Devour

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘I’m doing an exclusive interview with him and, before you say anything, it was my idea, not his.’

  Butcher smacks the paper against his leg in frustration. ‘Do you have any idea what a difficult position you’re placing me in?’

  It’s rare for Butcher to raise his voice. There’s a fierceness to him she hasn’t seen since he arrested her brother.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jerry. You’ve always been so good to me, and you know I love you, but I have to do this.’

  ‘You’re in way over your head.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll leave you out of it.’

  Wolfe gives him a peck on the cheek. Butcher watches her walk away through the Great Court, still flicking the rolled-up paper against his leg. He catches up with her on the museum steps on Great Russell Street.

  ‘Hold your horses, will you?’ Butcher calls out.

  Wolfe slows. Butcher leads her behind one of the Portland stone, Ionic pillars, away from a security camera. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

  ‘I was wrong to involve you.’

  ‘I’m here now. You might as well tell me.’

  Wolfe hesitates. ‘You sure?’

  ‘To be honest, Liv, no. But if there’s anything I can do to stop you landing in gaol or ending up dead, I will.’

  A chilling wind gusts through the Greek Revival portico, blowing his scarf in his face. She still doesn’t know why he saved her when she was fourteen, and now he’s trying to do it again. His faith in her is unwavering.

  ‘I don’t deserve you.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ He gives her a fatherly hug. ‘So tell me what you need.’

  ‘Background checks on everyone at Lake Ellsworth. I’m looking for aptitude and motive.’

  ‘Including Yushkov?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You seriously think one of them is a traitor?’

  ‘I need to know their secrets, Jerry. Affairs, debts, addictions, marriage problems, criminal records, political leanings; any reason they’d feel aggrieved.’

  ‘Jesus, Liv!’ Butcher shakes his head.

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘Don’t you think Casburn has done that already?’

  ‘I think Casburn’s already made up his mind.’

  ‘Christ!’ Butcher turns away from her and appears to be watching the traffic. ‘I can get it. Some of it, anyway. The problem I have is Yushkov reading it.’ He rounds on her. ‘For God’s sake, Liv. He’s using you!’

  ‘I could help save an innocent man.’

  ‘You’d better be right, Liv, because, if you’re not, we’re both in a pile of shit.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But she knows words are not enough. She’ll find a way to repay him some day, she has to.

  Wolfe hands him a scrap of paper. ‘My work email is compromised. Use this.’

  ‘This may take time. I’m not as in as I used to be.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘Be careful, Liv. Don’t go near your flat. It’s being watched. And, please, stay away from Yushkov.’ He opens his wallet and hands her all his cash. ‘Take this. If you use your bank card, not only will Casburn find you, but, if you’re right about the SVR, they will too.’

  ‘No, Jerry, you’ve done enough.’

  He shoves the money into her hand. ‘Take it.’

  Wolfe hesitates, then puts it in the inside pocket of her leather jacket.

  ‘Don’t get yourself killed, you hear?’

  39

  Wolfe leaves the museum through Sydney Smirke’s twenty tonnes of cast iron gate, the gilt ornamentation glistening in the damp air. With her chin tucked into her scarf and her hands deep in her jacket pockets, she dodges people and pigeons. Wolfe turns to look up at the pediment over the main entrance depicting The Progress of Civilisation with allegorical figures. She wonders whether Sir Richard Westmacott, who created the sculptures in 1852, would think mankind’s great achievements - such as vaccines and putting man on the moon - outweigh the development of more and more horrifying ways to destroy, from the atomic bomb to biological weapons.

  On the way to the hotel she calls Cohen.

  ‘Congratulations! You’re about as popular as Attila the Hun. Your Yushkov exclusive has sent traffic and sales through the roof. I could kiss you!’ Cohen almost sounds happy. This is a first.

  She laughs, but it fades fast.

  ‘Moz, your line could be tapped so I’ll make this quick. My mobile and email are compromised.’

  ‘Okay, but I need a second piece. Different angle. Yushkov’s past?’

  ‘As soon as I have something worth printing, I’ll get it to you. I promise.’

  ‘Don’t let him out of your sight. You’re the only journalist he’s talking to. Keep it that way.’

