by Lizzie Lamb
Argh - why did these extreme thoughts keep popping into her head? And at this time of the night, too? Tomorrow, Ffinch would coolly thank her for everything, drop her off at her bedsit after breakfast and that would be that.
Hasta la vista, baby …
When Charlee pushed the door open, the mews was warm and welcoming. The sitting room smelled of polish and there were fresh flowers in the tiny hearth, placed there by Ffinch’s tame Mrs Mop who’d worked her magic in their absence. Charlee bet there would be milk, bread and butter and a ready meal of some variety in the fridge. She shut her mind to the state her bedsit would be in after lying unoccupied since the day after Boxing Day. It wouldn’t just smell of blocked drains and sardines - as per usual - it would smell as though a Japanese whaling fleet had taken up permanent residence in the kitchen.
‘You make the coffee, Charlee, and I’ll carry the bags upstairs,’ Ffinch said, closing the outside door and making her jump.
‘Coffee, right, yeah.’
‘Make it a large pot, double strength, something tells me I won’t be sleeping tonight.’ Charlee’s heart sank as she noted his use of the personal pronoun - what’d happened to we, all of a sudden? She stood without moving and then Ffinch spoke again. ‘You okay, Montague?’
‘Yes, just tired.’ She gave an extravagant yawn. ‘Coffee. Fully leaded. Coming up.’
She returned to the sitting room some time later carrying a tray of coffee, Mrs Mop’s home-made cake, a bottle of cognac and two glasses. Ffinch was on the floor leaning back against the sofa, one knee raised and viewing photos through his expensive digital camera. Charlee took up position behind him on the sofa, looking over his shoulder as the slideshow played. She resisted the urge to run her fingers through his mussed up dark hair, lean forward and drape an arm casually across his shoulder; breathe in his unique body scent. Kiss his neck.
It was time for plain talking … even if it was the middle of the night. There might not be time tomorrow when he drove her back to her bedsit. Taking a deep breath, she placed her hands on her knees and plunged straight in.
‘Ffinch, don’t you think I deserve to know exactly what’s been going on?’
‘I was going to tell you on the journey home but you fell asleep,’ he teased, half-turning towards her.
‘Stop playing games. I want answers - now!’
Ffinch put his camera carefully to one side, poured two mugs of coffee and then took up residence on the cube-like footstool, facing her. He sent her one of his considering looks and then said: ‘I guess you’ve earned the right, so fire away.’
Charlee had been expecting another of his ‘need to know’ speeches and was taken aback by this sudden willingness to divulge all. Marshalling her thoughts into some kind of order, she began.
‘First of all, why was it necessary for me to attend the boot camp? From what I saw, you could have got what you wanted and informed the police about Trushev without my help.’
Ffinch nodded. ‘You’re right. My original intention was to enter the boot camp at night and gain access to the files on their computer. The police felt they had enough information to raid the boot camp - but without written evidence Trushev could still come out of this unscathed. You were my backup plan, my Trojan Horse. If I couldn’t gain entry through a window or door - conveniently left unlocked by you - the Gala Dinner would provide me with a second chance. I planned to slip away during the dancing while everyone was preoccupied and go through their files.’
‘So the whole story about photographing Anastasia and spiking Mirror, Mirror’s exclusive was just so much … smoke and mirrors?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes and no. Okay, don’t give me that look, I’ll explain.’ He reached over for a slice of cake. ‘After what happened in Colombia I was too ill to travel home immediately. The authorities in Bogota wanted to find the kidnappers almost as much as I did and called me in for a couple of debriefing sessions.’
‘I can imagine that your kidnap and two researchers being killed did nothing for their tourist industry,’ Charlee said dryly, earning an encouraging look from him.
‘Quite. I managed to do some preliminary digging around during my convalescence and discovered that the trail led from Colombia to England where the drugs were processed and then sold on the street. The whys and wherefores I couldn’t figure out, because every time I got closer to unravelling that particular Gordian knot, I ended up with a dead end.’
‘So, how did you make the giant leap connecting Trushev to drug smuggling and money laundering?’
