Scared to Live bcadf-7

by Stephen Booth

  ‘You know what I think — you’ve got to go to the police.’

  ‘I can’t, Stell.’

  ‘They’re trying to catch someone who committed a murder.’

  ‘I know, but — ’

  ‘So you don’t care? You don’t care that there’s a murderer walking about right in my village, murdering women who live on their own?’

  ‘Oh, Stella, you’ll be all right.’

  ‘You ought to be here looking after me and making sure I’m all right.’

  ‘Meet me in Wirksworth or Cromford or somewhere,’ he pleaded. ‘That’s not far to go.’

  ‘And then what, eh?’

  ‘Well — ’

  ‘If you think I’m doing it in the back of a car at my age, Darren Turnbull, you’ve got another think coming. Especially in your bloody Astra, with the police looking for it everywhere. I don’t want some copper banging on the window and catching me with my knickers off.’

  ‘We’ll go somewhere quiet. There’s lots of places we could find.’

  ‘No. Darren, either you go to the police like you should, or I’ll phone them myself and tell them who that car belongs to.’

  ‘Stella — ’

  ‘Yes, I will. And then they’ll come round to your house to pick you up. How would your precious Fiona like that, eh?’

  Darren went cold at the thought. He glanced guiltily out of the phone box, but no one was around to see him.

  ‘Look, Stell, there’s no need for that. I’ll come round to the cottage as usual tonight, and we’ll have a talk about it, OK?’

  ‘Fine. See you, then. And don’t forget the booze.’

  Before she left West Street, Fry knocked on the door of the DI’s office to report her movements. She found Hitchens staring at a passport that lay on his desk in a clear plastic wallet. Its cover was the familiar burgundy red, with the royal crest embossed in gold. The lion and the unicorn, dieuet mon droit.

  ‘Is that Rose Shepherd’s passport?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Don’t you think it’s weird to have a French motto on the front of a British passport? I bet most people don’t understand what it means.’

  ‘We’re in the European Union now,’ said Fry. ‘We’re not supposed to understand what anything means. So why is it here?’

  ‘The HOLMES team checked the passport number. It seems that no such passport was ever issued by the UK authorities. We’re going to send it to the FSS for their document examiners to have a look at, but the conclusion seems pretty clear. Rose Shepherd’s passport is a forgery. A very good one — but still a forgery.’

  ‘But that means — ’

  Hitchens swivelled his chair to face her.

  ‘Yes, Diane. It means we have absolutely no idea who she really was.’

  It was five thirty-eight in the evening when Lazar Zhivko tapped the numbers into the keypad and locked the door of his electrical shop in Stephenson Place, Chesterfield. He rattled the handle to make certain it was secure and looked over his shoulder, as if afraid that a mugger might choose this moment to strike. Lazar’s eyes were dark with anxiety as he scanned the pavement and the cars parked in front of the shop.

  While Lazar hesitated in the shop doorway, his brother Anton was already waiting at the kerb, drumming his fingers impatiently on the arms of his wheelchair, fidgeting with the rug on his knees. He stared straight ahead, taking no notice of the people passing by, even though they barely had enough room to get past him without stepping into the road.

  When he glanced in the direction of the Rutland pub, the streetlights seemed to form even deeper shadows among the lines etched like knife marks in his face.

  The camera recording Lazar Zhivko’s movements had captured that expression on his face many times before. It was immortalized in the stills pinned to copies of his file and handed out to officers on surveillance shifts. One observer had described it as the look of a man who’d learned always to expect the worst.

  ‘I wish I knew what the hell the brother was looking at.’

  The two surveillance officers were starting to feel drowsy. The store room was stuffy, and specks of dust drifted in the air whenever either of them moved from the cardboard box he was sitting on. All afternoon they hadn’t dared to open the sash even an inch, in case they drew attention to their position. Even now that it was getting dark, they were being careful.

  ‘It’s not us he’s looking at, anyway.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Don’t worry, he hasn’t seen us.’

