by Nick Oldham
‘No, he won’t. This is England and you will abide by our rules, regulations and laws. You do not call the shots here like you do on the streets of Moscow. Nikolai’s body will remain in this country until released by the coroner - and believe me, I have a great deal of influence in that decision.’
‘Are you trying to intimidate me?’ Drozdov rallied.
‘Merely stating facts.’
Astonishingly, the old man wilted like a daffodil, hanging his head. Serov reached out, ready to catch him if he fell. Then Drozdov pulled himself together.
‘Nikolai was my only living blood relative.’ A tear formed in the old man’s eye. Henry’s heart went out to him fleetingly, but he spoke to him in the same, measured tones he had used before.
‘In that case you will be eager to take him home at the earliest opportunity.’
‘You are a hard man, Detective Christie.’
‘No, you’re wrong there, but I have a job to do and I’ll do it to the best of my ability.’
Drozdov nodded in graceful acquiescence. ‘In that case, we shall talk.’
Old he might have been, but very cautious he remained – which was probably why he had lived to such a grand old age, Henry surmised. Drozdov refused to talk whilst sitting in the back of the traffic car, which was Henry’s suggestion. Nor did he wish to go to Lancaster police station, where protecting him would have been easier. Instead he said he would be willing to sit in the back of one of the firearms team’s cars because it was less likely to have been bugged - and only then if Henry agreed to be searched by Drozdov’s travelling companion. Henry, who was sick of being searched for wires, said OK reluctantly.
After a quick but thorough pat-down, Serov grunted some thing which must have meant Henry was clean.
Serov then assisted Drozdov into the car and after quickly briefing the firearms team to be patient, Henry got in beside him.
‘I’ll lay my cards on the table,’ Henry opened. ‘As you know, I am in charge of a multiple murder investigation, coupled with a robbery, and one of the victims is your grandson. And this is how I shall view Nikolai - as someone’s grandson. It is a terrible tragedy and no one, from whatever walk of life, should lose a grandson in such a manner. To me, murder is the most serious crime there is and I will do everything possible to bring the offenders to justice. That’s my solemn promise to you.’
This had been the seventh time of saying something similar in the last forty-eight hours. As SIO, Henry thought it only right and proper for him to visit the immediate families of all the victims, those of the security guards, and those of Thompson and Elphick, and to make this promise to them. When he spoke to Elphick’s father, though, he had not really meant the words, because he was glad the bastard was dead.
Drozdov said, ‘Thank you for that.’
‘However. . .’ Henry went on.
‘Ahh.’ The old man raised his head knowingly. ‘Here comes the “but”’
‘No, no buts. What I want to say is this. I know full well who you are and what you are, Mr Drozdov. What I want to do is make a plea. I know that you and your organisation are probably capable of tracking down and killing the person you think is responsible for Nikolai’s death. I beg you not to do that. If you do know who is responsible, please feed that information to me and let the legal process take its course. Let me convict the offender. Let them suffer a life in prison. Killing is too good for such a person, too easy. . .’ Henry’s words drifted away.
‘An interesting little speech,’ Drozdov said with a trace of pity. ‘You make assumptions about me which could be upsetting. But, in the confines of this car, I will admit you are correct. It is the plan for my “organisation”, as you call it, to hunt down and destroy Nikolai’s murderer. You see, in Russia, we believe blood for blood. Whoever killed my grandson will die for it. I have already lost my son in similar circumstances. I allowed the Russian police to use the due process of law on that occasion and the killer was acquitted on a technicality - which told me the friends of the killer paid the judge more than I.’ Drozdov pushed his thick glasses up to the bridge of his nose. ‘That judge judges no more. So my faith in the law, if I had any to begin with, was not justified and the man who killed my son met a very messy end.’
‘This is British justice, not Russian justice,’ Henry argued, jolted by hearing such revelations - two admissions of murder in one breath - and feeling powerless to do anything about it.
