by CJ Carver
She fell quiet, wanting to give him some emotional space but the snow had thickened and was now falling rapidly, settling on every surface and painting the woods white. Time to get a move on before they froze solid.
She said, ‘I’m Lucy. What’s your name?’
He didn’t answer for a moment. But then he said, ‘Adrian.’
‘Well, Adrian. It’s getting dark. And if you hadn’t noticed, it’s snowing pretty hard too. It’s time to go.’
‘Polina loves the snow.’ His voice was rough and hoarse.
‘Polina?’
He didn’t respond.
‘Adrian, who is Polina?’ Lucy asked, wanting to get him talking.
‘My wife.’
Long pause.
‘She . . .’ The word trembled. He cleared his throat. ‘She w-wants to take the kids to Russia next Christmas.’
‘Why Russia?’ Lucy said.
‘She’s Russian.’
Was the dead woman with the child in her arms his wife? If so, why had he used the present tense? Shock? Or was it simply denial of what he’d done?
‘It gets down to minus fifty out there,’ he added distantly. ‘Snow up to your armpits. This is nothing.’
‘Feels cold enough to me,’ she said.
He turned his face to Lucy. His eyes were rimmed with red in a face the colour of stale putty. He looked exhausted, about to collapse. ‘I didn’t kill them.’
She’d heard enough guilty people protest their innocence to know not to say anything in response.
‘I loved them. Why would I harm them?’
That’s for the shrinks to find out.
He looked back at the woods. Snow coated his knees but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Why didn’t they kill me?’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t understand. What harm did Polina do anyone? Tasha?’ As he spoke the names, his face collapsed once again. ‘Felix,’ he whispered. ‘Jessie.’
Lucy was thinking about shuffling backwards for the ladder and encouraging him down, when he suddenly said, ‘Dear God. What about Zama?’ He grabbed Lucy’s arm and gripped it tight.
His sudden animation made her nervous. She glanced down. It wasn’t far if she had to jump, maybe fifteen feet or so and on to what looked like a nice deep litter of leaves, but if she landed on a stump or rock or a sharp-broken branch, she could do horrible damage – lacerate an artery or break a bone.
His grip was like iron. She could practically feel the bruises forming. ‘Adrian, you’re hurting me.’
He dropped her arm as though scalded, expression dismayed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’
‘We can find out about Zama if we go back to the house. Are they a relative?’
He hesitated. Something cautious rose in his eyes. For the first time, she saw he was thinking.
‘He’s, er . . .’ Calder licked his lips. Glanced away. Thought some more. ‘Earlier,’ he said. ‘In the house. You were going to arrest me.’
I still am, she thought, but instead said, ‘I’m looking forward to getting into some dry clothes and having a hot drink. My feet are like ice blocks.’
‘You have to believe me,’ he said. ‘I’m innocent.’
Yeah, right. You and every other person I’ve ever nicked.
‘If I’m arrested,’ he added, ‘who will look for the killer?’
He looked at her solemnly, waiting for her response.
When she didn’t say anything, he glanced down at the ground then back. Shuffled his backside forward a fraction. Nearer the edge.
Shit, shit, she thought. He’s about to jump. Do another runner.
‘Adrian, if you don’t come with me now,’ she said, ‘it’s going to make things really difficult for you. Not just because you’re soaking wet in sub-zero temperatures, but because every police officer will take your absence as a sign of guilt.’
He peered down as though judging how far it was to the ground.
Please, don’t jump. I want to go home, not chase you around the fucking forest all night.
‘They’ve got tracker dogs and infra-red cameras,’ she told him. ‘You won’t stand a chance.’
She felt as though he was waiting for something to help him decide whether to stay with her. She wished she had the magic words he wanted to hear but since she couldn’t mind-read, she settled for the prosaic.
‘You’ll get hypothermia if you stay out here any longer. That won’t help you find anyone, will it?’
He looked at her for a long time. She looked back, trying to emulate a benign and gentle persona rather than an enthusiastic copper who was dying to slap him behind bars.