  ‘Maybe he’s spotted somebody on the pavement this side of the road. We ought to get someone in the street to check.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, he must be looking at the menswear shop next door, then. I know their window display is pretty weird, but I wouldn’t have thought it was bad enough to make him look like that.’

  Anton Zhivko’s expression was much more difficult to interpret than his brother’s. Anton looked resigned, yet contemptuous, as if he could see a threat approaching and had resolved not to run, but to face it without fear.

  The angle of the camera was adjusted as Lazar Zhivko finally left the door of the shop. Stepping on to the pavement, Lazar gripped the handles of his brother’s wheelchair and kicked off the foot-brake. The camera panned slowly to follow him as the two men headed towards the white Renault Kangoo parked outside the bakery.

  ‘He’s lost sight of whatever it was. Now, he just looks pissed off. He’s saying something to Lazar. That’s the trouble with making silent movies like this — you need subtitles. It’s a pity Technical Support couldn’t have got a microphone on to the wheelchair to pick up sound.’

  ‘How would they have done that? Anton is only ever out of the thing when he goes to bed or to the toilet. Besides, how good is your Bulgarian?’

  By now, Lazar had stopped at the rear of the Kangoo and applied the brake on the chair. He thumbed an electronic key from his pocket and the lights on the vehicle flashed.

  The Kangoo had an electrically operated folding ramp and a power winch to load the wheelchair through the rear doors. Someone with too much time on his hands had added a note in the file to say it was a Bekker conversion. Lazar didn’t look strong enough to have helped his brother out of his chair and into the van without the winch. And there was no doubt the Zhivkos could afford an extra thousand pounds or so for the technology.

  ‘Well, business is over for the day. I reckon we can knock off and claim our Oscars.’

  ‘Not until they’re clear of the area. Let’s do the job properly.’

  ‘OK. But all this on account of some dodgy intelligence? I hope Europol appreciate what we’re going through on their behalf.’

  The camera’s field of view covered the Zhivkos’ vehicle and three cars parked in front of it on the north side of Stephenson Place. Surveillance had confirmed that the brothers always arrived early to make sure they got a space for the Kangoo near their shop. To the west, there were double yellow lines along the kerb all the way to the lights at the corner of Knifesmithgate, so the position of the camera had pretty much decided itself. The first-floor store room above the charity shop provided a decent vantage point, at the right angle to catch the face of anyone leaving the shop. Even better, there were bars on the store-room window and stacks of boxes already in place to disguise the camera’s outline.

  A radio crackled. ‘Have they left the shop?’

  ‘Yes, they’re in the street, about to load the wheelchair into the van. It looks like they’re heading for home.’

  ‘A wash-out, then.’

  The monitor showed that Lazar Zhivko had positioned his brother’s chair behind the Renault and left him there while he went to the driver’s door. There was still time for a contact, but not much. The brothers would be gone from the scene in the next couple of minutes.

  ‘A couple of lads are walking towards the shop from Knifesmithgate.’

  ‘Lads?’

  ‘Sorry. Two white males, aged
eighteen to twenty, wearing jeans and sweatshirts. They’re slowing a bit as they get to the vehicle. No, they’re just admiring the van.’

  ‘They’re not interested in the Zhivkos?’

  ‘They’re passing on. No contact. We got them on film anyway.’

  ‘Nothing. As soon as the brothers move out of the street, we’ll call it a day here. Team Two can pick them up at home.’

  The aluminium ramp was unfolding itself from the rear doors of the Kangoo. Lazar leaned in to press a button under the dashboard, and the lift lowered slowly towards the road. The roof of the vehicle was high enough to take both Anton and his wheelchair without any undignified heaving to transfer his body to a van seat. It wasn’t the most stylish mode of transport, but it was convenient for the Zhivkos, and so distinctive that it was a gift for surveillance.

  From this distance, it wasn’t possible to hear the hum of the electric motor that drove the ramp. But because it was too loud, or for some other reason, the brothers didn’t try to speak to each other over the noise. Lazar was by the driver’s door, waiting for the platform to touch the road so he could connect the winch. Anton looked exhausted, his eyes cast down at his lap. He wasn’t watching the ramp. He must have seen its operation many times before, perhaps regarded it with resentment. It was one more mechanical aid that he shouldn’t have needed but for the damage done to his legs.

