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

by Catriona King

  Of course, her defence team would discredit Ershov without much difficulty, and say that the hit-team worked for him. But he’d been careful. They could show that he knew Stevan and Kaisa Mitic, but it would be difficult to tie him to directly commissioning the hits. And as no money from Horizon had entered his accounts yet, where was his motive? No, it would all stick to Joanne.

  Ershov wasn’t their problem now anyway. He’d struck a deal that meant they couldn’t prosecute him for the Northern Ireland killings. But Yemi and Rajiv Chandak were working hard to find Kaisa and Stevan, and nail them all for The Met’s two unsolved cases. Paris was next in the queue. Realistically, they would be lucky if they got Ershov and might have to leave it at that. If Kaisa and Stevan had any sense, they’d be far away by now. The last sighting had them boarding a plane for Cairo on the 13th.

  That’s what he would have done, although he wasn’t sure that they would be safe even there. Watson was still looking for Kaisa, even though they had advised him strongly against it. If he didn’t stop looking, Craig’s money was on Stevan finding him first.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the office door. He was grateful for the interruption. “Come in.” The door swung wide open and Liam was standing there, grinning broadly.

  “Here, boss. It’s 12 o’clock, legitimately lunchtime. And it’s too nice a day to be hugging a desk, so we were thinking lunch...Maybe up at Cutter’s Wharf? You could call it team-building, or some other management shite?”

  Craig laughed. He could see three faces like something from of the cast of ‘Oliver’ hiding behind Liam. Davy, Nicky and Annette were in on the escape. He looked at the pile of paperwork in front of him with absolutely no inclination to do it, and then through one of his long glass windows and out over the Lagan. The sun was shining, highlighting a buoy in Belfast Lough, bobbing gently up and down with the water. And a faint boat horn was sounding, the sound echoing plaintively in the cold winter air, heralding Christmas and holidays.

  He looked at the files again, calculating the shortest time it would take to write them up, and then struck a deal with himself. Leadership classes had their uses.

  “OK, here’s the deal, and the price. Liam, phone John and Des and invite them to meet us at Cutters at one. Annette, help me sort out these files. Nicky, you’re going to take dictation directly from me now, instead of me having to tape it. And you’re going to type up my letters by tomorrow lunchtime, please.”

  Nicky smiled at his uncharacteristic cheek. Craig looked at Davy realising that he’d run out of tasks, the smile on Davy’s face showing that he’d realised it too. He searched for a moment longer, and then shrugged, defeated. Liam had already loped back to his desk to make the call, smug that he’d got off so lightly, when Craig remembered something else.

  “Come back here, you’re not getting off that easily.” Liam slumped back, caught.

  “If you’re not taking paternity leave, you’re going to write up the liaison reports with Derek Cantor’s and Rick Ellis’ teams, and...” Liam opened his mouth wide to object. “Over lunch you’re going to tell us what really happened at Lilith’s. And remember, I’ve already got Keith Ericson’s version on tape...”

  ***

  Stevan walked quickly through arrivals and hailed a cab, collecting his unmarked car at Langley. He drove quickly around the M25 until he reached the M11, driving towards Ongar and deep into Epping Forest and then parked and switched off the engine, putting the seat-back down. He pulled his baseball cap over his eyes and snoozed, waiting. It wasn’t long before a dark-blue Mercedes pulled off the main road, crushing the leaves and branches in its way. It came to an abrupt halt and parked close-by, but not too close. Stevan stayed very still, mimicking sleep.

  The Mercedes’ driver made no move, idling the engine, as if considering the wisdom of his choice. Finally he cut the engine, clicking open the boot remotely, silently inviting Stevan to come and look. Stevan moved swiftly from his false sleep and crossed to the car without speaking, fingering the Ruger at his waist, ready. He lifted the boot and touched its contents carefully, examining every inch. Then he stepped-back, and motioned the car’s driver to emerge and come towards him.

  The man who stepped out was no more than twenty-five: lean and dark. His head was shaved to two days growth, and a single silver earring hung from one lobe. He wore a dark metal Dukh around his neck.

  He reached out a hand in greeting and Stevan saw the familiar eight-pointed star tattooed across his wrist. “Hello, Stevan.”