‘A lucky break. I kept coming across his name when I was planning my trip to Darien. He’d set up a number of foundations in Colombia to educate poor children and give them a better chance in life. I didn’t buy into the whole ‘philanthropic Russian businessman helps street children in Bogota,’ for a moment. Why travel halfway round the world to help orphans when you could just as easily have helped children in your own country? In Belarus, for example, where the fallout from the Chernobyl disaster continues to claim lives.’
‘Good point. Anastasia told me about the charitable foundation she’d set up in Odessa to provide playgrounds and green spaces for orphaned, disabled and deprived children. Yevgeny could have concentrated his efforts there.’
‘Exactly,’ Ffinch said. ‘Although in a way he has. He’s twinned his foundation with hers, giving him the perfect excuse to travel between Colombia and Russia without arousing suspicion. When one is on a humanitarian mission - and greasing palms along the way - paperwork and visas have a tendency to get passed through on the nod.’
‘I can’t believe that Anastasia’s been party to any of this. She’s a good person …’
‘Maybe you’re suffering from a kind of reverse Stockholm syndrome?’ Ffinch suggested, delicately reminding Charlee of her place in the pecking order. ‘It’s when …’
‘I know what it is, thank you,’ she snapped and then continued in a more conciliatory tone. ‘It’s when victims of trauma or kidnapping sympathise with their captors.’
Ffinch nodded. ‘Only in this case you’ve done the reverse and bonded with Anastasia, which has clouded your judgment.’
Charlee ground her teeth but kept her peace knowing she couldn’t afford to give vent to her anger before she’d heard the entire story. ‘Go on,’ she urged.
‘This next bit is conjecture and I will admit that I lack documentary evidence. I’m pretty certain that the money raised selling drugs on the streets is used by Trushev to purchase white goods: fridges, washing machines, freezers. The white goods are then shipped to the former Soviet Bloc where they are sold, the money “laundered” and used to finance further expansion of the poppy fields in Colombia.’
Charlee let out a long, slow whistle. ‘A drugs triangle? That’s some theory - but with nothing to back it up … that’s all it will remain.’ She shrugged her shoulders and Ffinch nodded.
‘I know; that’s why it was so important to get into their office. There was bound to be some documentation lying around …’
‘Somehow I don’t think Natasha and Trushev would be that careless. I mean, really?’ Now it was Charlee’s turn to imply that he was being naïve. Ignoring her sardonic aside, Ffinch continued with his story.
‘I want to nail Trushev and his gang. Not only do they flood this country with cheap heroin, they force the indigenous people of the Amazon Basin into slavery and use them as drugs mules. Their way of life is vanishing along with the rainforest and I want to do something about it.’
‘I get it,’ Charlee interjected. ‘This is your way of repaying them - and honouring Elena and Allesandro’s memory. ’ She wanted to make clear that she understood his need for closure - for revenge, even. Maybe, once he achieved both, the nightmares would end, too.
Ffinch nodded, openly pleased that she was on his wavelength.
‘My original trip to Darien was twofold. To write the last chapter in my book but, more importantly, to follow the drugs/money laundering trail I’
d uncovered - wherever it led. That’s when I became unstuck.’ Pulling a self-deprecating face, he rubbed at the marks on his wrists and lower arms reflexively, an unconscious reference to his kidnap. Charlee now understood that those marks had nothing to do with tramlines or shooting up; they were the result of his being tied up by the Aguilas Negra.
‘So that’s why the proceeds of your book are going to the Cat People,’ she said with a flash of insight. He rubbed the scars again and nodded. Her heart went out to him and she wanted to close the gap between them and kiss the lesions on his wrists until they stopped aching. But she held back; there were still elements in this story that she didn’t understand, hadn’t had explained to her.
‘Exactly. What I didn’t know, and had to be certain of before I involved the police, was how the drugs came into the country. Trushev is rich and powerful, his money can buy him anything he wants - information, friends in high places and immunity from prosecution.’
‘I see.’ Charlee realised that by witnessing Trushev and Natasha supervising the loading of the drugs into the catering vans she’d put herself in danger. But she said nothing to Ffinch; she preferred to keep a lid on that - for now.
