by WOOD TOM
Only one had a freestanding mirror positioned on the window sill.
The warehouse used by Norimov’s men as a safe house was located in an industrial park in East London. It was a dirty building with decades of grime and pollution staining the brickwork. It contained over sixteen thousand square feet of space that had once been used to store plumbing and heating equipment and goods. According to Dmitri, it had been empty for some years. He didn’t know if Norimov owned it or rented it, or if they were there illegally. A huge corrugated steel gate stood on the south façade, high and wide enough for lorries to back into. Next to the gate were two storeys of offices that protruded from the otherwise square warehouse.
The second of Norimov’s men introduced himself as Yigor. He wore synthetic sports trousers and a worn sweatshirt. His shoes were big white trainers that glowed in the light. He was a weightlifter, like Dmitri, like all of Norimov’s men. But he was the biggest of them. His arms were as thick as Victor’s thighs. His hair was long and greasy and his face was pinched and fat. Eyes the colour of the Baltic Sea stared out from hooded, half-closed lids. He smelled as bad as he looked, but was always smiling. It was a happy but half-crazed grin that showed an upside down mountain range of uneven teeth.
‘You the bad man, yes?’ he said in broken English, his South St Petersburg accent thick and coarse.
Victor said, ‘That’s me.’
They shook hands. Yigor’s hands were massively broad, making his fingers seem short and stubby. They were rough and calloused from years of lifting heavy weights.
‘I heard all about you,’ Yigor said. ‘Dmitri and Sergei say you baddest mother.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’
Yigor’s grin widened. ‘I like you. I can tell you are the bad man. Like me. Bad men together, yes?’
‘We’ll be best of friends in no time.’
The warehouse’s office annex had its own entrance – a glass door set perpendicular to the steel gate. A reception area stood on the other side with a long fixed counter topped with glass. The carpet had once been blue but was now stained with dirt and oil. The polystyrene ceiling tiles were stained yellow with nicotine from the days when smoking was allowed in the workplace. Downstairs, the interior office walls were wallpaper-covered aluminium, fronted by plate glass and glass doors. Some had strip blinds lowered. Most offices were kitted out with desks and chairs and filing cabinets – all cheap furnishings that had been well used in their time. There were a number of old computers, printers and other obsolete and worthless pieces of electronic equipment, and a telephone landline in every room, discoloured from age and use. The ground-floor offices had been left untouched, but Dmitri and Yigor had occupied the first floor. The offices there were similar to those below, except much larger and therefore less numerous. There was also a boardroom and kitchen. Norimov’s men had claimed an office each to serve as a bedroom, complete with folding cot, sleeping bag and other small luxuries. What had once been a boardroom now served as a communal area for Dmitri and Yigor. One half of the large oval table was covered in soiled pizza boxes, greasy takeaway containers, empty cigarette packs and crushed cans and warped bottles of soft drinks.
‘You can have that one,’ Yigor said, pointing to an empty room. ‘No need to pay for hotel. Save your money. I will get you a bed. Norimov pays for everything. Then you have more of the cash to spend on the women. This town is full of it. Buy them fancy cocktail that tastes of kids’ sweets; they like you lots. Good deal, yes? Norimov pay you plenty of the money, yes?’
Victor shook his head. ‘There is no payment. This is not a job.’
Yigor pulled a face. ‘Then you crazy. This war is going to be danger everywhere. Norimov’s enemies going to kill everyone he knows. They kill you too, if they can. You should ask for lots of money. So, you want a bed?’
Victor said, ‘I’ll pass.’
‘Suit self. Waste all your money on that hotel.’
Two hotels, Victor thought.
They kept their outside jackets on inside the warehouse because there was no heating. There was electricity so there were at least lights. Most of the bulbs and fluorescent tubes were missing or burnt out, however, leaving many offices unlit and large areas of the warehouse floor in darkness. One corner had a collection of crates, pallets and chains that served as makeshift weights for the two Russians to work out with.
