Restitution

by Rose Edmunds

  Stepping into the car would end badly. People obeyed instructions in these situations because they hoped to cheat death by buying more time. But it never worked, because they wound up dead anyway. If the man shot me now, I would at least die on my terms, speedily with the bravado of two martinis coursing through me.

  ‘I don’t have an appointment with Mr Lytkin.’

  ‘We are only acting on Mr Lytkin’s instructions,’ he replied. ‘Please, come with us and we will take you to him.’

  ‘I refuse to get in the car,’ I said with a calmness I didn’t feel. ‘Shoot me, whatever, I don’t care.’

  ‘Shoot you?’ laughed the man. ‘Why would we do that? Mr Lytkin wants a quiet discussion with you, nothing more. No need for any fuss.’

  But fuss was exactly what I did need. Even at nine pm, the street was still busy, and I’d take my chance. In a flash of inspiration driven by desperation, I remembered I still had the rape alarm in my jacket pocket. I pulled the pin, and an ear-splitting wailing filled the air.

  An unlikely hero in the form of a grey-suited banker stepped up to the plate.

  ‘Are these men bothering you?’

  ‘We’re here to take her to an appointment with our boss, that’s all.’

  ‘There is no appointment. They’re trying to abduct me.’

  ‘That’s crazy—our boss asked us to collect her.’

  ‘They’re lying,’ I said.

  ‘She’s not coming with you,’ said the banker, rapidly assessing and seizing control of the situation. ‘Understood?’

  The man didn’t even attempt to argue, but said in menacing tones, ‘I shall inform Mr Lytkin that the meeting is not convenient—he will be in touch soon.’

  And with that, the car pulled away, leaving me shaken but relieved.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Yes, fine,’ I lied. ‘I could do with a taxi though.’

  ‘We must call the police. I got the registration number.’

  ‘No—I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘OK, if you’re positive.’

  He sounded doubtful, but with the aplomb of one who has survived the hubris of the financial bubble and the ensuing crash, he hailed a passing cab.

  ‘Where to, miss?’ asked the driver.

  40

  Where to indeed?

  I couldn’t go home, because they would track me there. Ditto, George’s house, and God knows where Mel had hunkered down with Tom. There was always my mother’s house in Croydon, but I couldn’t summon the strength to face her now after more than a decade. So it would have to be a random hotel—somewhere to regroup.

  I checked my Booking.com app.

  ‘Crowne Plaza, Blackfriars.’

  It was a familiar hotel, close to the Pearson Malone offices, but with any luck not a destination Lytkin would anticipate. My hand shook as I signed for the key.

  ‘Welcome back to the Crowne Plaza, Ms Robinson. We’ve upgraded you to an executive suite.’

  Once in the room, I made a beeline for the minibar. In the light of recent events, surely even Little Amy, with all her hypocritical zeal, wouldn’t object to a small, nerve-calming brandy. I poured the contents of the miniature bottle into a tumbler, sat on the bed and knocked it straight back, hoping to regain my equilibrium.

  In spite of the brandy, I slept fitfully, troubled by a kaleidoscope of unpleasant memories and gloomy forebodings. By eight in the morning, I’d almost drifted off into a more peaceful state when the sound of my phone ringing jolted me awake.

  ‘Hello, Amy,’ said the caller smoothly, in an identifiable Russian accent. ‘Alexander Lytkin here. I’m sorry to hear you were distressed by the car I sent to collect you last night.’

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  ‘My dear friend Yuri Netrusov gave it to me. Why are you so edgy?’

  Good God, the guy had a nerve speaking in such sympathetic tones. How did he expect me to react to being forced into a car at gunpoint?

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘Honestly, Amy, I have no idea—I only want to talk to you, not to harm you. I can’t imagine why you’re frightened.’

  Seriously? They’d run me off the road, then shot at me and I was supposed to trust them not to harm me when one of their armed heavies approached me.

  ‘In my world, it’s customary to book an appointment in advance rather than sending a car without warning.’

  ‘And in mine, it’s customary to reply to an email suggesting such an appointment.’

