by CJ Carver
Lucy was looking past his shoulder and wouldn’t meet his gaze.
‘Also,’ he went on, ‘I don’t appreciate your telling the DCS that you’re due in tomorrow only to have him tell me that you’re actually downstairs logging in some cash from your stake-out. In future, when I ask you what you’re doing, I want you to tell me, not fob me off.’
‘Take a chill pill, would you?’ Lucy gave him a look of contempt. ‘You’re not my mother.’
‘No,’ he snapped. ‘Thank God. But I will be your boss in ten days’ time and –’
‘Eleven,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I start on Monday the sixteenth. It’s Wednesday the fourth today, so that makes it eleven days. Unless you’re counting today, of course, which would make it twelve. Meantime, Jacko’s my boss, and I start my shift tomorrow at seven a.m. and finish at four. What I get up to today is my business.’
‘It’s not if you’re fucking working, Lucy. You’re running around like some sort of demented Lois Lane –’
‘Isn’t she a journalist? I’m not a journalist.’
He felt like tearing his hair. ‘You know what I mean.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do I?’
God give me strength . . . ‘Are you going to be like this when we’re working together?’ He could hear the frustration in his voice but he couldn’t seem to help it. She drove him nuts.
‘Like what, sir?’ She gave him a pretty smile and lifted her tote, indicating she was ready to leave.
Insufferable, he thought, but instead he said, ‘Insubordinate.’
Her eyes flashed.
‘You want me to kowtow?’ she snapped. ‘Salute you at every turn? Sure, I can do that.’ She executed a smart salute, worthy of a drill sergeant.
‘No,’ he ground out. ‘I just want to know where you are going. I do not want to hear you’ve gone missing, been kidnapped or shot at, without knowing roughly which hornet’s nest you’ve prodded.’
‘OK, OK.’ She held up a hand. Dropped her head. He saw her take a breath. Noted her reluctance to speak. What on earth was she going to say?
‘I’m heading to Thetford, OK?’ she told him. ‘I want to check out Fish ’n’ Chick. Talk to the driver of the truck that delivered Adrian’s envelope full of cash.’
She shifted from foot to foot, suddenly anxious, and with a flash of perspicacity he realised she was waiting for him to protest, to stop her going, maybe even give someone else the task.
‘I see,’ he said.
Another silence. Mac looked at Lucy and she gazed at her boots.
If he stopped her going, he thought, she’d resent him and probably make his life hell. If he let her go and she trod all over Norfolk constabulary, stirring up God knows what muck and mess, they’d give him hell. Not a great choice, and here she was scowling at her feet like a furious child waiting to be grounded, and it was all thanks to him.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. ‘That sounds like a good plan,’ he said, carefully neutral. ‘You’re taking your car?’
Her head shot up. She stared at him in surprise. ‘You’ll let me go?’
‘Keep a record of your mileage,’ he told her. ‘Log your fuel receipts along with any other expenses. And keep me informed. Because unless you do, I won’t give you half as much leeway next time, OK?’
She was still staring at him as though she couldn’t quite believe her ears. ‘Let’s use this as a tester,’ he told her. ‘If you can manage to report regularly to me, and not go on any wild goose chases without letting me know, then maybe we can forge a good working relationship and build a good rapport to our mutual benefit. OK?’
God, now he sounded like an HR manager.
‘OK,’ she said. She raised her tote bag, took a couple of steps down the street. Her body language had shifted subtly, come alert. She reminded him of a hunting dog on the scent, wanting to get away before its owner grabbed it and stuck it back in the kennel.
He stepped aside, hands open, letting her know she could go.
She looked at him, deep brown eyes holding his.
‘Thanks,’ she said. And she smiled. A megawatt smile that lit her face as brightly as the sun emerging from behind a thundercloud.
Impossible for Mac not to smile back.
