by Chris Simms
The line cut to a beeping noise before a woman with a foreign accent came on. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi,’ Alice said, trying to place where she was from. Russia, maybe? ‘I’m phoning from a charity called Refugees Are People, over in Manchester. We work with the mental health unit at Sale General. I’m trying to trace the records of a foreign national currently on the unit. The person was transferred from the Royal Liverpool.’
‘What is the person’s name or NHS number, please?’
‘We don’t have that information. The case file is missing.’
‘You have no name?’
‘Just J. Smith.’
‘When was Mr Smith transferred from—’
‘It’s a fictional name. John Smith? For people whose identity is unknown.’
‘I’m sorry. I do not understand.’
‘I assume the staff at the MHU at Sale General gave the patient that name until his actual records show up. He was transferred from your hospital about six days ago.’
‘I will have to search. There are many admissions here.’
‘I realise. Could I leave you my name and number, please?’
‘Certainly.’
‘It’s Alice Spicer. You can reach me at this office or, better still, on my mobile.’ She dictated both numbers to the woman at the other end of the line. Please don’t just put this request to the bottom of the pile, she thought, worrying how long it would be before a decision was made to shunt the poor soul off to Yarl’s Wood detention centre. Knowing the pressure for beds, it would be sooner rather than later. ‘Could I have your name, please? In case I need to ring back.’
‘Yes. It is Yulia.’
‘Julia?’
‘No, Yulia. It is Russian. And my second name is Volkova. Shall I spell it?’
Twenty
Jon looked along the street. It ran past a massive square warehouse that had been turned into an apartment hotel, then continued towards Ancoats. The end of the building further on was covered by a black poster with white lettering. H.A. Howard & Sons. Day & Evening Wear. The poster was mottled with age, corners peeling back. He wondered how long ago the company went out of business. From the direction the Metro was facing, it had come from Ancoats. ‘The vehicle’s registered owner lives in Blackley. I wonder if our man’s been based around there,’ Jon mused.
‘He could have driven it from further afield,’ Rick replied. Jon surveyed the Avis office’s small forecourt. It was crowded with glossy Audis, BMWs, Range Rovers and a couple of Porsches. The battered old Metro looked completely out of place. ‘Awfully posh cars,’ he stated.
‘Our prestige models,’ the young staff member said. ‘Budget ones are located at our sister site, five minutes away.’
‘So,’ he glanced at the name tag on her tunic. ‘It was here when you turned up for work this morning, Maria?’
‘Yes. At half past seven,’ she replied, bands of sunlight catching in her long mane of black hair.
Jon glanced at the bodywork of a nearby Porsche and saw the same shimmer there.
‘It’s completely blocking this entrance,’ she continued. ‘We can’t get any cars on this side of the forecourt out. Stolen, is it?’
‘Yes,’ Jon replied, stepping round the vehicle to examine the crumpled rear panel. ‘It’s our man’s.’
Rick was peering through the side window. ‘Doors are unlocked.’
Jon bent forward to survey the litter strewn across the back seat. Crisp packets, chocolate wrappers, empty bottles of milk-shake. ‘He’s got a sweet tooth.’
‘And a big appetite, assuming it’s all his,’ Rick murmured.
‘If it is,’ Jon said, eyes on the neck of an empty bottle. ‘We could have DNA to add to his fingerprints.’ He straightened up and turned to the office. ‘Please tell me those things actually work.’
The lady looked at the two cameras mounted on the front corners of the low building. Both were trained on the forecourt.
‘With these cars parked here overnight? Absolutely.’
Jon sent a silent thank you to the blue sky above. ‘We’ll need last night’s tapes, in that case. I’ll give you a receipt. Rick? Can you call in a crime-scene unit?’
‘When will the car be moved?’ Maria asked.
Jon snapped on a pair of latex gloves. ‘Right now, if you want.’ He opened the driver’s door, released the handbrake and, with one hand on the wheel and the other on the window frame, rolled it clear of the entrance.
Rick drew the video room’s curtains against the glare of the sun.
