seen?’ Townsend asked.

  ‘She was clearly upset, but maybe didn’t want to tackle him about it initially. Particularly by mobile phone, because she feared she would create evidence implicating him. She didn’t want to do that.’

  ‘But he tried to kill her – or at least she thought so.’

  ‘Did he? If so, why was everybody killed but her? She didn’t even have a scratch.’

  ‘She’d still be pissed off. That’s why she didn’t return the calls.’

  ‘Initially, okay. But you can see from the text how baffled she is.’

  ‘Okay, sir, but as we know Oleg wasn’t in there.’

  Gillard sighed. The same roadblock, once again. ‘Yes I know, Rob, thanks for pointing it out.’ He thanked him and hung up. Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, the same inconvenient truth kept raising its ugly head. He had less than two days to find the culprit before the chief constable was put on the spot in front of the prime minister at the Cobra committee meeting.

  * * *

  Simon Woodbridge was sitting at home in Redhill, watching the TV, and his smirk had returned with a vengeance.

  He’d only got back first thing this morning after staying the Friday night at the Dorchester with Anastasia. She had been glued to the coverage of the Buckingham Palace bomb, and until late that night had been texting and phoning people all over to try to find out more. She had watched with her hands covering her mouth as the drip, drip of news gradually emerged. At four in the morning she had asked him whether he had got a text from Jason. He hadn’t. Nor had she. So she rang him. There was no reply, and Jason’s message mailbox was full, she told him. A gradual smile crept over her face her eyes wide with excitement. ‘Oh my god, I think he was in the car,’ she said. ‘Our problems are solved.’

  In celebration, she had once again used her unique talents to take him to heaven.

  When he woke up, she offered him a job as a bodyguard, to replace Jason.

  Exhausted but happy, he had made his way home to be ready for his midday shift start at Redhill police station. There was a lot to think about.

  It was only when he was eating breakfast that he saw the news flash. Yelena Yalinsky, wife of Alexander Volkov, confirmed dead in Buckingham Palace blast along with bodyguard.

  Anastasia’s mother! Simon knew he had to ring her and offer his commiserations. Even though she had admitted they were not on the best terms he couldn’t think of anything worse than losing both parents in just a few days.

  He rang her mobile and left a message. Then he rang the Dorchester, and was told that she had checked out that morning. Of course! With Jason dead she would finally feel safe to go back to Westgrave Hall.

  * * *

  To try to clear his head, Gillard decided to walk through Westgrave Woods. A path ran directly north past the chapel, through pastures full of grazing sheep, and into the trees. The rain from the previous two days had turned the path into quagmire. His wellingtons skidded as he turned off the main path and onto a winding track that led between hawthorn and blackthorn bushes, the latter still bearing wrinkled blue sloes. He entered a clearing, where the stumps of a few trees felled years ago were rotting. One dead tree seemed to have been used for some kind of target practice. When he went up to examine the holes, he could see that this was not shotgun fire, but something more substantial. The tree had been hit from several sides. He dug around in the undergrowth and eventually picked up a couple of cartridge cases. Superficially, they looked similar to those from Oleg’s golden gun. The tree had staples in it too, holding fragments of soggy card. Perhaps targets had been pinned there.

  It was increasingly clear that Oleg had lied to them, and had been practising shooting at Westgrave Hall, just as he had done in the gun ranges of the United States.

  Where on earth was he now?

  At the sound of movement Gillard looked up. He could hear panting noises, animals approaching at speed. Two giant wolfhounds were galloping towards him. He stepped behind the dead tree and the two Borzoi dogs raced past, looping round in a big circuit. In the distance he could hear a woman’s voice, calling in Russian.

  Anastasia.

  Eventually she came into view. She seemed shocked to see the detective there, peering from behind the bullet-riddled tree.

  ‘Are you playing hide and seek with me?’ she asked.

  ‘With your dogs, yes. They were running straight at me.’

  She waved away his explanation. ‘Pyramus and Thisbe wouldn’t harm a fly.’ She approached him, her face pallid, her expression sullen.

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear about your mother,’ he said.

  Her gaze flicked up briefly to him, before turning out towards the lake, whose lambent light seeped in through the dark silhouette of the trees. ‘Mr Gillard, there is nothing good in this world. Pain and suffering, there is nothing to look forward to.’

  That is probably because it all came too easy, he thought.

  They walked in silence back towards the northern shoreline, with the mansard roofs and belfry of Westgrave Hall looming in the distance.

  ‘Do you have any idea who planted the bomb?’ she asked.

  ‘No. The investigation is being handled b
y the Metropolitan Police. I’m sure they will announce it as soon as they know. But I’m afraid I can’t discuss it with you.’

  ‘Do they suspect my brother?’

  ‘Well, as you know he has been questioned about the shooting. And he’s been charged with possession of an unlicensed weapon.’

  ‘Ah, the famous golden gun. He loves to show it off.’

  ‘Do you think he killed your parents?’

  ‘I have thought about it very much. But I don’t think so. I think it was Jason.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘Because the Kremlin was paying him, and because he was a bitter and jealous individual.’

  ‘Really? In what way?’

  She sighed. ‘He blackmailed and abused me. He discovered I had been having a relationship with Bryn and threatened to tell my father.’

  ‘You had a relationship with your father’s bodyguard?’

  ‘I was in love with Bryn. It started when he was my personal bodyguard in Switzerland, and I was still underage. We worked very hard to keep it secret and never messaged each other or took pictures, but Jason obviously suspected.’ She pointed back to the hall. ‘He had rigged my room here with video and caught me and Bryn together.’

  ‘The good old Soviet kompromat.’

  ‘Exactly. I told Bryn, and he wanted to kill Jason, but he was too clever. Jason said the video was ready to go off to various websites and my father’s email at the touch of a keyboard. Bryn was worried that his wife would find out and that he’d lose his job and his marriage too. Something must have happened though, because my father swapped Bryn and Jason, so that Bryn became his personal bodyguard here, and Jason came out to Geneva as mine. I didn’t like Jason, but he made it clear he wanted me. I was young and I didn’t know what to do. I had no alternative but to agree to sleep with him.’

  ‘You must have felt used.’

  ‘I did, and I do.’