by CJ Carver
The Barbolins were good, Dan thought, to have hoodwinked James so successfully. He’d tell James he’d been scammed so he could avoid the same thing happening in the future, but not yet. He didn’t want to distract the man.
‘Tell me about Zama Kasofsky,’ Dan said.
‘Why?’ James said nastily. ‘Don’t you guys talk to each other?’
Dan just looked at him. The man looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
‘Tell. Me,’ Dan repeated stonily.
‘OK, OK.’ The editor flung his hand up. ‘I don’t know much, to be honest. Just that Jane was friends with someone who told her a secret – and before you can ask, no, I don’t know what it was. However, Jane said that if it was true, it was one of the best stories she’d ever get. Pulitzer Prize-winning. She was thinking of writing a book about it too – as it involved politics as well as being an incredible human interest story.’
‘Who’s the friend?’ Dan asked.
The man took a deep breath, exhaled. Looked straight into Dan’s eyes. ‘Have you been watching the news lately?’
‘Of course.’
‘You saw that man who killed his wife and kids up near Stockton?’
Dan felt as though a dozen cockroaches had scurried along his spine. Adrian Calder. The man Lucy had arrested. ‘What about him?’
James said, ‘I’ll give you the same information I gave your colleagues, OK? I told them to go and talk to Polina Calder. It was Polina who told Jane this secret.’
‘When did the Barbolins see you?’ Dan asked.
‘Thursday the twenty-ninth of January. In the evening.’
Dan’s ears began to ring. Jane Sykes had been killed first thing on Friday morning, and Polina Calder and her children murdered the following day. Had the FSB killed Jane Sykes and Adrian Calder’s family? If so,why?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Saturday 7 February, 10.00 a.m.
Jenny poured cereal and milk into a bowl for Aimee before making some toast for herself and spreading it with peanut butter, something she usually only ate on holiday. They weren’t on holiday, but the situation made her feel as though they deserved treats. They’d been here for six whole days. She could hardly believe it. She had to keep reminding herself of the urgency in Dan’s voice when he’d yelled Brimstone! down the phone. That they were in the gravest danger she hadn’t doubted, but the fear factor had fallen to almost zero in such benign surroundings.
In daylight the cottage was chocolate-box pretty with roses and wisteria – all neatly pruned back for winter – climbing its walls. There was a bubbling stream at the bottom of the garden with a pretty hand-hewn bridge leading to the field opposite, an apple orchard and a garden shed that contained a lawnmower along with some outdoor furniture. It felt more like a holiday cottage than a safe house and she kept expecting Dan’s friend to walk in any moment now it was the weekend, and demand she leave.
She kept checking the location feature on Dan’s iPhone in the faint hope something would appear, but nothing did. His phone was obviously defunct. That he’d been in peril had been evident and she tried her best not to dwell on scenarios of doom. He’d been in danger before and had come home. He’d do the same again. At least that was how she managed to get through each day and night. By having faith in his ability to survive.
She dropped a piece of crust on to the floor where Poppy lapped it up. The dog had been a godsend as far as Aimee was concerned, giving her a positive structure to the day, feeding, walking and grooming the animal. Poppy had taken to sleeping on the landing outside their bedrooms, and Jenny hadn’t demurred. Having over a hundred pounds of muscular bodyguard armed with teeth and claws just yards away was immensely comforting.
She’d emailed her parents as well as Aimee’s school, explaining about Dan’s father’s fictional illness, but how long could she keep up this particular lie? For as long as it was needed, she supposed, to keep them safe. But today, in the bright winter sunshine, it felt ridiculous. She had such a longing to go home she could scream. They would go to the coast today, she decided. Whitstable or Herne Bay. Nobody would know them there. Their little expeditions to a supermarket on the outskirts of Canterbury yesterday and Wednesday hadn’t been enough. They were both getting cooped up and irritable and –
Jenny’s heart just about leaped from her chest when Poppy suddenly erupted into a series of barks and bolted outside.
‘Stay here,’ she told Aimee. ‘I’ll go and see who it is.’