  ‘I received no email.’

  Probably because it had not been sent.

  ‘Ah in that case I apologise.’

  ‘How did you know I’d be in the Shard last night?’

  I hadn’t focussed on this conundrum before now, but I was curious. Had they been following me again?

  ‘It’s my business to know these things. Just as I know you are currently staying in the Crowne Plaza Blackfriars.’

  I cursed myself for my stupidity. If he’d traced me to the Shard, of course he could also ferret out my hiding place—Lytkin was ex KGB, after all. If I’d used my brains I could have saved myself the cost of the hotel room.

  ‘Listen, Amy, we still need to talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I shall send another car at half past nine to bring you to my offices.’

  I’d survived the night unharmed, which I found mildly reassuring. Additionally, Lytkin’s offices seemed an unlikely location for murder. But of course, I had only his word that the car would take me there.

  ‘Suppose I refuse to meet you?’

  ‘You would be most unwise, especially as I have a proposition to put to you.’

  Most unwise sounded sinister, but the proposition intrigued me.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to make my own way to your offices.’

  ‘As you wish, Ms Robinson. Can you be with me by ten? I’ll text you the address.’

  ‘Sure, no problem.’

  Except I did have a problem—I was quaking with fear. But I felt impelled to go.

  ***

  God alone knew where Mel was hiding out with lover boy, but I didn’t mind betting Lytkin had the address. Which made it all the more puzzling that he’d approached me and not them. Still, I decided I should put them in the picture and called Mel’s number. She answered on the first ring.

  I felt more than a little embarrassed as I described the attempted abduction, which in reality amounted only to a polite request to get in a car. But Mel took a different view.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell me you’re planning on meeting him—you must be insane.’

  ‘I’m starting to doubt whether he’s the bad guy so I might as well see what he wants.’

  ‘But the kidnap…’

  ‘Are you sure Lytkin was behind it?’

  ‘Of course it was him. And you mustn’t go.’

  ‘Look—I don’t care what you say. If they’d wanted to kill me I’d be dead, and so would you and Tom.’

  ‘But I’ve warned you before about your complete inability to judge situations.’

  Which was a cheap shot after her recent showing.

  ‘You also told me to use my intuition, so I am.’

  And my intuition had been giving all sorts of signals, which I struggled to interpret. All I knew was, rightly or wrongly, I suddenly felt less afraid.

  ***

  I walked over to Lytkin’s office, just a few blocks from Ivanov’s. For sure, these Russian oligarchs were great imitators of each other.

  During all the years I’d been stuck in the glass hellhole of Pearson Malone, I’d forgotten how beautiful London was in the spring. I’d sat in taxis rushing from meeting to meeting, reading dull tax planning reports, never taking the time to explore. But this morning it was as though I’d been reborn, as I admired the daffodils in St James’s Park and the imposing façades along Piccadilly. And as for l
istening to my intuition, I severely doubted this would be my last day on earth.

  Lytkin’s office was equipped with much more conventional oligarch bling than Ivanov’s. The Louis XVI gold gilt furnishings were authentic, but they looked vulgar and flashy to my eye. Lytkin’s fortune had taken a pounding and he’d slipped below 50th place on the most recent Sunday Times Rich List—barely wealthy enough to merit the oligarch tag. He’d complained vociferously about how they’d understated his wealth, but the media interpreted this as an act of desperation, along with the lawsuit against Ivanov. In a one down position, possibly Lytkin had to try harder than Ivanov to look the part.

  ‘Ah, Ms Robinson,’ he said, as we shook hands. ‘It’s so good to see you. My friend Yuri Netrusov is most complimentary about your abilities. He tells me your tax advice on his Cyprus trust was inspired genius.’

  Privately, I now suspected the compliance department’s initial assessment of Netrusov had been accurate, and my advice was “inspired genius” only because he’d withheld crucial facts.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m no longer in tax,’ I said. I now wondered if the purpose of our meeting was unconnected with the Picasso, even though I noticed the copy hanging on the wall behind his desk. ‘I can recommend someone to you though.’

