by A. R. Zander
Moscow City
By
A.R. Zander
Copyright © 2013, Robert Hartley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.
- Chapter 1 -
Eastern Echo
The smell of fresh death hit them when they opened the door. Both detectives had smelt it before, but neither had got used to it. A neighbour had heard strange noises coming from the flat the previous evening, but had waited until the next morning to call the police. One of the uniformed officers that arrived to investigate was bent over, dry retching into the front garden. The other was sitting on the wall with his hands clasped together, trying to stop them from shaking. They were both young. Every copper will see a body eventually. The lucky ones see something natural the first time, but these two weren’t lucky.
DS Cohen and DC Russell stepped into the hall. The carpet was old and worn with elaborate red patterns. A large pile of unopened post had been pushed to the side. Cohen bent down and picked up a few of the letters. Most of it looked like junk and there were a few obscure academic journals. They were on a variety of subjects: physics; maths; politics. Everything was addressed to Simeon Cavendish.
“Looks like he had a few bob,” said Russell. “Anyone who can afford to have a place like this and not even bother to rent it out is probably not struggling.”
The stairs creaked as the two detectives plodded up to the main landing. There was a small kitchen at the top with some dirty plates and forks in the sink. Cohen pushed the lid of the bin and saw some empty Chinese takeaway trays. He picked the packaging out. Beijing Paradise, Warwick Avenue. It was local, close to the tube station. The delivery guy would have been here. They were going to have to talk to him later. Cohen heard Russell poking around in the bedroom and walked through to join him.
“Not much in here,” said Russell. “Bed hasn’t been slept in for ages it looks like. No clothes in the cupboards.”
The door to the lounge was slightly open. Cohen walked up to it and grabbed the handle. The smell got stronger as he pushed the door open and walked inside. The windows were covered with thick curtains, starving the room of any natural light. The three dark shapes at the end of the room could have been anything when Cohen looked towards them. He stood for a few seconds in the dark until Russell walked up behind him and flicked on the light.
“What a fucking mess,” said Russell, striding into the centre of the room.
The three bodies were tied to wooden chairs facing the detectives. There were smatterings of blood on the walls and fireplace. More covered the floor, but it had blended into the red carpet. The small man on the left was dressed in a suit and had been shot in the head and chest. The man in the middle wore jeans with an expensive designer shirt and no tie. His shoes looked Italian. They were made of brown leather and were still shiny. His throat had been slit. A knife had been put into the side of his neck and pulled forward, slicing his windpipe, bleeding him almost dry. Cohen could see their deaths had been quick, but the third man hadn’t been so lucky. The man on the end was older than the other two. He had a strong head of silver hair and wore a tweed jacket with cream chinos. His shoes and socks had been removed and so had his toenails. There was an iron sitting on the floor next to him still plugged into the socket. His shirt had been ripped open and there were two deep burn marks on his chest. The melted flesh had dripped down onto his stomach. Russell walked around the back of the three bodies, taking a closer look. Cohen had never seen him flinch in these type of situations. He seemed to view dead bodies like waxworks. Separating the person from the corpse had never been an issue for Russell.
“How do you think the third one died?” said Cohen.
“I think this might have something to do with it,” said Russell, pointing at the back of the man’s head.
Cohen walked round and saw the knife stuck in his skull. It had been twisted after it was inserted. “Whatever they wanted out of these three, it must have been pretty important.”
“How do you know they wanted something?” said Russell. “Some people just do this shit because they get a kick out of it. I’ve seen it before.”
“Which one do you think is Cavendish?” said Cohen.
“Looks like the man here with the knife in his head was the main attraction,” said Russell. “I imagine the other two would’ve had to sit back and watch the horror show before they got done in.”
A shout came from downstairs. Cohen walked back onto the landing and leant over the bannister. The officer that was sick in the garden was standing just inside the door. “Forensics are here, do you want them to come up?”
“Yeah, send them in,” shouted Cohen. “And get the cordons up. We don’t want the public wandering past the scene all morning.”
Cohen walked back into the lounge. Russell had opened a chocolate bar and was munching away at it as he examined some pictures on the mantelpiece. The men in white suits came into the room and started to examine the scene. Cohen made his way downstairs to the street, leaving Russell to take charge of the situation. He took in a deep lungful of fresh air. He’d seen worse, but the trick with the iron was something new. He tried to imagine the pain of having a scolding iron shoved onto his chest. The knife in the back of the head must have been sweet relief.
Several members of the public had started to hang around the edge of the cordon. One of the uniforms was chatting to them and keeping them from walking towards the house. From the back of the crowd, two men in grey suits approached the officer and flashed some ID. They ducked under the tape and walked over to him.
“DS Cohen?” one of them said.
“That’s right, how can I help you gents?”
