Gilded Edge, The

by Miller, Danny

  Johnny Beresford introduced Dominic to Boris Sendoff as a trusted friend. The big Russian said nothing, did nothing. He just stood there for an unnerving amount of time, weighing Dominic up with dead eyes that practically made a clicking noise, like an old adding machine, every time he blinked. Finally satisfied, he said something in what Dominic took to be Russian, and invited the two men in.

  The bridal suite offered little in the way of romance, its main feature being that everything inside it was either a yellowing cream colour or a mucky magnolia. Not quite virginal white, but it certainly wasn’t the biggest slapper in the building either. Dominic had visited those rooms, with their pushy and plush red wallpaper, hot and heavy velvet drapes and sweaty black vinyl furniture.

  Once they were over the threshold, the ursine Russian’s mood changed. His large fleshy features lifted and transmogrified into something comical as, in broken English, he told them that after their business was concluded they would enjoy the hospitality of some whores. Johnny Beresford and Dominic sat down on the long cream-coloured sofa, and Boris Sendoff poured out three generous tumblers of vodka. Dominic expected them to be turned into martinis, but they weren’t. They were brought straight over, blindingly neat. Sendoff then raised his own glass, pronounced something unpronounceable and necked it. His guests followed suit. After the burst-geyser sound that exploded from both of them when the neat vodka had burned its way down their throats and scorched their oesophaguses, Sendoff said that now they knew why the local brew was referred to as the Siberian central heating system.

  The big Russian then went over to a bedside table, opened up a drawer and retrieved an A4-sized manila envelope, which he then handed over to Johnny Beresford. The Russian assured him that it contained a detailed layout of the aircraft landing strip, and all the military posts and positions nearby. With pursed lips and serious eyes, the old Etonian ex-army man, and now leader of a proposed coup, inspected the three sheets of paper comprising the plans.

  After a few moments of considered perusal, Beresford’s pursed lips relaxed into a smile, then he nodded his head in approval and announced, ‘With the men I’ve got lined up for the job, and these plans, this should be a cinch. We could secure the place in a matter of hours.’ He put the plans back in the envelope and handed them to Dominic, his new partner in this operation. Johnny Beresford then excused himself and went into the bathroom.

  Dominic sat on the sofa holding the manila envelope in both hands as if it weighed a ton, which in many ways it did. It held the lives of . . . He didn’t know, but he was sure lives would be lost. And he was sure this was the heaviest and gravest and most important document he had ever held in his life. He turned it round and readjusted his grip on it because his clammy hands were now sweating, his prints penetrating the sheen of the manila envelope and soaking through. That was beyond incriminating; it was potentially deadly. What if the plans were now smudged? What if the smudge was mistaken for something else: a military installation, a machine-gun turret, a tank? No, this was without doubt the weightiest document he’d ever held.

  Dominic rested the envelope on the sofa next to him and, as nervous as a new date, sat there under the heavy-browed gaze of Boris Sendoff. It was a gaze that was unrelenting, unsettling and unflappable. It was the kind of gaze that could crack you under questioning. It bore the heavy weight of violence without even lifting a finger. Dominic drew great comfort from the fact they were both on the same side, so much so that he considered suggesting to the big Russki that it was rude of him to stare. But he thought better of that, as it may have been interpreted as, What are you staring at? Those were words Dominic had never uttered in his life, but had once heard from a group of boys on the top of a double-decker bus, during one of his rare and youthful forays on to public transport. Of course, Dominic wasn’t staring at them, quite the opposite: it was they who were staring at him, togged up in his Eton tails. He had tearfully alighted from the bus under a hail of gob. Dominic realized there would be no such childish pranks now, because this was big school.

