by John Connor
He was meant to serve the envelope on the Russian, on Barsukov. Alex had persuaded him to do it. There was some kind of legal document inside, a writ, most probably. Tom hadn’t looked. The only info he’d been given was that Barsukov was careful and other methods had failed. He had no idea who was behind it, who needed it served. Over the last six months there had been seven or eight of these jobs, all simple enough. Alex worked for Glynn Powell, a ‘west London businessman’, as he put it, one that Tom had first come across during his seven years in the Met, under a less benign description. Back then he wouldn’t have taken Glynn Powell’s hand to spit on it. But that world had been turned on its head three years ago. These days he took what he could get.
‘Just a straightforward service job,’ Alex had said. ‘Just walk up to Barsukov and give him the envelope. He’ll be there with his kid. Just like you.’ For which Tom would get the usual fee. ‘Jamie won’t even see what you’re doing, mate,’ Alex had added. ‘He’ll be watching his hero – the great striker. Come on. I’d do it myself if Garth weren’t crippled.’
Alex had given him a photo of Barsukov – cut out of a gossip magazine – and told him to expect a guy standing inconspicuously with the other fathers, waiting for an autograph. Now that he was here, Tom thought the reality was that it seemed unlikely he would even be able to get near Barsukov.
The star attraction was late, so Tom led Jamie slowly towards the pitch, where the striker was scheduled to give a lesson of some sort to some hand-picked kids from a school in Bedfont. Perhaps a lesson in speaking unintelligible Scouse. Tom wasn’t much into football, never had been. He suspected Jamie was only interested because of Garth. Most times Jamie tried to play he ended up with a fat lip, in tears. He was better at more thoughtful things – drawing, reading, maths. Tom was thinking that he was going to end up disappointed today, because it was unlikely, given the absence of tiered seating, that they would even get a glimpse of the striker. He picked Jamie up and sat him on his shoulders, and just at that point caught sight of Barsukov.
He was a short, squat man, with a big, flat nose, bald. In his mid-fifties, perhaps. Easy to recognise from the photo. He didn’t have a kid with him, but was walking casually around the back of the crowd gathered at the pitch, talking to a fat guy in a tracksuit. The nearest of his minders was a good ten feet behind, talking into his earpiece mic. All very relaxed. He was about thirty feet from Tom and Jamie, coming towards them.
As Tom watched, a couple of kids ran up to the Russian, holding out pieces of paper and pens. They were after his autograph. The patron saint of Hatton FC. The minder didn’t react. Barsukov stooped to the kids’ level and spoke to them, smiling. Then he signed their brochures as if to the manner born.
It all looked too easy. So why not try? Tom started to walk towards him, Jamie still on his shoulders. As he drew near the guard was still way behind, still occupied. All safe. He told Jamie to hang on and took the envelope and a pen from his pocket. He held the envelope and the pen towards Barsukov. The man smiled up at Jamie, then said, ‘I’m not him, you know.’ Meaning the striker. His accent was obvious. ‘He’s a bit taller than me,’ he added. It was a joke, so Jamie laughed politely.
‘You’re Dimitri Barsukov, right?’ Tom asked, just to check. By now Barsukov had taken the envelope and was reaching for the pen.
‘I am,’ he said, still smiling. The man at his side, in the tracksuit, was smiling too. Everyone was smiling. Tom put the pen back in his pocket. ‘Sorry,’ he said. He pointed at the envelope. ‘That’s court papers, Mr Barsukov. You’re served.’ He turned to leave as Barsukov’s face dropped.
The blow came out of the blue, from behind him, knocking him forwards so that he started to fall with Jamie hanging on to his hair. As he went down, he felt Jamie coming off him and tried to get his hands up to catch him, but by then Barsukov was right in front of him, swinging at his face. He had looked solid, Tom recalled, as the first blow landed. Damn right. He had a punch like a sledgehammer. Tom took two of them and hit the ground, sprawled on his side, little pinpoints of light swirling through his eyes. He heard Jamie shouting something, but as he turned to get up someone else stamped on his head, very hard, knocking him down again and momentarily blacking out his vision. He shielded his head and managed to get into a sitting position, then on to his knees. There was shouting all around him now, men running to intervene. He could see a face peering down at him, mouthing words. One of the security guards. Then Barsukov’s voice telling everyone to get off him, to leave him alone, speaking in English. A huge shadow appeared in the sky, moving rapidly. Another 747, but for an instant Tom couldn’t even hear it.
