by Michael Kerr
Ryan and Eddie were last to enter the church. They stood at the back of the congregation. Ryan kept his eyes on Savino, who was sitting on the front pew below the ornately carved oak pulpit, flanked by his wife and surviving children. Ryan felt sorry for the distraught kids, but felt no compassion for the gangster, or his wife, who knew what he was. How many funerals had taken place as a direct result of Ray Savino ordering people’s deaths? The man was a widow and orphan maker, who had caused much grief and suffering throughout his life. Ryan hoped that a small part of Savino’s cruel mind would now be better able to appreciate, through personal loss, how his victims’ families had and would undoubtedly still feel. You don’t get over the sudden, violent demise of someone you care for or love. Ryan knew that. The space that they leave becomes an almost solid burden that follows you down the years, never fading, always ready to spring out and crush your spirit from dark alleys of the mind.
Ryan might have been a boy again, standing next to his mother, with his father’s shining walnut coffin laid in almost identical surroundings. He remembered feeling numb and despondent, at a loss to fully comprehend the finality; that his dad was gone forever. Even the smells of candle wax and damp stone were identical. Throughout life, he found that certain music, sights and odours regenerated both good and bad times. The senses seemed to package and store combinations of circumstances. It would now be the same of his first night with Julie. From the haunting clarinet rendition of Autumn Leaves at Ella’s Place, to Eva Cassidy singing Fields of Gold, Biff the bear, and the constricting spiral staircase. If he was never to see Julie again, and live another fifty years, any one of those sights or sounds would bring that evening flooding back in its entirety. The past did not return to haunt you, he thought. It never went anywhere. The past, present and future were interwoven, like the threads of an intricately patterned Persian rug.
As the service for Gina Savino came to a close, the coffin that encased her was lifted and borne aloft, back out into a world of steel-grey, under a low ceiling of oppressive cloud, with the last notes of some Italian hymn fading in the belly of the church.
Gathered around what was little more than a pit in the dark earth, the five-deep, grim-faced assembly formed a tight, sombre cordon. The priest turned the pages of his missal as the pallbearers lowered the coffin into the waiting ground. Maria Savino, in black coat and veiled hat, shook her head back and forth and began to shake. Her husband looked to be on the verge of losing his composure, but clenched his fists and stared into the middle-distance. Not once did he look down into the grave.
The priest sprinkled holy water on the coffin top and surrounding earth, to sanctify them. “Let us pray,” he said, and all but Ray Savino bowed their heads. “Lord God, through your mercy, let those who have lived in faith find eternal peace...”
A large raggedy-winged crow flew down to perch on a lichen-encrusted gravestone to seemingly mock the proceedings with loud and raucous cawing. But at last, after what seemed a small eternity, the priest brought the prayers for Gina to a close.
Maria lifted her veil and whispered something in Ray’s ear, before kissing him on the cheek and moving away. His other two children hugged him, then went to their mother. Each of the assembled filed past Ray to pay their respects. Some were family. Others were known criminals, who between them ran London’s underworld.
One man caught Ryan’s attention. He was stocky and looked mid-European, with long, lank, black hair and staring eyes. He did not shake Savino’s hand, or have the look of someone offering condolences. He didn’t fit, and that was enough to arouse curiosity. The man cupped his hand to Savino’s ear and whispered something.
“Him,” Ryan said to Eddie. “I want a tail on him. If he sneezes I want to know the colour of the handkerchief he used.
Eddie went to the Vitari and made calls to the two DCs who were parked well away from the church in separate vehicles, and had not attended the service. Gave them a description of the guy, and said he would ID him and his transport when he hit the street.
Ray had made contact with Mickey Rondelli, who was taking care of business while he was inside. Mickey had got in touch with Gorchev, passed on Ray’s concern, and Gorchev had in turn sent his nephew, Georgio Kriukov to the funeral, to convey his sympathy for Ray’s loss, and to assure him that if the hitter he had employed to take out Flynn was the same man who’d murdered Gina, then he would be found and handed over, as a gesture of respect for Savino’s position in the hierarchy of the organisation he was affiliated to.