He continued to smile like some kind of halfwit for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Two p.m. and Lucy was deep in the Norfolk countryside. Lots of flat land, open spaces and big skies. Not much traffic. She pushed her little Corsa harder, ignoring the rattle that accompanied her increased speed. The car was overdue its 60,000-mile service, that was all. Once she got the filters changed, oil, fuel, air, whatever, gave it a bit of TLC, it would be fine. She hoped. She’d bought it from one of her mother’s friends for just under five thousand pounds three years ago and so far hadn’t had any trouble, but the more it rattled, the more she became convinced it might be terminal. She should get it to a garage as soon as possible.
Not long later, she drove past a chicken farm. Rows upon rows of low-slung barns with huge silver feed hoppers at each end. The grass in between was neatly trimmed, the whole place immaculate. Three miles later she came to a factory and processing plant. Industrial buildings, an office block, a forecourt with two trucks busy loading up, car parking for a couple of hundred people.
Just past the factory stood a pair of wrought-iron gates, beyond which was a lake and beyond that a mansion with huge mullioned windows, turrets and towers. Great Huntingdon Hall. Where, if Wikipedia was correct, the owner of FISH ’N’ CHICK resided. Obviously sales of fish and chicken were doing well if they could afford to pay the heating bills.
She returned to the factory. Parked in a slot marked VISITORS. Headed for reception. Lots of posters on the walls showing happy chickens knee deep in straw (did chickens have knees? she wondered), on grass, in the sunshine. Apparently the company provided raw and cooked portions of poultry and fish to hotels, restaurants and airline caterers throughout the UK. Lucy ran her eye down a long register of satisfied customers and was disillusioned to see her favourite gastro pub listed, which meant the delicious chicken and leek pie she always ordered wasn’t home-made after all but mass-produced in a factory in Norfolk.
Lucy showed her warrant card to the receptionist and asked to see whoever was in charge of the company’s transport, drivers and deliveries. Three minutes later the transport manager scurried inside; a compact woman called Nina with tight curly hair and a worried expression. She looked confused when she saw Lucy. ‘I was told someone was here from the police?’
Obviously Nina hadn’t considered that she might be meeting a detective in plain clothes. Lucy showed her warrant card.
‘Oh,’ said Nina. ‘How can I help?’
‘I want to know who was driving one of your trucks earlier today.’ Lucy recited Mystery Man’s number plate.
‘That’s Boris’s truck.’ The worry increased. ‘What’s happened? He hasn’t called in or anything. Has there been an accident?’
‘No accident,’ Lucy assured her. ‘Is Boris around? I’d like to speak to him.’
‘He’s not due back until later today. But I’ll check. Please, follow me. Everything’s in the office.’
The office was a Portakabin set to one side of the forecourt and opposite the loading bay. Two desks, two computers. Time sheets and rosters covered the walls.
‘He hasn’t done anything wrong, has he?’ The worry was almost palpable.
‘If you could tell me when he’s due back?’
‘Of course. Sorry.’ Nina went to a chart on the wall and ran her finger down a column. ‘Five o’clock. Give or take an hour. It totally depends on the traffic out of Nottingham.’
‘What’s Boris’s surname?’
‘Gol . . . something. I can never get it right. Hang on a sec . . .’ Nina went to her computer and clicked her mouse a few times, scanned the screen.
‘Gol
ubkin.’ She spelled it out.
Lucy frowned. ‘Where’s he from?’
‘Russia. Moscow, I think.’
Vivid green and blue ran like rivers through Lucy’s brain, connecting, linking and breaking apart again.
‘Would you like me to call him?’ Nina asked. ‘Let him know you’re here?’
‘No. I’ll wait until he arrives. If you could tell me how long he’s worked here? What checks you undertook before employing him? Where he lives, when he came to the UK . . .’
Nina did her best but Lucy could tell she was terrified of stuffing up in some way, either dobbing Boris in or creating something the police might take the wrong way. A typical response from someone trying to protect someone they liked, and one that Lucy was used to, but it was interesting to see Nina thought that Boris was an OK bloke and not a total shyster. Which put a keen twist on the situation because she’d assumed Boris was dodgy through and through and here he was, presenting as an upstanding truck driver with a great sense of humour, a lovely wife, three great kids and a Labrador called Orlaf.
All rather confusing, if she was to be honest.
