“It was his choice.”
“Did you object?” Caslin asked. Vitsin shrugged. “Humour me. Anyone you know that may have wished him harm?” Caslin repeated.
Vitsin shook his head, “Like I said. He was a tough man. In business. In life. Many people did not like him.”
“So, he has enemies?”
“Quite probably, yes.”
“And you? What is your role, here?” Caslin pressed. The Russian didn’t respond, breaking eye contact and moving to a single arm-chair and seating himself. “Grigory?”
“I have nothing more to say. You should get on with your job.”
Caslin smiled, “Thank you for your time. I’m sure I will have further questions for you. I trust you’ll make yourself available.” Vitsin nodded.
Caslin eyed the others one last time. Three of them refused to make any eye contact at all but the fourth met his gaze. His eyes were cold, unforgiving. Caslin had the impression all of these men were no strangers to the law either in this country or another. As for Vitsin, Caslin could take his rebuttal one of two ways. As head of security his pride was dented due to dereliction of duty or, the more interesting and darker possibility, he knew far more about Kuznetsov’s death than he was prepared to share. Either way, Caslin intended to get more acquainted with him.
Chapter 4
Taking the turn off of Fulford Road into the police station, Caslin couldn’t fail to see the media scrum waiting on the steps up to the front doors. Picking his way through, he circumvented the outside-broadcast trucks arranged in a haphazard manner along the length of the road and on into the parking area. It was early afternoon and by now the opportunity to find space inside the secure yard to the rear, would no longer be possible. That degree of anonymity wouldn’t be afforded to him. Finding one of the last available parking spaces, he reversed the car in and turned off the engine whilst considering his options. Getting through the waiting journalists was unappealing. Entering through the rear gates would be more agreeable and indeed preferable. He opted for that.
Getting out of the car, he locked it and headed for the eight-foot high security gates. He’d only covered half the distance before he caught sight of movement in his peripheral vision. Someone had seen him and he was high-profile enough to be recognised. The death of Kuznetsov would already be trending, leading the news headlines and most likely the lead story on the next edition’s front pages. His untimely death had lit the touch paper. Caslin increased his pace, pretending to be unaware of those moving towards him. Barely seconds later, the mass of assembled press also saw him, assuming the others knew something they didn’t and the chase was on. Within moments, Caslin was where he hadn’t wanted to be, besieged by journalists and nowhere near the solitude of the station.
“Inspector, are you investigating?” someone shouted, thrusting a microphone before him. Caslin pressed on as politely as he could. He had to keep moving.
“Was he murdered? Any suspects?”
“There will be a statement issued in due course,” Caslin offered, the swarm seeming to increase with every step that he took.
“Does that mean it’s suspicious?” another asked. Caslin ignored him as well as any further questions, his frustration beginning to mount. After what seemed like an age, he reached the relative sanctuary of the security entrance. Respectfully, the crowds parted allowing him to swipe his key card and pass through the outer door. Once inside, he found the custody suite to be a sea of calm in stark contrast to the barely organised chaos he’d left behind.
Acknowledging the custody sergeant as he passed by, Caslin made it to the stairs and headed for CID. The fact that he was now at the centre of the two biggest cases to break in recent months in York, failed to escape him. In reality, he was silently hopeful that Kuznetsov did indeed take his own life. Otherwise, the coming storm he’d predicted earlier was likely to be more intense than he’d initially envisaged. Entering the CID squad room, Caslin saw Holt deep in conversation with DC Kim Hardy. As he approached both constables greeted him.
“Terry, tell me about Nestor Kuznetsov,” Caslin said, continuing past and heading directly for his office. Holt fell into step behind him. Caslin took a seat behind his desk and Holt pulled up a chair. DS Hunter joined them having been momentarily behind Caslin on their return to the station. She closed the door and remained standing.
“Iain Robertson will give us a preliminary report on his findings by close of play,” she said.
Caslin nodded his approval, “Terry?”
“Nestor Kuznetsov, sir,” Holt began. “A Russian national. He’s been resident in the UK since 2003. Owner of multiple businesses. He made his fortune in the post-Soviet era investing in former state-owned utilities and mining interests. He set up a television station and a mobile phone network. Both of which proved successful.