‘It’s always so hot in here,’ he complained, resting a hand on the radiator. ‘No wonder. This bloody thing’s on full.’ He checked each end for any way of turning it off. Nothing. ‘Maintenance. What a waste of space they are.’
Jon pulled his chair closer to the screen. ‘Open a window then.’
‘I would if the things in here weren’t all locked.’ He loosened his tie and sat in the next seat.
‘I thought you liked the heat,' Jon added. Rick shot him a questioning look.
‘You’re always going on sunbeds.’
‘Ha bloody ha. This tan’s from surfing, mate. One hundred per cent natural.’
‘My arse.’ Jon sat back, remote in his hand. ‘All set?’
‘All set.’
He pressed play, guessing the succession of still images were separated by intervals of about two seconds. Repeatedly pressing fast-forward, he brought the speed up to times thirty-two. The time record in the upper right-hand corner moved swiftly forward. Crowds of early-evening commuters filled the screen, freezing for an instant before blurring out of sight. ‘Like watching an episode of Ben Ten,’ Jon whispered.
‘What?’
‘Ben Ten. It’s this kids’ programme Holly loves. The boy in it can change into one of ten monster things. One has super-speed. You know, there one second, gone the next. She loves it.’
‘When have you got her again?’
Jon thought about the previous night’s confrontation. ‘I’m not sure. Weekend after next, hopefully.’
‘I can’t wait for Saturday. We’ve decided on taking Zak to Scarborough. Apparently you get some nice surf there.’
Jon snorted. ‘And who’ll be looking after the little fella while you and Andy are out catching waves?’
‘We’ll take it in turns.’
‘You’ll be marching up and down the beach, trying to balance him on a manky old donkey he’ll insist on riding.’
‘He’s too young for that.’
‘That and trying to wipe melted ice cream off him. Sand will get stuck to him and he’ll start to itch. Surfing. You’ll be lucky.’
‘You’re a miserable sod, aren’t you? It’s worked fine down in Cornwall.’
Jon shrugged, eyes fixed on the screen. Late evening came on, the numbers of people appearing in the images suddenly picking up as eleven o’clock approached. ‘Last trains home. People heading into the station.’
The street grew quiet once again, the headlights of passing taxis making the screen temporarily flare. Midnight passed by and Jon pressed the remote, bringing the speed down to times sixteen.
‘Sometime in the next seven hours.’ A fox appeared at the edge of the picture and vanished. ‘I saw him the other night.’
‘Who?’
‘The fox.’
‘Where?’
‘Out the window at Carmel’s. He was following his owner.’
‘It had an owner?’
‘Yeah. He was scoping cars for anything to nick.’
‘The fox?’
‘No, the . . . forget it.’
‘You’re losing it, mate.’
A dark blur suddenly obscured the view of the forecourt.
‘What the . . .?’ Jon hit pause. ‘A moth.’ He speeded up again and the insect disappeared.
At twelve minutes past five, headlights began to approach. The footage skipped forward and suddenly a vehicle was parked across the forecourt’s entrance.
/> ‘Back!’ Rick snapped.
‘I know, I know,’ Jon replied, pressing the rewind button. He let the succession of images jump back, and when the glow from the car’s headlights began to fur the edge of the screen, he pressed play. The car itself appeared. The next still showed it parked across the entrance.
Jon felt himself hunching forward, finger ready on pause.
The car door half open, the top of a man’s head visible in the gap. Next image, he was standing by the side of the car, wearing jeans and a dark turtle neck top, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
‘It’s him,’ Jon stated, studying the man. His shoulders were rounded with muscle, but there was a slight scrawniness about his neck, as if he’d just recovered from a bout of illness. The next image showed him removing a sports bag from the rear seat. Then he was mid-stride across the forecourt. Jon spoke from the corner of his mouth, not wanting to look away from the screen. ‘What do you reckon – five foot nine or ten?’
‘Five ten easily.’
‘And what? Twelve, twelve and a half stone?’
‘About that, yes.’
So, Jon thought. You’re the fabled killing machine. He reflected on his own size and strength. I’m at least six inches taller and about three stone of muscle heavier. If you were up against me on a rugby pitch, you would definitely come off worse.
