Kaz had already deduced from the spartan nature of the flat that domestic organization was not Nicci Armstrong’s priority.
‘I’ll make tea.’ She gave her hostess a reassuring grin.
Nicci glanced at Kaz’s discarded clothes. ‘Want me to lend you some jeans or something?’
‘That would be great.’
‘Might be a bit short in the leg.’
‘I’ll cope.’
With a smile and a nod Nicci disappeared. Kaz could see that having a house-guest wasn’t totally comfortable for her. She seemed a solitary and secret soul. Kaz knew nothing of her history; things like family and relationships had never come up.
Wrapping herself in her torn blouse, she wandered into the kitchen area. The kettle had boiled. She searched in vain for a teapot and ended up dunking a teabag in a mug.
Her sequin-studded handbag from the night before lay on the table. It began to vibrate. Her own phone had remained in the bag all along; presumably one of Rory’s people had fished the plant out of the toilet. Kaz opened the bag and extracted the ringing phone. The caller ID read: Joey.
Kaz stared at it for a moment, sighed and answered. ‘Morning.’
‘You sound a bit stiff and starchy, babes. Didn’t it go to plan?’
‘I’m at Nicci’s.’
‘Oh. Right. I’ll keep it short then.’
‘Good idea.’
‘I’m getting the Eurostar from St Pancras at half twelve. Was hoping maybe you’d come and see me off.’
Kaz hesitated. ‘Is that a good idea?’
‘I got a surprise for you. Little going-away present.’
A cascade of scenarios flooded her mind – none of them pleasant. On the other hand, what could he do in the middle of one of London’s major railway stations?
‘I’m not that keen on surprises.’
His tone was impish. ‘Trust me, babes. You’re gonna love this. Meet me at the champagne bar, it’s sort of up on the walkway. You can’t miss it.’
‘What time?’
‘Midday. You won’t be disappointed, I promise.’
He hung up. Kaz held the phone in her hand and a dark fatalistic feeling rose up inside her. She brushed it aside and focused on dragging the soggy teabag from her mug.
99
Simon Blake stood at the head of the table in the boardroom watching Rory and Liam set up a screen and projector. His mood was airy; he’d spent his morning commute gazing out of the carriage window at swathes of sunlit woods and pasture. In his long police career he’d had his fair share of ups and downs. Now he was operating in new territory, a place where the old rules and privileges didn’t apply, but for the first time he felt at home. The Warner case had done that for him. It had silenced his niggling conscience and proved, if only to himself, that being a private investigator was a reputable calling. He wasn’t just in it for the money, as some envious former colleagues believed.
He awaited his guests from the MPS with refreshing equanimity. This was in spite of the fact he’d had Duncan Linton on the phone, issuing veiled threats to put him out of business. Blake’s reply had been, ‘Fine, bring it on.’ He’d had a late-night visit from two absurdly young Thames House spooks demanding to know what he’d got on Robert Hollister; he’d fobbed them off with lies. He’d also received a surprise early morning call from Fiona Calder, fishing for information. He’d been courteous enough but had pointed out that she wasn’t the only one who knew how to manipulate the media.
Alicia was arranging mineral water and glasses on the table when Nicci arrived. Blake scrutinized her: no red-rimmed baggy eyes, which made a change. Her arm was still resting in a sling, but she was wearing a smartish suit and a shirt, which had been ironed. Rory glanced across the room at her with the hint of a smile. But she ignored him entirely and headed for Blake. He knew she was probably just being tactical, still somewhere deep inside there lurked a suppressed adolescent fantasy that if circumstances had been different – but they weren’t.
Nicci checked her watch. ‘My guess is they’ll be ten minutes late.’
Blake grinned. ‘Slattery’s a cocky bastard, so I’m going to say fifteen.’
They both turned out to be wrong. Pascale escorted the Detective Superintendent and his three sidekicks from the lift to the office suite at nine on the dot. Introductions and handshakes were exchanged. Slattery declined the offer of coffee and pastries, but that was the only outward sign of his peevishness. He was playing the upstanding public official, refusing to sully himself by accepting anything, even hospitality, from the grubby realms of commerce.