‘Will you help me find who killed my family?’ he asked.
She didn’t have anything to lose. Let him believe what he wanted. Anything to bring him in.
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
As they trudged through the snow, she heard him say very gently, ‘Yes, my love. It’s not as cold as it is in Russia.’
CHAPTER NINE
Saturday 31 January
Dan disembarked at Sheremetyevo Airport trying to shake off his state of dazed confusion. He had to start concentrating on the job at hand but Jenny’s voice trailed like a continual banner in his mind, her joyous smile imprinted on his retina.
I’m pregnant.
They’d been talking about having another baby but that had been months ago and before they’d separated. He hadn’t realised she’d come off the pill. He remembered their making love when they’d returned from Candy’s that night. Nothing earth shattering or remarkable or spectacular, they’d simply undressed and climbed into bed and turned to each other, moving seamlessly, touching one another where they knew they liked being touched as they’d done a hundred times before. Afterwards they had curled together, their legs entangled, her arm around his ribs, her head pillowed on his chest, and he’d fallen asleep with her scent on his skin.
And then things had skewed and he’d moved out. But now . . . he drew in a deep breath. They were going to have a baby. And according to the text she’d sent just as he boarded the aircraft, it was going to be a boy.
He wondered how she felt about having another son. Luke had been their firstborn and Aimee just a baby when Luke had died, as Jenny believed, in a hit-and-run just off Brick Lane. He’d been three years old. Dan processed the fact that if he hadn’t rushed off on this mission, he could have asked her, but then he recalled the joy sparking in her eyes when she’d told him the news, and he knew things would be OK, and that she’d love their second son unreservedly.
With his satchel slung over his shoulder – bought in haste at the airport – he took a moving walkway to Terminal E and caught the Aeroexpress train to Belorusskiy Vokzal. From there, he used the metro, busy even on a Saturday with families and the elderly absorbed in their e-book readers. He couldn’t remember being in Moscow but had little trouble understanding the system, buying a multi-ride card and travelling without any trouble, aware of things that he’d only know if he’d been here before, recognising the perekhod signs that linked underground passages between interchange stations and knowing that when two or more lines met, the intersecting stations could have different names. Strange how the memory worked. Dr Winter continually encouraged him to trust his subconscious and let it be his guide. Sometimes it surprised him. Like when, on an inexplicable impulse last month, he’d entered an exclusive-looking men’s shop in Mayfair to be warmly greeted by one of the tailors saying, ‘Mr Forrester, so good to see you again.’ He’d held an account there for five years and although he couldn’t remember it, an instinct had driven him to grasp the polished brass door handle and step inside.
Now, he rode the escalator to the surface at Kievskaya, icy air sweeping to greet him and cutting the skin on his cheeks like cats’ claws. Tightening his scarf he settled his hat as low as he could – his ears were already burning with cold – and strode out. Traffic roared past, slushing through ice and snow. Pedestrians walked hunched in calf-l
ength woollen coats and fur, their eyes watering, hastening to get to their destinations and out of the cold. Ahead, the imposing Gothic facade of the Radisson Royal reared against the dark sky, dominating the area with its pale and stately Stalinist architecture.
By the time he reached the hotel his nose had gone numb at the tip and his fingers were tingling. He stripped off his gloves as he entered the foyer, a massive expanse of marble floors and gleaming white pillars. He checked the time. Nine forty-five p.m.
A security guard looked him over. Dan walked past him as though he didn’t exist. Always look as though you belong. As though you know where you’re going.
The bar was busy, nearly every sofa and armchair occupied. The sound of voices and laugher, glasses chinking, background music. Men and women, visitors and business types, all unwinding on a Saturday night. Dan shucked off his coat and settled on a stool at the bar and ordered a tonic water and ice. Something that looked as though it contained vodka. Surreptitiously he studied his neighbours. A man, running to fat, was gesticulating expansively to another man who appeared bored. Two women chatting and drinking champagne. One blonde and elfin, the other dark and slender, all fierce angles and fire. Both women were stunning. Could such beauties be professionals? he wondered. If so, he doubted they’d be taken seriously by their male colleagues. The issue of gender equality and overt sexism in Russian society was a continual concern to ordinary Russians but how he knew this, Dan wasn’t sure.