  ‘Heard from Casburn?’

  ‘Heard from him! We’ve been raided. Fuckwits!’

  ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘Harvey rang. Said it was urgent. Says he has information on Knox’s killer. But watch him, Olivia. Bet he’s looking to piggyback your success.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve got to go.’

  Wolfe hesitates before dialling the BBC. But Harvey is at the bottom of her suspect list so she dials anyway.

  Harvey is breathy. He sounds panicked. ‘We need to meet. Something’s happened.’

  ‘I can’t meet you, Charles. Just tell me.’

  ‘I can’t talk, I’m at work.’

  ‘Then find somewhere private and call me back.’ She gives him her number.

  A few minutes down Great Russell Street, her mobile rings.

  ‘Where are you? I have to see you.’

  ‘Charles, I have to keep a low profile right now so just tell me what’s so urgent.’

  She hears snuffling sounds and for a moment she thinks Harvey could be crying. ‘I . . . I think I know who murdered Kevin.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I . . . please, I need to see you. It’s complicated.’

  She sighs. ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  She tries to think of a public place to meet. Somewhere familiar.

  ‘Meet me on York Bridge in Regent’s Park. Enter through York Gate. I’ll be on the bridge, but come alone.’

  ‘Give me an hour.’

  ‘Okay, but don’t call this number again.’

  She ends the conversation, making a mental note to buy another phone. Turning up Gower Street, Wolfe heads towards Euston Road and calls Yushkov.

  ‘Now is not a good time,’ says Yushkov, curtly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m with a friend.’

  With a sinking feeling Wolfe realises what Yushkov is doing - buying a gun.

  ‘I’m meeting Harvey in Regent’s Park. He says he knows who killed Knox.’

  ‘When I am done here, I will come with you,’ Yushkov says.

  ‘No need. It’s only Charles. I’ll see you back at the hotel.’

  The SO15 detective, sitting in a crowded ‘natural’ fast food café, is bored. Peter Jones sips an organic coffee, resenting the fact it was twice the price of a normal coffee, on a circular wooden stool he swears is deliberately uncomfortable so customers move on quickly. Pretending to read his smartphone, he watches nineteen-year-old law student, Samad Sayyaf, pick at some chopped fruit in a plastic container, seated on a high stool, facing a wall, alone. On the bench top is a brown paper bag with the distinctive logo of the café, containing a sandwich Sayyaf bought earlier, prepared for him by a man of Middle Eastern appearance the detective doesn’t recognise.

  A Caucasian man of big build in a leather jacket sits in the vacant seat next to Sayyaf. He hasn’t bought any food or drink and, without looking at Sayyaf, says something brief. Jones almost drops his phone when he recognises the newcomer. He snaps some photos but both men have their backs to him. Vitaly Yushkov takes Sayyaf’s paper bag, leaves what looks like a car magazine behind and, without another word, slides off the stool and heads for the exit. At the precise moment that Yushkov turns arou
nd, Jones takes more photos. He immediately phones his boss, DCI Casburn, and updates him.

  ‘You sure it’s Yushkov?’ Casburn asks.

  ‘Yes, sir. Who do I follow?’

  A moment’s pause. ‘Yushkov. I’m getting back-up.’

  Jones ignores the still-seated Sayyaf, a known associate of suspected terrorist Kabir Khan, and races from the café into the busy street, hoping he’s not too late. But Oxford Street is chock-a-block with the lunchtime crowd and Yushkov is nowhere to be seen.

  40

  Wolfe leans over the wrought iron railings of York Bridge in Regent’s Park and peers down at mallards drifting between the fingertips of a willow dangling over a muddy lake. In one direction is Regent’s University. In the other, York Bridge Road connects with the Outer Circle, which runs around most of the 395 acres of one of London’s most central open green spaces. At either end of the narrow bridge, ornate Victorian streetlamps with birdcage-shaped glass cages are dusted with snow, as are the glistening black-painted railings running the bridge’s length. Sleet falls from a leaden sky and even though it’s only midday, it feels as if night is approaching. Wolfe cups her takeaway tea with both hands, enjoying the warmth on her numb fingers. The fierce wind chases the steam away from her drink and blows wet snow in her face. Beneath her, two white swans huddle under the bridge, reluctant to swim into the open. The lake hasn’t frozen over yet, but it will tonight. Is it the sleet they’re avoiding or the slick of bottles, plastic bags, chocolate-bar wrappers and cigarette packets so kindly dumped there by visitors?