He got to his feet and saw Jamie being held by one of the guards. He was staring in complete panic at his dad, a hand extended towards him, shouting something. Tom’s hearing returned. He moved towards Jamie as Barsukov shouted some instruction and the guard released him. Tom got to him and put his arms around him. He could hear Barsukov trying to calm things, shouting that everything was a mistake.
‘Are you all right, Jamie?’ Tom asked, his ears ringing. Jamie began to shake and cry. Tom started to check him, but then someone was pulling at his shoulder. He turned to find Barsukov leaning towards him, breath reeking of garlic, pushing the envelope back into his pocket, a big smile on his face. ‘A mistake. A mistake,’ he was saying, for the benefit of the crowd that had gathered. ‘I’m sorry.’ His face came very close to Tom. ‘If I ever see you again,’ he hissed, ‘I’ll break your kid’s neck.’
3
Forty minutes later Tom was standing on Sally’s doorstep listening to a tirade of criticism. He took it in silence, with his head down. He was average height at five nine; Sally was two years younger than him and short, five inches shorter, in fact. But she had a fearless temper. Since she’d become ‘a single mum’ she’d gone through a bit of a Sarah Connor phase, running, doing weights, putting muscle on and wearing clothes that would show it. Terminator mum. Right now she looked like she might take a swing at him. It wouldn’t be the first time, and he was sore enough already, so he kept well back, hung his head and waited.
Jamie stood behind his mum – where she’d pushed him to shield him from his father. He had cried all the way back in the car. Not because they were peremptorily ejected from the grounds and he didn’t get to see the striker, but because he had thought his dad was going to be hurt. ‘I thought they were going to kill you, Dad,’ he snivelled into Tom’s shoulder, once they got back to the car. ‘I was really scared they were going to kill you.’ He was shaking like a leaf.
Tom hadn’t known what to say. He hugged Jamie and apologised over and over again. It was pure luck he was unhurt. Barsukov hadn’t given a shit that he had a kid on his shoulders. But then, Tom hadn’t shown much concern himself when he’d walked up to him with Jamie sitting there. What had he been thinking of? He hadn’t been thinking at all.
‘You’re a fuckhead,’ Sally yelled up at him, with classic eloquence. ‘Pure and simple. You’re a complete and utter fuck.’ It was true. He didn’t deserve time with Jamie. Etc. Etc. Everything she was saying was correct.
Once she was done and the door slammed in his face Tom walked miserably back to the car. The kick to the head had broken a tooth. He’d felt it in his mouth, but hadn’t spat it out, so thought he might have swallowed it. The gap wasn’t sore yet, just jagged against his tongue. As he was using the rear-view mirror to look at the steadily growing bruise across the left side of his face, his mobile rang.
He ignored it, instead getting out the envelope Barsukov had stuffed back in his pocket. He hadn’t even bothered to open it. Alex had some explaining to do. Tom would return the envelope and demand an explanation. He tore it across and pulled out a single folded sheet of thick paper. His phone beeped to indicate a text had come in. He got it up with one hand and used the other to unfold the sheet of paper. It was blank. He turned it over. There was a single sentence written in the middle of the page: ‘Introducing Tom Lomax, as r
equested.’
He was totally thrown. Some scheme between Glynn Powell and Barsukov? Some stupid joke? At any rate something had gone wrong. Had Alex screwed up the communications, telling him it was court papers? Instead, for some reason, he was meant to have met Barsukov? But what was that about?