But the following image caught Yashin looking directly up at the camera. The menace seemed to surge off his face like a wave of heat and Jon felt his tongue go loose in his mouth. He had the urge to look away, instinct telling him not to catch the man’s eye too long. There was a poise about him. It reminded Jon of the fluid way dancers or gymnasts moved. Speed and flexibility. No, Jon thought. I’m not sure I’d like to meet you on a rugby pitch, after all. He felt a tapping on his upper arm and turned to Rick. ‘Mmm?’
‘You were miles away. I was saying, he really should see someone about his anger issues. He’s got a face like thunder.’
‘Anger?’ Jon tried to smile. ‘Rage, more like. Early coronary for him, at the rate he’s going.’
‘Cutting across the forecourt like that, he’s heading for the station. Probably through the side entrance where all the smokers congregate.’
‘You’re right. Know what? I feel we’ve been here before.’ Rick nodded. ‘Butcher of Belle Vue. That case must be four or five years ago, now.’
‘And at that time of the morning, we know there’s pretty much only two places you can catch a train to.’
‘The Intercity to London or the Express to Manchester Airport. Think he’s left the country?’
Jon hesitated. Normally, the thought of a suspect making it out of Manchester left him wanting to stamp his feet with frustration. But this man . . . maybe it was better if he had crawled back to where he came from. ‘Possibly,’ he said cautiously. ‘We’d better check the CCTV from Piccadilly station.’
Twenty-One
The CCTV suite inside Piccadilly station smelled of old coffee. The light on the percolator glowed red in the dim surroundings and Jon wondered when the pot had actually been brewed.
‘Mind if I grab a coffee?’
‘Go for it,’ the man sitting before the bank of screens replied. ‘Not sure how long it’s been sat there for, though. I only drink tea.’
Jon stepped over to the machine, filled a waxed-paper cup and took a sip. A sharp, bitter taste filled his mouth. Probably yesterday, he thought. ‘Rick, want one?’
His partner eyed him suspiciously. ‘What’s it like?’
‘Not bad.’ He couldn’t keep his mouth straight.
‘Yeah, right.’ Sarcasm filled Rick’s voice.
The security officer glanced at Jon. ‘Rank, is it?’
‘Like the scrapings off a badger’s arse.’
The man grinned as he turned back to the screens. ‘What time are we looking at, again?’
‘If you start at ten past five. He probably entered the station by the side doors near the Virgin Trains desk.’
‘No problem.’ The man pressed a couple of buttons and scrutinised the console’s centre screen. ‘Camera fourteen covers that entrance. Here we are. Not much footfall at that time of the morning.’ He punched the time in and the recording started at exactly ten past five.
‘Impressive,’ Rick stated, taking the spare chair. ‘Is it digital?’ The man’s fingers were on a little joystick. ‘Yeah. Top notch, it is.’
At fourteen minutes past, they spotted a figure approaching. The outer doors parted and the man calling himself Yashin appeared, one elbow raised, arm bent back on itself, the sports bag slung over his shoulder.
‘That’s him.’ Jon took another sip and waited for the roof of his mouth to shrivel.
The man froze the picture and zoomed in on Yashin’s face.
‘Jesus, what does he do for a living? Steal wheelchairs off disabled grannies?’
Rick smiled. ‘Nasty-looking bastard, isn’t he?’
The officer leaned forward. The Russian’s mouth was slightly open, exposing the jagged line of lower teeth. ‘Ugly as. You want his face on a printout or emailing anywhere?’
‘Both, if that’s all right.’ Rick placed a business card next to the man’s keyboard. ‘That address, please.’
The officer saved the image to a file in the tool bar at the side of the screen. ‘Continue?’
‘Yes.’ Rick sat back.
Feeling light-headed with caffeine, Jon placed a hand on the backrest of Rick’s chair. He glanced at the oily surface of the coffee. One more sip, he told himself.
The footage on the screen resumed and Yashin moved out of the camera’s field. The security officer switched to a different camera, this one mounted much higher. ‘There he is. Screen left.’
Yashin made straight for the third set of sliding doors leading to the platforms themselves. ‘Looks like he’s made this journey before,’ Jon said.