Georgio drove back from Chigwell to the city by a circuitous route, not heading for his uncle’s headquarters until he was positive that no one was following him. He did not spot the two-car tail, that stayed well back, taking turns to lead.
Sergei Gorchev was in an apartment on the eighth floor of Teal Towers in Walworth. He owned the apartment block, under one of many company names that were legitimate and would stand up to scrutiny. Public records showed that an elderly widow occupied what was the hub of his empire. It was one of half a dozen addresses he used to conduct his affairs from. Staying too long in one location made him nervous
Georgio used a keycard to activate the barrier. When it jerkily responded and rose, he drove his Skoda down the ramp and into the basement garage of the building. Parked near the lift and got out. He was glad to be back. Coffins and funerals gave him the creeps. There was something about dead bodies being boxed-up and buried in the ground that set his nerves on edge. He didn’t want to be buried, or burned, but couldn’t think of an alternative that was any better.
He punched in a four digit number to summon the lift. Took it up to the eighth floor and stepped out into the corridor. There was no physical security. No need. Anyone entering the building through the main doors or from the car park was caught on CCTV and could not access a lift without a PIN number that was changed at irregular intervals. Only the stairs were guarded. No one got past the first floor without being invited. Two of Sergei’s men braced anyone who did not belong, and sent them packing.
When Georgio was admitted to the apartment, Sergei was pouring tea from a richly-decorated samovar that he claimed had belonged to Stalin. Everyone knew that the story was bullshit, but acted suitably impressed.
“You spoke with Savino?” Sergei said to Georgio.
“I did, uncle. He was pleased that you had sent someone to his daughter’s funeral. And he appreciates that you will try to locate her killer.”
Sergei took a glass of the strong, sweetened tea over to a white leather couch. Settled on it to watch the giant, wall-mounted television. He had NEWS 24 on. “I want you to offer this hitman another contract, Georgio. And when he accepts, you must ensure that when he collects his payment, you do not lose him. He will be careful, but not truly suspicious. He has no reason to think that we would want to identify him or that we wish him harm.”
“Who do you want taking care of, uncle?”
“The female investigative journalist who is asking too many questions, and is planning to do an...an expose on what she calls the Russian Mafia in London. Her death must appear accidental.”
“Very well, uncle. I shall see that it is done.”
“You are a good boy, Georgio. Soon, you must have a reward. I have business in Miami with our Cuban friends. You can take care of it for me. Once the negotiations are complete, you should relax for a week in the sunshine and enjoy whatever is on offer.”
Georgio grinned. “Thank you, uncle. I have not been to America for a long time. It is an exciting prospect.”
* * *
Ryan and Eddie were back in the incident room when DC Darren Hubbard called in.
“Don’t tell me you lost him, Dag,” Ryan said.
“I stick like chewing gum to a shoe sole, boss. The guy went through the motions, in case he had a tail. But he was looking for one car, not two. Led us across the river to an apartment block in Walworth. It might be Fortress Gorchev. The guy used a card to get past the barrier to an undergro
und car park. And we spotted a lot of CCTV cameras. Gorchev doesn’t plan on being taken by surprise. And we have no idea which floor he’s on.”
“Okay, Dag. Stay with it. Photograph anyone who goes in or out. I’ll arrange for you and Phil to be relieved about ten tonight.”
Ryan put Vinnie Gomez on checking out Teal Towers to determine who owned or leased it, and to compile the names and status of all tenants from the electoral role.
“We’ve got no reason to go in and knock on every door,” Ryan said to Eddie. “And we don’t know that Gorchev is even there.”
“Working on information that a wanted man is holed up inside would get us through the door.”
“And would tip Gorchev off. Better if we pick the guy from the funeral up when he comes out. Take him in and sweat him on some pretext I’ll dream up.”