He settled in a chair and immediately cut to the chase. ‘So Robert Hollister has been telling us he had a straightforward affair with Helen Warner and you’re going to tell me he’s lying?’
Blake was not about to be baited. ‘I’m going to show you some surveillance footage, Phil, and let you draw your own conclusions.’
‘Was this footage obtained legally?’
‘Shot in a private mansion-block flat, with the permission of the owner. My company provides security for the whole building.’
Slattery inhaled. ‘That’s convenient.’
His entourage comprised a DI and two DS’s. The DI was known to Blake, solid enough, but a bit of a plodder. His value to Slattery was he’d never be a threat. The other two were young and fierce-looking, brought along purely as ballast. The female of the pair eyed Nicci aggressively. Nicci sipped the coffee Alicia had poured for her and waited. Slattery might be stupid enough to think that this was his show. In reality it was Blake’s.
Taking a chair at the back of the room away from the table, Blake gave Rory a nod. The blinds had already been adjusted to cut out the morning glare. He switched on the projector and all eyes swivelled towards the screen.
The footage from the Belgravia flat had been edited down to a short continuous sequence. It began with Karen Phelps getting up from the sofa and wandering round to the other side of the coffee table.
Slattery folded his arms. ‘Who’s the girl?’
Blake could feel the tension pulsing off his former colleague. ‘She’s about to tell you. She’s a friend of Helen Warner.’
Right on cue, Kaz said exactly that. For the rest of the sequence Slattery remained silent. Robert Hollister’s admission that he began having a sexual relationship with Helen when she was only fourteen caused the policeman to blink several times. Apart from that he displayed no reaction whatsoever. The clip ended with Hollister dabbing a bloody nose and informing his audience that what happened to Helen Warner was no accident.
Rory reached over to switch the projector off. Liam opened the blinds. They both left the room.
Blake leant forward in his chair; he didn’t want to gloat. ‘Sure we can’t get you a coffee, Phil?’
Slattery drew in a long breath. ‘We will of course require the original and all copies.’
Rising to his feet and slotting his hands in his pockets, Blake strolled over to the window. ‘You must think I was born yesterday.’
The Detective Superintendent swung round in his chair. ‘If you’re suggesting—’
Blake held up his palm. ‘Whoa there! I’m not suggesting anything. You will obviously want to examine the original footage and have it forensically checked. Of course we will facilitate that. But Robert Hollister’s activities are a matter of legitimate public concern.’
Slattery gave him a surly glare. ‘You bastard, you’ve already given this to the press, haven’t you?’
‘Several editors have been made aware that the footage exists. I’m going to give you two hours, Phil, to do the right thing.’
The cop shoved his chair back and got to his feet, his crew gathered around him. ‘Hollister goes down, you know the effect that’ll have on the Met? They’ll cut and cut until there’s fuck all left. But you don’t give a stuff about that, do you?’
‘I give a stuff about the abuse of a fourteen-year-old girl, the murder of an MP and the blackmail of a politi
cian to corrupt the democratic process – and so should you.’
‘I don’t see evidence of corruption here. Or even murder. So Hollister’s a paedo? If a court buys that, then he’ll go down. But I’m not chasing some bloody conspiracy theory you’ve dreamt up to generate publicity for Simon Fucking Blake Associates.’ He paused for effect but his brow was beaded with sweat. ‘I think we’re done here.’
Blake opened his palms. ‘Thank you for coming over, Phil.’
Slattery turned on his heel and strode towards the door. One of the DS’s leapt forward to open it for him.
Hesitating, he glanced over his shoulder. ‘A lot of people still respect you, Blake. But that could change. The contacts you rely on, the officers who moonlight for you – that could all dry up.’
He swept out of the boardroom with his cohorts in his wake. The heavy, frosted glass door creaked on its hinges.
Nicci glanced across the room at the boss. ‘Well, he’s not very happy.’
