The Grass Tattoo (#2 - The Craig Modern Thriller Series)

by Catriona King

  “Do we tell him anything about Bob Leighton, boss?”

  “Or the prints and D.N.A., sir?”

  Craig shook his head, firmly. “Nothing. Tell him as little as possible. Just ask him about his connection with Irene Leighton until I see him.”

  He turned to Davy. “Brilliant work, Davy. Now, as Liam is going to be busy with Watson, could you dig a little further with terrorism on the ‘tag-team’ please? And look into Bob Leighton’s life; habits, past, finances, everything. We’ll meet back here at three.”

  He turned to see Nicky tapping a pile of paper with her pen and sighed heavily. “Because I’m going to be locked in my office until then, signing forms.”

  Liam guffawed. “Who said rank doesn’t have any privileges?”

  ***

  Kaisa woke up late and looked around, uncertain of where she was. Then she remembered. She was at The Randle. By the time they’d arrived last night, it had been midnight, and she’d fallen into bed un-showered, make-up still on. Her skin really needed a holiday.

  She pulled herself upright and took in her surroundings slowly. Alik had done them proud. The door of her bedroom was open, and she could see the sitting-room with its glass walls and expensive rugs from where she lay. Stevan’s familiar voice was speaking very quietly so as not to waken her; he must have been up for hours. Just then, he entered from the adjoining room and she called-out to him, dramatically.

  “Coffee – urgently.”

  She flopped back down, laughing as she realised that she was still wearing her t-shirt and jeans from the day before. She didn’t care, there were no men to seduce her or hog her duvet and she wrapped it around her, curling-up so that only her head was exposed. At least she’d remembered to take her hat off.

  Stevan reappeared, holding a large mug of steaming coffee just as she liked it. He put it into the small hand popping out from under the duvet, and sat down at the end of the bed, still talking on his mobile. Eventually he said goodbye, in Russian, and clicked his phone shut. Alik. He only spoke Russian to Alik.

  “Good morning, dozy. Sleep well?”

  “Like the dead.” She laughed at her own cruel wit. “Oops sorry - bad taste”

  He looked at her, shaking his head. Sometimes her complete lack of conscience scared even him. Ever since that day years before, he’d watched her, as she scanned other people’s faces, learning their expressions of sadness, or kindness, or concern. She could mimic emotions perfectly now, but she couldn’t feel them.

  She felt some kindness for women and children. Always kind to the chambermaids, and beggars in the street. And unfailingly good to children. He’d seen her look at mothers and babies with tears welling up. But for men under seventy she felt nothing, worse than nothing. Hatred, and a complete lack of remorse.

  More than that. She enjoyed using them, hurting them and killing them, even when they were kind to her. And of course, God had fashioned her into the perfect murder weapon. Wherever Kaisa walked, men looked and then followed. Then they died.

  He shook himself from the sad thoughts of their past. He’d loved them all so much and yet he couldn’t protect any of them.

  “Kaisa - get up. Alik wants a de-brief, and you look like a dirty fairy. I have calls to make, so meet me downstairs in thirty minutes for some lunch.”

  “Lunch? But it’s only...Oh, it’s 12.30...shit. OK.” She sank back down on the bed, as if going to sleep again.

  “Move.”

  “OK, bossy...this is me, moving.”

  She stretched out both arms towards him and they laughed as they had as children, at her lazy-girl signal to pull her out of bed. He obligingly pulled her to the bathroom door, shutting it behind her. Then he walked out, heading for the lobby, yelling ‘thirty minutes’ over his shoulder.

  Kaisa was already washing off the dirt, and erasing all memory of Bob Leighton and Joe Watson. Who were they again? She washed her hair three times to get rid of the dark-blonde rinse, and then wrapped herself in the heavy white-towelling robe hanging behind the door. She grabbed her bag, ready to repair her face. Oh, God. I need the beauty salon quickly. She pictured herself emerging two hours later a completely new woman and quickly picked up the phone, organising the appointment for the next day. Makeup would have to be enough today.