  ‘Thank you, that will not be necessary. And may I say what a loss to the profession you are. However, we are not meeting to discuss taxation today.’

  Lytkin’s urbane charm reinforced my perception of his innocence, but I steeled myself, determined not let him beguile me. It didn’t pay to underestimate a man linked with the Russian Mafia.

  ‘So how can I help you?’

  ‘Please, take a seat, and I shall explain. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  The memory of the guy poisoned by polonium while drinking tea in a London hotel flashed into my mind. I felt safe enough, but I guess he did too until he’d drunk it.

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

  ‘I’m most impressed with your efforts as a financial investigator, described here in this illuminating newspaper article.’

  He pointed to the copy of the previous day’s Globe open at the relevant page on his desk.

  ‘Interestingly, the account is silent on various key matters, not least the painting your friend Mr Hardacre retrieved from the Swiss vault.’

  ‘What makes you say he’s my friend?’ I asked, wary now we were approaching the nub of the matter.

  ‘His girlfriend is known to you, so I’m told.’

  ‘We’re acquainted, yes.’

  ‘Did you realise this was a copy?’ he asked, gesturing at the picture behind him.

  ‘Not at the time, and nor did Hardacre. Stanislav Novak misled us all.’

  ‘I’m inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt,’ he said, after a moment’s reflection. ‘Tom Hardacre is nothing but a petty criminal, with limited intelligence. And besides, I was aware of the facts when I bought it, so I cannot in all conscience claim to have been swindled.’

  ‘You bought it?’

  My incredulity must have been plain. He could be lying, but somehow I didn’t think so.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, with a puzzled expression. ‘You know I did. Your friends sold it to me.’

  And in that instant, I pinpointed what had been bothering me about the whole kidnap episode.

  It hadn’t happened.

  I played back Mel’s words in my head. ‘I never really believed I was in any danger…’

  My experience the previous evening amply demonstrated how little it took to spook a person, even a girl who doesn’t scare easily. In the video, Mel came across as just too self-possessed for a kidnap victim, plus she’d bounced back way too quickly. I now felt certain the whole episode had been staged.

  The sheer brass neck of that pair of con artists was staggering. They’d clearly done a deal with Lytkin and then fabricated the whole kidnapping saga to placate Ivanov, roping me in to lend extra credibility. To say I was livid at having been deceived would be an understatement, but my rage would have to wait till later to find an outlet.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, hiding my shock. ‘You say you were aware it was a copy.’

  ‘Yes—I had an expert verify it as a Picasso before I parted with the money. He told me the grapes on the side table meant it was the replica. Meanwhile, the uncultured little shit Hardacre neglected to make even the most basic enquiries about his merchandise.’

  ‘So you didn’t enlighten him?’

  ‘No—why should I? As you’d expect, his opening negotiating position was much higher than the five million dollars I ended up paying, but I told him the price must be deeply discounted unless he furnished full details of provenance. Predictably enough he declined to do so. After which the negotiations progressed without a hitch.’

  ‘A ninety-five percent discount seems excessive to me.’

  ‘Indeed so, as it would to anyone of your intellect and sophistication. But he’s far too dumb and greedy to appreciate that.’

  ‘You know he was working for Ivanov?’ I said. ‘Why didn’t he offer it to him?’

  Which would have been way simpler, I reflected, than all the kidnap rigmarole.

  ‘I didn’t know of his connection with Ivanov until later—Hardacre simply approached me and offered to sell me the artwork. I asked him why he thought I might be interested, and he said because Ivanov owned the other one in the pair. I played down my enthusiasm, and suggested he sell it to Ivanov, but Hardacre told me he didn’t trust him. But anyway, he correctly predicted that I’d like to get one over on Boris.’

  So even Lytkin had fallen for Hardacre’s manipulation, citing a distrust of Ivanov as a way to build rapport.

  ‘Why wouldn’t he trust Ivanov?’

  Lytkin considered this.