He threw the paper on to the passenger seat and looked at his phone. There was a text from someone signing off as David Simmons. He said he was outside Tom’s house, waiting for him, wanting to talk urgently. Tom had never heard of him, but was irritated he was outside his house. He had hired a six-by-six box in Hounslow precisely so that there would be some separation between his home address, also in Hounslow, and the working world. The working world was full of middle-tier criminals wanting information on rivals, Glynn Powell included. David Simmons was probably another. He didn’t want that shit at home.
Fifteen minutes later, as he pulled the car on to the driveway of his semi, he saw that the man was actually waiting on his doorstep, right on his doorstep, sitting there. That was annoying, but as Tom got out and Simmons came over, Tom saw that he had to be about sixty, if not older. The anger started to dissipate. Simmons was harmless, stooped and thin, wearing a tailored grey suit, with a shirt and tie, his face clean-shaven. He had a smart briefcase and polished black brogues. He didn’t look like the usual client. ‘David Simmons,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘I’m a solicitor. You’re Tom Lomax?’
‘Yes,’ Tom said, heart sinking, thinking now that it had to be some new maintenance demand from Sally. ‘How did you find my home address?’
‘We called someone and asked them for the information.’ He said it as if to say, ‘obviously’. ‘You are Tom Lomax, the detective constable? DC Lomax, of the Metropolitan Police?’ he asked.
‘Not any more,’ Tom said, curious now. ‘I quit that.’
Simmons considered this for a moment. Definitely not sent by Sally, then. Tom watched the grey eyes take in the bruise on his face, the blood on his T-shirt and jacket.
‘It’s been a bit of a hard day,’ Tom said. That would have to be explanation enough. ‘I’m no longer a policeman,’ he repeated. ‘Does that change things, or is there something I can help you with – since you’re here, standing on my driveway?’
‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
‘Not in my house.’
‘How about your car, then?’ Simmons asked, as if he were cracking a joke.
‘I usually speak to people at the office. That’s what it’s for.’
‘I haven’t time for that.’ Simmons lowered his voice and started to mutter something about his ‘principal’.
‘Your principal?’ Tom asked.
‘Yes. I’m here on her behalf. Her name is Sara Eaton. Have you heard of her?’
Tom shook his head. His face was beginning to throb now. He needed painkillers.
‘Have you heard of Elizabeth Wellbeck? Or Freddie Eaton?’
‘Should I have?’
Simmons started telling him about the Wellbeck-Eaton family. Sara Eaton was part of it, Freddie was her father, Liz her mother. Simmons made it sound like a dynasty. They were big in this and that, had a lot of cash and so on. He phrased it all very delicately, but Tom got the idea. ‘I’m here on behalf of Sara Eaton,’ he said. ‘She wants to meet you.’
‘You mean she wants some work done?’
‘She wants to talk to you, at least. I can take you to her now.’
‘It’s the weekend. She can come to the office on Monday.’
‘That might be difficult. She’s actually in the Seychelles.’
‘The Seychelles? As in … in the Indian Ocean?’
‘That’s right. I have a private jet waiting at an airfield just outside Luton. We can be there in about eighteen hours, if we leave now.’
Tom stared at him with his mouth open. ‘Are you being serious? This is one of Alex’s little jokes, right?’
‘Alex?’
‘You’re being paid by someone, right? You’re filming me?’
Simmons didn’t find that funny. He started to walk past Tom. ‘I’ll wait in my car,’ he said. ‘I’m instructed to offer you five thousand pounds for your time – to fly out to Miss Eaton, meet her and speak to her, spend perhaps two nights maximum at her location in guaranteed comfort, then you will return here by private jet.’ He was on the pavement now. ‘You can think about it for a few minutes then let me know.’
4
Seven miles away, in her house in Fulham, Rachel Gower lay curled on her bed with all the curtains drawn and the lights off. Today was the anniversary. Twenty-two years ago, to the day. Outside it was sunny, and the garden was full of flowers and colour, but she didn’t want to see that. She didn’t want to see anything. She wanted to be a blank space, empty of thought, without consciousness. She wanted to dissolve into the bed, become part of it, sink into oblivion until the day was past and gone.
But there was no chance of that. No matter what she did there was no chance of that. So she kept her eyes closed, listened to her heart racing and stammering, felt the panic rising.