‘Then there is an even greater likelihood of failure. If the corrupt Russian system did not convict my son’s killer, how can I hope that a fair and just system will be any different?’
‘I will ensure it.’
‘How? Shall I bribe you?’ chuckled Drozdov.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Henry said coldly. ‘I will ensure it by means of my skills as a detective and the skills of my team. Your grandson’s killer will be tried and convicted. I guarantee it.’
‘I’m afraid your guarantee is worthless.’
‘So you will not do as I ask?’
Drozdov leaned back and closed his eyes. Henry thought he had fallen asleep, but then he said, ‘No, but I will offer you a compromise of sorts. If you arrest the man who killed Nikolai before I get to him, I will allow British justice to run its course. However, if there is an acquittal, he will die; if he is convicted and sent to prison, he will be allowed to serve the term imposed by the court. On his release, he will die, even though by that time I will be dead myself. At ninety-one there are not many years left for anyone, but his death will be my legacy for Nikolai.’
‘That is not very helpful. You are saying that whatever happens, he is a dead man.’
‘Yes, that is all I can offer. I am an old man in grief. I want revenge. It is as simple as that.’ He touched Henry’s knee. ‘You are a good man, Henry Christie, but I live in a different world with different values and you should understand that.’
Henry shook his head despondently. It had been worth a try, to get Drozdov on his side, but he had half-expected the response and he wasn’t unduly surprised. The sooner he got back to the MIR the better. He was involved in a race to catch the killer now. He had to make an arrest before Drozdov’s henchmen struck first, and therefore there was not much time to play with. The slow-moving police machine needed a huge kick up the rear.
‘What information can you give me?’ Henry asked. ‘What, for example, was Nikolai doing in this country, associating with known criminals?’
‘Furthering business interests is how I would summarise it.’
‘Did that include murdering Jacky Lee? Is that one of your methods of “furthering interests”, as you put it?’
‘Do I detect a trace of anger in your voice, Mr Christie?’
‘What would be the point of anger?’
‘Exactly. As I said - different values. We work differently to you ... and now, I think I am getting tired of this.’
‘Me too,’ said Henry. ‘This detective here’ - he pointed to Dave Seymour - ‘will take a short statement from you about your identification of Nikolai’s body, then you may go - but I stick what I said earlier: no one should lose a grandson in such circumstances, even if the grandson was deeply involved in violent crime himself. Because of that, I will not falter in my efforts to bring this killer to justice and unravel the sordid goings-on behind it all.’ Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Different values.’
He got out of the car.
Whilst waiting for Seymour to take the statement, Henry drifted into the mortuary and found himself standing by the fridges in which the bodies were stored. He could not resist pulling out the sliding tray on which Gunk Elphick’s body was resting after the post-mortem. He was wrapped in a linen shroud. Henry looked round to see he wasn’t being watched and unravelled the shroud from around Gunk’s head.
Henry simply wanted to wish him one last thing.
‘Rot in hell, you evil bastard.’ Childish, he knew. Nor did it achieve anything. But it made him feel much, much better.
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With a signal from one motorcyclist to the other, the police escort pulled away from the mortuary. Henry and Dave Seymour watched it leave.
‘Let’s get back to Headquarters,’ Henry said quickly and climbed into the firm’s Mondeo.
In the back seat of the traffic car, Alexandr Drozdov spoke quietly into the ear of his bodyguard, whispering two words. ‘Yuri Ivankov.’
Less than three-quarters of an hour later, the two detectives drove into police Headquarters. Henry, at the wheel, drove past the front of the HQ building on his right, the sports-field on his left. The grass still bore the charred, vivid scars where the Force helicopter had been destroyed. The wreckage had been removed piecemeal to the Forensic Science Lab down at Euxton, near Chorley, and was being examined by experts there. First indications fed to the MIR were that a couple of grenades were responsible for blowing the machine to smithereens.
