by CJ Carver
‘This isn’t the first time,’ Lucy stated.
‘I’ve been helping him out since his business got into difficulties. There was a health scare at one of his franchise stores the November before last.’
‘So we understand.’
Stanton shrugged. ‘What’s a gift between friends?’
‘A gift?’ she queried, remembering Calder’s shoulder crunching.
Something calculating slid across the back of his eyes. ‘One day he will repay me. Until then, I can afford to be generous.’ He tilted his chin to indicate the sumptuous room with its gilt furniture and antique rugs.
‘What interest rate do you charge?’ Lucy asked.
‘That’s our business.’
‘Not any more,’ she said. ‘I’m here on a murder investigation and that means I can demand pretty much any information I require.’
‘No interest,’ he said.
Liar, she thought. ‘How many times have you sent him money?’
‘Enough to help him.’ He leaned forward, suddenly intent. ‘Do you know who killed Polina and the children?’
‘You don’t think Adrian did?’
‘Of course not!’ He looked affronted that she should ask. ‘What a ridiculous suggestion.’
She let a pause develop.
‘How do you know Adrian?’ she asked.
He arched his eyebrows at her. He obviously thought she should already know this. When she didn’t respond, he said, ‘We’re related.’
Ah, she thought. Now we’re talking.
‘In what way?’ she asked.
‘Polina is my . . . was my . . .’ He paused and tilted his head, his expression going distant. For a moment she thought he’d heard something but she couldn’t think what. All she could hear was the crackling of the fire and the fat ticking of a grandfather clock.
‘Your . . .?’ she prompted.
He rose and walked to the wall and pressed a bell. Came back and sat down.
‘Cousin,’ he said.
‘So you know Irene?’ Lucy said. ‘Polina’s mother?’
‘Of course.’
An emotion flashed across his face, so fast it took her a moment to recognise what it was.
‘You don’t like her,’ she stated.
He shrugged. ‘We can’t choose who we’re related to.’
Wasn’t that the truth. Lucy couldn’t stand some of her relatives and when Christmas came, she avoided them like the plague. She shifted on her chair. ‘Why the secrecy over loaning Adrian money? Why use Boris?’
‘Adrian didn’t want anyone to know . . .’ He paused as Vanessa came in, a question on her face. ‘Take it away,’ he told her with a flick of the hand.
Vanessa cleared away fast and without expression. When she’d left, Stanton added, ‘He wanted to retain some dignity.’
‘And Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs?’
Once again, the calculating look returned. ‘It is Adrian’s responsibility to declare it, not mine. We were doing nothing illegal.’
Unless he was involved in some criminal activity and money laundering through Calder’s restaurants, but there was no evidence of that. The takings were small, matching a small customer base. She was inclined to think Stanton was telling the truth but it still needled her. She ran through a bunch of questions ascertaining that Stanton had been married for forty years and had no children.
‘My fault, I’m afraid.’ He was surprisingly candid. ‘Low sperm count.’
Lucy maintained what she hoped was an impassive expression and remained silent. Luckily he didn’t appear to expect a response and went on to tell her his ancestors were Russian. ‘We’re from Irkutsk originally,’ he told her. ‘One of the largest cities in Siberia. One of the coldest too. I like it when the easterly wind blows here because it reminds me of my roots.’
It was a wistful remark, and reminded her of what Calder had said about his wife loving the snow. It gets down to minus fifty out there. Snow up to your armpits.
‘We come from a big family,’ Stanton continued when she pressed him about his origins. ‘But we were persecuted so badly many of us fled. My father included.’
His gaze turned distant. ‘He died when I was a baby. My mother remarried but died fourteen years later. Septicaemia of the heart.’ He went on to tell her that he’d been lucky, he’d got on extremely well with his stepfather, who’d bought an ailing chicken farm in Suffolk and rebuilt it, expanding and developing the business into a national success before he in turn died, leaving it to him. It was he, Aleksandr, who had added the fish side of things.