Poppy was by the front door, barking with such force her front feet were jerking off the ground. Adrenaline hammering, Jenny peered outside to see a small red van drive down the road. The postman. Relief flooded her, making her knees go weak.
‘Poppy . . .’ She touched the dog on the shoulder and Poppy fell quiet and moved aside. Jenny picked up the mail. A bill for Max Blake, the cottage’s owner, a flyer for a retirement village and a postcard of the Queen.
When she turned the postcard over she started to tremble. It was Dan’s writing; clear, bold and precise.
My darling,
I’m sorry I can’t be with you. Wait for me. I will come soon.
All my love to my precious girls, x
Jenny dropped to her knees and burst into tears.
Dan was OK. And he was in London, if the postmark was to be believed. Please God he hadn’t given it to someone else to post. Surely the fact sent it meant he was OK? She felt Poppy’s head nudge her and she turned and buried her head in the dog’s shoulder and sobbed. Stress, anxiety and relief washing through her all at once.
‘Mummy?’
Aimee stood there, looking scared.
‘It’s OK.’ Jenny leaned back, giving a wobbly smile as she wiped her eyes. ‘I’m just having a cry because Daddy sent us a postcard. I miss him so much. Here . . .’ She showed Aimee the card saying, ‘I wonder if he went to see the Queen?’
‘I’d like to see the Queen,’ said Aimee solemnly. ‘I’d wear my best dress, the one with the lace collar, and I’d wear my red shoes and put a red ribbon on Neddy as I couldn’t go without him . . .’
After they’d washed up the breakfast dishes Jenny packed everyone into the car. Her first priority was to mail a postcard to Dan in London, and once that was done, they walked the dog along a pebbly beach. She wished she could have told Dan the number of the pay-as-you-go phone she’d bought, written it on to his postcard, but as he’d said all that time ago, what if someone was checking his mail? If they had her phone number they could find her. She couldn’t email him either. If the wrong people were looking, they’d find them. He’d insisted they do things the old school way, the safest way, even if it seemed to take decades to communicate.
After their walk they looked around some quirky shops where she helped Aimee buy a stuffed penguin for the baby.
‘Neddy and I will look after it for him,’ Aimee said proudly. ‘Until he’s born.’ Whether she’d actually give it to the baby or not remained to be seen, but even so, Jenny was immeasurably touched that her daughter had even thought of the baby. Mind you, Aimee hadn’t been exactly reticent about the matter, telling everyone from the postman to her head teacher that she was going to have a baby brother soon, and that it was going to cry a lot but that was OK because Mummy said so.
They bought some sandwiches and a KitKat and ate them on the seafront. By the time they returned to the car they were windblown and tired and Jenny was thinking of little other than what they might have for supper, when Dan might come for them – maybe after the weekend? – when Poppy suddenly switched her head round and gave a low snarl.
Pulse rocketing, thinking someone might be about to attack them, Jenny spun on her heel.
She only caught a glimpse of him. He was at the far end of the car park, vanishing behind a camper van but her nerves fizzed.
He hadn’t been wearing a beanie, and nor did he have a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck, but something about him made her think of the man who Poppy had chased at
the house, and who had lied about staying with the Taylors in the village.
Jenny hustled Aimee and Poppy into the car and locked all the doors. She brought out her phone. Dialled.
‘Police,’ she said when it was answered. ‘A man has been following me and my daughter. I’m scared.’
When the police car turned into the car park, Jenny drove to meet it. The police checked behind the camper van but the man wasn’t there.
She thanked the police effusively and when they offered to escort her home, she accepted. Nobody followed them. Relief mingled with embarrassment. She was obviously getting paranoid.
Back inside the cottage, Jenny let Aimee feed Poppy. She felt a little pulse of affection for the creature. It was nice to have someone on their side, even if it was just a dog.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Lucy met Dan in a coffee shop in Yarm, a pretty boutique-lined town just outside Stockton and where she reckoned they wouldn’t be spotted by anyone who knew them. He had called her last night, saying he thought he’d discovered a Russian connection to her murder investigation, but that he didn’t want to give his information officially, was that OK? Sure, she said. Who was she to refuse a gift horse galloping up the M1?