  The hand hung in the air for a moment, unshaken. Then he shrugged and lifted a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it, blowing the smoke skyward in the icy forest air.

  “Let’s get this over with, Josyp. The less time I spend with you the better.”

  Josyp smiled coldly and showed the whitest teeth that Stevan had ever seen. Alik had spared no expense on his young cousin’s welfare. Following the code: ‘Teach the criminal way of life to youth with potential.’

  “So polite, Stevan. As always. Good thing that I’m not sensitive.”

  Stevan pushed through his sarcasm, ignoring it. “Where is he?”

  “At the house.”

  “When did they let him go?”

  “Tuesday. He’s under house arrest. They’re watching him - two in the house and two in the grounds.” He paused and continued sarcastically. “No problem for you, surely?”

  Stevan looked at the younger man, disgusted; even he couldn’t kill a relative. But then, he’d never wanted power, and the man in front of him did, very much.

  “He has brought trouble to us...for a…woman.” Josyp spat out the word, in a way that made Stevan pity any future wife. “He breached Ponyatiya law trusting this Joanne. A true Vor cannot be brought down for a whore. He has to go.”

  There, he’d said it, the thing that they both wanted. Alik Ershov’s death. But for two entirely different reasons.

  Stevan jerked his head towards the boot. “SAKO.”

  “Your usual choice.”

  “Not this time, this time it must be face to face. He has to see me kill him.”

  “Don’t be insane. The police will catch you.”

  “I’m touched that you care, Josyp.”

  “I don’t give a shit about you, but I might need you when I’m Chief. You can’t go near the house. Anyway, I thought you liked distance. Alik always said you didn’t like it when they looked at you.”

  “I’ll make an exception for him.”

  Josyp stared at him in realisation. “That’s why you came so quickly when I called. You were already on your way, weren’t you?”

  Stevan nodded once, sharply. After a few seconds the other man nodded too, understanding. “He touched Kaisa, didn’t he?”

  Stevan spat the next words out. “When I was in Belfast. It’s why I missed Greer. Deliberately.” His fists clenched white. “He laid his hands on her against her will, and now he’ll die.”

  Bile filled his mouth as he remembered his sister’s raw tears at the racecourse, and every night since then. He’d never stopped Kaisa sleeping with men on a job, if she chose. Although he hated it, she’d always felt in control. And mostly they’d died as payment, except Joe Watson, and she was still angry with him for that. But Ershov had visited The Randle on the night that he’d left, and what he’d done there had revived her childhood memories and set her back years. For that alone he deserved to die.

  Josyp nodded in agreement. The rape of a woman after drinking with her wasn’t considered wrong by a Vor. But Kaisa was deeply troubled, and Alik could have any woman that he chose. Even Josyp agreed that she was out of bounds.

  “Get me into the house.”

  Josyp thought and nodded once, quickly, as Stevan continued. “Thanks for the gun, but I’ll do without it.”

  “I’ll open the back gate and keep the police at the front of the house for you. The only thing I ask is that you keep it away from the children.”

  Stevan looked at him, horr
ified at Josyp even thinking that he would let children see. He nodded at him curtly. “Agreed. Get him in the study at six and I’ll do the rest.”

  Both men walked quickly back to their cars, Josyp to leave for Ershov’s mansion, and Stevan to doze for an hour before the call came.

  At five-fifteen Stevan’s alarm buzzed and he pressed a button, sliding the window down to let a blast of icy air wake him up. Why hadn’t Josyp called yet? He pressed-on the radio and Radio Essex cut through the darkening December sky, bringing him up to date with traffic and weather in the area. It could prove useful when he headed for the airport. He yawned and lifted the armrest, pulling a sandwich from its interior and was just taking a bite when the car-phone rang.

  He seized the handset urgently. “Yes”

  The gruff voice that answered belonged to the heir apparent. “He’s going in at 5.55 to take a call from Moscow. It will be ten minutes long at least. The back gate is open.”