Andy checked for messages. He was surprised to have one from Gorchev:
MARK: KATY BAXENDALE
INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST
HOME ADD: 41 HUDSON COURT
WEST EALING
MUST APPEAR ACCIDENTAL
ACKNOWLEDGE ACCEPTANCE
URGENT COMPLETION REQUIRED
KOVROV
The attachment was a digital photograph of a forty-something woman. Her mousy hair was scraped back from a joyless, heavily-lined face. Andy recognised her. She had fronted a TV series titled: Uncovered. The self-righteous bitch got off on exposing criminals. She had obviously poked her pinched, patrician nose into Gorchev’s business, not having the sense to realise that big players like the Russian were highly protective of their anonymity, and their interests. Katy had stepped over a line that there was no way back from.
Andy would take the contract, but decided to increase his fee. He did not like to be rushed, and this was the second job Gorchev was requesting he carried out with all due haste. He could decline, but was addicted to the challenge of a new kill, and was not going to pass up such easy money, or lose any respect from one of his regular employers. Work was work. Sometimes you had to extend yourself. He prided himself on having never turned down a hit. Christ, he would whack the fucking Queen, given the time to plan it.
Andy waited an hour. Stood naked behind the net curtain at the lounge window and drank coffee as he watched his new friend, Gemma, wash her car. It was an unseasonably warm day, and Gemma was wearing a cut-down T-shirt and tight denim hot pants. The way she stretched over the small Puma with a foaming wet sponge in her hand was one of the sexiest routines he had ever witnessed. And she was moving to the beat of some country rock song on the car radio. Being his neighbour gave her immunity from his violent side; from Andy Tyler. As Toby Carlson, he fancied her, and thought that a normal relationship with the bubbly blonde might be novel.
Gemma stooped to reload the sponge, and he saw that the cotton T-shirt was soaking wet at the front and clinging to her breasts, defining her nipples. His breath was quickening, and as she continued to move sinuously over the car, he put the mug of coffee down and almost unconsciously took himself in hand to relieve the pent-up sexual tension. He was really looking forward to Saturday night.
Now relaxed, he went to his computer and tapped out a reply that would pass through the chainer service before arriving at its destination. He instructed that half of the fee he asked for be left at Highgate cemetery the following evening at eleven o’clock, in front of Marx’s grave. A location that should amuse Gorchev!
Going back at the lounge window, he was disappointed to discover that Gemma had finished washing the car. The show was over. He was bored. He dressed and went for a drive. Called in at a pub for a meal and a drink. With the contact lenses in, his hair longer, and a moustache and Van Dyke beard taking shape, he looked nothing like the images of him that had been shown on TV and printed in the newspapers. New atrocities and headline-grabbing stories broke every day, giving the media fresh fields to plough. A terrorist attack in Spain had resulted in thirty deaths and over two hundred injured. That body count took precedence over his actions. What he did was small potatoes.
Andy arrived early and crouched in the darkness behind a Victorian tomb marker. It was a life-size angel sculpted from marble and raised up to a lofty height atop a wide, square pedestal. The heavenly figure was stained by acid rain that was eating into it, and was liberally covered in white splashes of bird shit. The tip of one wing and the end of the angel’s nose were missing, as were the tops of the fingers of both hands, that were together in prayer.
The guy was on foot and alone. He was wearing a bulky parka, and his breath steamed in the cold night air. He placed a slim briefcase in front of Karl’s sculpted head, and went back along the path without looking about him or hesitating.
Andy remained where he was for fifteen minutes. His thigh and calf muscles ached, but he did not move a muscle.
The hoot of an owl in a nearby tree startled him momentarily. He was satisfied that the area was clear. His senses told him that he was alone. The only night sounds were made by the quick feet of scurrying rodents, and the flutter of bats’ wings as the leathery predators snatched moths out of the air.