Along with Nicholas Blain. She kept picturing his relaxed and assured walk, his murky green eyes. He was involved in all this too. How? She recalled his spark of interest when she’d said she was on Calder’s investigative team. The way he hadn’t answered her question when she asked if he knew Adrian Calder. The fact he had a photograph of Dan Forrester. And then there was the way he’d vanished on her. Like a professional. Like someone who did it all the time. Perhaps he was a spook, like Dan used to be?
She got the sense she was slipping below the surface of something frighteningly complex, with tendrils that stretched further than she could imagine. Out of nowhere she heard Adrian Calder’s voice. Polina loves the snow. She wants to take the kids to Russia next Christmas.
Russia, she thought. The case is all about Russia.
‘Excuse me? Hello?’
Lucy came to as she heard Nina speaking. ‘Yes?’
‘Can I get you a coffee or anything while you wait?’
‘Coffee would be great.’
While she sat waiting for Boris Golubkin she trawled the Internet on her phone, checking out the company, its directors and policies. Then she leaned back and half-closed her eyes, putting everything she knew together. Irene Cavendish, mother to Polina, grandmother to Jessie, Felix, Sofia and little two year-old Tasha. The photographs Irene had shown her of piles of corpses, all carelessly heaped on top of one another in the snow.
This was life for us. Fear. Lies. Terror. Death camps. Polina is twenty times the woman of you. She knows the value of her life.
Then there was the elusive Zama, who had made Justin Tripp flinch.
And what about the couple who had frightened Irene so much? The well-dressed couple on her doorstep? Ivan and Yelena Barbolin?
They say they are friends of Polina’s. I’ve never see them before.
Lucy continued to think, her head kicked back against the wall, staring at the lists of rosters as she listened to Nina instructing, coordinating, getting trucks into Gatwick and out of Heathrow, to chains of pubs and hotels in time for wedding parties and conferences.
When Boris arrived it was dark. Nina pointed out his lorry, parked at the far end of the forecourt. ‘He has an early pick-up tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Will he come in here?’
‘He has to sign in. Yes.’
Lucy stayed where she was, head back, legs stretched out, seemingly half asleep.
When Boris opened the door he was already starting to talk to Nina, his big round face relaxed and warm but the second he saw Lucy, his whole body tensed. He snapped his mouth shut.
‘Hi, Boris,’ she said.
For a moment, from the way his eyes flickered past her to the window, then to the side, she thought he might flee, but he didn’t move. He stood with one foot inside the Portakabin, the other on the step outside, his hand on the door handle. Half-in. Half-out. Frozen.
‘I just wanted to tell you that your delivery went OK.’ Lucy stretched and yawned. ‘The one received by the Manager of Newcastle’s Melted at six thirty this morning.’
Nina looked between them, tense and uncertain. Loyal to her employee but also wanting to do The Right Thing.
The seconds ticked past.
Boris licked his lips.
‘What was in the envelope, Boris?’ Lucy asked.
As soon as she said the word envelope he reached into his jacket and pulled out a phone. Dialled.
‘I’m not sure if I want you to do that,’ Lucy jackknifed to her feet but he didn’t pause. He started to speak into the phone. In Russian. Rapidly. His tone was urgent.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Hang up, Boris.’
He spoke faster, his eyes fixed on her as she approached.
Then he stopped speaking. Hung up.
To her surprise, he offered her his phone.
She took it and checked the last number dialled, a landline. The name listed was Aleksandr Stanton.
‘You rang the owner of the company?’
He sent Nina an imploring look. Nina sent a panicky one back. The atmosphere was tense and uncertain. Boris remained half-in and half-out of the Portakabin and when the desk phone rang, they both jumped. Nina answered it.
‘Oh,’ she breathed. Her body seemed to collapse in on itself. ‘OK. Yes, yes.’ Her eyes flicked to Lucy then back. ‘Yes. OK.’
Nina looked at Boris, then Lucy. She said, ‘Mr Stanton’s on his way.’
From the way Boris and Nina slumped in relief, the fact Mr Stanton was coming was a Good Thing.