  By the time she reached the lobby, she was transformed. Her hair fell in a glossy white-blonde bell just reaching the nape of her tanned neck. A white t-shirt and butter-soft leather jacket combined with a pair of tight jeans and stilettos, to complete her transformation from scruffy hooker to chic London girl. Stevan was talking impatiently in Ukrainian on the mobile and he ended the call abruptly as she sat down.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing to worry you, Draga. I may have some unfinished business. Alik asked Josyp to call me and you know I hate talking to that arrogant shit. He acts like he’s in line for the throne. I’ll sort it out with Alik when we meet. Speaking of which, he wants to see me at two, so I need to get a move on, and you need to eat something. You’re even skinnier than usual.”

  ***

  Joe Watson walked back from his 11.30 meeting, still undecided about what to do. What proof did he really have that the S.F.F. was dirty, except his gut instinct? Horizon had cleared the approval stage without a blip, and that meant three subcommittees had checked it out. He’d sat on subcommittees in the past and they were rigorous, so if it really was crooked, how had they managed to hide it?

  He walked into his office and threw a file at the wall in frustration. Bollocks. He’d had plenty of bad days in banking and not a few as a politician, but this had to rank as the crappiest to date.

  He kicked the door shut with his heel and had just clamped his mobile to his ear, trying Ausra’s number again, when his door re-opened, abruptly. Michael Irwin stood there, looking alarmed. Watson hit ‘end call’ and readied himself to shout about the interruption, when he saw the reason for his advisor’s alarm.

  Looming in the doorway behind him was one of the tallest, palest men that he had ever seen. When he opened his mouth, a voice of matching volume and size boomed out. “Good afternoon, Minister.”

  Before either man had time to speak, Liam and Annette had whipped out their badges. And Michael Irwin, who had a healthy wariness for the police, had already slipped out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

  He positioned himself outside, at a safe distance. But not so far that he didn’t overhear the name ‘Irene Leighton’ and see Joe Watson leaving five minutes later in an unmarked car, helping the police with their enquiries.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Oh, you’ve decided to talk to me now? To what do I owe this honour, you spineless bastard?”

  “I don’t care what you call me, Joanne. You’re in deep trouble, and there’s no way out but for you to confess.”

  “Really?”

  Declan couldn’t believe it; she was being smug, even now.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You have no what?” Then he realised. She thought that he was taping her, and there was no way that she would fall for that one.

  “You think I’m recording this? Do you think I’m bloody double-o-seven? Get a grip, Joanne. I’m not trying to catch you, you’re already caught. All I’m doing is warning you that I’m going to the police.” He paused, waiting for a reply, but none came. “Why did you tell Dad that Bob Leighton was dead? There’s been nothing on the news, except that he’s left the country.”

  Her tone was quiet, giving nothing away. “I heard that he was dead.”

  “If he is dead you could only know because you killed him! Did you kill Irene too? I wouldn’t put anything past you nowadays.”

  There was a long silence which each thought the other would fill, then she started sobbing, none of her drama classes going to waste.

  “All I know is that you’ve left me and your children, Declan. What possible interest could the police have in me?” Her voice dropped to absolute
zero. “All our business contracts were signed by you, so I won’t get a penny.”

  “What?”

  He realised instantly that he’d been set up. He’d left the running of the business to her over the past few years and he’d just signed anything she put in front of him. He must have signed things on Horizon. She’d set a trap and he’d walked straight into it! How long had she been planning this?

  But he wasn’t backing down now. “Catch yourself on woman. Do you really think anyone will believe that? That you allowed me to control everything, a business woman like you!”

  Her voice became tearful again for any potential audience. She was playing it just like a woman scorned.

  “Who do you think people will believe, Declan? The hardworking abandoned mother of two, or her unfaithful, compulsive gambler of a husband? What are your chances there do you think? Especially when they see those photographs.”

  Before he could answer her the line went dead, and he was left staring at his mobile. No closer to calling the police, but even more certain that his loving wife had murdered at least one person, and probably two.