  ‘Oh I expect he bought into all the crap about Boris being the “ethical oligarch” and feared he’d blow the whistle. Got to hand it to Boris, he hides his crooked nastiness cunningly behind his spotless reputation.’

  ‘But is he nasty enough to resort to murder?’ I asked, not believing it, but fishing to see what Lytkin’s reaction might be.

  ‘Undoubtedly—why do you ask?’

  I described how I’d been run off the road, shot at and how Živsa had been brutally killed, while being surprised Lytkin didn’t know all this already.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, comprehension dawning. ‘Now I understand your apprehension last night, but why would you believe I orchestrated these shocking crimes?’

  ‘Because you’re not an ethical oligarch?’

  He flashed me a wintry smile, showing teeth far too white and symmetrical to be real. Unlike Ivanov, he had the teeth of a man who wants everyone to see he’s spent a fortune on dentistry.

  ‘Boris Ivanov is responsible without a doubt. He’s a man obsessed, who’ll stop at nothing to get hold of that painting. Your friend was right not to trust him, but he will pay the ultimate price when Ivanov finds out he double-crossed him.’

  If Lytkin was telling the truth, Tom and Mel were in great danger. On the other hand, Ivanov simply didn’t strike me as the murderous type. And as for Lytkin, call me gullible but I was prepared to accept his assurances. Though if neither of the oligarchs had organised the attacks, you had to wonder who did.

  ‘But you,’ he said, pointing at the newspaper article again, ‘you’ve done an excellent job, persuading Stanislav Novak to come out into the open about his treasures. How did you manage it?’

  ‘Oh I have my methods of persuasion,’ I bragged. ‘And they never involve force.’

  I particularly loved the way the article presented me as a calm rational person, encouraging me to live up to the hype. Crazy Amy had departed, and sensible, professional Amy had usurped her position once more.

  ‘Yes,’ Lytkin agreed. ‘Which is why I’m hoping you’ll persuade Novak to give me first refusal on the painting.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can help.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘You
seem to enjoy Novak’s confidence, which is the key to it all. I will pay whatever it takes to get that painting, and I can offer you a commission of five per cent for facilitating the transaction, all paid to an untraceable account offshore. Sounds good?’

  My mind whizzed through the economics. Assuming a value of $100 million, my fee would be $5million—more than enough to set me up for life. I found the offer tempting, though there were tricky issues to circumnavigate.

  ‘Stan isn’t in a position to sell yet,’ I said. ‘It’s been impounded by HMRC, and unless he can show proper title, he won’t be allowed to keep it.’

  ‘But if he doesn’t have legal title, who does? If Novak’s father hadn’t rescued it, the Nazis would have destroyed it. Ivanov has already lost a court case over the other picture. And nobody else has come forward.’

  ‘It’s early days though,’ I said, mindful that if Lytkin and Ivanov were both telling the truth, our enemy was an unknown third party. I found this worrying, and even if Stan was at liberty to sell, he’d undoubtedly auction the painting to maximise his proceeds. In practical terms, I doubted whether I’d have any influence over him at all, and I might be placing myself in considerable danger.

  ‘Can I think about it?’

  ‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours,’ said Lytkin, consulting his blinged-out limited edition watch. ‘Though I can’t imagine why you’re hesitating.’

  41

  ‘So how did the meeting go?’ Mel asked with a nervous little laugh.

  It was now abundantly clear that her desire to prevent me meeting Lytkin had nothing to do with my safety, and everything to do with concealing the truth.

  ‘Well, you and that scumbag had me totally fooled with the fake kidnap. And don’t pretend not to understand because it won’t wash.’

  To her credit, she didn’t even try.

  ‘Look, I’ll explain everything.’

  I recalled Tom using precisely these words moments before spinning me a pack of new lies—what a pair they made.

  ‘Too damned right you will. I take it you’re still in London.’

  She hesitated.

  ‘It’s OK—you can come out of hiding—it’s perfectly safe. Lytkin knew the picture wasn’t the original when he bought it, even though you and Tom were too cretinous to check it out properly.’