‘He’s shitting bricks.’ Blake chuckled. ‘Once the papers start in on Hollister, the Commissioner may need a fall guy. He’s the prime candidate.’
‘You think they’ll arrest Hollister straight away?’
‘They’ll have to. We’ll package the surveillance footage with your recording of the wife. Leaves the Hollisters with a hell of a lot of explaining to do. My guess is the Commissioner’ll give it to someone else. Slattery’s tainted.’
Nicci sighed. ‘And the murder?’
‘Depends what happens once Hollister’s lawyers get cracking.’ Blake was gazing out of the window but his expression had darkened. ‘Put him and his lovely wife in separate interview rooms, play them off against each other. That’s what I’d do. That’s how you’ll get to the truth. Maybe she asked Pudovkin to do it. Or Pudovkin simply saw the opportunity.’
Rising from her chair, Nicci came to stand beside him. ‘You wish you were back on the inside and in control?’
‘Time’s like this, hell yeah.’
‘Me too.’ She gave him a wistful smile. ‘But whatever else, we’ve succeeded in doing what Helen Warner wanted and that’s bring Hollister down.’
Blake jangled the change in his pocket. ‘True. You want to call Julia and tell her?’
‘Okay.’
Nicci was heading for the door when Blake glanced over his shoulder. ‘You made this happen. You’re still a bloody good detective, Armstrong. In any kind of just world they’d be lining you up for Slattery’s job.’
Her smile was ghostly as she rearranged her arm in the sling. ‘Yeah, but it’s not a just world, is it? Only a fool thinks that.’
100
Viktor Pudovkin had decided, perhaps a little later in life than most, to dedicate himself to being a family man and spending as much time as possible with his two young children. He had a son of forty with a seat in the Duma and two others from his first marriage, both well placed in the Kremlin. But he’d hardly been involved in their upbringing.
The Soviet Union in the seventies and eighties had been a very different place and he’d worked the kind of hours the youngsters of today would simply balk at. His grown-up children were extremely respectful and he suspected that would’ve been the case even without his vast wealth. However, there just wasn’t the closeness, the emotional bond of father and child, the pleasure of watching a young person grow and blossom that Pudovkin had come to realize was one of life’s joys. He was determined to do things differently with Sasha and Mariya. And in any event he’d already achieved more or less everything else he’d set out to do.
The family home was in Holland Park, a large detached mansion with a charming garden and a covered pool, which the children loved. Every day the family breakfasted together in the conservatory and occasionally, when the weather was pleasant enough, on the terrace.
There was a very good nursery for three-year-old Mariya just round the corner, all the shops his wife could wish for and a top prep school within reasonable driving distance for Sasha. Both children were growing up bilingual and Pudovkin had already put his son down for Eton.
Life in London suited Pudovkin; the facilities were excellent, the regime was stable but accommodating and everything that mattered was for sale. He remained loyal to the motherland, but living in Moscow could be taxing. It was easier to deal with the political currents and eddies from a distance. And in London he could be useful to his old allies and comrades.
Democracy was a concept that amused the Russian and in particular the way, in the West, so much lip service was paid to it. Rulers ruled; it had been true in the ancient world and remained the benchmark of any effective social order. Men like Robert Hollister, so called democrats, had such a grandiose notion of their own purpose it made them an easy mark.
There were two ways to turn a western politician into an asset and Pudovkin had perfected both. The first was a simple cash transaction and a surprising number went for that. The main political parties in the UK were also by and large for sale. The second option – and the one that required much more finesse – was blackmail. So far he’d become an indispensable friend to three cabinet ministers and several ambitious members of the opposition. Pudovkin served his masters in the Kremlin well and in return they left him in peace to enjoy his money.
Getting his son to eat a proper breakfast was always a game of patience. The boy was an energetic little sprite, his attention darting hither and thither. Pudovkin reprimanded him in Russian.
The boy tossed his head defiantly. ‘Speak English, Papa.’
