by Sam Hepburn
He laughed but you could see the joke was on me.
‘Get lost, kid. And get that dog out of here.’
I scooped Oz up and tried to stop him wriggling. ‘It’s business. It’s important.’
‘I said, get lost.’
When I didn’t budge he slammed the till shut and started moving round from behind the counter. Oz let out a low growl and bared his teeth. I clamped my hand over his muzzle.
‘Tell him . . . tell him I’m a friend of Jackson Duval’s,’ I said.
I didn’t have much of a plan but mentioning Jackson definitely hadn’t been part of it.
The man eyeballed me for a second, then he called something to the waitress heading through the swing doors. Seconds later she came back with a hulk with a greasy black quiff, poached egg eyes and a tattooed neck. When I say big I’m talking at least six foot six, and when I say neck I mean a solid slab of muscle that sloped from the top of his arms straight to his ears. Just looking at him made me want to pee myself and run. Too late now. The Hulk had already joined in the laughter. He grabbed me by the neck and next thing I knew I was being shoved into the kitchens and hustled past rows of sweaty cooks and bubbling saucepans, spitting steam.
My bad case of jitters turned into a full-blown freak-out when he made me put Oz down and frisked me. Did I look like I’d got an AK47 stuffed down my trousers? He even jerked Oz’s head up and felt under is collar, raising a big menacing hand when Oz snapped at him.
‘Stop it Oz, It’s OK,’ I said quickly.
Once the Hulk had satisfied himself that neither of us was armed he took me upstairs, knocked at a door and shouted something I couldn’t understand. I heard a click and a whir. The door swung open. Viktor Kozek obviously didn’t like visitors barging in unexpectedly.
The Hulk pushed me into a plush-looking office with a red carpet, wood panelling and no windows. Above the desk hung a big wall-mounted screen, chequered with grainy, ever-changing CCTV shots of a warehouse, a garage forecourt, a bar and a row of railway arches. The man sitting at the desk was about fifty. His pudgy cheeks, short grey-flecked hair and natty pinstriped suit made him look like everybody’s favourite uncle till you saw his eyes, which were very blue, very scary and very busy taking in every detail of my face.
‘Who are you?’ he said. His voice was low and suspicious and his accent was similar to Yuri’s.
I swallowed down the sick taste of panic and said the first name that popped into my head. ‘Erm, Erroll Potts.’
He pointed to a flashy red velvet chair. Oz was agitated, letting out grunty little whines. He wanted to leave. Me too. I sat down and pushed him onto the floor next to me.
‘Lie still. Keep quiet.’ I hissed.
He dropped his nose on his paws and cowered there glancing warily from side to side.
‘Did Jackson Duval send you?’
‘Not . . . exactly, Mr Kozek.’
Viktor’s frown got deeper. ‘What do you want?’
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Then I remembered I was doing this for Mum and my tongue loosened up.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ I said. ‘A Ukrainian called Yuri. I don’t know his second name but he’s been in the UK a couple of weeks and I think he’s in London.’
‘What makes you think I can help you?’
‘He’s in trouble. I think he’s involved in some . . . stuff.’
‘What sort of stuff?’
‘Bad stuff. He’s on the run.’
He rocked forward slightly in his chair. ‘Who from?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why do you want him?’
‘He’s . . . got something I need.’ I wasn’t going to tell Viktor it was information.
‘Something valuable?’
‘Only to me,’ I said, quickly. ‘So if you know anyone who could do some quiet asking around I can pay with this.’ I pulled out the tie-clip.
He took it, curling his lip.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s gold and that’s a real diamond.’
He sucked his teeth and tossed it back to me. ‘Secondhand diamonds aren’t my line. But I have to admit, you intrigue me, Erroll. I was about to have some Russian tea. Will you join me?’
‘Erm . . . OK,’ I said, hating the wobble in my voice.
‘Bogdan!’ He shouted something to the Hulk, who grunted and lumbered off. Then he got out a little digital recorder, pressed a couple of buttons and laid it on the desk between us.
