by PJ Adams
“Maliakov told me he was dead.”
Davydov shrugged, smiled again, and said, “Maybe, by now. But I doubt it. Your friend has a bad habit of surviving.”
She should not believe, just as she should not have believed Maliakov earlier. They could be telling her anything.
“Your friend,” said Davydov, “he offered me a deal. You should be honored.”
Maggie looked down. She did not want to be doing this. She was exhausted, and in pain, and her head was spinning with all that had happened to her, the constant fear.
She glanced up. “Why should I be honored?”
“Because your friend offered me everything. Not just that he would step away, but that he would ensure that all the contacts his family have built up over the years would be mine. All the favors owed would be transferred. All the local knowledge and expertise and loyalties. He even promised me that a certain senior police officer who knows this territory like, how do you say, like the back of his own hand, would work with my team. Your friend, he offered me all of this in exchange for two things.”
“Two things?”
Davydov nodded his head towards the door. There were voices coming from out there now, shouting. “One, that I stand by while his policeman friend takes out my former partner, Viktor Salko. I was happy with this. Viktor has become increasingly, shall we say, problematic recently. Doing reckless things like kidnapping innocent women and keeping them imprisoned. I am happy to have him removed.”
“And the other thing?”
“You. He asked me to take a personal interest in your safety, which is why I am here. Owen Bailey... he has given up everything for you. As I say, you should be honored.”
§
She wouldn’t allow herself to believe.
She had to remind herself repeatedly that these people could be telling her anything, for whatever unfathomable reason.
Anything at all.
“Please,” said Davydov. “We should leave now.”
The voices from beyond the storeroom were getting more frantic now. Russian and English barking out in staccato bursts.
Just as they reached the doorway, Davydov paused though, put a hand on her arm, and said, “Just one thing, Miss Petrauskė. Forgive my curiosity, but I have to ask... How did you do it?”
Maggie looked at him.
This man... he seemed so urbane. Everyone she had met so far in this place had been such an obvious villain. Menace was thick in the air, just as scars were on almost every face. These were men who intimidated merely by their presence. But Alexei Davydov... neat to the point of being dapper, almost effeminate in his mannerisms and the softness of his tone, a smile that seemed genuine and warm. And all that, in combination, made him perhaps the most terrifying of all the people she had encountered here.
Now, up so close she was breathing his sweet aftershave, she was at a loss. It was as if he expected her to be able to read his mind to complete his question. Or that it was a simple, automatic, power thing, that he had left his question ambiguous so she must ask.
“Do what?” she did finally ask. “How did I do what?”
Davydov smiled, briefly revealing perfect teeth.
“How did you find him? Owen Bailey. We tried. But he was good. He didn’t go far and he hid himself in full view, only changing enough details to make him hard to trace. We would have killed him, if we could.”
His tone... so calm and delicate, even when he talked of such stark matters.
“We sought this man without success, Miglë, and yet you, an amateur, walked straight in and found him. How did you do that?”
She managed to shuffle a small step back, opening up the distance between her and this man.
She shrugged. “I knew my brother had come to London, and that he was working for a well-established... organization. My uncle knew of a few people, and I learned enough about the Baileys to understand that there was one thing we had in common. We understood the importance of the people around us, of family.”
Davydov was nodding. “Yes, yes. But his brothers had fled the country, and have lost contact with him. How did that help?”
“I went to see his father in Wandsworth Prison.”
Understanding dawned on the Russian’s face.
“I explained to him that I was looking for my brother and that I believed his son might be able to help. I think he liked me, or something in what I said. He did not know where Owen might be, but he did remember a place where they used to go as a family, away from London and yet on its doorstep. A place where they would hide from the demands of the world for a few days – in full view, as you say.”
“And so you went, and looked for a man who had only moved there a few months ago and kept himself to himself.”
“It was all I had.”
“It was enough. Someone would have noted such a newcomer.”
“It was. They had.”
She’d found him, that dark and moody man, hard to believe he might be the one. He was not at all what she had expected. She’d worked her way into his life, surprised herself at the fit, at the deceptive transition from investigating him to working for him to finding that he occupied a place in her thoughts at any time of the night or day.
Davydov was close again, his scent heavy in her lungs.
“Remind me never to hide from you,” he said, almost a sigh.
She dipped her head, turned away from him. Then she looked up again, and met his unsettling gaze.
“You said Mr Bailey struck a deal with you,” she said.
Davydov nodded.
“Then fulfill your side. Let me go.”
§
The club had been transformed.
Last time she had emerged into the public area of the club there had been a few Russian thugs positioned around the place looking menacing, a scared dancer scurrying away, and Owen and Salko holding court at a booth across from the stage.
Now, the ones who looked scared were the Russians. Or some of them, at least.
The one who’d called her a dirty bitch was up against one wall, one arm pinned behind his back by a uniformed man in body armor and a riot helmet.