Yigor said, ‘What do we do first, Mr Bad Man?’
‘Take me to where she works.’
SIXTEEN
Norimov hadn’t spoken to his daughter in years, but he kept track of her life as much as he was able. She went by her mother’s maiden name: Maynard. Gisele was twenty-two years old and had studied law in London and was a couple of months into her year-long pupillage at a law firm prior to qualifying as a barrister. The firm was located in the heart of the city’s financial district. Dmitri drove. Victor opted to sit in the back seat because he didn’t want to be surrounded by giants. The drive was short and Yigor told jokes for the entire journey. He was the only one who laughed at them.
‘I’ve already tried here,’ Dmitri said as he found a spot to pull into.
‘That’s good,’ Victor replied. ‘When?’
Dmitri shrugged as he applied the handbrake. ‘Soon as I arrived in London.’
‘A lot can change in a week. Wait for me.’
‘Sure.’ He relaxed in the seat and set the back of his head into the rest. ‘I sleep.’
‘Don’t get a ticket.’
Dmitri didn’t respond. Victor climbed out of the relative quiet of the car interior into the noise of London: traffic and people creating the urgent breaths of the city around him. He didn’t like London but he didn’t dislike it either. Its ancient identity had been warped and changed and divided into many disjointed pieces. It was huge and dense but low and suffocating. There was so much to enjoy but so much not to. From an operational perspective, he couldn’t ask for a better metropolis. It was always busy, always congested with crowds to hide among, and intercut with irregular alleys and side streets. The saturation of CCTV cameras was far from ideal, but British police officers did not carry firearms as standard.
He crossed the street, passing slow-moving cars and rounding a red bus collecting passengers. The buildings were all grand and centuries old, adding an air of importance, respectability, but also wealth. He walked at a leisurely pace, taking a circuitous route through neighbouring throughways, searching for watchers. A tall order in such a busy area, but if Norimov’s enemies had put her workplace under surveillance, those watchers would be Russian gangsters. Every person in this part of the city was either a suited professional, overworked and always rushing, or a tourist, walking slowly and taking photographs. Watchers would stand out.
He saw none. He wasn’t sure what that meant. If they already had Gisele, they wouldn’t need to look out for her at her place of business in the hope of kidnapping her on her way to or from work. But after making Norimov aware of the threat, they would expect his forces to mobilise. If their intention was to wipe him out, it would be smart to ambush anyone he had sent to look for his daughter.
Low stone steps led up from the street. Victor used his knuckles to push through the revolving brass-and-glass door. The lobby was vast and high-roofed and starkly modern. He approached a curved counter and explained to the receptionist he was a visitor to Gisele’s law firm. After using his left hand to sign the guestbook, he was given a pass and used it to get through the electronic turnstiles that shielded the elevators. A big security guard nodded at him.
On the second floor, he approached the law firm’s reception area. Both receptionists – one male, one female – smiled at him as he approached the boomerang-shaped desk. The smiles were good, if false. The smiles said: So lovely to see you again. They had been well trained. In his good suit he looked like a client, maybe even an important one.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ the male receptionist began. ‘How are you today?’
<
br /> ‘Tremendous, thank you. What about yourself?’
‘Wonderful. How might I be of service?’
Victor said, ‘I have a four p.m. appointment with Gisele Maynard. I’m sorry to say I’m a little late.’
The receptionist didn’t check the system for the appointment. He didn’t break eye contact. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Ms Maynard isn’t in the office today.’
Victor made sure to appear taken aback. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That’s terribly disappointing.’ He sighed and drummed his knuckles on the desktop. ‘I’ve come into the city specifically to see her. I’ve wasted a lot of time.’ After checking his watch, Victor added, ‘Are you expecting her back tomorrow?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’ The receptionist did a reasonable job of looking sympathetic. ‘I really am terribly sorry for your inconvenience.’