‘Nothing personal, Erroll. Whenever I have an interesting conversation with someone I don’t know l always find it pays to take a few precautions.’ He settled back in his leather chair, ‘So, What does this Yuri look like?’
I took a deep breath and started to describe him. I’d just got to the gash on his leg when Bogdan shouted to be buzzed in. He came back followed by a girl carrying two steaming glasses of black tea in silver holders on a fancy silver tray. She was maybe a bit older than me, pale, skinny and not very tall, with a slightly crooked mouth and long, dead straight hair that was this weird silvery colour. I guessed she was Viktor’s daughter, till I noticed she wasn’t dressed like a rich man’s kid and saw the look he gave her, which wasn’t exactly bursting with fatherly affection. She had a right sour face on her, didn’t smile or even look up. She served Viktor first. Then she turned, and as she got to me she glimpsed Oz’s head poking round the other side of my chair, missed her footing and slopped boiling tea all down my hand and on to the carpet.
Three things happened. I let out a yelp. Viktor bawled Nina! and the girl looked me in the eye. She wasn’t sour. She was terrified.
‘Hey, my fault,’ I said, wincing with pain. ‘Sorry about your carpet, Mr Kozek. I’ve . . . always been clumsy.’
Viktor snapped something at the girl. She scooted away and came back with a cloth, a bowl of water and a little dish of ice. As I held a lump of it against my hand she mouthed me a silent thank you, rolled up her sleeves and started scrubbing at the stain. It was then that I saw the purple bruises. Rings of them like bracelets. As if someone with powerful fingers had grabbed her wrists and squeezed very hard.
‘Does this Yuri have tattoos?’ Viktor said.
‘Yeah,’ I said, tearing my eyes away from the girl’s arms. ‘All over.’
‘Describe them.’
He sat forward, nodding slightly when I told him about the spiders and the snarling wolf on Yuri’s back, and pressing me for numbers when I mentioned the domed turrets.
‘What’s it matter how many?’
‘They are jail tattoos. One dome, one year in prison.’
I shuddered. There’d been twelve, maybe fifteen turrets, rippling between Yuri’s shoulder blades.
‘What do the others mean?’
He shrugged. ‘Every prison, every gang, they have their own variations. But if you know how to read them they can tell you a man’s whole life story.’
I glanced at the little tattooed snake peeking out from under his cuff, and looked away as he adjusted his sleeve.
‘What tattoos does he have on his chest?’ Viktor said.
For all he was trying to look bored, something shifted when I told him about the one-eyed skull and the barbed wire. When I asked him what it meant he shrugged again but his whole body was tense.
‘Where did you last see him?’
A warning light flashed in my head. ‘Er . . . Brixton. He was just passing through. Not sure where he was headed.’
‘He speak English?’
‘Yes. It’s a bit rusty but he understands everything.’
‘So you think he’s been to UK before?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And you are hoping he has made contact with old friends.’
‘Yeah.’
Viktor switched off his tape recorder.
‘Erroll, I have enjoyed our little chat and as a favour to Jackson Duval I will ask my people to keep an eye out for this Yuri. But it is very hard to find a man who does not want to b
e found, especially in a place like London.’
Nina had been so quiet I’d almost forgotten she was there till she picked up her bowl and cloth and backed out the door.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘but . . . if it’s all right with you can we keep Jackson out of this? He thought I . . . shouldn’t get involved.’
‘You can trust me, Erroll.’
His smile was slow, lingered just a little too long, and brought back the panic.
‘Bogdan will show you out.’
I didn’t mention that he hadn’t asked for my number. What was the point? We both knew he was never going to call.
Oz skulked along at my heels, keeping well clear of the Hulk. The kitchen was even steamier and nosier than before, full of shouting people blocking the narrow space between the counters. I swerved to avoid a waitress, nearly braining myself on a row of dangling saucepans.