  The call ended abruptly and Stevan knew that it the last time he’d ever hear that voice, although Josyp had no idea. He threw the sandwich quickly onto the passenger seat and gunned the engine, spraying a trail of grass and ice in his wake. Pulling left onto the High Road he followed its curves and slopes into Burial Park; one mile from Alik Ershov’s expensive gated home. He drove the last mile slowly, lights dimmed, until he could make out the high, wide shape of the open back-gate into the grounds. Josyp had thoughtfully included a floor plan with the rifle, so he knew that the dimly-lit room beside the pool was the study that he’d been in only nine days before.

  He parked the car in a nearby copse, and moved quickly and silently across the grass and through the open gate, stopping every few seconds to look around for police or family. There was no one. Josyp had kept to his word. They were all at the front. It was in both their interests to dispatch Alik quickly and anonymously.

  He reached the window outside the room and checked his watch. 5.55. As predicted, the door opened and the room’s light brightened slightly, as he heard the heavy sounds of a man moving around inside. He gave Alik a moment to settle down and make the call.

  As soon as he heard the familiar voice speaking Russian, he lifted the already open window a sliver and eased himself in silently. Alik was seated in his large leather chair behind the desk, with his back towards him.

  Stevan hesitated for a moment, choosing between common sense and desire. Desire won. He grabbed quickly at the chair with one hand, swinging it around and cutting the call easily with his other, the look of shock in the Vor’s eyes was worth the riskier face-on kill.

  Before the older man could call out, he clamped both hands around his neck and squeezed. Squeezed the life out of him for Kaisa, the affectionate child who had hurt no one until they’d destroyed her. And for Irene Leighton, a helpless, innocent mother that he’d made them tattoo for the pathetic honour of the Vors. And then ordered them to kill, viciously and publically. Trying to stir up political unrest in a newly peaceful country, its war-torn-past too much like Stevan’s own, to ever want it revived.

  Stevan watched as Alik’s eyes widened frantically, and then reddened more by the second, filling with small, bloody dots as he wrung his hands tightly around his neck. He could feel the sinews in the Vor’s neck stretch and tighten, and the satisfying crack as his hyoid-bone broke. His search for air grew wilder, as he rasped and wheezed and finally quietened beneath his grip.

  All at once the writhing and retching stopped, and Ershov’s body fell back limply, against the expensive seat in his dark study. The only sound was the quiet ticking of the wall clock, beating in time with Stevan’s softly exhaled breath.

  Stevan looked down coldly at the man, feeling nothing but calm. Then he smiled once and slipped out of the room the same way that he came, disappearing quickly into the night. Back to Kaisa and out of the game forever.

  ***

  It was the Friday before Christmas and for the first time in five years Craig was really looking forward to the holiday. He swung his chair around to face the window, relaxing, and he gazed out at the Lagan, always reflecting the seasons in weather and activity.

  The afternoon light was dimming and a soft snowfall had covered the Harland and Wolff cranes like icing. It made them look festive, like two giant yellow Christmas trees. The last shards of winter-sun shone across the river, and he could just make out Stormont in the distance, reminding him sadly of Irene Leighton and her orphaned son. His eyes were pulled back to the river by the happier sound of a party-boat starting early, its seasonal lights twinkling to the sound The Pogue’s ‘Fairy-tale of New York’ and he smiled down at the giggling revellers dancing on the deck.

  They’d completed the files for the prosecutors and they’d had a few days’ rest; now he was getting bored. So bored that he’d just called Harrison’s office and asked to be put back on the rota. But not until after Christmas.

  After a moment more spent staring at the water he wandered out onto the main floor, searching for some banter. Just then his phone rang and he gestured Nicky to transfer the call, answering it quickly. It was London. He clicked on the speaker and Yemi’s deep, clear voice rang across the room.

  “Hi Yemi, you’re on speaker. Fire ahead.”

  “I thought you would all like to know, Alik Ershov is dead.”

  Craig looked at Liam, shocked. “What! How did it happen?”

  “Like something out of the S.A.S. handbook, that’s how. They came in through an open back-window last night and strangled him, while our people were at the front. Clean get-away.”

  “Who wanted him dead?”

  “Hundreds. It would be quicker to ask who didn’t. Look, I have to go to a meeting, but I just thought you’d like to know. Keep in touch, Marc. And Merry Christmas everyone.”

  The line cleared and Liam’s next words earned him another human rights course. “Excellent job! Saved the courts a fortune.”

  THE END

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