‘Is she unwell?’
The receptionists looked at one another. The woman said, ‘She hasn’t been in the office since last week.’
He pretended to think; to remember. ‘I spoke to her last Wednesday and we agreed to this meeting then. When was she last in? If she had planned to go away, why would she arrange to see me?’
‘I don’t think it was planned,’ the male receptionist said. ‘It’s probably just the office bug.’
The woman added, ‘She was in on the Thursday, but we haven’t seen her since then.’
Victor made a big deal of sighing. ‘This is extremely frustrating.’
The man said, ‘Sir, I am very sorry. When she does come back to the office I’ll of course let her know you came in today. Can I take your name?’
He said the alias he’d signed in with.
The receptionist made a note of it. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
Victor raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything else? No, that’s everything.’
The receptionist’s smile never faltered. ‘You have yourself a lovely day.’
SEVENTEEN
Gisele lived in south-east London in a top-floor apartment of a converted Georgian townhouse. The building had once been two residences of wealthy Londoners with three above-ground levels and a semi-subterranean one. Like many similar houses, these two had long ago been converted into flats for the city’s ever-expanding populace. The façade was painted cream and kept clean and bright. A U-shaped driveway of loose gravel provided access from the quiet street. A small garden and huge oak tree sat in the middle of the curve. Four cars were parked on the driveway. All were well maintained. Norimov hadn’t known if his daughter owned a vehicle, but Victor saw that she did. It was a maroon Volvo. Less than three years old. It was the only one of the four cars that did not have tyre-width grooves in the gravel leading up to it because it hadn’t been used in over a week.
He would have liked to have examined it more closely but he was illuminated by the sodium orange of streetlamps and an observer inside could see him from behind blinds or net curtains without his knowledge. It was only seven p.m. but sunset had been more than an hour ago. Lights were on in most of the windows. Gisele’s were dark, as were a few wherein the occupiers were still at work or commuting from it. Londoners worked long hours.
Victor wore a charcoal business suit, sky blue shirt and no tie. A suit was his preferred outfit for the majority of situations his work put him in for many reasons. He spent most of his time in cities where suited men were common and anonymous. A suit also provided an instant air of respectability. A man in a suit rarely seemed suspicious. If that man was running, he would appear late, not fleeing. Police wouldn’t stop that man near a crime scene unless they knew who they were looking for. Security guards would not check closely when that man flashed credentials. Civilians would be more easily convinced of that man’s lies.
And when that man was seen within a building where he didn’t belong, residents would believe he had reason to be there.
I’m an estate agent, Victor said inside his mind as he approached the front door. I’ve been asked to value Miss Maynard’s flat.
Broad steps led up to the two front doors – both painted in a fiery red – one leading to the flats on the left, the other to those on the right. Victor veered to the right side door. The garden flat had its own entrance at the side. The buzzer fixed to the right of the main front door had three buttons and numbers corresponding to each of the above-ground flats. The door had a deadbolt. He’d have preferred not to have to pick it with people inside the building but he couldn’t afford to waste time waiting until mid-morning when most would have left for their day jobs.
He reached into a pocket and took out two of the paperclips that Dmitri had sourced. Victor had cut, bent and manipulated them using the multi-tool, forming a torsion wrench and rake. He inserted the wrench into the bottom of the lock and applied gentle pressure. The rake went into the top of the lock and he dragged it back towards him, bumping the tumblers. Using proper tools the lock would have taken less than ten seconds to open. With the improvised wrench and rake it took thirty-three.
He pushed open the door, stopping when he saw no one in the hallway on the other side. It was a neat, simple space, clean and organised. Function over aesthetics. A door led to the ground-floor flat. A staircase led up.
A pile of post sat on the carpet near to the front door. There were letters and obvious junk mail and free newspapers and circulars for all three of the flats. Victor sifted through them, separating out the ones for Gisele Maynard or those that were addressed to different names but the same residence.