Pudovkin gave him an indulgent smile. ‘Have you finished your breakfast? I have a busy day. I have to get you to school.’
His wife was on her phone gossiping with a friend. He got up from the table, kissed the back of her head, he had calls of his own to make.
Robert Hollister had got himself in a panic over some incident. The politician had been angry and hostile initially, refusing to cooperate, but he’d come to heel. Pudovkin had learnt, back in his days as a KGB officer, that the individuals who regarded themselves as having the highest morals and the loftiest ideals were usually weakest and the quickest to crack.
It was Paige Hollister who’d approached him first with the tale of her husband’s infidelities and Pudovkin had listened as any concerned friend would. He undertook to sort the matter out and he’d fulfilled his part of the bargain. But Paige was a neurotic woman and likely to be troublesome unless kept on a tight rein. Hollister himself was simply naive about the world he was living in and his country’s place in it. It was an arrogance the British and the Americans shared.
Pudovkin strolled through the house and into the magnificent hallway. The butler was waiting with his jacket and briefcase.
He glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Sasha, come on!’
The boy trotted after him and collected his backpack from the butler.
Taking his son’s hand, Pudovkin stepped out of the front door and proceeded down the short tiled path to the waiting car.
One of his bodyguards held open the rear door of the Mercedes.
Pudovkin was turning to speak to his son when he caught sight of a motorcycle out of the corner of his eye. It was approaching at speed and a sixth sense, the product of years of front-line experience, kicked in. Even before the pillion rider had raised his arm, Pudovkin had flung Sasha to the ground, covering the child with his own body.
Shots rang out, pinging off the car’s bodywork and the bullet-resistant glass. Scooping the boy up, the Russian made a run for the cover of the garden wall. But the motorcycle had already swerved to a halt and was turning back for a second pass.
101
The spinning back wheel of the Kawasaki Ninja left an arc of burning rubber on the road as it fought for traction. Tolya flung it into the turn and opened up the throttle. Perched high up behind him Joey had his left hand round the Russian’s waist to keep his gun hand free.
As the bike roared back towards the Mercedes for a second pass, Joey saw the old man sc
rabbling to his feet and trying to pick up his kid. Joey held his arm steady, locked out his wrist and went for a headshot. But a dip in the road caused the bike to buck just as the Glock 18 delivered a rapid burst of fire; it narrowly missed Pudovkin’s head and took a chunk out of the wall.
Joey cursed under his breath. Carrying out a hit from the back of a bike was his least favourite option. There were always too many factors that could fuck up. But the target lived in a fortress and travelled in a fully armoured car. The opportunities to get a clean shot were few. If Joey’d had the time to arrange it, he’d have gone for a sniper rifle. Plotted up properly, telescopic sight, it would be hard to miss. But he’d wanted to sort this out for Kaz before he left.
His sister still regarded him with suspicion and he could see why. For most people anger was an emotion that usually overrode everything else. However, Joey wasn’t like most people. Since he was forced to leave the country he needed someone he could trust to take over the firm. And Kaz was by far the best choice. Once she got over her fear of him they’d be the perfect team. It was what he’d always wanted, ever since they were kids.
As the Kawasaki closed on the impregnable car, Joey craned round in his seat to get a shot past it to where the Russian was cowering beside the wall. His attention zeroed in on the sightline and he remained absolutely focused, nanoseconds ticking by as he waited for the shot to line up.
When the hail of bullets hit them, the front of the bike reared up before flipping on its side and launching Tolya over the handlebars. Joey was tossed up in the air as Pudovkin’s driver continued to spray them with a PP-2000 submachine gun.
Joey landed on his back, his left leg twisted beneath him. He managed to roll onto his side. The helmet had protected his head, the vest his torso, but several bullets had ripped open his thigh and the pulse of hot blood down his leg suggested the femoral artery was severed.
He needed to tie it off, if he could only get to the scarf round his neck. Fingers fumbling, he clicked open the release on his chinstrap and with a supreme effort pulled the helmet off.
The Mourner Page 40