Henry drove over the speed ramps too quickly, jarring the unsuspecting Seymour out of his seat, and headed towards the LEC building which had been commandeered by Henry and his Murder Squad - now totalling forty officers and support staff - for the enquiry. He stopped in the yellow hatch markings outside the front door and abandoned the dirty Mondeo there. Inside he went directly to the main room which was being used for the incident. Danny and several others were working away, heads buried in masses of paper.
‘Danny,’ he called across the room. ‘Got a minute? Pretty urgent.’
She grimaced and held her hands wide as if to say, ‘I am busy, you know.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ he said. ‘Come on,’ and gestured her out.
‘OK, boss,’ she said with resignation.
‘And bring everything,’ he instructed as an afterthought - although he wasn’t specific as to what ‘everything’ actually meant. He ducked out of the room and went to the one he had claimed as his office, throwing his jacket over a chair and helping himself to a coffee from the filter machine. He thudded down into his chair, mind churning.
There was a light knock and Danny entered, carrying a few sheets of printed paper. She clicked the door lock behind her and leaned against the door, adopting a provocative pose.
‘If you were any sort of boss,’ she pouted, ‘we’d be screwing on that desktop right now.’
Henry perused her from head to toe. His teeth grated together with the memory of her body. He shifted uncomfortably to allow a surge of blood to pass into his loins.
‘I only have to look at you to get a hard on,’ he said.
‘And I only have to look at you to want you inside me.’ Breathless.
Henry stood up slowly, maintaining eye-contact with her. He walked towards her. She raised her chin, exposing her long neck, looking down her nose at him with a ‘let’s do it now’ expression.
He stopped inches away from her, his fingers at his trouser fly. Then, unable to maintain the charade, he burst out giggling. She did the same.
There was no way either of them would compromise themselves or their jobs by doing anything so foolish as frolicking in the major incident room. It would have been Henry’s luck to have FB walk in just as he was table-ending Danny across one of the HOLMES consoles.
Danny flicked open the door lock. ‘You look worried,’ she remarked.
He returned to his chair and loosened his tie, about to speak.
‘Oh, by the way,’ she said before he could begin, ‘FB said he’d be here in an hour for a rundown. To quote a phrase, he said, in typical FB terms, “I’ll want to know when he intends making an arrest and how he intends getting back that twenty million quid - and if he can’t tell me, he might as well pick up his P45 on the way out”.’ Danny mimicked FB’s voice and manner with uncanny accuracy.
Henry drew a breath. He knew FB was going to show at some time that day, having previously made the arrangement with him. ‘We’d better be in a position to tell him something.’
With a flourish, Danny held up the pieces of paper she had brought with her. ‘Maybe these will help.’ She came over to the desk and placed all but one of them carefully in front of him. She watched him as he read.
‘The stuff from the financial analysts,’ he said, concentrating.
Danny could not keep a wide smile from her face as she enjoyed the jittery feeling in her tummy she got from being with Henry. It was something she had only ever experienced once before - and not with Jack Sands, her previous lover. It was a sensation which told her she was deeply, ecstatically in love.
She closed her eyes, shook her head and opened them again. The feeling had not gone away.
Danny had been poached by Henry to act as the office manager in the MIR, effectively removing her from the triple murder at Blackpool. But because she was well into that, she was also the main liaison between the two enquiries because of the common denominator: Billy Crane.
Over the previous two days she and Henry had worked very closely together, doing sixteen-hour shifts. At the end of each one they had raced - discreetly - back to her house where they had made frantic love. Henry had then gone home to sleep with Kate, dropping exhausted into the marital bed, leaving Danny alone and unhappy.
Maybe once the investigation was over, something would come of the relationship, Danny hoped, but had a horrible premonition it would all end in tears - hers. She wanted Henry badly, so badly she was prepared to live through a difficult separation and divorce to get him. But did he love her enough to commit this sacrifice? There had been occasions during their lovemaking when he had seemed on the verge of saying the three little words, but held back. She was not going to push him, but desperately wanted to hear them whispered in her ear. As soon as the time was right, they needed to sit down and discuss things before the whole scenario blew up in their faces. Danny did not want to enter a difficult relationship without payback.