He ascended to the top floor. He heard music emanating from the first-floor residence. Some kind of dance music. Victor was glad he couldn’t recognise the ‘song’. Music had peaked more than a century ago. He didn’t understand why people couldn’t just accept that.
Gisele’s front door was double locked. A minute later Victor pushed it open. The smell hit him first. It was a clean, neutral fragrance. He wasn’t going to find a body here. He felt relief. He’d never met her. He’d only known of her existence for less than twenty-four hours. But he was glad he wasn’t going to her lay eyes on her as a corpse. At least not yet, anyway.
He eased the door closed behind him. Conversion flats had thin floors. The resident below might hear otherwise, even above the incessant thump of electronic drums. When the door clicked shut, the hallway fell into darkness. Victor stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom and listening. He’d seen no evidence of another intruder but that didn’t mean a skilled operator was not already inside the apartment. Victor knew nothing about the threat Norimov and his daughter faced, but he also knew it could materialise at any moment.
He maintained his vigilance, but moved on when he was as close to sure that he was alone as he could be, clearing the rooms one by one until he was certain he was the only one there. Then he made sure all the curtains and blinds were closed and turned on the lights.
Gisele’s apartment consisted of a narrow hallway with doors either side that led to two bedrooms, a bathroom and a box room, before opening up into an open-plan lounge and kitchen. French doors opened on to a small balcony that overlooked the shared garden. She had simple, but expensive tastes. The furniture was functional but high quality. He liked the minimalist approach. If he had his own taste, this would be it.
There were no signs of a confrontation. If Norimov’s enemies had found and taken Gisele, it hadn’t been from here. He sat down on a bespoke couch to examine Gisele’s mail. The couch was as comfortable as it looked, but he sat perched on the very edge, head in line with his hips, ready to spring to his feet should the need arise.
He’d ignored the flyers and other hand-delivered circulars, leaving them by the entrance downstairs. There were a couple of letters to the previous occupant, but he paid attention to them as he did the ones addressed to Gisele. He wasn’t interested in the contents of the letters but the postmarks. The earliest date was the ninth – two days before Norimov received the threatening photograph. The postmark stated the letter had been sent f
irst class. At the earliest it would have slid through the letterbox on the tenth, but could have arrived on the eleventh or even twelfth. So he knew Gisele hadn’t been home for at least seven or eight days.
On the opposite side of the lounge, an ergonomic mesh chair sat before a desk made of glass and chrome. A computer rested on the desk. It would no doubt be able to tell him when she had lasted logged on, but he didn’t have to power it on to know it was password protected. He was no hacker. Instead, he turned his attention to a three-tier document tray next to the computer monitor. On the bottom level were bills and statements, all at least two weeks old. The middle tray contained more recent correspondence. Unopened letters sat in the top tray. The most recent letter had a postmark for the eighth. It had most likely arrived on the ninth or tenth, narrowing down Gisele’s absence to no more than seven days. She hadn’t been home since the day Norimov received the photograph.
In Gisele’s bedroom, Victor went through her things. He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to find, but time spent being thorough was never wasted. Her clothes were good quality garments. She had a large, sliding wardrobe. The dresses, blouses and suits inside were hung on wooden hangers and coordinated by colour and type. She liked colour, but there were few daring items. There were four trouser suits: grey, charcoal, brown and black. Victor appreciated their quality. An empty hanger hung between the brown and black suits so he knew she’d worn her navy on the day she didn’t return home. There was too much colour elsewhere in her wardrobe for her not to have that classic shade.
He searched through all her drawers, in every room. He opened every box and case. He had a glass of water in the kitchen area of the open-plan lounge, washing and drying the glass after he had finished and putting it back exactly as he had found it. The kitchen was at the rear of the building, overlooking the garden. The blind had fat wooden slats. Even closed, Victor could just about see the world outside.