‘Of course, the boot camp is ideal cover for his smuggling activities,’ Ffinch explained. ‘It’s close to Lowestoft and Harwich where big ships can drop anchor and offload drugs onto smaller vessels out at sea. It’s right on the marshes, which conveniently flood at high tide several times a year, enabling dinghies and smaller boats to go night fishing.’
Charlee was ahead of him.
‘But in reality, ferrying the drugs backwards and forwards? Of course; those were the lights I saw on the marshes. I thought them highly suspect at the time.’ Although she despised Trushev, she acknowledged that he ran a well-oiled operation. ‘But how does he get the drugs out of there and sent to factories to be processed and ready for selling on the streets?’
‘The Gala Dinners are key to the whole operation. Food is brought into the camp by a Kings Lynn catering company owned by one of Trushev’s associates and the drugs are taken out of the boot camp in empty food containers. Neat, huh? All I needed was to persuade the UK authorities to look into my suspicions about Trushev. Luckily, I had the Colombian Narcotics Squad on side; they corroborated my story and convinced the Met it was time to act.’
He picked up his mug, drained it, poured himself a fresh coffee and sipped his cognac. Charlee, suspecting this was going to be an all-night session, followed suit.
Ffinch continued. ‘When you mentioned the night fishing expedition yesterday in the camper van, I knew that the Gala Dinner would be our last chance of catching them red-handed until the next high tide in early spring. If they’d suspected the authorities were onto them they’d have abandoned the boot camp and we’d be back to square one.’
Charlee blushed; she’d been too consumed with lust in the steamed-up camper van to be fully aware of what she’d said to him. But she did remember the conversation she’d overheard in the kitchen.
‘The first night I stayed at the mews, I heard you in the kitchen speaking fluent Spanish. It was the middle of the night and you said you were talking to your rellies in Brazil.’
‘And you said - they speak Portuguese in Brazil, not Spanish. I should’ve known then that I wouldn’t be able to pull the wool over those baby blues of yours, Montague.’ Although he said it like it wasn’t meant as a compliment, his eyes locked with hers and she felt suddenly warm.
‘Go on,’ she urged, keeping him - them both - on track.
‘You’d overheard me talking to my contact at the Colombian Drugs Agency who was working alongside officers from the Met at that point,’ he explained. ‘We had to keep things under wraps right up to the last minute, because corruption is rife and,’ he looked at her, the truth suddenly dawning. ‘Oh my God, Montague! You thought I was part of the drug smuggling cartel, didn’t you?’
‘Well not exactly. But you have to admit, you are very secretive.’ She didn’t want him to know that Sally and Vanessa had poured poison in her ear, implying he was involved in drug smuggling and money laundering - and that she’d fallen for it. They’d been jealous that she’d landed Ffinch and, uncertain of her own position, she’d allowed herself to be manipulated by them.
How could she have been so stupid?
‘Actually, I’m not secretive by nature, but over the course of this investigation I have had to be. Trushev is a wily character and has paid informants everywhere.’ Charlee immediately thought of the woman-mountain, Valentina. Maybe one day over a glass of wine she’d tell Ffinch about their wrestling match, being dumped unceremoniously in the corridor and rescued by Anastasia. ‘Unless he’s caught red-handed he’ll try and wriggle out of this and say that the boot camp staff were running the operation without his knowledge.’
‘But -’ Charlee tried to assimilate everything Ffinch was telling her.
‘But, nothing - the staff would take the rap for him, believe me. Twenty years in Pentonville with your nearest and dearest being looked after by Trushev is preferable to polonium in your coffee. Or, a prick on the leg with a syringe concealed in a rolled up umbrella.’
Charlee laughed. It all seemed a bit too James Bond to be real, but judging by his expression, Ffinch was deadly serious.
‘Okay, back to me,’ she said, pointing at her chest. ‘Why did Sam spin me a line about getting photographs of Anastasia and ruining Mirror, Mirror’s exclusive? I’m guessing there is no exclusive; you wanted me in the camp as your - your mole, and you and Sam dreamed up a fake assignment to make it appear legit? Feel free to correct me at any time.’