Henry looked up at her. ‘These are very interesting,’ he remarked. No doubt about it, he thought, financial analysts can make an investigation.
‘And here’s another one which may be of interest to you.’ She handed him the other sheet of facts and figures, which he started to read. ‘All about Barney Gillrow.’
‘Wow - you have been busy.’
‘Yes, I have, and so have the analysts.’
Henry looked across the desk, thinking Danielle Louise Furness was the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he had ever known. Her eyes were to die for. Her lips needed kissing and biting every day without fail. She needed to be made love to frequently. She had to be his.
‘Remember when we first made love?’ he asked.
She blushed endearingly. ‘How could I forget?’ she said softly.
‘I was going to tell you something when you very rudely interrupted me by forcing me to make love to you again.’
‘Oh, I’m sooo sorry,’ she said. ‘What was it?’
‘I-,’ he began and stopped abruptly when the office door burst open and FB marched in, trumpeting, ‘Right, Henry, come on. What the hell’s going on? Don’t give me any tactical crap. Give me strategy - now. I want the big picture.’
Behind him stood Rupert Davison.
Tenerife was roasting. Loz was sitting under a sunshade on the private roof terrace of Uncle B’s English Bar and Disco, a large whisky in his good hand. He groaned, winced and opened his mouth to feel the loose teeth at the front of his lower jaw. ‘Shit,’ he muttered angrily. He gingerly touched the bridge of his nose which had a bruise right across it, then laid a fingertip gently on the puffed-up left eye, which was swollen and weeping. They were all new injuries to add to the ones which had only just healed up from his previous battering.
He necked the whisky with one gulp and slammed the glass down on the table. Holding his breath against the pain, he unravelled the bandage from his left hand, the one Nero had snacked on. It was a mess, looked infected, greenish. There was a musty stench to it which worried Loz, as did the gradual blackening of his little finger.
In the cage at the other end of the roof, Nero paced relentless
ly. Loz stood up and walked over to him. As his previous weapon, the bamboo pole, now layout of reach on the floor of the cage, Loz picked up a broom-handle and shoved it through the mesh, trying to jab at Nero’s flank as the beast walked past. Nero was wise now, however, and easily swerved away with a snarl and clawed the stick. Loz continued to prod and tease, a look of sheer hatred on his face.
‘Yeah, you heap of crap, nothing you can do now, is there, now your master isn’t here to help you.’ He rammed the stick at Nero’s face; the lion deflected it with a big paw. ‘Look what he’s done to me again.’ Loz pointed at his own face. ‘Bastard. If he thinks I’m looking after you, he’s fucking well wrong. You can starve for all I care, you smelly, mangy piece of meat.’
Loz, tired of the abuse, flicked two good fingers up at Nero and went back to the table.
On it, besides the whisky, was a whole sheaf of British newspapers, going back over the last two days. He picked up a copy of the Mail and read the headlines for the tenth time. £20 MILLION STOLEN: EIGHT DEAD they proclaimed. MASSIVE POLICE HUNT.
The story dominated the whole of the first three pages and contained a photograph of the officer leading the enquiry, DI Henry Christie, and lots of bland quotes from him. There were articles about gangland, the Russian Mafia and suggestions of a link to an earlier multiple killing in Blackpool. A huge reward had been posted by the banks - £200,000 for information leading to the arrest and conviction etc.
Loz laid the paper out on the table. . .
The telephone call the day before from Billy Crane had come unexpectedly. Tersely, Crane had instructed Loz to pick him up from Los Rodeos Airport in the north of the island where he had just landed from Madrid. Loz drove there straight away in the Ssang Yong.
Crane looked very tired, had little to say and indulged in no small talk until Loz said conversationally, ‘Had a wee bit of a problem while you were gone, but I’ve sorted it.’