  Anton could have a weapon concealed under the rug across his knees. The nervous plucking of his fingers at the edges could be his way of keeping a handgun within easy reach, yet out of sight.

  But nothing in the intelligence reports had indicated the Zhivkos might be armed. In any case, there was no intention to arrest the brothers, not right there in the street with dozens of passersby getting in the way. If an arrest ever happened, it would be done in the privacy of the brothers’ home at dawn, with the advantage of surprise and force of numbers, a hydraulic ram through the front door and officers in body armour dragging them from their beds before they were even awake.

  Before the surveillance officers had turned away from the monitor, something strange happened. Both the Zhivko brothers reacted to something simultaneously. Their heads came up sharply, as if they’d been startled by a sudden noise. Their eyes met across the roof of the Kangoo, and for the first time Anton opened his mouth to speak. No — not to speak, but to shout, to yell. To scream.

  It was a scream that never came. If Anton made any sound at all, it was the last one of his life. The force of the explosion hurled him across the bonnet of a taxi and into the middle of the road. His chair was crushed by a bus, but Anton’s body broke away from the wreckage and bounced across the tarmac until he crumpled into a smouldering heap in the gutter. There was just one glimpse of his motionless figure before it disappeared in the cloud of black smoke that surged from the blazing Kangoo.

  Lazar Zhivko had been luckier. The blast had blown him backwards against the wing mirror of a parked Volvo. The mirror snapped and a three-inch steel shard pierced his back, penetrating his left kidney. Glass fragments from the Kangoo’s shattered windscreen ripped into Lazar’s face and hands, and shredded his clothes. Flames from the burning vehicle spread rapidly to nearby cars and the smoke dipped and swirled in a sudden breeze.

  The window of the store room had blown out, and the shop’s alarms were ringing. The two officers had ducked and thrown their arms over their heads, but it was already too late. Smoke billowed across the window and surged through the gaps in the glass. Debris spattered on the cardboard boxes and showered the floor in a layer of grit.

  ‘Jesus, what was that?’

  The radio was already calling for fire appliances and ambulances. The microphones in the shop would be picking up the sound of the explosion and shattering glass.

  Even inside the store room they could feel the heat of the flames. The blast had seemed to happen in slow motion, following a blinding flash of light powerful enough to etch the startled faces of the two victims into the retinas of watching eyes. Their faces would be there for days, forever staring, shocked and frightened, opening their mouths to speak, but never uttering a word.

  ‘It looks as though someone visited the Zhivko brothers after all.’

  23

  At Manchester Terminal One, Fry stood in front of W. H. Smith’s, waiting for passengers to emerge from baggage reclaim into the arrivals hall. In the amusement arcade, two teenage boys were playing a grand prix driving game, and the flashing lights were distracting Fry’s attention. She was afraid she’d miss her visitor. But on the other hand, she knew he’d stand out all too well when she saw him.

  She recalled Cooper’s comments as she’d left the office to collect Sergeant Kotsev.

  ‘How will you recognize him?’ he’d asked. ‘He won’t be in uniform, surely.’

  ‘Well, he’s six foot two inches tall, with black hair, dark brown eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache.’

  ‘How do you know that? Did his brown eyes just come up in conversation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But, in fact, the description had been in an email he’d sent her. Fry had discovered it in her inbox immediately after receiving the phone message. Sergeant Kotsev was already in the air by then.

  So when he came in sight, Fry recognized him straightaway. He was towing a large black suitcase with four wheels. It seemed to trundle on behind him effortlessly, like the animated luggage in a Terry Pratchett story.

  Georgi Kotsev was definitely tall and dark. He had good bone structure, and a slight tan, but not too much. A recent holiday in one of those Black Sea resorts, perhaps? He wore a black leather jacket, quite new, though probably a cut-price copy of a designer label. Fry thought he’d have looked pretty good in a well-cut suit, too. His hair was black, trimmed short, but combed back to reveal a hint of waviness.