‘How long until he gets here?’
‘Oh.’ Nina looked surprised she should ask. ‘A couple of minutes. That’s all.’
‘Great.’
They stood resembling some strange tableau until the desk phone rang again, someone complaining about a late delivery. The atmosphere relaxed a fraction as Nina became absorbed. Boris eased his position so that he stood outside the Portakabin. Lucy stayed still, watching both of them.
The sound of a powerful engine came from the forecourt. Boris turned his head expectantly.
The engine was switched off.
Quiet.
The slamming of a car door. Rapid footsteps.
Aleksandr Stanton strode into view, a tall and lean figure clad in a beautifully cut dark suit with a bright white shirt and red silk tie with a diamond stud. Shiny shoes. Manicured hands. Not a hair out of place. Late fifties, Lucy guessed, or a very fit sixties. He looked as though he worked out, or went running a lot. He had that sinewy, hungry look of a marathon runner. He came to Boris and stopped. Looked at Lucy then at Nina and back to Boris. He stood there almost quivering, assessing the situation like a bird of prey before it struck.
‘What’s going on?’ he said. His English was cut-glass. Public school.
Lucy introduced herself. ‘I want to ask Boris about a delivery he made in Newcastle this morning.’
‘What delivery?’
‘He dropped off an envelope to a Melted restaurant in Newcastle. It was addressed to Adrian Calder. I’m one of the investigating officers –’
‘You’re trying to find who killed Polina and the children?’ He cut over her.
She blinked. ‘We’re trying to find answers, yes.’
He held up a hand and said something to Boris in Russian, who immediately ducked his head and scuttled away.
‘Hey!’ Lucy stepped forward. ‘I want to talk to –’
‘It’s me you need to speak to,’ Stanton spun round to face her. ‘Boris only does as I tell him. Is the Corsa yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Follow me.’
Without waiting for her response, he strode to his vehicle, a hulking great SUV of some sort. He didn’t wait for her to climb into her car, just took off. She had to scramble to follow him. The journey took less than three minutes, most of that spent waiting for the pair of electronic wr
ought-iron gates to open to Great Huntingdon Hall. Inside the house, he rang a bell on a rope. A young woman appeared in a black-and-white uniform.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Is the fire lit in the study?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tell Vanessa we’ll take tea in there.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘And bring a cover for the guest chair.’
‘Yes, sir.’
And three bags full, sir, Lucy echoed as she followed him along a corridor lined with oil paintings of shooting scenes. He paused to straighten an already straight picture before leading her into a wood-panelled room with gold-leaf bound books in glass-fronted cases and a carved mahogany fireplace. As they crossed the room, Lucy saw the young woman was covering a gilt armchair with what could only be termed a dust sheet.
‘Please.’ He indicated the same chair.
Lucy knew she looked scruffy, but she didn’t think she was dirty. ‘We can always talk somewhere else,’ she offered. Like the pig pen.
He ignored her, taking the chair opposite, one without a dust cover, and stretched out his legs.
Lucy sat where she’d been told and made a show of getting out her pocket book and a pen.
‘Ah,’ he said when the door opened. ‘Tea.’
Lucy expected Vanessa to be matronly, maybe in her forties, but instead a lissome brunette twenty-something brought in a three-tier china cake stand covered with tiny sandwiches, bite-sized sausage rolls and home-made cakes. A big pot of tea followed.
‘Please, help yourself,’ he told Lucy.
‘No, thank you.’ She was coolly polite. She clicked her pen, indicating she was ready to start.
He didn’t make anything of her refusal. He poured himself tea and helped himself to several sandwiches, devouring them in single bites, totally unselfconscious that he was eating alone.
She said, ‘Tell me about Boris’s delivery this morning.’
A pair of sharp blue eyes surveyed her over a fragile-looking teacup.
Lucy said, ‘Boris dropped off an envelope containing –’
‘Three thousand pounds exactly.’ He put the cup down in its saucer with a little click. ‘Yes, I know. I sent it. Adrian needs a bit of a helping hand until he gets back on his feet.’