Another suited Russian stood with his head bowed, his hands cuffed behind his back.
Even Maliakov looked cowed, standing by the bar with his legs spread as a policeman patted him down, searching for weapons.
In one corner of the club, a group of maybe a dozen young women stood in various states of undress.
“My former partner, Viktor Salko,” said Davydov. “He will be locked up for a long time. These girls, they are illegal here. Stolen from their homes in Eastern Europe. The police will find plenty of evidence – I have made sure of that. People trafficking carries a long sentence. And then there is the gun that killed my friend Yvgeny Primakov. It is not here yet, but when it is I have been assured there will be forensic evidence tying it to Salko. Your friend, Owen Bailey, has been thorough in that regard.”
As he spoke, Davydov had indicated Salko standing by the exit, surveying the scene. Maggie could not read the man’s expression. A mix of anger and frustration, perhaps. Fear, too. But above all, defeat.
He was a beaten man.
She recognized another man, the police officer who appeared to be directing the operation. He had been here with Owen earlier in the day; this must be his friend, Reuben.
Owen’s friend saw her then. He tipped his chin up, tried to make eye contact, but she turned, said to Davydov, “Get me out of here. Do as you promised.”
Davydov nodded towards a fire escape exit. The door stood open.
It was perhaps the strangest experience so far, walking the length of that club with Davydov at her side. Police were all about them, patting down the Russian gangsters and taking their weapons. Yet, she and the Russian gang boss simply walked through, as if invisible, not a part of this. Immune to the sting that had closed in on Salko and his favorites.
Outside it was dark. Maggie had lost all track and had no i
dea what time of day or night it might be.
She led the way down the metal fire escape to the yard at the rear of the club, where a black car awaited.
When she reached the ground and paused, she looked up and saw Reuben Glover in the doorway, his hands on the rails.
“Ms Petrauskė,” he said. “Owen’s heading down here. He won’t be long now. Let me take you to meet him. Freddie’s okay, too.”
Confirmation that Owen was alive should have meant something, but just as she had tried to clamp down on belief that he had been killed so now she tried to clamp down on... anything. Any kind of response.
Davydov held the car door open.
Maggie stepped towards it, rested a hand on the top of the open door.
Freddie had urged her to get away from all this, put it behind her. Find a new life.
“You’re making a mistake,” said the police officer.
She looked up at Reuben.
She tried to make out his expression but he was too far away and the light too low.
“Give him a chance, will you?” he said. “I’ve never known anyone like Owen Bailey. He’s a good man. For all the things he’s done and is, I’ve never known anyone with a heart like his, and I’ve never seen anyone get through to him like you have, Ms Petrauskė. Will you not just give him a chance? You’ll break his fucking heart, darling.”
She swallowed. Tried to organize her thoughts. Said, “But... he left me. I was handcuffed by gangsters who had threatened – promised – to do all kinds of things to me, and your friend, your ‘good man’, he just walked away, without even a glance. You know that: you were with him.”
“He saved your life.”
Maggie nodded. “Oh yes, I do not doubt that. He is a man who calculated that, and did what was necessary to get me out. But... he walked away. What kind of a man can do that? Do you know what it is like to be handcuffed like that, and left? What it is like to contemplate being with a man who is capable of doing such a thing?”
“You’d rather he did something stupidly heroic and went down all guns blazing?”
She swallowed again, then said, simply, “Yes. Yes, I think I would. Better to go down in flames with a man of passion than... a man capable of such coldness.”
Her hand still on the top of the open car door, she stepped back and swung it shut. Turned slowly a full circle, and then walked away. Past Davydov, that smirk on his face. Away from Reuben, still standing at the top of the fire escape.
Away from it all, down the passageway between the buildings to a shabby high street somewhere in the East End of a city she did not know and did not want to know.
And even as she did so, she knew she was doing exactly what Owen Bailey had done, over-ruling the heart and going with the head.
Her heart... it hurt. But hearts heal.
And so she walked away.
21
I got there as fast as I possibly could.
Walked into that club that had once belonged to me and my brothers. The Russians were gone now. Just a few coppers standing around chatting, tying up loose ends after the raid. They didn’t even want to let me in at first, but then one of Reuben’s boys spotted me and gave me the nod.
I spotted Reuben himself at a table by the bar, a stack of papers before him and a cellphone pressed to his ear.
When he glanced up and caught my eye I knew.
I’d got there as fast as I possibly could, but that hadn’t been fast enough.
§
“You get what you needed?” I asked, my voice brusque, a feeble attempt to disguise my feelings. Trying to be business-like.
I dropped into a chair opposite my old friend, as he ended his call.
Reuben nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yes, we did. Eleven girls, all illegals, we reckon. And we have information about a string of safe-houses the Russians use, and the routes they use to traffic the girls in. A stash of coke and pills in the back office, a few firearms. A couple of villains we’ve been after for a while, too. That was a bonus. Salko will be going down for a long time.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the plastic bag Freddie the German had threatened me with. The one containing the gun that had killed Putin, all those months before.
