by Chris Simms
Jon glanced at his watch. ‘No time. Our train leaves in less than twenty minutes. Besides, he’s not a suspect – yet.’ He picked his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘Though I can’t wait to see his face when I say a Russian-speaking asylum seeker called his office hours before almost being decapitated by a garrotte.’
Rick stood. ‘Fair point. And he’s there at the moment?’
‘According to the woman who answered the phone.’
‘What’s his name again?’
Jon placed the perspex sleeve in a slim briefcase. ‘Slavko Mykosowski.’
Sixteen
As the train approached Euston, the embankment walls on either side of the track grew higher until it seemed they were heading along the bottom of a narrow ravine. How old was I, Jon reflected, when I was down here last? New Year’s Eve, sometime in my early twenties. He examined the patches of graffiti covering the lowermost blocks of grey stone. He realised that, as he read out the scrawled names in his head, it was with a cockney accent. Same as I did all those years ago. Craning his neck, he watched the strip of sky grow thinner until it suddenly disappeared as they entered the tunnel leading to Euston station itself.
The terminal building was packed with people, everyone cutting across each others’ paths, jostling for the angle they wanted. Pickpockets will love this, Jon thought, hand going to his jacket to check the inner pocket holding his wallet was buttoned shut.
‘How do you get into the Underground?’
‘Tubes are this way,’ Rick replied, leading the way.
‘How long did you live down here?’ Jon asked, trying to keep up with his partner as he deftly weaved through the throng.
‘Years. Mum and Dad only moved out when I started at secondary school.’
You mean public school, Jon thought. The nice little place somewhere out in Kent or Surrey or somewhere, wasn’t it? ‘Whereabouts did you live?’
‘Holland Park?’ Rick glanced back.
Jon looked at him blankly.
‘West London, basically. The office of Myko Enterprises overlooks the Thames, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, near Waterloo. I’ve got the printout from Google Maps in my briefcase.’
‘No need. We’ll just go straight down the Northern Line. It’s only five or six stops, I think.’ Rick stepped on to the top of the escalator.
‘Really?’ Jon followed him. ‘How long will that take?’
‘Excuse me!’
Jon looked back to see a man in a suit behind him. ‘Can I help?’
The man’s look of irritation increased.
‘Jon,’ Rick said, tugging his partner across. ‘You stand on the right.’
The man brushed past with an impatient sigh.
‘How was I to know?’ Jon replied. ‘There was nothing saying that.’
‘There are notices at the top,’ Rick replied, suppressing a smile. ‘But they are really small.’
‘Small? Bloody microscopic.’
The underground station was now coming into view and Jon felt the sensation of being hemmed in growing. Low ceilings, artificial light, stale air. People were queuing three-deep at the barriers. We’re rats, he thought. Let loose in a maze.
When they emerged back into daylight, Jon breathed a sigh of relief. Rick beckoned him along a walkway and suddenly the Thames was there before him. Relishing the sudden sense of space, Jon rested a hand on the trunk of one of the trees that lined the boulevard bordering the river. He felt his shoulders drop and, finally, felt a hint of what gave the city its lure. The massive structure of the London Eye loomed over him.
Beside him, Rick was looking up, too. ‘Makes the one outside the Triangle in Manchester look like a bicycle wheel, doesn’t it?’
Thinking how right his partner was, Jon shrugged. ‘It’s not that much bigger.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Rick laughed.
Glancing along the river, Jon spotted buildings that he was only used to seeing on television. He unzipped the front pocket of the briefcase and removed a piece of paper. ‘Waterloo Tower,’ he announced, holding it out to Rick. ‘It’s marked with an arrow.’ Rick examined the piece of paper without taking it.
‘Somewhere along here.’
A couple of minutes’ walk took them to a building clad in unnaturally smooth-looking beige stone, all of its windows tinted a faint purple. They crossed into a lobby that seemed to be entirely lined with marble. Shiny tiles stretched across the floor then up the walls to head height. They approached the front desk, behind which was a huge expanse of brass filled with plaques, each inscribed with a company name. Jon worked his way down the alphabetical columns. ‘There you go,’ he nodded.