“We’re with the Foreign Office. I’m Walker and this is Varndon. We know this is your investigation, but we just need to have a look around.”
“And what interest does the Foreign Office have in our case?”
“We need to have a look around,” said Varndon. “Here’s a number to call if you want to get some confirmation.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that lads. This is a crime scene and no one gets in or out until my people have finished. You’ll have to step back behind the cordon.”
Cohen felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was the station.
“Cohen speaking.”
“Cohen, it’s Lisa. I’ve just had someone very senior ring me to make sure you don’t hassle two suits that are going to turn up at your crime scene. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but don’t get in their way or we’re both in hot water.” Walker and Varndon seemed to know exactly what was being said on the other end of the phone. Cohen put the phone back in his pocket.
“Looks like it’s all yours,” said Cohen, stepping aside.
They walked past him and up the path into the house. Russell came out a few minutes later and walked over to where Cohen was standing. He offered him a cigarette and they both sparked up.
“Who are the new kids then?” said Russell.
“They say they’re from the Foreign Office.”
“From the FCO? What do they want here?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Get back up there and keep an eye on them. I need to speak to the Guvnor.”
- Chapter 2 -
The Perfect Job
The insomnia seemed to have eased a little. There must have been at least two hours sleep since the last time his eyes snapped open. Matt Harper reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. Just as the liquid was about to reach his lips, he smelt th
e gin and jerked his head back. He put the glass down and looked around for something else to drink. He picked up an open can of coke from the floor and took a swig. It was flat and warm, but he finished it off. He sat up and let the room come more into focus. His throat was dry and his head had a light thud, but other than that, he felt okay.
He walked into the lounge, flipped on the kettle and turned on the TV. He was sick of television after watching hour after hour of soul-destroying dross in the hope of dropping off to sleep. The news was leading with a story about three suspicious deaths somewhere in north London.
“British businessman Simeon Cavendish was found dead in his home yesterday morning along with two colleagues, Glasgow-born Marcus Stewart and Swiss national, Luca Francini. Cavendish, a prominent scientist, was the main shareholder in hedge fund Woolaton Capital. He left behind a wife and three children…” Harper flicked onto a different news channel. “Renewed troubles in Northern Ireland brought Belfast to a standstill yesterday as a Loyalist splinter group planted three bombs in pubs around the city…”
He turned the TV off and threw the remote on the table. A flush of the toilet told him the girl from the previous night was still in the flat. She walked out, a little surprised to see him, clearly having hoped for a conversation-free exit. She looked a bit older than he remembered, but he could still see why he took her home.
“Oh hi,” she said, grabbing her coat from the rack.
“Morning, you don’t want to stay for coffee?” he said, amusing himself by watching her shuffle uncomfortably towards the door.
“Oh, it’s fine, I have to get to work, but…I had a really good time. I’ll see you around yeah.”
“I hope so.”
The switch on the kettle flicked off and she melted quickly from his memory. He walked over and made himself a coffee. There was no milk, so he put two spoons of sugar in and had it black. The therapist had advised him to stay off caffeine and cut back on the amount of alcohol he drank, but he was struggling on both fronts. He had bought a large box of decaffeinated coffee, but the plastic wrapper was still on the box. He sat back down on the sofa and picked up his laptop. He scrolled through a few emails before coming to one with an urgent tag. Meeting: 10am. Office of the Deputy Commissioner. Required Attendee: DC Harper. He looked up at the clock. It was 9.15am. He got showered and dressed as quickly as he could. He got as far as the street before he felt his chest tighten. His breathing was racing and he started to regret the coffee.
He waved down a cab and jumped in the back seat. He took the chance to close his eyes and clear his mind, just as the therapist had suggested. She had given him a choice of things to imagine when he felt tense. The one that seemed to work was the lake. He imagined the choppy water with waves crashing into each other and gradually brought it to a calm state until the water was perfectly still. He sat in the back of the cab with his eyes closed for 10 minutes and then opened them and just watched London flash past. His heart had stopped racing and the tightness in his chest had eased. He managed to keep his mind off the meeting until he arrived at New Scotland Yard. He slipped a mint into his mouth to counter the smell of alcohol on his breath. The meeting room he was heading for was on the top floor. He walked out the lift and turned left onto a long corridor lined with offices. Most of the doors were open and a few secretaries glanced up to look at him as he walked past. The plush meeting room was at the end and they were all waiting for him when he arrived. He recognised the Deputy Commissioner, who was sitting at the head of the table. There were three other officers there, but he couldn’t place any of the faces.
“Harper, thanks for coming, I’m Deputy Commissioner Bailey.”
“Good to meet you Ma’am.”
“This is DS Cohen and DC Russell. They are working on yesterday’s Cavendish killing. And this is Detective Chief Inspector Morton. He’s leading the investigation.”