  Wolfe checks her watch: Harvey is late. In the distance, a dog barks and she sees it chasing a grey heron at the lake’s edge. Apart from some students and a cyclist, very few people are brave or mad enough to endure the park in these conditions and she feels, suddenly, very alone. Wolfe checks her watch again. Harvey is ten minutes late. Perhaps it was missing breakfast, but her stomach squirms. Something is wrong. She chose this location because it’s in the open, and from the top of the bridge’s hump she can see people approach, but she’s forgotten how deserted the park can be in winter. She downs the last of her drink, screws up the cup and drops it in a bin just beyond the bridge. There’s a crack of twigs nearby. She jumps, but it’s only a grey squirrel searching for nuts. She should leave. Instead, she undoes the carabiner on her backpack and takes her water bottle in hand - ready for a fight - then walks back to the middle of the bridge. She’ll give Harvey a few more minutes.

  Whippet-thin Harvey waves as he approaches from Marylebone Road. He’s wearing a trilby, a paisley scarf and mackintosh. He’s panting when he reaches her.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I got delayed. I . . . ’ He catches his breath and peers at her through lenses smudged with melted sleet.

  ‘Shall we walk? I’m freezing,’ Wolfe says.

  ‘No! I mean, no.’ He realises he is shouting. ‘I’m out of breath.’

  Wolfe tries to read his eyes through the wet glasses but she can’t see them clearly. It’s like peering into a car windscreen in the rain.

  ‘Let’s make this quick then. Who do you think killed Kevin Knox?’

  ‘I . . . well, you see . . . ’

  A drip reaches the bottom of his right lens and clears the glass. Wolfe sees Harvey look over her shoulder. His eyes widen. It’s not surprise. It’s fear. She spins round as two men in dark coats, hats and sunglasses walk towards them. Who wears sunglasses on a day like this?

  ‘What did you do?’ she yells, grabbing Harvey’s coat lapels.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  The men are walking faster, their eyes on Wolfe. She shoves Harvey away, disgusted.

  ‘You stole the canister?’

  ‘Not me. Someone got there first.’

  Harvey lunges at her. Wolfe darts around him and bolts towards Marylebone Road, but another man blocks her escape, arms wide. Harvey tries to grab her leather jacket.

  ‘Just do as they say.’

  Wolfe shoves Harvey away and he staggers into the railings. She’s trapped. Her nearest assailant reaches inside his coat. A gun. She clambers up on to the bridge’s handrail and jumps, falling fifteen feet. Wolfe curls into a ball to protect her arms and legs. As she disappears beneath the murky surface, she exhales with shock. Icy water seeps under her clothing and into her boots. Eyes open, she tries to get her bearings. The churned-up mud, rotting leaves and plastic bags look like soggy ghosts swirling around her. Visibility virtually nil. Webbed feet paddle frantically.

  It won’t be long before her pursuers scramble down the banks and come in after her. Her boots connect with sludge and a broken umbrella as she struggles to stand. The water is less than four feet deep, but it’s enough for them to drown her. The swans are honking with fury and shoot off across the water. Ducks scatter, squawking with alarm. She has silt in her eyes. The man on the Marylebone Road side of the bridge is first to head for the grassy bank. On the other side of the water, a wrought iron fence runs parallel to the lake’s edge and the two other attackers are navigating its awkward spikes. Her best chance of escape is to bypass the single man, who has just leapt into the water. Her finger is still looped through the metal flask and she prepares to hit out with it.

  ‘Oy! Get out of there! You lot! Out!’ somebody shouts.

  A Royal Parks ranger in a green motorised buggy is racing along a footpath in their direction.

  Her pursuers stop, exchange looks, but they don’t draw their guns. The leader shakes his head and they sprint away in opposite directions. One of them grabs hold of Harvey on the bridge. The ranger is out of his buggy and scrambling down the bank towards her.