‘Fourteenth floor.’
Rick looked at the security guard, warrant card outstretched.
‘Hello, there. OK if we head on up?’
The man examined the badge. ‘Who are you here to see?’
‘That’s our business, I’m afraid.’
He slid a visitor book across the counter. ‘Well, can you sign in, please? Just so we know you’re here officially, like.’
They added their names and he tore the slips out and inserted them into a couple of plastic pouches with a fastener mechanism.
‘Thanks, gents. Lifts are on the right.’
‘Result,’ Jon murmured, pocketing his as they strode across the lobby. ‘He won’t know we’re here until we’re stood in his office.’
The lift whisked them up, doors opening on a quiet corridor. A noticeboard was on the opposite wall.
‘Third on the left,’ Rick whispered.
They stepped out and Jon noticed the carpet felt thin underfoot. A yucca plant stood in a plant pot to their side. Stretching between two of the dry, yellowing leaves was a cobweb. At its centre there rested a spider’s husk, brittle legs caught up in the folds as if it had fallen victim to its own trap. Eyes settling on the discarded Bounty wrapper at the base of the plant’s trunk, Jon said, ‘Not quite so flash away from the entrance hall.’
‘Don’t be fooled,’ Rick replied quietly. ‘Rents for this place will be astronomical.’
They walked along to the offices of Myko Enterprises and Rick knocked on the door. The intercom made a clicking noise and a male voice with a heavy accent asked, ‘Who is it?’
Rick leaned towards the perforated metal panel. ‘DS Saville, DI Spicer. We’re police officers.’
‘Police?’
Jon bent down to the little box. ‘Open the door, sir.’
Two seconds silence. Jon’s palm was on the handle, and as soon as the lock buzzed, he pushed it open. No reception area or lobby. An overweight man in a pale blue shirt was seated behind a large wooden desk, straggly black hair hanging down to his shoulders. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind him gave an impressive view of the river.
Jon walked over, closing the distance between them as fast as possible, glancing to each side as he did. Strange, he thought. A woman answered the phone earlier. ‘Slavko Mykosowski?’
‘Yes.’
‘DI Spicer, Greater Manchester Police. My colleague, DS Saville.’
‘Manchester?’
Jon kept his gaze on the man. The mention of Manchester had caused something to glint in his beady eyes. ‘If you have a minute or two, we have a few questions.’
Mykosowski tilted back in his seat, raised both hands up and started gathering his oily-looking hair into a bunch. For a moment, Jon thought he was about to produce something to tie it back with. But to his relief, the man let it fall back over his collar. ‘Of course.’ He gestured to the chairs against the wall.
‘They are on wheels.’
Rick rolled a couple over and sat down. Jon remained standing, satisfied when he saw how it disconcerted Mykosowski. Deliberately, he said nothing.
The Ukrainian stared back for a second, turned to Rick, then looked at Jon again. A small laugh escaped him, high-pitched with nerves. ‘We are playing who blinks first?’
Satisfied he had control, Jon lowered him
self on to the edge of his seat as if he might spring back to his feet at any second. ‘You are, I gather, in the business of shipping freight?’
‘Yes.’
‘What types?’
‘What is this about, please?’
‘Just background enquiries, sir.’
Mykosowski smiled. ‘That doesn’t tell me much.’
‘Your company’s name came up during enquiries into the dumping of contaminated waste in a freight yard near Manchester,’ Jon stated, hoping the lie would be sufficient.
‘I will transport most things, except hazardous materials. I do not have the necessary licences.’
Jon looked about. ‘I called earlier and a woman answered the phone.’
‘It is a serviced office. The receptionists are all located in the basement and route the calls up.’
‘Where do your ships operate?’
The man hesitated and Jon could tell the way his questions kept changing tack was wrong-footing him. ‘All over the world. My operation is global – as business is, nowadays.’
‘Russia?’ Rick asked, crossing his legs.