In recent years, his firms have fallen foul of multiple corruption scandals relating to the flouting of regulations, tax evasion and several investigations centering on accusations of embezzlement. Many of his assets, valued in excess of $17 billion dollars, have been frozen or seized over the past decade in Russia and other European countries with executives facing trial back home. Add to that the winding-up order brought by HMRC that is currently going through the courts at the same time, he owed a lot of money.
The estate where you’ve just come from, his apartment in the city-centre and several properties in Kensington were all about to be seized. He was in real trouble, financially speaking.”
“That was my understanding too. Hence why he was attempting to claw back funds from one of his former business partners,” Caslin said. “The case ended last week. I read about it in the Financial Times. Kuznetsov lost.”
“That’s right, sir,” Holt agreed, looking at his notes. “He was trying to obtain £2.5 billion in damages. Money that he believes he was owed from another UK resident, Russian Oligarch. However, the judge said, in his summing up that he was an uninspiring witness and I quote, a man who treats the truth as a transitory, flexible concept… that he is willing to mould in order to suit whatever story he desires to concoct.”
“Ouch,” Hunter said. “That’s pretty damning.”
“Yeah. The British judicial system must come as something of a shock when you’ve been used to theirs back home,” Caslin said.
“How so, sir?” Holt queried.
“I worked a few cases involving Russian mafia gangs during my time at the Yard. Territorial expansion sparked some tit-for-tat shootings. It was an eye-opening crash course in Russian Organised Crime to say the least. The Russian judicial system has over a ninety-eight percent conviction rate once a case comes to trial.”
“Seriously?” Hunter asked.
“Absolutely. The rich and shameless may well get their own way and never reach a court but the problems arise when they come up against someone with a far greater reach. Then, they’re screwed. Not that I’m passing comment on Mr Kuznetsov directly. I’m certain most of these Russian billionaires are good value for hard work and ethics,” he said with sarcasm. “What brought him to the UK?” Caslin asked, indicating for Holt to continue his summation.
“Necessity,” Holt stated. “Although, he officially moved here in the spring of 2003 when he was granted political asylum. He actually arrived in 2000. In the nineties, he was a wealthy businessman and philanthropist. He co-founded a political party, New Democracy. With this as a platform, backed by a media boost from his own television station, he was elected to the Russian Duma in ’98.”
“If he came to us in 2000, it couldn’t have been a very successful stint for him,” Caslin mused.
Holt shook his head, “Quite right. I’m not up to speed with all the details yet. That period of Russian politics didn’t lend itself well to detail and scrutiny. It was a bit like the wild west, no rules, no boundaries. A smash and grab for whatever you could get and then hold. Fortunes were made and then some lost, in the years following the collapse of the Soviet Empire.”
&nb
sp; “Yes, except the Russian Empire remained largely intact with a lot of ruthless bastards set on exploiting the situation,” Caslin added.
“I’d put Kuznetsov as one of those, sir,” Holt stated. “He came from relative obscurity to be closely allied with established politicians and rubbing shoulders with the richest men in the country.”
“So, he had powerful friends?”
“And powerful enemies,” Holt continued. “We have three reports, filed by Kuznetsov, alleging that his life was under threat. The most recent being in October of last year.”
“And where did he allege the threats originated?” Hunter asked.
“Each report had its own name attached to it. The latest one implied it was the Russian State apparatus who were targeting him.”
“Nice and easy, then. We’ll stop by the Kremlin for a chat,” Caslin said with mock authority, drawing smiles from his colleagues. “Any credibility given to the allegations?”
Holt shook his head, “It doesn’t appear so, sir. As with his recent court action, Kuznetsov appears to be light on detail, or indeed, evidence.”
Caslin sat back in his chair, digesting Holt’s analysis of the deceased. As always, he resisted the temptation to form an early judgement. Too often, he had been presented with overwhelming evidence at breakfast which was devastatingly rebuked by mid-afternoon. No matter what this looked like there was still much work to do.
“What do you want us to do, sir?” Hunter asked. Caslin sat forward, resting his elbows onto his desk and forming a tent with his fingers.