Something about Stanton had become almost too relaxed during his little speech, pricking Lucy’s curiosity. His face had lost its mobility and was unnaturally impassive, as though he didn’t want to give anything away. She said, ‘You lived with your father after your mother died?’
‘My stepfather. Yes.’
‘Do you have any siblings?’
‘No. There’s just me.’ Stanton’s face was unreadable.
Something wasn’t quite right here, but she put it down to an inherent wariness of the authorities, making him careful of giving anything away that he didn’t deem necessary.
Irene’s voice trailed through her mind.
So-called enemies of the Soviet people were not tolerated. People saw enemies in every room. People betrayed neighbours. Children betrayed parents.
Hereditary caution aside, she still didn’t like the amount of death in the family. Both his parents – albeit years ago – and now the Calders.
‘How did your real father die?’ she asked.
He studied her for a moment before saying, ‘He was killed in a car accident. A pile-up on the M1.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Lucy said.
Stanton gave a nod to acknowledge her commiseration. Then he steepled his fingers, tapped their ends together. ‘So. You were asking about my business . . .’
He droned on about food products and marketing while Lucy tried to think if there was another angle she could find that might help further the investigation.
‘I import from all over the world,’ Stanton was saying. ‘Salmon from Alaska, blackfin sea bass from the Pacific, tuna from the Cape . . .’
Her mind gave a little shimmer and abruptly she recalled the South African couple who they had yet to trace. The couple who’d visited the Calder family two weeks before their murder, long-lost relatives apparently, visiting from South Africa.
‘Do you know Robin and Finch Stanton?’ she asked.
Stanton maintained his easy bonhomie but his body posture came alert. ‘Who?’ he said.
‘Irene Cavendish’s nephew and niece, from Cape Town.’
‘I’ve never heard of them.’ He sounded disinterested but the alert attitude hadn’t left.
‘If you’re Polina’s cousin, then that would make them . . .’
‘More cousins.’ He made a dismissive gesture. Rose to his feet. ‘I don’t just have relatives in England but in Australia too.’
‘What about Zama?’
‘Who?’ This time when he said the word he appeared genuinely baffled.
‘Adrian mentioned him the day his family was killed. He was worried about him.’
He frowned for a moment before shaking his head. ‘I don’t know of any Zama. How strange. I can’t think who he might be referring to. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s getting late and I still have lots to do.’
Lucy followed him out, pausing at the antique table in the hallway, laden with silver photograph frames showing pictures of Aleksandr Stanton on his wedding day, his bride a stunning red head. Another showed them at what appeared to be an opening meet, foxhounds milling. Aleksandr in immaculate country attire looking up at his wife astride an elegant grey mare. She was looking down at her husband, and their shared smile was intimate and filled with love.
Aleksandr saw her looking and she glanced away feeling slightly embarrassed, as though she’d intruded.
‘You hunt?’ she said, more to deflect her discomfiture than out of any genuine interest.
‘I don’t know one end of a horse from the other,’ he admitted. ‘But Elizabeth’s mad for them.’
He briskly escorted Lucy to her car. She had barely picked first gear before he’d returned inside the house and shut the front door. She was so absorbed with replaying the meeting, the extravagance of the surroundings, Aleksandr Stanton’s peculiarities – was he OCD? – that she hardly noticed the car that passed her on the drive. She was aware of a pair of headlights, a dark sedan. Nothing else. And when she was questioned later she could have kicked herself for being so taken up with replaying the calculating look in Stanton’s eyes as he spoke about Adrian Calder.
One day he will repay me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Thursday 5 February
Dan sat on the floor, his back propped again the bunk, hands on his knees. On his right another detainee sat next to him, talking to a man perched on the end of the bunk. Three more men were on the bunk with him. Another fifteen sat or kneeled or stood. Twenty of them stuffed into one holding cell. No windows and no heating. Nearly all of them smoked and the air was foul with stale smoke and nicotine. There was a hole in the floor to be used as a toilet, where sewage bubbled up. There was no sink, no taps and no fresh water. Rats squeaked at night.