  So he kept quiet, and covertly considered the broadly smiling Russian: the heavy ridge of his forehead, thick eyebrows like brushes made of shiny black porcupine needles, the sooty slab of his solid jaw, the brutal hands of a seasoned brawler or a clumsy stonemason. The sheer daunting body mass of the Russian just accentuated Dominic’s fragile hold on the world. The man was a perfect representation of the sheer mass of the Soviet Union. Meanwhile, Dominic sat there looking like England: slight and set adrift. But it was Boris Sendoff’s very size that made Dominic now question his effectiveness as a spy, for he looked as if he’d stand out like a big red sore thumb anywhere he went. This cheered the frail young man, the thought that the spying game was open to all shapes and sizes. Of course, he’d heard about fellows at Oxford being approached and recruited by the security services, but he himself had never been approached. But now was his chance to live like his hero, Johnny Beresford, and to show his father once and for all that he too was a man of action, and not just an aesthete, an eternal stripling and a habitual disappointment.

  Dominic smiled at the thought of it. Boris Sendoff smiled back.

  And then he stopped smiling. Because just then, Johnny Beresford stepped out of the bathroom. The big Russian turned towards him, and the jovial grin on his face distorted into a grimace as the first bullet tore into him.

  Dominic sat frozen on the sofa as he watched the big Russian grabbing at the bullet wound in his chest, as though he was trying to retrieve the slug with his big blunt fingers. But it was too late. Blood began to spread across his white shirt like ink on blotting paper. Slowly, in stages, like the professional demolition of a tall building, Boris Sendoff collapsed to the floor.

  Johnny Beresford was holding the smoking gun. ‘Here, take this,’ he said, handing the gun to his young accomplice. Dominic held the gun in both hands, gripping the handle and the barrel as if it was alive, as slippery as a mink that could escape his grasp at any moment. He felt its deathly heat, the destruction in the pull of its trigger, but he said nothing. Was this the plan? Had he agreed to this, to commit murder? Did Johnny warn him that this was going to happen? For the life of him, he couldn’t remember.

  Johnny Beresford now knelt over the big dead Russian and, with an exertive grunt of effort, he rolled him over on to his back and began rifling his pockets. He relieved him of his keys, his wallet and a bulging bloodstained white envelope. He checked the contents – Dominic assumed it was a wad of money by his calculating stare and the way his thumb flicked through it – then pocketed the envelope—

  —and the Russian grabbed him by the throat. The brutal hands fastened around Beresford’s neck like a big muscled brace.

  Dominic was jolted up out of his seat by this sudden action. The big Russian’s hands had shot out as fast as a lizard’s tongue taking down a fly. Seemingly subject to a new lease of life, as if invigorated by death, Boris Sendoff climbed back to his feet a lot faster than he had gone down. Dominic watched as the very much alive KGB agent took a firm footing in the room. And yet it made perfect sense that one bullet, just one little capsule of lead, couldn’t take down the Beast from the East. No, you’d have to nuke this big bastard . . . or at least empty the gun and send a volley of slugs into the monstrously big old pump that kept the Boris Sendoff show on the road.

  Since the Russian had risen again, things had moved on fast – over to the other side of the room, to be precise. With his back to Dominic, Boris Sendoff now had Johnny Beresford pinned up against the wall, huge hands firmly around his neck, the blood leaching from the Russian’s knuckles as his grip intensified. It seemed like deadlock, for Sendoff would either squeeze the life out of him, or he would die trying . . .

  ‘Kill him . . . Dominic!’ gasped Beresford, with what sounded like the last breath in his body. ‘Kill . . . him!’

  Dominic had used a gun before, his father having been a soldier and being still a sportsman. The young man had grown up around guns
and, with very modest success and very little enthusiasm, had bagged a little of everything in his time. But this was different, for this was big, big, BIG game. This was murder.

  ‘God sakes, shoot him! Do it, Dominic, do it!’

  Considering the hold Sendoff had around Beresford’s throat, his voice still sounded surprisingly clear, surprisingly firm. Its gasping desperation was subservient to its authority: this was an order – an order Dominic knew he had to obey if they were to get out of there alive.

  ‘Do it, Dominic. Do it.’

  Dominic raised the gun into the killing position, and aimed it squarely at the broad upper expanse of Boris Sendoff’s back. He had no qualms about doing a ‘Robert Ford’; in fact, all things being equal, he would rather put one in the man’s back than see his face. A wave of self-justification washed over him – the big Russian was dead already, wasn’t he? He was already on his way out. It had to be done.