‘Look, Charlee . . .’ He put down his cognac, crouched on the floor in front of her and took her hands in his. ‘You’re a natural - bright, inquisitive and can do the maths. When two and two add together and make five, a journo’s antennae start twitching. And you’re more intuitive than hacks who’ve been in the business for years. But, as I explained in the Vee Dubbya yesterday afternoon, you were able to act innocent because you were innocent. They didn’t suspect a thing, although in the end we didn’t need to use you.’
‘Plausible denial - you said - I get it now.’ She snatched her hand back. Then she remembered Anastasia. ‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Anastasia remembered me from outside the nightclub on Christmas Eve.’
Now it was Ffinch’s turn to falter. ‘She did?’
‘Yes! But don’t worry; she’s looking for a way out of her engagement with Trushev and she thought I might provide it.’
‘How?’
‘That’s the bit I haven’t worked out yet.’ She was just about to give Ffinch the lowdown on her conversation with Anastasia: ‘Shar-lee you are my way home’, but stopped herself. What had she meant by that? ‘Probably just wishful thinking on her part, she seems terrified of him.’
‘Rightly so. Anyone who crosses Trushev has a way of disappearing, I’m glad I got you out of there.’ He returned to the footstool and concentrated on swirling the cognac round in his cut crystal balloon. ‘I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, Montague, know that?’ he said, his voice suddenly rough.
‘After what happened to Elena and Allesandro, you mean?’ She faltered, unsure of the significance of his words. ‘You mean you wouldn’t want to lose another partner on your watch?’
‘I think we both know what I mean, Charlee. It’s time we were completely honest with each other in this respect, too.’ Putting his glass on the coffee table, he dragged the footstool closer until their knees were touching. He reached out for her hands again, but Charlee wasn’t about to fall for his blandishments or lose herself in his storm-grey eyes.
‘Let’s be honest by all means,’ she said with a catch in her voice, twisting Granny’s ring round on her finger. ‘Tomorrow it all changes … I return to my bedsit. Back at What’cha! I revert to being the girl who fetches the lattes and gets sent to the photo archive.’ She didn’t want to think about the speculation which would arise f
rom her and Ffinch breaking off the engagement. ‘You’ll write the story, get the glory and then move on. Isn’t that how it works? How it all ends?’
‘Charlee, I’ve never had a partner before so I’m not sure how it works.’ He released her hands and raked his fingers through his hair, doubt clouding his eyes. ‘I thought you might know.’ He smiled uncertainly and leaned towards her.
‘Me?’ Suspecting he was about to kiss her, she drew back. There was no future for them; and it was best that she didn’t surrender to the hormones which were screaming out: ‘kiss him, you fool’. She was tired, had downed too many brandies and it was time to beat a hasty retreat. ‘Goodnight, Ffinch.’ She got to her feet and walked round to the back of the sofa, pausing at the foot of the stairs. ‘And you wanna know the really sad bit? I didn’t get to speak Russian, after all.’
She walked heavily up the stairs, leaving him staring into his brandy.
Chapter Thirty-five
A Fish Called Wanda?
Valentina picked Charlee up and hurled her into the marsh. The tide was on the turn and dragged Charlee with it, thick reeds fastening round her legs and pulling her down, down into the brackish water. Gasping for breath, she surfaced. Trushev was laughing at her from his boat while Anastasia sat on a stool combing her hair and regarding her reflection in a hand mirror - an unlikely Lorelei of the marshes.
‘Anastasia,’ Charlee called out as she went under the murky waters again.
‘Sh-arlee, you did not use cosmetics I give you - and now you drown,’ Anastasia sighed, shaking her head as if there was nothing she could do to help.
‘You know too much,’ snarled Valentina. ‘Drown, English bitch.’
‘You have seen too much. Ti slishkom mnogo videla,’ Trushev agreed, piggy eyes glittering in the moonlight. ‘Seichas ytoni. Now you drown.’