“An even longer time if you can use this,” I said.
Reuben reached for it.
“I’ve cleaned it,” I said. Didn’t want to incriminate myself, after all. “But how are you going to get the forensics on Salko?”
Reuben gave a short laugh. “Oh, it’s like your old man used to say, isn’t it? You can’t fake the forensics these days. Things are too advanced. But it’s easy to fake the documentation.”
“And Davydov?” I asked. “Did he get away?”
“Who’s Davydov? I didn’t see anybody by that name here.”
I nodded. It looked like all the loose ends had been tied up. All bar–
“She’s gone,” said Reuben. “Walked away. I did everything I could to keep her here, save handcuffs.”
I stared at the table.
I’d known I was unlikely to see Maggie again. Hell, I’d told Freddie to get her as far away as possible.
But I hadn’t expected her to simply walk away.
And I hadn’t expected it to hurt so damned much.
“You should come back, Owen. Back to the East End. Back to running things, just like you used to.”
Now I looked up. I’d spent the last few months locked away from the world. Hiding. But in the last day or two I’d had a taster of what it used to be like, and of how it could still be.
I shook my head. “Nah, Reub. Not going to happen. I made a deal. I gave it all away to the one Russian left standing. And I’m a man of my word. You should know that.”
I stood, hesitated, then leaned over to hug him.
“I’ll see you around, maybe.”
And then it was my turn to walk away from it all.
§
I found her. Of course I fucking found her.
It took me the best part of a month, much of which time I didn’t even look because she’d made her choice and her choice had been to walk away.
What right did I have to go after her? To force myself into her life when me being a part of her life had only ever led to grief.
She’d seen me up close. She’d had a good look. And she’d decided she didn’t want me to feature. End of.
What right did I have?
She occupied my thoughts constantly, though. Little things kept reminding me. The walls she had papered during the day and I had finished at night. The woodwork we had painted in the same tandem fashion, unable now to tell where her brushstrokes ended and mine took over.
Every time I looked out of the windows from my seat at the Blüthner to where the path threaded its way along the clifftop and I didn’t see her.
All the times I found myself in town, and realized I had taken that turning and was passing the lodging house by the station where she had once occupied an attic room.
Every morning I woke and turned onto my side and saw the space that she had occupied for one night.
Just one night, but still in that limbo between sleep and full wakefulness, somehow my mind had trained itself to expect her presence rather than her absence from that space.
I had no right to pursue her. No right at all.
But it had been inevitable that I would do so, no matter how successful I was in denying that I might.
I was powerless to do otherwise.
§
I asked in town, found that she had never returned to that attic room, and after a week or two her few meager possessions had been removed and another tenant moved in.
I tracked down Tomasz the Polish builder who had recommended her, but he knew nothing save what she had already told me: that she had paid him to make that recommendation, and that he had lied that she was family. He wasn’t even apologetic – was almost confrontational about it – and I realized I was still unaccustomed to people like
him not being scared of me and my kind.
I called Reuben, and we had one of those long telephone conversations that went on late into the evening.
About how things were back down in London, how Davydov was operating, what was happening with the Russians they’d rounded up with Salko.
We talked about my brothers down in Spain, how I’d had another call from Jess to tell me nothing much at all, and that getting a call that told me nothing much at all was so much more important than a call that might tell me something – contact for the sake of contact was a new thing between me and my brothers, even if it was through an intermediary.
We talked about everything, apart from–
“So what is it? What’re you after, Owen? You going to say it out loud, or do you want me to do the honors?”
“Her,” I said, without hesitation now. “Maggie. Have you heard anything? Is she in London?”
“London’s a big town.”
“Have you heard anything, Reuben?”
“No. Not a thing. And not for want of sniffing around. Thought you might be asking me one day.”
“Do me a favor, would you, Reuben? Ask a bit harder.”
I’d spoken to a few other old contacts, too. Even though nobody owed me any favors these days – I’d made it clear that any favors owed to the Bailey Boys had been transferred to Davydov, after all. But, well, people had loyalties. If a Bailey asks for help in the East End, he’s still going to get help.
But nothing. No sign of her.
It wasn’t long before I was convinced she was no longer in the country. Freddie had vanished off the scene after the raid on Shakers – maybe he’d taken my advice and got himself and his sister as far away from all this as possible.
Then, one day, I got a call from someone who owed me no favors because I’d given them all to him.
Alexei Davydov.
I’d just come in from another long walk along the cliffs, was sitting with a mug of tea at that big kitchen table where once I’d swept everything aside to make room for Maggie.
My cellphone buzzed in my pocket, the screen telling me the caller’s number had been withheld. I almost didn’t answer, then: “Yeah?”