  He also looked vaguely angry as he came down the ramp. But his expression cleared quickly when Fry introduced herself.

  ‘Welcome to England, Sergeant.’

  Kotsev smiled. ‘Blagodariya. Thank you.’

  ‘If you’ll follow me, I’ve got a car waiting.’

  She ought to say something else, but she’d always found small talk difficult. All the way from Edendale to the airport, she’d been worrying about the prospect of making stilted conversation with a stranger. But as Fry led her visitor across the walkway to the short-stay car park, she found there’d been no need to worry. He began to talk without any prompting.

  ‘I came by Lufthansa,’ he said. ‘The German airline, you know it? Only four hours and fifty-five minutes, including one stop at Frankfurt. Very quick, very efficient. A British Airways flight is two hours longer — and yet more expensive.’

  ‘You know, your English is very good, Sergeant Kotsev.’

  ‘Ah, merci. Thank you. And German aircraft have three inches more leg room. Did you know? That is important, too. For me, at least. Are the British less tall than Germans? No, I don’t think so. Oh, and then there is Czech Airways. A joke, of course.’

  ‘You’re an admirer of German efficiency, then?’

  ‘We have to give them credit for what they achieve,’ he said.

  Her Peugeot was fortunately close to the entrance. She was anxious to get in the car and be under way.

  ‘Wasn’t Bulgaria invaded by the Germans during the last war?’ she said as she opened the boot for his suitcase.

  The question had come out of her mouth before it had even occurred to her she might sound too much like a character out of a Fawlty Towers episode. Well, that was the danger of making small talk. The pressure to say something that would fill the silence led to stupid comments.

  Kotsev started to nod his head, then seemed to change his mind and shook it vigorously instead. ‘No, no — we were on their side. It was the Russians who invaded us.’

  ‘Really?’

  He folded the handle of his case and loaded it into the car. ‘Sadly, there is some ignorance here about our history.’

  Fry thought of the peo
ple Kotsev might meet back at Edendale. ‘I can’t promise you anything else.’

  He politely remained silent while she exited the car park and negotiated her way out of the airport, following the signs back to the motorway. When the silence began to feel uncomfortable, she searched her mind for something else to say. What did you say in these circumstances? What the hellare you doing here? Why don’t you just go back homewhere you belong?

  ‘So where did you learn to speak English so well, Sergeant Kotsev?’

  ‘Ah, I attended a good school in our capital, Sofia, and later at university. Regrettably, there are still very few police officers in my country who speak English well. You could visit many provincial police stations in Bulgaria and find no officers who speak English at all.’

  Fry laughed. ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of. How many police officers do you think we have in Edendale who speak Bulgarian?’

  Kotsev smiled. ‘It’s different. It will be necessary for many more of us to speak your tongue when we enter the European Union.’

  ‘Still, it must be very irritating to have us all coming to your country and expecting you to speak to us in English.’

  ‘Ah, but ours is an unimportant little language.’

  It was intriguing to hear Kotsev say that without sarcasm or bitterness, as if he actually meant it. She would normally have expected at least a small chip on the shoulder.

  ‘Well, it’s true that Bulgarian wasn’t offered as a course option when I was a student,’ she said.

  Her visitor seemed to take in everything they passed on the journey from the airport. Not that there was much to see on the M60 orbital. He’d pushed the passenger seat as far back as it would go to accommodate his long legs, and Fry was conscious of the fact that he could watch her from that angle without her knowing it. She stood the uncertainty for as long as she could, then she turned to meet his eyes. Kotsev had been right about how brown they were. They made her think of dark chocolate. Thornton’s apricot parfait.

  ‘So you are a graduate, Sergeant Fry?’ said Kotsev. ‘What is your degree, a Bachelor of Arts or a Bachelor of Science? Police officers should have a good education, I believe. It’s very important, if we are to have the respect of the people. Myself, I attended the University Saint Kliment Ohridski in Sofia.’