  Bang! Bang!

  The two shots went into Boris Sendoff’s back before Dominic had time to fully think it through. It was a well oiled and well sprung hair trigger, even for Dominic’s slender fingers. After the shots, a deep silence vacuum-packed the room. The air stilled. Time seemed to freeze. And so did the Russian holding Johnny Beresford up against the wall.

  Beresford grabbed the Russian’s hands, released himself from the man’s grip, and slid down the wall. He took some deep breaths to fill his lungs, got up and went over towards Dominic. There was no time for thanks or congratulations, or even for Dominic to comprehend what he had just done. Because the Russian, who was still on his feet, had turned round and was moving towards them in robotic lurches. His murderous arms were stretched out in front of him, like those of a wounded grizzly.

  Then came the instruction, as clear and urgent as before: ‘You’ve already shown your mettle. Now finish the job. Go on, Dominic, do it. Do it.’

  Dominic did it. Two more times into the chest. Straight into the red expanse of blood, the red flag now hanging from the Russian’s neck. Boris Sendoff had soaked up four shots, but still he came on, Rasputin-like – a zombie emerging out of his country’s horrific and deadly past. He barrelled his way towards Dominic, his dead weight gathering momentum until he was on the young assassin, his heavy ursine arms wrapping around him like a loved one, burying the frail young man in his bloodied chest. Crushed against Boris Sendoff in a bear hug, Dominic smelled . . . antiseptic? Vodka?

  Then the big Russki released his hold, went into rewind, stumbled backwards and fell against the wall. The room shook as he slowly slid down the wall, and finally rested on the floor in a sprawled sitting position. His slow calculating eyes clicked over the scene one more time, then finally shut up shop. His dark head dropped forward, as though he was taking a nap.

  Dominic stood transfixed, the gun now feeling lighter in his hand. He looked down and saw that his white ruffled Turnbull & Asser evening shirt was stained with the man’s blood.

  Johnny Beresford was suddenly at his side. ‘Well done, Dominic. You’re one of us now, one of us,’ he uttered with a warm camaraderie in his voice. He then held his young accomplice’s frail face in his hands and looked steadily into his eyes, as if savouring what he found in them. The reflection of a killer, just like himself? He wiped the blood from Dominic’s blood-drained cheek, and assured him: ‘It was vital that Sendoff didn’t leave this room alive. For the safety of our operation and everyone involved, he had to die. Measures had to be taken. Do you understand?’

  Dominic’s body still felt frozen from top to toe, as if he’d been shot through with a huge dose of Novocaine. But he managed a timid nod of his head.

  ‘Good man. Now go home and . . . well, you’re a smart lad, so no need to say it, but I’ll say it anyway. Tell no one about this. No one. Do you understand?’ There was another compliant nod from the new assassin. ‘Stay at home and await further instruction. I’ll call you soon.’

  Somewhere in the blanket of numbness, Dominic managed to find partial remnants of his voice. ‘What . . . what about him?’ he said, looking down at the dead bulk of Boris Sendoff.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Johnny Beresford dismissively. ‘It’s all been taken care of. You think I’d go into a situation like this without the correct prep? I’ll make sure his body is never found. He’ll disappear and no one will ever know. Trust me, Dominic, it’ll be like he never existed. And, as a double agent, in many ways he didn’t. You get me?’

  Dominic didn’t really get him because, not knowing the ins and outs of espionage, he didn’t fully understand the significance of Boris Sendoff being a ‘double agent’ and why that should make him more prone to disappearing than a single agent. But he did trust Johnny Beresford. Dominic just had to look up at that handsome face, radiating its confidence and sure-footedness, to know the big Russian would never be seen again.

  ‘Now, off you go. And, remember, not a word to anyone, Dominic. The lives and fortunes of a lot of men depend on it.’