  ***

  “Draga - Alik doesn’t need you. You stay here and relax.”

  Stevan reached into the top pocket of his perfectly tailored jacket, and pulled out a discrete black credit card and a silver bill holder, peeling off a wad of notes.

  “Enjoy yourself this afternoon. Buy something to wear and then meet me here at five. We’ll go to dinner, or the theatre. You choose. Anything you like.”

  He kissed Kaisa quickly on both cheeks and walked out of the hotel dining-room, through the white-carpeted foyer and into the waiting dark limousine. He rested his head back against the long leather seat and closed his eyes tiredly. The driver lowered the glass partition and spoke to him, respectfully.

  “Mr Armstrong, your uncle requests that we travel to Essex today, so it may be a long journey. Would you like a DVD, or something to drink perhaps?”

  Stevan roused himself long enough to acknowledge the query, declining both, then he sank back, grateful for a longer silence than he’d expected.

  He liked silence. There was far too much noise in the world, and too many screams inside his head. His thoughts flitted briefly to Teresa. She would be looking for him now, turning excitedly every time the bar door opened and disappointed every time it closed. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but she had just been a character in the play. He tried never to hurt people, unless it was his job, and now he even had limits there.

  ***

  “That’s all I can tell you, pet. Your father has left us. All I know is that he just rang me and announced that he wasn’t coming home. That our twenty year marriage...”

  Joanne Greer sobbed a little for effect, rubbing at her already puffy eyes. It had taken her an hour of exfoliation to mimic the rawness of crying. That, plus a few well-placed artificial tears purchased from the chemists, in anticipation of just such an occasion. They completed the abandoned wife look perfectly she thought. And from the concerned expressions of her teenage daughters, they seemed to agree.

  Carina spoke first, her dark fourteen-year-old gangliness not yet reaching the raven sexuality of her older sister. Declan had said that she was like a beautiful colt and even Joanne had to smile at the analogy.

  “But Mummy, Daddy wouldn’t leave us, he just wouldn’t. He loves all of us. He said he’d take me riding next week. He can’t have left us, he just can’t.” Her breaking voice and bewildered expression almost made Joanne cry for real, but not quite.

  Isabella was cooler, her voice more even. “I’m going to phone him, and ask what he thinks he’s playing at!”

  Joanne rushed to object, and then thought better of it. “Well darling...if you must, but he might say hurtful things, and I couldn’t bear for you to hear that.” She was thinking quickly now. “I think…if we give Daddy space for a few days…then he might come back. I’d hate angry words to stop that.”

  Joanne could see doubt, and hope, and pain all rushing across Isabella’s young face, as she backed down, hesitating. “Do you think so Mum? Do you really think he could come back, if...if we give him some space? I read that in Cosmo, that men need space.”

  “I’m sure that’s all it is, Daddy needs space. Let’s give him some quiet time and he’ll come back to us. I’m sure of it.”

  Carina rushed to give her suddenly-needy mother a hug. They’d never seen her cry; she was always so self-contained. But now she really needed them both, and they would look after her, they really would. Joanne smiled to herself; men really didn’t stand a chance.

  ***

  The limousine pulled down the narrow leaf-strewn lane, shadowed on either side by elderly trees so bent that they were nearly entwined. The winter sunshine dappled the tinted windows as Stevan looked though them, into the pollarded black-green of Epping Forest. It was such pretty countryside, but cold, always cold. He longed for the summer heat of his childhood home, and days spent wriggling his toes in the stream, watching the bright whitefish swimming.

  The driver pulled into an apparently invisible gateway that opened smoothly to the clicked remote. He drove swiftly onwards through two high, dark gates into the driveway of an imposing house. It looked as if it had been there forever, with its 16th Century wattle walls marked with crooked dark beams, and a long roof that sloped precipitously towards the ground.