He couldn’t think how long he was going to remain here. Couldn’t think what the plan was. There had to be a plan, right? The authorities couldn’t simply leave him here, could they? Oh, yes they could. Lawlessness had reached epidemic proportions in Russia, where lawyers could be jailed for testifying against corrupt police officers, judges and criminals. Take Sergei Magnitsky. He’d tried to expose a £140 million theft from his country by the authorities only to be put in an isolation cell, handcuffed, and beaten with rubber batons by eight riot guards until he was dead. It had been documented and was in the public domain, worldwide, but the Russian authorities hadn’t cared. They’d holidayed in St-Tropez and shopped at Harrods. They got away with what they liked.
Which didn’t bode well for Dan. He was off the grid. If he died in this cell, his body would be disposed of and nobody would know. Dan wondered if Fyodor had managed to contact Bernard, and whether he’d remembered the code words. Colorado meant he and Lynx were compromised, fast river that their lives were in danger. Bernard would have pressed the panic buttons but if he didn’t have any on-ground intel, what could he do? Since Dan’s meeting with the old man, he’d been locked in this stinking cell for three days, during which he’d been ignored. He’d tried to engage the guards but they’d obviously been told not to interact with him as each time he spoke or tried to gain their attention they turned away.
Which meant they’d been briefed about how to behave towards him. Ignore the foreigner. For how long? And what about Jenny? Had she made it to Kent, to Max’s? Was she taking Brimstone seriously? He tried not to worry – it was pointless and merely made him feel nauseous – but he couldn’t stop the image of her and Aimee hand in hand and fleeing from an OMON team.
His mind continued its relentless circuit of speculation, wondering about Jenny and McInley & Krevinden, whether they’d been unwittingly involved in some scam or other; whether Fyodor and Ekaterina had got away; whether Fyodor’s friend had been able to help them; whether Ekaterina had had a blood transfusion; whether she was alive or not.
Every time he thought of Ekaterina, pictured her wide almond eyes looking into his own – Daniel, run – he couldn’t stop the emotions that followed, all of them contradictory, all confusing. Suspicion and desire. Anxiety and hunger. Guilt. Fear. Yearning. He couldn’t deny his attraction to her. What man could? He’d seen the way everyone’s eyes had followed her sinuous walk through the Radisson. Even though she’d scarcely been with him for three minutes at the bar, barely tasting her champagne, he’d felt possessive of her. Protective too, but deep mistrust warred with his enjoyment of her.
Had she been a honey trap and betrayed him in the past? Or had it been him who’d abandoned or betrayed her in some way? Bernard had said she was a dead agent, that Dan had recruited her.
How do you know Lynx is genuine? he’d asked Bernard.
We don’t.
He flinched inwardly when one of the inmates grabbed the bars and began to yell. A guard finally appeared. The inmate spoke rapidly and the guard went away. Half an hour later the locks clattered and the door opened, and the guards pushed another six detainees into the cell, forcing everyone sitting on the floor to stand. They all started to smoke and Dan felt his lungs seize up. He could barely breathe.
An hour or so later a shout came from the corridor. Another clatter.
The man next to Dan nudged him with an elbow. Jerked his chin towards the bars. Dan couldn’t see anything past the press of bodies.
Another shout.
Several detainees turned their heads and looked at Dan. A man yelled something. It sounded like an order.
The man next to Dan grabbed him and pushed him forward, muttering. Hands urged him onwards and there was more muttering as detainees made way for him. When he reached the front, the guard opened the gate and hauled him outside. Led him down the corridor and past two more holding cells, all rammed with detainees. Over a hundred people awaiting court appearances or transfer to jail.
Dan was taken to a shower room. Given a block of soap and a towel. His clothes – taken off him three days ago – were placed in a pile by the door, his watch on top. He stripped out of the thin prison suit, dropped it on the floor. Turned on the water. Freezing cold. No point in waiting. He already knew it wasn’t going to get warm. Holding his breath, he ducked beneath the spray. He couldn’t help his involuntary grunt. He stepped aside, soaped himself down, lathered his hair. By the time he’d rinsed, his fingers and feet were numb. He towelled himself vigorously, trying to get warm. Got dressed. Raked his fingers through his hair. Without a razor there was little he could do about his beard, but at least he was clean. He walked outside to be taken up the stairs. Through reception and outside.