He studied the women carefully. Not professionals, he decided. They used their sexuality too openly. However, it was hard to tell whether they were daughters or girlfriends of high-echelon officials or a pair of high-class prostitutes. They could even be university students looking to pick up a sugar daddy to help fund their studies but he wouldn’t bet on it. Again, he checked his watch.
Nine fifty-five.
A man entered the bar, alone. Young, cheeks dark with stubble, he wore jeans and loafers and an air of casual wealth. Was he Lynx? Dan let his gaze drift past to an elderly lady with red-painted nails who was peering at one of the orchids that adorned an occasional table as though checking for greenfly. Another young man arrived to greet the first. Dan watched them approach the bar and start to flirt with the two women.
He wondered what Jenny would make of the hotel’s opulence, the potted palms, thick carpets, grand staircases and chandeliers. Aimee would love it. She’d be pop-eyed with excitement but what about his wife? He didn’t think he’d taken her anywhere so overtly sumptuous. They usually stayed in top-end B & Bs or, for special occasions like their wedding anniversary, a boutique or country house hotel. She’d enjoy it here, he decided, but more out of curiosity than real pleasure.
His heart squeezed at the next thought.
What would they call their baby boy?
What would their second son be like? Luke had had bright blond hair like Jenny and a wild streak that came from Dan, but which Dan had learned to repress. Jenny told him he used to love watching Luke play in the garden with the sheer abandonment of irrepressible youth.
His gaze was drawn to the dark-haired beauty at the bar. She wasn’t his type, but there was something in her expression and manner that he found so absorbing, he found it hard not to stare. It had to be the sheer beauty of her. It was almost hypnotic.
Ten o’clock.
Something caught his attention at the far end of the room. Two men in suits. Hard and unsmiling. They scanned the bar as though looking for someone, then left.
The minutes ticked past. Ten past ten. Ten twenty. Ten forty. Dan ordered a light bar snack. Would Lynx turn up? Had they been scared off or delayed? No way to tell, so he ate his snack and ordered another tonic and ice, outwardly relaxed, internally vigilant.
Eleven o’clock came and went. Dan made the decision to wait for Lynx until the bar closed even though something told him that if Lynx wasn’t here by now, they wouldn’t appear. It was looking as though it would be a wasted trip, which wouldn’t please Bernard.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two women preparing to leave, picking up their handbags, slipping off their stools. They were laughing, their lips stretched over pearly white teeth, but their eyes weren’t amused. The men tried to stop them going. One of them gripped the dark-haired beauty’s arm and she tried to brush it away but his grip tightened and she grimaced in pain.
Dan’s gut tightened. He resisted the urge to intervene. The last thing he needed was a bar fight.
She snapped something at the man but he ignored her. She flashed Dan a look. It was almost as though she expected him to rise and defend her. Then she shrugged as though to say it’s not my fault and when she next spoke to the man restraining her, she nodded at Dan. The men turned to stare at him. He stared back.
What had she said?
She released her arm from the man’s grip. Both women sashayed their way over to him. The petite blonde kissed his cheek, trailing a delicate scent of vanilla and anise, and then left without a word. The dark woman stood so close her hip touched his. She delicately placed a hand on his shoulder and bent her head to his. She smelled of dark amber, nutmeg and ginger lily. Spicy and exotic. She murmured in English, ‘Put your arm around my waist.’
Her voice was low and smoky, accented in Russian.
He complied.
The men continued to stare.
He didn’t drop his gaze from theirs.
‘Pull me closer,’ she said.
The material of her dress was slippery and cool, her body pliant and smooth. She moved her hand to the nape of his neck. Caressed his hair.