Harper nodded and shook the outstretched hands. He sat down and poured himself a coffee from the pot in the middle of the table.
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” said Bailey.
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Your undercover work for this force has been very impressive.”
Harper didn’t respond.
“The Commissioner is well aware of your achievements and he has requested we talk to you about a sensitive job.” Bailey pushed a file across the table. “Everything we know about the Cavendish killing is in this file.”
Harper opened the folder to a profile of Simeon Cavendish. Educated at Cambridge. Bachelors degree in Pure Mathematics. Several Masters degrees and a PHD in Finance. Formed his own hedge fund a few years back.
“More sensitive than usual?”
Morton pulled a file out of his briefcase. Harper’s name was on the top of the first sheet of paper with a picture taken during his time in basic training stapled onto the corner. It seemed a long time ago now.
“Says here you’ve helped put away Ukrainian arms traffickers, Lithuanian heroin suppliers, Armenian people smugglers, and it goes on and on. You speak native standard Russian and are fluent in several other languages from the region.”
Memories of the various operations flashed through Harper’s mind. The hours spent watching, listening, pretending to be someone else. The languages he spoke for fun with his grandparents became his pass into the fast lane. No pounding the streets chasing shoplifters for him. He was exempt. He was too useful.
“I’ve been with the unit for 15 years,” said Harper. “From the start.”
“Have you ever come across Simeon Cavendish?” continued Morton.
“Financial crime comes with the territory, but no, I’ve never heard of him.”
Bailey took the file from Morton and closed the folder. “Simeon Cavendish has been spending rather a lot of time in Russia over the past couple of years. He arrived back from there with the other two men the day before their bodies were found. We think whatever he was doing there got him killed.”
“And you’d like me to find out what that was?”
“Yes. But not, how shall we say…in an orthodox manner.”
“Ma’am?”
“This is all very sensitive Harper,” said Bailey, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the table. “Morton will be leading the official investigation from the UK, and we are sending a team, including Cohen and Russell, over to Moscow to liaise with the Russian police.”
“So why do you need me?”
“We don’t expect we will receive much official cooperation over there, so we need someone who can operate, let’s say, more freely.”
“You want me as a UC in Russia?”
“That’s right.”
A small wave of anxiety flashed across Harper’s body. He pushed the coffee away and clasped his hands together in front of him. He felt the excitement fighting with the apprehension as he mulled over the proposition.
“What would be the cover?”
“English teacher,” said Morton.
“Can’t I slip in at the embassy?”
“The embassy is off limits I’m afraid,” said Bailey. “Our brothers and sisters from the security services have taken a special interest in the case and they would prefer us not to rock the boat with the Russians. They control the embassy, so that’s not possible.”
Harper shifted in his seat. “So I presume they won’t know about me?”
“No one will know about you apart from the Commissioner and the people in this room. And we want to temporarily wipe your file.”
“Is that necessary?”
“We need complete deniability in case you get caught.”
“I see.”
“The Commissioner wants a result, but the spooks should think we’re onside.”
“And there is a reason we are putting you into this school,” said Morton. “Cavendish’s Russian partner is a man called Andre Vladimirovich Katusev. His daughter is a student there. If you can get to her, she could be extremely useful. Her name is
Anastasia.”
“Anastasia,” said Harper. “That’s a nice name.”
They watched Harper and waited for his response. He stood up and walked towards the window. There was a mist over the city and visibility was poor. He could hardly see further than a few streets across.
“I need a day to think about it,” he said finally. “You know it was a only a few weeks since we finished the last court case. I like to take a bit of time out before I jump into something new. Can I get back to you tomorrow?”
“Sure,” said Bailey. “But if you decide to go for it, you’ll leave on Monday. Come back with the goods and you’ll be heading your own squad. You’ve got my word on that.”
Harper said nothing and made his way to the door.
“There’s one more thing I wanted to ask you about,” said Bailey. “Says here you got engaged during your last op. The press has given us a lot of flack over relationships started while on the job. Do you think she’s likely to go running to the papers?”
“I doubt it Ma’am. She’s related to some pretty heavy people. I don’t think they’re the type to start getting pally with reporters.”
“Well, that’s good. How did you leave it?”
“I just left it.”
“And it was that easy?”
“It was a job. It was that easy.”
They watched as Harper walked out and disappeared back down the corridor.
“What do you think?” said Bailey.
“Seems a bit full of himself,” said Russell.
“You would be too if you had his record,” said Morton.
“How are his psych evaluations?” said Bailey.
Morton flicked through a couple of pages in Harper’s file to the psychological assessments. “Seems fine. He passed all the checks with flying colours. Why?”
“He’s been in pretty deep on some of these undercover ops. I’ve seen plenty of officers go off the rails after work like that.”
“Nothing to indicate there’s anything like that happening.”