Nina cut past me, lugging a tray piled high with dirty plates. I nodded at her. She didn’t nod back, just gave me this strange look, like she was sussing me out. Then she blinked down at the tray and back up at me. I thought she’d got something in her eye. She did it again.
I followed her gaze. A tiny strip of paper was poking out from under the plates, all curled up like a little white worm.
She stared at me, willing me to pick it up. I palmed it and kept walking through the swing doors, speeding up as I followed Bogdan across the restaurant. By the time I hit the street I was running. I didn’t stop till I was well clear of the Besedka and everybody in it. I darted down an alley and stood with my back to the wall breathing fast, trying to imagine the story that the one-eyed skull on Yuri’s chest was telling. Kozek knew what it was, that was for sure. But the rings of bruises on Nina’s scrawny arm kept blotting out Yuri’s tattoos, hinting at a pretty miserable tale of their own.
I flattened out the strip of paper. She hadn’t taken any chances. The pencilled letters were so faint you had to know you were looking for something to even see they were there.
Tonight 10 p.m. Tina’s burger van. Shepherd’s Bush Market.
Half of me wanted to chuck it in the nearest bin and keep running; the other half was desperate to know what she wanted. I was so confused I called Bailey and told him about my meeting with Viktor. He went ballistic when I admitted I’d mentioned Jackson. Who could blame him? I kept telling him it was OK because Viktor wasn’t going to help me anyway and when he finally calmed down I told him about Nina.
‘What’s she playing at?’ he said.
‘She’s got bruises, all round her wrists.’
‘Doesn’t mean you can trust her.’
‘I bet it was that creep Kozek who gave them to her. She wouldn’t risk upsetting him unless it was really important.’
‘Or he put her up to it.’
‘Either way, I’ve got to find out what she wants.’
‘Maybe she fancies you.’
‘What? No. She’s not like that. She’s . . . I dunno, kind of angry.’
I hung up, bought some chips and joined the rest of the homeless hanging out on Shepherd’s Bush Green. Most of them had scraggy dogs and looked like life had given them a good kicking. Me and Oz fitted right in.
After an hour or so of trying to figure out why Nina wanted to see me, why Viktor Kozek had got so uptight about Yuri’s skull tattoo, and what Jackson would do to me and Bailey if he found out where I’d been, my brain was hitting overload. But I didn’t want to stop. Whenever I did, the thought of Mum reaching out to that fireman rushed in to fill the gap and the name Lizzie echoed round my head, pitching me into a bottomless blur of pain. The only way to stop falling was to keep going.
*
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like the broken street lamps, the boarded-up railway arches or the unfamiliar tags on the walls. Most of all I didn’t like the groups of kids hanging round the entrance to the market looking for trouble. I put Oz on the lead and slipped down a shadowy alleyway that led into the main part of the market. It was deserted, lit only by a few yellowish street lamps, and everything was locked up, chained up or battened down. I kept walking between the rows of empty stalls, listening to the tarpaulins flapping in the wind and searching for Tina’s burger van.
When I found it, it was nothing special, just a dirty old caravan with a scabby-looking burger and a couple of hot dogs painted on the closed metal shutters. Nina wasn’t there. I hung around for a couple of minutes watching for movement in the shadows, jumping every time Oz’s ears pricked up or the wind rattled an awning till I got so freaked out I backed between a couple of skips and called Bailey.
‘What’s happening?’ he said.
‘Nothing. She’s not here.’
‘Get out of there, it might be a trap.’
‘I’ll give it five minutes then I’ll . . .’
‘Hey, Erroll.’ It was a thin, sharp girl’s voice that made Erroll sound like earhole. Didn’t bother me, it wasn’t my name.
I leant out and took a look down the line of stalls.
The girl’s voice came again. ‘Can anyone see you?’
‘No.’
‘Down here.’
‘Watch yourself,’ Bailey said.