She couldn’t stop herself. The memories were there even if she managed to ignore them. They were there constantly, every day of her life, a movie reel that played endlessly in her head, just behind the surface illusion of rationality she wore like a set of clothes. But all the time they were insisting, probing, trying to find a way through. She had to fight it with all her strength, because if they got through they would kill her.
April 14 1990. The anguish was still a raw wound. If she allowed her mind to go there, each trivial memory could trigger a mental collapse that would require hospitalisation, literally. It had happened ten times in the last twenty-two years. On three occasions, in the early years, she had been so desperate that she had self-harmed. In 1998 a kind of cold-blooded insanity had found her plunging her arm into a fire, trying to drive back the endless terrifying scenarios with overwhelming physical pain. She had wanted to push her face into the flames, but that would have killed her, and that was the one thing she was absolutely forbidden. She had to live, survive, be here. Because the event had left her a responsibility, a splinter of hope that bored daily into her sanity – the possibility that Lauren would return. And if that happened – and it could – she had to be alive, she had to be ready.
She had been alone the morning it happened. Roger had worked the night at Barts, so was asleep in the spare room when they got up. She had dressed and fed Lauren herself, without waking him, then Lauren had played on the floor of the bedroom while Rachel herself washed and dressed, turning many times to speak to her. Nothing significant, though she could remember every word. Just normal chatter, a mother to her baby.
They managed to leave the house just after eight. It was a sunny, warm day, hints of spring in the air. The sunlight had picked Rachel’s spirits up, made her feel lighter as they left. That was why she didn’t want to see it now. She had stopped to show Lauren a clump of daffodils growing by the gate. Lauren had reached her hand out, touched the petals and smiled, kicking her legs in excitement as she had when she was only a few months old. So Rachel had picked one and given it to her. The moment, so simple and beautiful in itself – her holding out the flower and Lauren’s hand taking it – was burned into her brain like an image of horror. Over the years it had come to stand for everything. She couldn’t look at a daffodil now without the distress rising in her throat like a physical lump, suffocating her.
After that they got into the car and drove to Belgravia. At the time they were renting an apartment in Clapham and she had driven with Lauren in the baby chair, on the back seat of their Golf, passenger side, so she could turn round and see her, or even reach a hand across if she cried. But Lauren rarely cried. At precisely thirteen months and six days old she was a model baby. Everybody had said it about her. She had thick curly black hair and beautiful blue eyes, a face that wasn’t flabby, unlike many babies of that age that Rachel saw. She looked like her mum, people said. Roger had v
ery light brown hair, brown eyes, but Rachel’s eyes were light blue, and back then her hair had been as dark as Lauren’s. Lauren had only just started walking, hesitantly, but with great enthusiasm. She was intensely interested in exploring her world, and had sussed already that walking would allow her to move more quickly, if she could only get the balance right. She would stumble towards an object – anything was interesting, but animals, especially the neighbour’s pet cat, would make her literally squeal with curiosity – and when she reached it, usually reverting to all fours still, she would look back at Rachel with a massive, proud grin, showing her four perfect, tiny front teeth.
They got into work at just after five past nine and Rachel had carried Lauren straight to the crèche, in a hurry. In January she had started as a junior doctor at the Wellbeck Clinic, in Belgravia, a small but very well-appointed private clinic that specialised in oncology, and particularly in inheritable forms of cancer. It was private medicine – exclusive medicine, actually – which wasn’t what she had ever intended to do, but the years of study had left them with considerable debts, so while Roger was doing the right thing at Barts, Rachel had agreed, for a short time, to take what Elizabeth Wellbeck’s foundation had to offer, which was roughly three times what Roger was earning. The hours were sensible too, with Rachel starting on half-time until Lauren reached eighteen months old. The crèche was within the clinic itself.
Two full-time nursery assistants looked after eleven children belonging to doctors who worked there. Lauren had quickly taken to one of them – a twenty-one-year-old called Lovisa Dahlbacka, who whispered in Swedish to Lauren – and that had made the mornings easy. There had never been any crying or hanging on to Rachel.