  Stevan had never been there before and he admitted to some curiosity. The driver said that it was Alik’s daughter’s birthday and they had a huge party planned for this evening. The reason he couldn’t make it into town. As they pulled-up in front of the wide, low mansion, Alik Ershov came out to greet them. He pulled open the car door and welcomed Stevan warmly as he emerged.

  He was a small man, slim and muscular, with the lightly tanned handsomeness that some men retain into their sixties. His grey hair and sharp blue eyes gave him an Aryan quality that belied his Jewish heritage. It had saved his father’s life many times. The Dukh around his neck added to the illusion of Christianity, but it was only there as a symbol of his real religion, the Vory v Zakone.

  Stevan noticed the bright pink sixteenth-birthday balloons pinned to the front door. Alik had many children by many different women and he loved them all, if not their mothers. He always retained custody. His control was absolute and nothing was too good for his children, natural and adopted, so long as they obeyed him.

  He reached a strong hand up around the back of Stevan’s neck, pulling him down forcefully to be kissed on both cheeks. “Welcome, welcome, come inside. But where is my lovely Kaisa?” He looked quickly behind him.

  Stevan lied. “She was so tired. I let her sleep.” He wasn’t having Kaisa become wife number four; he would kill Alik at her first tears.

  “No matter. Come, have a drink, tell me everything. Then I will tell you.”

  They walked through the large white main hall, full of toys and ‘sweet sixteen’ banners, then down a narrow corridor and into a quiet back study, opened by a secure key pad. Alik’s office was not for prying eyes. The room was a warm dark-red with heavy leather couches, and chairs set around a large mahogany desk. Everything was dark and secretive, like the business inside.

  Alik spoke English with the heavy Russian accent of his parents. He’d spotted Perestroika for the business opportunity that it was, and made his fortune providing whatever people wanted; women, drugs, booze. And of course, the very special services of Stevan and Kaisa. He poured two glasses of vodka and set them on the desk, then sat down behind it, relaxing. Stevan knew better than to refuse to toast.

  “You have done well Stevan, very well. The police are chasing their tails just as we’d hoped, and soon the confusion will grow even more.” Stevan shot him a questioning look but Alik ignored it, continuing. “The client is very pleased.”

  Stevan could hear the ‘but’ coming. “But ...?”

  Alik laughed. “Quick as usual, boy. Yes, there is a ‘but’. You are not finished yet, you go b
ack tonight.”

  “But we removed the problem and blackmailed the other. Was that not the plan?”

  “Of course, of course. The M.P. caused trouble financially and the other was blocking progress on a project. But my friend is also interested in running trade to the North of Ireland; girls and drugs mainly. And now that they have no conflict it is too peaceful over there. The police have too much time to catch criminals; it is bad for business. They needed some false political unrest created. That is why I chose Stormont and the M.P’s wife to kill. Turn one side against the other and create fear. Make them believe that there is still much terrorism, when there is very little. It provides cover, a distraction. You understand.”

  He laughed sarcastically and Stevan nodded. Terrorism provided a smokescreen for ordinary crime; he knew that well enough from his past. He also knew that his next question would be greeted with anger, but he asked it anyway, in a cold voice.

  “Is that why we had to mark the wife and mother? To create fear?”

  Alik’s blue eyes narrowed sharply and he leaned forward, growling. “That is not for you to ask, boy. Be careful.” He looked at Stevan angrily and then smiled coldly, resting back in his leather chair. “But…I will answer your question because it pleases me to.” He drank the shot of vodka in one swallow and poured himself another one before starting.

  “The Vory v Zakone is my religion and my father’s before me. It will not be dishonoured, especially not by a Petukhi, an insect. Robert Leighton was such an insect, a man who took money for doing nothing and then stole more of mine to feed his habit. He was warned many times, yet still he continued. But he might still have been useful, so we needed to make him afraid. The death of his wife was for that.”

  He shrugged. “The location and markings were to make people believe that terrorism might be the cause. That the Vor worked with local terrorists to kill her. Also my little indulgence if you like, to mark her as my territory. This I can do. You understand?”