The tarpaulin round the bottom of the nearest stall opened like a curtain. A hand poked out, beckoning me inside. Suddenly I wasn’t so sure this was a good idea. I thumbed the ‘end call’ button but didn’t press it. I mean, if this was a set-up, having Bailey listening in would be some kind of backup. And like Viktor Kozek said, if you’re having a meeting with a stranger, it pays to take a few precautions. I hissed ‘shh’ into the phone, hoping Bailey would get what I was doing, and slipped the handset into the front pocket of my jeans.
I scrambled through the flapping tarpaulin and pulled Oz in after me. Even with our knees bunched up there was barely room for her and me, let alone a dog as well. But Nina didn’t seem to mind and neither did Oz. He climbed between us, wriggling his head under her arm and thumping his tail against my face.
‘This is cosy,’ I said.
She flicked on a little torch that gave off a dim yellow light but even then I couldn’t see much of her face. She’d got an old woolly hat pulled over her eyes and a dark scarf wrapped round her mouth. She pulled it forward just enough to speak. ‘I have not much time. Why are you looking for this man called Yuri?’ She said her Ws like Vs just like Yuri and Viktor.
‘He’s in trouble. I want to help him.’
Her pinched little face was wary. ‘That is all?’
‘No. I think he knows something . . . ’bout my mum.’
She shifted round to give Oz more room. ‘Like what?’
‘Like why she died.’
It weirded me out the way she just nodded as if she had conversations like this all the time.
‘I can help you find him,’ she said.
‘What’s in it for you?’
‘Cash.’
‘Why do you need it?’
‘My father owes Viktor money.’
‘How much?’
‘A lot.’
‘I don’t have any. Not right now.’ I pulled out the tie-clip. ‘But I’m going to try and sell this.’
She plucked it out of my fingers, turning it so it sparkled in the torch light. ‘What is this?’
‘A tie-clip.’
She handed it back. ‘If it is stolen maybe you will not get much. What about Yuri? Can he get me money?’
I thought about the emeralds in his Oxo tin and said, ‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘OK. I will take tie-clip as down payment.’
‘On what?’
‘Information.’
‘It better be worth it.’
She leant back and put a hand up to stop Oz licking her face. ‘How about this? After you left, Viktor called his brothers in Ukraine. They are big criminals, just like him. They made some calls and now Viktor is pretty sure who Yuri is.’
My heart did a double beat. ‘How come?’
‘He has prison tattoos. They make it easy.’
I stared at her, suddenly suspicious. ‘How do you know who Viktor talked to?’
She dropped her eyes. ‘I hear things.’
‘How?’
‘I listen.’
‘So why did Viktor say he couldn’t help me?’
‘Do we have deal?’
I nodded and held out the tie-clip. ‘Go on. Why did he lie?’
She didn’t take it. ‘First I must know if I can trust you. Who told you about Viktor?’
‘My mate Bailey. He said his brother Jackson did business with him.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Jackson Duval?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Swear to me you will not tell Jackson I am helping you.’
‘I swear. In any case, he’ll string me up if he finds out I’ve been anywhere near Viktor Kozek.’
She turned this over for a minute then said. ‘OK. So now I need all details – how you know Yuri and how he knows about your mother.’
For the third time that day I outlined the weird links between Lincoln, Mum and Yuri. I even told her about Yuri hiding at Elysium, and my nan working for Norma Craig and Greville Clairmont before the murder. If it was a test it looked like I passed because as soon as I’d finished she pocketed the tie-clip.
‘OK. Well, you are not only one who is looking for Yuri,’ she said. ‘Viktor is going to find him and sell him to someone who will give him a lot of money.’
Sell him! I felt like someone had punched me. ‘Who . . . who wants to buy him?’ I could hardly force out the words.
‘A Russian Mafia boss.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘No one knows his real name and no one gets to see him. But they call him Korshun.’ She frowned. ’It means something like . . . um . . . Vulture.’
‘Some nickname. How much is he offering?’
‘Half a million pounds.’
‘For Yuri?’ I was stunned. ‘Why so much?’
‘Viktor’s brothers do not know. But they say his name is Yuri Borzov and till few weeks ago he was in Strizhavka Jail.’