  With that weight of responsibility resting on his narrow shoulders, Dominic Saxmore-Blaine backed out of the hotel room. He then noticed that he still had hold of the gun, his finger still curled around the trigger. He shuddered and shook it from his hand, as if it was some repellent creature that had attached itself to him.

  He made his way along the hallway, along the blue carpet with the red panels, those panels about the size of the bloody wound on the Russian’s chest. He didn’t wait for the lift, because he wanted to run – run all the way home. He wanted out of there, and he wanted out of there now.

  But he should have taken the lift. Because it was on the stairs that he met her . . .

  ‘You? What have you been up to, Dom?’

  ‘What does it say?’

  Vince looked up at Mac, who was busy tamping his pipe. Things had moved on since Vince had picked up the dead man’s confession, and the room was now a busy crime scene. Photos were being taken. Evidence was being bagged up and recorded. The bath had been drained, and Dominic Saxmore-Blaine’s body had been loaded on to a gurney. The usual routine, but the sense of urgency that threaded through most crime scenes was lacking in this one. Because the chase was not on, since it was clear to everyone that it was a suicide. But Vince knew the next incident wouldn’t be clear to anyone.

  Vince stood up and answered Mac’s question: ‘It says we’ve got another body.’

  CHAPTER 28

  The Imperial Hotel was again swarming with coppers. They were energized and at it; with this murder the chase was now on. As they headed up the stairs, through the silent corridors and past the empty rooms, Vince had to wonder if this red-brick Victorian edifice dedicated to illicit pleasures would ever be back in business as a destination for well-heeled debauchery. Would the whores and hoorays ever return here? He doubted it.

  The bridal suite of the Imperial was chock-full of forensics in their virginal white coats, fanning out and fine-toothcombing the place. Of course, if Dominic’s deathbed confession was to be believed, and Beresford was as good as his word, Boris Sendoff would be long gone and untraceable. He clearly was, on both counts: no bloodstains on the carpet, no blasted bone fragments on the bedcovers, no dried scabs of bullet-strewn flesh on the wallpaper.

  Vince and Mac stood by the door. Mac had been reading Dominic’s confession, up to the point that had taken the group of men to the Imperial. He shook his head and said: ‘It’s well written, I’ll give him that.’

  Vince said, ‘Nice to see that his expensive education wasn’t wasted.’

  ‘Reads like a novel.’

  ‘A real potboiler. You’ve got spies, military coups, toffs, tarts – and with young Dominic Saxmore-Blaine featuring as its main protagonist, a psycho triple killer.’

  ‘See where it takes us, Vincent,’ said Mac, offering him the manuscript. Vince took it and read on.

  After killing Boris Sendoff, the newly initiated assassin had stepped out of the bridal suite and legged it along the corridor and down the stairs. It w
as on the second-floor landing that Dominic had run into Marcy Jones, who was just coming out of Lucky Lucan’s room. Marcy saw the blood on Dominic’s shirt, and the fear stacked up in his eyes.

  ‘You? What have you been up to, Dom?’

  Dominic didn’t answer. He pelted on down the stairs and out of the Imperial, and straight into a black cab. Once safely ensconced back at his sister Isabel’s flat in Pont Street, he poured himself a large Scotch to rid himself of the taste of the vodka. It was a drink he’d always detested for its vapid nothingness, and now it tasted like murder.

  And he waited, and waited, for his fellow conspirator, Johnny Beresford, to call. Hours fell off the clock, but there was no word. He paced, he panicked, he picked up the phone to call him . . . but didn’t Johnny tell him to wait? The world of intrigue he had just entered offered too many potentially life-threatening options to risk disobeying orders. So he poured himself another drink. And pretty soon after that he found his sister’s hidden stash of pills: a bottled balancing act of uppers and downers.

  Night became day, and then turned back to night again. Two days passed and still no call from Beresford . . .

  Dominic had made the mistake of looking at himself in the mirror, his narrow frame almost disappearing from view in it, like a vampire. The eyes felt lidless from lack of sleep, burning hot and cold, circled in black, sinking deep into his crumbling skull.