She’d chosen a café on the high street and when Dan arrived he immediately moved them to the back, close to the rear exit and where they’d be harder to spot from the street. He was taller than she remembered, broader, but just as self-contained.
‘Have you heard of a journalist called Jane Sykes?’ he asked. ‘She’s a friend of Polina Calder’s.’
He didn’t beat around the bush or bother with any niceties. Simply jumped straight in. She liked him for that. She knew where she stood.
‘No, I haven’t,’ she said.
‘Can you ask Adrian Calder about her? Ask him what secrets Jane held with his wife?’
‘Sure.’ She waited for him to give a reason for his request but he gave a minute shake of his head. A waitress was heading their way. Gingham apron, cheerful smile. Lucy ordered a cappuccino, Dan an Americano and a bacon sandwich with lots of butter, no sauce. He obviously wasn’t concerned about his arteries.
‘Why do you think Adrian Calder is innocent of killing his family?’ he asked. ‘The media seem convinced he’s guilty. Nobody else is in the frame.’
‘Lots of reasons,’ she responded. ‘But mainly because he told his wife he was facing bankruptcy. Aside from spousal revenge, family annihilations usually occur when the husband loses his ability to keep up the lifestyle. They don’t tell anyone they’re in trouble, usually because they’re making money illegally. One morning they wake up to the fact that they’re broke, and that when they go to jail they’ll never be able to make that kind of money again. They suddenly realise they’re stuffed, with no way out of the situation, and they can’t face it.’
‘But not Adrian Calder.’
‘No. Not only does he appear to be squeaky clean, but he was totally open with Polina about his financial problems.’
Dan mulled for a moment before saying, ‘If he’s innocent, then who killed his family? And why?’
That’s what I want to find out, Lucy thought. She went on to fill him in on everything else, finishing with the Russian couple on Irene’s doorstep. ‘They rented a Hertz car. Ivan and Yelena Barbolin.’
Dan stared at Lucy. ‘They visited Irene Cavendish?’
‘She said they were friends of Polina’s but she didn’t know their names. For some reason, they scared her. But she wouldn’t say why.’
Dan went on staring into Lucy’s eyes. She’d surprised him, she realised. Shocked him, even.
He cleared his throat. ‘Number plate?’
She checked her pocketbook, read it aloud. He didn’t write it down. His memory was obviously better than hers.
Their coffee arrived. Dan looked at his bacon buttie and for a moment Lucy thought he wasn’t going to eat it, but then he tucked in and devoured it quickly, clearly hungry.
‘Who are Ivan and Yelena Barbolin?’ she asked.
He gave her a single shake of the head. Obviously out of bounds. Dammit. She’d hoped Dan might have brought a new lead for her to follow, but so far she’d got zilch. Perhaps meeting with an ex-spook was always like this; a one-way street filled with traffic driving against you.
He seemed to sense her disappointment. ‘All I can say,’ he told her quietly, ‘is that I’m doing this investigation at the behest of my old firm.’
She felt a little frisson across her skin. MI5.
‘How sure are you that Calder’s finances are clean?’ Dan asked.
‘Pretty sure,’ Lucy answered. ‘Why?’
‘The Russians are famous for coming to the UK to launder money.’
‘I haven’t found anything,’ she admitted. ‘Nor have our analysts.’
His look turned distant and she guessed he was thinking but it doesn’t mean it’s not there.
‘Any luck with Nicholas Blain?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘He says he’s an ex-cop, but the only Nicholas Blain who’s been employed by the police was killed when his vehicle crashed during a police pursuit in 2001. I’ve tried to ask Calder’s lawyer about him, but Tripp hasn’t answered my calls. If he doesn’t get back to me by the end of the day, I’ll nip round and see him. I’ve got his home address.’
‘I’ll be interested to hear what he says.’ Dan’s expression narrowed. ‘Because I suspect Blain isn’t who he says he is.’
Reaching into his rucksack he brought out a padded envelope, passed it across. Lucy flipped open the flap, and saw a black box half the size of a cigarette packet. ‘A tracker device?’ she said disbelievingly.