‘Of course Russia,’ Mykosowski replied.
‘Were any of your ships off the north-west coast of Britain a few days ago?’
Mykosowski studied Rick before replying. ‘Possibly. I have many vessels, it would be necessary to check.’
‘Could you do that for us, now?’ Jon asked.
‘That information is commercially sensitive.’
‘We wouldn’t be passing it on to your competitors.’
‘Even so, it’s not something I’d like to share.’
‘Anything set off from St Petersburg recently?’
‘I’m sorry. I am not at liberty to say.’
‘Russia. Is that where you’re from originally?’ Jon asked, standing up and moving towards the windows.
‘Ukraine. I am Ukrainian.’
‘But resident in the UK?’
Mykosowski twisted his neck, trying to address Jon as he moved behind his chair. ‘I am not a British citizen, but I have a visa to live and work here for most of the year.’
‘The Houses of Parliament,’ Jon murmured, slowly circling him. ‘What great views.’
Mykosowski looked over his right shoulder as Jon proceeded along the windows. ‘Yes. This stretch of river, I never tire of watching it. Day or night.’
‘“The sea reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginnings of an interminable waterway”,’ Rick stated.
Jon looked at his partner.
‘Conrad!’ Mykosowski exclaimed enthusiastically.
‘Heart of Darkness,’ Rick replied. ‘I studied it at school.’
‘He was Ukrainian, you know,’ Mykosowski smiled proudly, his posture easing slightly. ‘English was his third language.’
‘Incredible,’ Rick nodded. ‘It’s a true masterpiece.’ His eyes flicked to Jon. Go for it, the look said. Now.
Jon stepped over to the desk, the edge of it pressing against his thighs as he loomed over the ship owner. ‘A man’s body was found in Manchester. He called this office hours before someone murdered him.’
Mykosowski’s legs stiffened and his seat moved back a few inches. ‘Sorry?’
Jon placed both sets of knuckles on the desk. ‘You heard me.’ The other man’s hand rose up to flutter protectively at his throat. I didn’t mention how he died, thought Jon.
‘Who was this man?’
‘The name he’d given to Border Agency officials was Andriy Bal. Maybe you could enlighten us as to his real name?’
‘Andriy Bal?’ Mykosowski made an absurd show of considering the name. ‘I do not know anyone called that.’
Jon straightened up. ‘It wasn’t real. As I said, maybe you could tell us his true identity.’
‘Well, I deal with many callers. People ring with enquiries all the time.’
‘No one’s rung you since we’ve been here.’ Jon sat back down and opened his briefcase. He extracted the Border Agency photo of Bal. ‘Here he is on his arrival to the UK.’ He placed an A4 image next to it. ‘And here’s the pathologist’s photo after his head was almost severed. Excuse the blood, won’t you. A familiar face?’
Mykosowski pushed away the photo of Bal with his throat rendered wide open. ‘He is not someone I know.’
‘He rang here. His call was connected for over six minutes. You don’t stay on the line that long if you’ve dialled a wrong number.’
‘Maybe he was making a freight enquiry. I would need to check my records.’
‘He was a destitute asylum seeker. He didn’t even have a suit-case. Why did he call you?’
‘I don’t recall speaking to any man called Bal.’
Rick examined the nails on one hand, not looking at Mykosowski. ‘In another day or so, the phone company will have located the recording of that call.’ He glanced up. ‘Every word of it.’
Nice touch, thought Jon, knowing their application for that information was going to take three times that long to be approved. He sat forward. ‘Does the freight you deal in include humans, Mr Mykosowski?’
‘That is stupid,’ he replied, waving a hand across the desk. ‘I will not answer such questions.’
‘He’s not the only one to have been killed in this way.’ Jon took out the pathologist’s photos of the other two victims. ‘This one claimed to be called Marat Dubinski, this one Yegor Tsarev. Both killed within a day of Andriy Bal. Please look at the photos, sir.’
‘Why?’ Mykosowski’s eyes flashed. ‘These names are not known to me.’