She dipped her head to his once more. Her lips were so close to his ear he felt the tiny hairs tremble when she spoke. Goosebumps rushed up his arm and across his chest.
‘I told them you were my pimp.’
One of the men sent Dan a disgusted look. The other gave him a final glare. Finally, they both turned away and began scanning the room for further prey.
The woman slipped on to the stool next to him. Laid a proprietorial hand on his thigh. Long, slender fingers. Magenta nail polish. A silver ring in the shape of a skull. Nothing on her wedding ring finger. She said, ‘Buy me a drink.’
‘Champagne?’ he asked.
‘Cristal,’ she said.
He called over the barman. Thought of Bernard’s accounts department. Try not to spend too much. At over fifty quid a glass someone’s eyebrows would rise when they checked his expenses.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘A bottle of Cristal, please.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Dan watched it being poured. Touched his champagne glass to hers.
‘You are waiting for someone,’ she said. Her sultry, almond-shaped eyes held his, appraising.
‘Not really.’
‘Is she pretty?’
‘I’m married,’ he said.
‘You don’t wear a ring.’
He’d taken it off at the airport, a simple precaution to protect his family rather than signal that he was single.
‘Are you here on business or pleasure?’ she asked.
‘A little of both.’
Her hand remained on his thigh, as light as a butterfly. ‘Have you visited St Clement’s Church?’
Without pausing he responded, saying, ‘Not yet, but I have heard it is very beautiful.’
‘Perhaps we could visit it together. It is renowned for its baroque interior, along with a set of gilded eighteenth-century railings.’
‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. His tone was dispassionate but inside his mind was racing. He’d recruited this woman? This was Lynx? How old had she been when they’d met ten years ago? He could remember nothing about her. Not her smoky eyes or stunning body or tumbles of silken hair.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ she said decisively. ‘Ten o’clock. If you’re late I will wait for you like a cat waits at the window for its human to return.’
It was a veiled reference to her code name and he gave a nod of acknowledgement.
&nbs
p; In one fluid movement she rose and slipped from her stool.
He watched her cross the room. Every eye followed her, men and women alike, riveted by her sinuous, exquisite beauty. Dan supposed he was affected as much as the next person but his defences were raised against a honey trap. He wished he could remember her. She would have to have had a speciality for him to have recruited her and – apart from her obvious sexuality – he wondered what it was. He hoped he’d find out tomorrow.
He drank another glass of champagne while he checked the Internet on his phone. St Clement’s Church wasn’t far so he decided to spend the night at the Radisson. Hopefully he’d get the information Bernard wanted by tomorrow lunchtime and be on the next flight back to Heathrow. He paid the bar bill with Michael Wilson’s credit card and headed back to reception who allocated him a classic room. Small with no view, but comfortable enough.
He showered and climbed into bed. He fell asleep wondering if they’d have their baby boy christened in church, and whether Lucy would come.
CHAPTER TEN
Sunday 1 February
It was hot and stuffy in the interview room, making Lucy feel irritable and edgy. Which wouldn’t normally bother her, except for the malevolent belch of smoke crouching at the corners of her mind. It was there when she’d awoken earlier – talk about bad timing. She wanted to be on form, sparkling and alert, not struggling with her ‘moods’, as her mother called them. She’d only taken five days sick leave over the span of her police career because of them, but luckily nobody knew the real reason why. Everyone believed she suffered from migraines, which was the perfect cover and as close to what she suffered as to make it plausible.
There was no colour in her mind, just grey. Apparently she had a type of grapheme-colour synaesthesia where her mind lit up with colours when stimulated emotionally in some way or her brain was making – or trying to make – a neurological connection of some sort. It wasn’t anything to worry about, her friend and GP had told her recently.
Hating the dreary grey, she hoped if she kept busy and didn’t drop her guard, the colours would come back. She must remember to eat regularly and keep her fluid levels topped up, that always helped. The last thing she wanted was to be poleaxed and forced to take time off.