It was snowing.
Not a light dusting, but a full-blown blizzard. He could hardly see his hand in front of his face.
‘Come.’ A guard led him to a government four-wheel-drive vehicle idling on the kerb. He opened the rear door and gestured Dan inside. Nobody there. Dan climbed in. Waves of heat enveloped him. Blissful warmth. His skin started to tingle.
The car pulled away. He said, ‘Where are we going?’
The driver didn’t respond. He pressed on.
Dan looked outside to see factories and warehouses, depots, trucks. Lots of snow. He looked around the car. He wasn’t locked in. He wasn’t under guard. He could jump out any time. Or take control of the vehicle. He waited a while, wanting to see if he recognised anything, and then they were on a dual carriageway and he saw a road sign with an aircraft on it. Then another. They cruised for half an hour or so before taking an exit signed with an aircraft. Dan’s heartbeat increased. He sat back, hoping and praying, and when the driver eventually pulled up outside the departures doors of Domodedovo Airport, he exhaled.
The driver popped the glovebox and withdrew an envelope, passed it to Dan.
‘Do svidaniya,’ he said. Goodbye.
Dan flipped open the envelope to see his passport, wallet and mobile phone. An Aeroflot ticket to London, Heathrow. One way. He didn’t hang around any longer.
‘Spasiba,’ he responded. Thank you.
He made the flight with ten minutes to spare. An aisle seat over the wing. Safest place to be. He fell asleep seventy seconds after the Airbus 320’s wheels had lifted into the air and awoke on touchdown at Heathrow. Five minutes past eight in the evening.
Inside the terminal, Dan headed for a public phone and rang Bernard. He wanted to go straight to Jenny, but didn’t dare.
‘I’m back,’ he said.
‘Good to know,’ said Bernard cheerfully. There was the faint sound of voices in the backgroun
d, some music. Not the TV, Dan thought, perhaps a drinks do of some sort. ‘Come to the office. Eight tomorrow.’
‘Eight,’ Dan acknowledged, and hung up.
He caught the Heathrow Express into town. At Paddington he threw away his phone – he didn’t trust the Russians not to have infected it in some way – and bought a new one. He then bought a postcard of the Queen and a first class stamp. Sitting on one of the chairs in front of the departures board, he wrote his postcard, filling in the address from memory. A wave of exhaustion washed over him but he forced himself to his feet and back on to the Underground, posting the card on the way. When he got to the flat it was empty. Max had left a note, saying he’d gone to Corsica on an impromptu holiday, which was code for being called away on a mission. He was still with the Firm and was one of the few people who’d remained in touch with Dan after Luke was killed. Max had apparently been a good friend when Dan worked for MI5, and it was he who had recently helped him fill in various blanks over his ruined memory. Max had also reminded Dan of Brimstone and reiterated that if he ever needed to use his cottage, he was free to do so. And it had been Max, too, who’d offered him his London flat when Dan moved out from home.
Dan pulled a pack of Italian meatballs and pasta from the freezer and microwaved it. Wolfed it down. He desperately wanted to go to the cottage, see Jenny and Aimee, check they were OK, but he wouldn’t risk it. Not until he knew it was safe.
He didn’t think he’d sleep, his mind was churning so fast, but he lost consciousness almost the second his head hit the pillow, awakening to the sound of a recycling lorry outside the building just after dawn. He was at Thames House North at seven thirty. Bernard arrived five minutes later. Looked Dan up and down.
‘I suppose I’ve seen you looking worse.’
Bernard’s office overlooked Vauxhall Bridge, which was shiny with rain and already filled with commuting traffic. He closed the door behind them. Said, ‘I received a phone call from someone called Fyodor two days ago.’
Dan had dropped Fyodor and Ekaterina at the market on Sunday. It was now Friday, and he wondered what had taken Fyodor so long to make the call.