He retrieved the Samsonite, and keeping off the paths, made his way to the northern perimeter of the cemetery. He settled again for a few minutes and watched and listened, before opening the case and transferring the money and an envelope to his pockets. He exited the bone yard through a gap in a section of rusted railings and made his way to where he had parked the car. The pickups were a pain in the arse. It would be more professional to use one of the offshore accounts he had opened under the aliases of Richard Bell and Damon Cole. But his tendency to suspect and mistrust others was of such magnitude that he would divulge nothing that might lead back to him. He acknowledged that there were others just as proficient in computer hacking, and might follow the cash and gain entry to his accounts. Money could be shifted with relative ease, if you knew how to do it.
He drove home with hardly a glance in his rearview mirror. His thoughts were skipping between the fulfilment of the contract, Gemma Rutledge, his mother, and the other outstanding matters that he looked forward to taking care of.
He parked the Toyota next to Gemma’s Puma.
Outside on the road, a Skoda cruised by.
Georgio Kriukov smiled when he got the call. The elusive killer had been tracked to his lair. When his uncle authorised it, he would arrange for the hitman to be lifted and handed over to Savino’s people. Valentino had done well to follow the man from the drop site at the cemetery.
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
Valentino Pavlovka was twenty-years-old, and had been born and raised, until the age of thirteen, on the steppe grasslands of Kazakhstan, helping his father and his four brothers herd goats.
It had been on a trip to Kokshetau in the north of the country, that Valentino had become bewitched by the bright lights of the city, and decided that a nomadic life on the steppe was not his destiny. Deserting his family, he lived rough, became what is termed in the west as a rent boy, and had the good fortune to end up sharing the bed of a French engineer who worked for an oil company.
After twelve months, Pierre Jourdan’s contract came to an end. He was in love with the teenage boy, and could not bear to lose him, so smuggled him out of the country with the help of a border guard, who was only too happy to be paid more than he would earn in three months to merely turn a blind eye.
Six months after arriving in Amiens, Pierre suffered a heart attack and died. It was then that Valentino decided to make his home in Britain. Armed with money taken from Pierre’s home, and a French passport that his lover had procured for him, he boarded a ferry to Dover and was soon on the streets of London, earning enough to rent a room by mugging tourists and giving blowjobs to the endless stream of kerb crawlers that frequented the King’s Cross area.
Being picked up by Georgio was another dramatic turning point in Valentino’s life. He went back to the Russian’s apartment, pleasured the man and was about to take his money and leave, when Georgio
asked him where he came from.
“France,” Valentino said.
“Don’t lie to me, boy,” Georgio said. “Be truthful, and I may be able to find you work that will save you from growing too old to sell your skinny arse on the street. You will earn a lot of money, live well, and have the protection of the organisation I work for.”
“And what would I have to do to have all you speak of?”
“Move in with me, and be faithful. You will not regret it, that I can promise.”
Valentino told him the full story. Of his childhood in Kazakhstan, and of how the Frenchman who smuggled him out of the country had died, leaving him alone in a strange land.
Four years had passed. Georgio had kept his word, and Valentino was now a loyal and trusted member of Gorchev’s inner court. And he was in love with the man who had picked him up off the street and changed his life beyond his wildest dreams.
Valentino was in position for over two hours before the drop. He was in a sepulchre behind the barred gate that he had jemmied the padlock from. He sat well back from the entrance, in the gloom, on the crumbling lid of a tomb. He was not scared of the dead. They did not stay with their rotting remains or yellowing bones. If there was an afterlife, then he believed that they had better things to do than linger on earth. Back on the steppe, he had seen many herdsmen, women, children and babies buried under the sod. Their corpses fed the ground with nutrients. It had always been that way. Death was merely a release from the hard trials that life posed.
It was Georgio himself who placed the briefcase in front of the elaborate bust of Marx.
Fifteen minutes crawled by, and then a shadow detached itself and moved out from behind the figure of an angel. The assassin picked up the case and rushed away, his stealth matched by Valentino, who followed at a distance, as silently as any ghost that might be abroad in this vast city of the dead.