  ‘Call the police,’ Wolfe calls to him. ‘They attacked me.’

  The ranger splashes through the water and takes her frozen hand and leads her up the bank to his buggy. Soaked, muddy and shivering, she coughs up stagnant water. Her sodden pack weighs a ton.

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’

  She nods but her teeth chatter. The ranger steps away and phones for the police and an ambulance. Wolfe looks up at the bridge, expecting Harvey to have fled, but sees him slouched over the snow-covered bridge railing, like a rag doll flopped over a washing line. Blood slides down the handle of the knife deep in his eye socket and drips into the dirty water below.

  Wolfe runs and doesn’t look back.

  41

  Her feet numb, her boots sloshing with freezing water, Wolfe stumbles across Marylebone Road, aware she is making a spectacle of herself - the last thing she should do. But all she cares about is getting away. Her beanie lies at the bottom of the lake, her hair is sodden, her face smeared with mud. She probably stinks. A businessman in a pinstriped navy suit and French cuffs steps out of her way and purses his lips in disgust. Water seeps from her backpack leaving a wet snail-trail behind her in the settling snow.

  Who were her attackers? The SVR?

  She stops to get her bearings, gasping for breath. She looks back across the thrumming lanes of traffic. Is she being followed? She decides to avoid main roads and the myriad of embassies in the area, especially those along Portland Place, where security cameras grow like mushrooms from embassy walls. She ducks down a lane so narrow it doesn’t even have a name and tucks her face into her wet scarf as she runs until she can’t run any more. She’s heading for the hotel without thinking. But she doesn’t know where else to go. Her drowned-rat appearance is attracting too many looks. She has to get changed and then find somewhere else to stay. But do those men know where she is staying?

  The lane ends. Wolfe takes a right, passing shops, avoiding eye contact. She looks behind so often, her wet collar chafes her neck. Darting through an archway of cream stone, she arrives in a cobbled mews lined with expensive terraced houses - a momentary haven of calm. Hidden from street view, she pulls out her mobile phone. It’s sodden and useless. She wants to warn Yushkov. She must find a payphone or buy another mobile.

  She keeps moving, if for no other reason than to try and warm herself. Her shivering has beco
me more violent. She passes boutiques, cafés, delicatessens and expensive furniture shops. Further up the street are two currant-red phone boxes, their St Edward’s Crowns reassuringly familiar. She can’t believe her luck. Thank God they haven’t all been scrapped. She opens the heavy door and fumbles in her wallet for some change. She pops a coin in the slot and dials. The phone swallows her coin but fails to connect. She slams the receiver down and heads for the second booth. This time it connects but Yushkov doesn’t pick up. Why isn’t he answering? Surely he’s back at the hotel by now. She leaves a message: she’s on the way to the hotel but watch out for SVR agents, who, she believes, killed Harvey.

  The snowfall lies thicker on pavements, cars and windowsills. Her breath steams up the phone box’s windowpanes. She made herself a promise she wouldn’t ask Butcher for anything else, but she’s desperate.

  ‘Give me a chance,’ Butcher says, wrongly anticipating the reason for her call. ‘I can’t work miracles.’

  Wolfe tells him about Harvey’s death and the men chasing her.

  ‘Call the police. You’re witness to a murder.’

  ‘If I do that, they’ll never let me go. I have to find out what the hell is going on.’

  ‘Now listen to me. A man is dead. The park ranger doesn’t know if you did it or someone else. You have to turn yourself in.’

  ‘CCTV will prove I didn’t do it.’

  ‘If there’s a camera pointing in the right direction, and if it’s working.’

  ‘But Vitaly? He’s in danger.’

  ‘Forget him. Think of yourself. Whoever these men are, they want you badly. And if they’re SVR, they will find you.’

  ‘Jerry, Harvey might’ve killed Knox. My God, why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter?’ she shouts. ‘People are dying because of this bloody bacteria! I have to know why.’

  Butcher softens his tone. ‘Liv, tell me where you are and I’ll come.’ Her teeth chatter, her fingers are white, her ears burn with cold. ‘Liv, whatever you do, don’t go back to wherever you’ve been staying. That’s the first place they’ll look.’