The security officer switched views again. Now they were looking directly down on the doors. Yashin strode into view.
‘He’s getting thin on top,’ Rick murmured.
‘Platform seven,’ the security officer announced. ‘The five twenty to London.’ He switched to a camera positioned far down the platform which looked back to the terminal. Yashin made his way past the first-class carriages and boarded the train about two-thirds of the way along.
‘Had his tickets already,’ Rick said, looking back at Jon. ‘We could try and see if he paid by card.’
Jon swilled the remains of the coffee round. ‘Forget it. He’ll be using cash – it leaves no trail.’
‘Good point.’ Rick looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Wonder what time that train gets to London.’
‘It’s less than two and a half hours, these days. Eight, or just before,’ the security officer stated.
‘Does Euston have a similar system to this?’ Jon nodded at the bank of screens and the dozens of people captured on them.
‘Not this good – but they’ll be able to pick him up again.’
‘Great, cheers.’ Jon took the final sip, grimacing like it was a shot of neat whisky. ‘That’s me bouncing off the walls.’
‘I can’t believe you just drank that.’ Rick shook his head, turning back to the screens. ‘He’s off our patch.’
Jon looked back at the main console, realising he could now feel the blood pumping through his ears. The Virgin train was pulling out, carriage after carriage gliding from view. There you go again, he thought. Always one step ahead of us.
‘Where do you think he’s heading for in London?’ Rick asked.
‘Who else is involved in this thing that lives down there?’
‘The shipping owner.’
Jon nodded. ‘The shipping owner. Someone’s been giving our man funds to operate with, too. Train tickets that time of the morning can’t be cheap.’
‘We’d better get this to Buchanon then.’
Knowing the information would be passed straight on, Jon didn’t move. Furnishing that sma
rmy MI5 officer with information, he thought. How bloody infuriating.
‘We are passing this on, aren’t we, Jon?’
A rapid series of beeps. Jon pulled his mobile from his pocket.
‘DI Spicer.’
‘It’s Catherine. From the incident room at Grey Mare Lane.’ Jon racked his brain. One of the civilian support workers. ‘Hi, Catherine.’
‘Hi. You asked me to look into the payphone records for the two buildings where those murder victims were housed.’
‘Yes. What’ve you found?’
‘There was a call from Hedley Court in Oldham to the London number you flagged up.’
‘Myko Enterprises?’
‘That’s right. It was called on Saturday the twenty-first at nine forty-three in the evening. Duration of the call was five minutes forty-two seconds.’
Jon felt himself beaming. We are closing in on this bastard.
‘Good work. We’ll be back in soon.’ He cut the call and raised a thumb triumphantly at Rick. ‘Victim two, the one found in Oldham. Tsarev. He also phoned the shipping owner’s office.’ He looked at the empty platform on the screen and pictured the Virgin train pulling into London. ‘What I’d give to speak with that Mykosowski again.’
The records of Myko Enterprises’ ships were spread across Rick’s desk. ‘Nothing from St Petersburg in the last month.’
‘And even if there had been,’ Jon responded, ‘it wouldn’t be approaching the west coast of Britain from a northerly direction.’
‘Why?’
He pointed to the world atlas he’d borrowed from Buchanon’s office. ‘Look. Coming from St Petersburg, you go through the straits of Finland, Sweden, Denmark and Norway. But then why go north, round the tip of Scotland and down past Ireland? The distance is greater and you’ve got sub-arctic weather conditions up there. It’s why the Jocks are such a miserable bunch.’ He gave Rick a quick grin. ‘Far quicker to go south towards the English Channel.’
‘So, it’s unlikely the murder victims were on a ship travelling from St Petersburg.’
‘Which other ships of his were in the area when the fishing boat was found?’
Rick consulted his pieces of paper. ‘Of the ones I’ve got here, three. The Baden Star, en route to Bergen, Norway. The King Olav III, heading south to Barcelona.’ He pondered the last printout then put it aside. ‘This one is, I think, out of the time frame. It was heading to Felixstowe then on to the States. But it docked at Felixstowe six days before the Russians were even found.’