‘Faces, not names,’ Jon replied. ‘I want you to consider the faces. You can tell so much from one, yours included.’
‘I must return to my work.’ He reached for his mouse and stared at the computer screen, eyes not moving.
‘Or this man. Vladimir Yashin.’ Jon placed the photo across Mykosowski’s keyboard. ‘Friend of yours, maybe?’
Using the tip of a finger, Mykosowski slid the photo back without looking at it. ‘Please go. I will not answer any more questions.’
Taking his time, Jon gathered the photos into a neat pile. ‘You know,’ he announced casually. ‘We’re checking the records of the payphones in the accommodation where the other two victims were housed. Officers are knocking on doors, asking if either murder victim had borrowed a mobile phone to make any calls. What should we think if these other men had also phoned this office?’
Mykosowski stared at his screen in silence.
As they headed for the door, Jon called over his shoulder. ‘Your name has been flagged with the Border Agency. So don’t you be trying to go on any holidays now.’
Only once the door to his office had clicked shut did Slavko Mykosowski dare to look away from his screen. He stared towards the corridor, half expecting them to buzz again, march in and arrest him. A minute passed and still his posture was tense. This is all going so wrong, he thought. So completely wrong. Running a hand through his hair, he turned back to his computer monitor and selected the programme that displayed the current satellite locations for all his ships.
He typed in ‘Lesya Ukrayinka’ and a screen opened up with a slowly flashing dot at its centre. He zoomed out slightly, and on the screen’s left-hand side, the east coast of America came into view. There was the jagged fissure that was Chesapeake Bay. There, a little further inland, was the port of Baltimore. Mykosowski stared at the flashing dot with something like sadness in his eyes. So close, he thought. So close to offloading that cursed cargo.
Seventeen
The escalator disgorged them back into the terminal at Euston and Jon stepped clear of the stream of hurrying passengers to address Rick. ‘So, we start trying to map the movements of his ships. That’s a priority. What else?’
‘See if we can hurry up the fingerprint search for the one called Vladimir Yashin. He has to link in with Mykosowski, surely.’
‘I agree. What we really need, though, is something on our murder victims’ identities. If w
e can trace a family member, they could put us on to who was paid to ship them over here.’
‘How were Buchanon’s enquiries with the Russian embassy going?’
‘Not sure. Maybe he’ll have something when we get back. How are we doing for time?’
Rick made his way across the terminal, eyes on the enormous departure board. ‘There’s one leaving in forty minutes. Let’s see if there’s anything sooner.’
Jon stood behind his partner, feeling like a boulder in a river as the current of people moved past on either side. A crop-haired man in a black body warmer and jeans was walking directly towards them, fingers flexing at his sides. Jon glanced to his other side and saw another male closing in from that direction. He raised a hand and was just about to warn Rick when he felt fingers on his shoulder. Instantly, he grabbed them and started to squeeze as he looked round.
A smartly dressed man somewhere in his twenties was wincing with surprise, long fringe flopping down to his eyes. ‘Rick,’ Jon said urgently.
The other two men’s pace had quickened and Jon tensed his free arm in readiness to shove the nearest one away. Both were now reaching into their tops.
‘Rick!’ Jon barked. At last his partner looked round.
The man whose fingers he was crushing dropped his attaché case and reached into his jacket to produce a black wallet. He held it up to display the identity badge inside.
Jon saw the crown and portcullis with a dragon-like animal in the centre. The words Regnum Defende ran below the crest. He felt his eyebrows lift. MI5 badge, he thought. Never seen one of those this close.
‘Let go of my bloody fingers!’ the man hissed.
Jon threw the man’s hand aside, turning to glare at the other men. ‘You two, as well?’
They flashed identical badges then quickly returned them to inner pockets.
‘We need to talk,’ the first man said, straightening the sleeves of his suit jacket before picking up his case and looking down at his fingers. Gingerly, he stretched them out and examined his knuckles before gesturing at the balcony pub on their left.
Jon shrugged. ‘We’re police, you realise?’
‘I suspected.’
‘So, what’s this about?’