He said, ‘I’ve programmed your mobile number into it. Mine too. We’ll be able to see where the device is on Google maps, in real time.’
It was her turn to stare.
‘If you see Blain’s car, would you mind attaching it?’ he asked.
You must be fucking kidding.
‘Please,’ he added.
She looked at the device again.
‘It’s magnetic,’ he told her. ‘It’ll take you less than three seconds to duck down and slap it on the underside of his car.’
‘I don’t think I can do that,’ she said.
He just looked at her.
She felt a tap of dismay beneath her diaphragm. ‘I could get into awful trouble, and my boss . . .’
‘Doesn’t have to know,’ he said. ‘This is between you and me.’ He leaned forward, expression intense. ‘I need Blain, Lucy. Please, will you help me? The people I’m working with?’
‘I don’t even know if he drives a car,’ she said, reluctance crawling through her. ‘He was on foot when I saw him.’
‘In that case . . .’ He had another rummage in his satchel, came out with a small clear plastic bag and passed it across. ‘Stick this in his pocket.’
Lucy held the bag up to see a small black plastic object inside, the shape and size of a peanut. Another tracking device apparently, with global GPS and the capability to report to Lucy and Dan where it was in the world at any time. While part of her was excited about being involved with MI5, the other was screaming caution. This wasn’t official. Should she be discovered planting a tracking device on Joe Public, i.e. Nicholas Blain, she could be in deep shit.
‘You’re serious,’ she said in a strangled tone.
‘One hundred per cent.’ He finished the last of his coffee, put his cup back in its saucer with a little click.
‘OK.’ She took a deep breath. Put both devices in her handbag. ‘But the chances of my seeing him –’
‘You’ll find a way,’ Dan said smoothly.
Yeah, sure.
A silence fell. Lucy fiddled with her teaspoon trying to think what else she needed to cover and not obsess over the tracking devices and their implications. Summarising the case to herself swiftly, she realised all of a sudden that she hadn’t mentioned Zama but before she could open her mouth t
o tell Dan, her phone vibrated. A quick look told her it was Mac. ‘Sorry,’ she told Dan. ‘It’s my boss. I won’t be a moment.’
She turned aside to answer it. ‘Mac, I’m with a –’
‘Aleksandr Stanton is dead.’
It took a second for his words to sink in.
‘What?’
She felt more than saw Dan stiffen.
‘He was found this morning with a broken neck. He went riding first thing. The horse came back riderless, which is when they started searching for him. He was found near a tiger trap. It’s a sort of jump, I’m told.’
Lucy’s ears started to ring. ‘But he didn’t ride.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he told me he didn’t know one end of a horse from the other. It’s his wife who’s mad about horses.’
Brief silence.
‘I want you down there now,’ Mac said. ‘Liaise with the local force. Find out what’s going on.’
He hung up.
Lucy turned back to Dan who was watching her expectantly. ‘Polina’s cousin, Aleksandr Stanton, is dead,’ she told him. ‘Horse-riding accident. Except he didn’t ride.’
Dan’s unblinking eyes didn’t change expression.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Lucy said. She grabbed her handbag, her keys. ‘My boss wants me down there.’ Her mind was already racing ahead, wondering whether she should go home and grab an overnight bag, if there would be a pool car available and if not, whether Mac would loan her his or if she’d have to drive her own crappy car, which she still hadn’t had serviced.
She paused when Dan raised a hand.
‘One thing you should know before you go.’ He breathed deeply. ‘Ivan and Yelena Barbolin. The couple who you saw talking to Irene Cavendish. They’re FSB agents.’
Dan watched Lucy jog along the street and climb into an ageing Corsa with a shabby repair job on its side and rear panels. It took a couple of turns of the ignition before it started. Ever vigilant, he memorised the number plate before heading for his own vehicle, a black BMW coupé that struggled to accommodate Poppy on its rear seats, though luckily the dog never seemed to mind. He hoped Jenny had got his postcard by now and sent one in return, which, owing to the weekend, he wouldn’t get until Monday. It should contain coded instructions where to meet, on which day and when, and if one of them couldn’t make the assignation, the other would make sure they were there every three hours from the time Jenny stated, for the next three days.