“On the face of it we have a slam-dunk suicide. A wealthy, powerful man, set to lose everything ends it all to avoid the humiliation. Nice and neat. That may prove to be the case but let’s humour my curiosity for a little while. At least until we get the Scenes of Crime report and Dr Taylor’s had a chance to carry out an autopsy. Terry,” he pointed a finger at him, “get a hold of everything that you can on these threats to his life. I want to know if there are any legs in them. I know they’ve already been looked at but the man is dead now and that changes our angle of focus. Who did he point the finger at, where were they and is there any substance to it that you can find? Judging by him being granted political asylum I presume it’s safe to say his list of enemies far outstrips that of his friends. So, get me a list of those as well. They might be able to shed some light on his life.”
“Do you think they’ll be willing to?” Hunter asked. “As you found with his staff, people in his circle tend not to hold a high tolerance for scrutiny.”
“Not being forthcoming could be equally telling.”
“What about me, sir?” Hunter queried, as Holt scribbled down Caslin’s instructions.
“Speaking of his employees. That security detail. I want you to find out everything you can on them. They may well have been his bodyguards but the leader has definitely done time. Those tattoos he’s sporting are badges of honour for the Russian mafia. I’ve seen the type before with Eastern Bloc, ex-cons. Maybe none of them have been imprisoned here but I’ll bet they’ve done real time back home. I want to know what for, their backgrounds, everything?”
“If it turns out not to be a suicide, you think they’re involved?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out. As much as the Russian mafia have their own codes of conduct, I doubt these guys wouldn’t turn on their own mother if the price was right. Start with Grigory Vitsin. He seems like an odd choice for a paranoid billionaire, more used to the finer things in life.”
“Sir?”
“If you could afford Spetnaz, why would you hire gangsters? They’re a lower level of expertise. Tough, ruthless, certainly but far from predictable or, for that matter, stable. Unless of course-”
“They’re more your kind of people?” Hunter finished for him.
“Exactly. Get to work.”
Both detectives made to leave but Caslin indicated for Hunter to remain behind for a moment. Holt closed the door on his way out while Hunter took the seat that he’d vacated.
“What’s up, sir?” she asked. Caslin met her eye before looking off to his left at nothing in particular.
“I just thought we could have a chat.”
“Regarding?” she replied, flatly.
“What with the impending culmination of the case against Durakovic, I haven’t had a chance to sit down with you. I figured I’d give it a few days and once things quietened down but, as it stands, I don’t see it slowing down around here-”
“There’s really no need,” Hunter interjected.
“Sarah, please,” Caslin said softly. He returned his gaze to her but she looked down. No matter what she said, he knew her confidence was at a low ebb. “I know you’ve really been through it, what with the time off and not taking the promotion. I’m trying to-”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Nate,” she cut him off, looking up and meeting his eye. “But what do you want me to say? That I struggle to sleep at night. That Steve is sick to the back teeth of being married to a moody bitch? That I’m pissed off that I had to pass up the move to Thames Valley? Well, all of those,” she snapped, “and then some!”
Caslin felt he’d picked his time wrong, not that there was a good one, “This might not be the easiest of cases to break you in on.”
“It’s hardly my first case, is it? I’ll manage,” she countered.
“Look, if you need some time to settle in, I can take the weight off of you.”
“No, you can’t,” she said defiantly. “I’m your Detective Sergeant and I’ll bloody well manage. The same as everyone else. Okay?” The last was said accusatorily. Caslin merely nodded. Hunter got up and made to leave.
“Sarah,” he called after her. Having reached the threshold of the doorway, she turned back to face him. “You’re a damn fine police officer and when you’re ready, you’ll be a damn good, Inspector.” She smiled and departed. He felt some of the weight lift from his conscience. Whether she was ready to be back or not, he wasn’t sure but Hunter had passed her evaluations and it was out of his hands. Not that he would ever voice the concern but he suspected something had changed within her. Only time would tell how that change might manifest itself. Besides, Caslin knew he was the last person in the world who could claim that traumatic experiences hindered your ability to do the job, at the required level. Were that definitive, he would’ve been out of work, years ago.
Even so, Caslin felt a degree of responsibility for her suffering. Her trauma was caused in part by decisions he’d taken in that case. Hunter could have been killed. The resulting trauma had seen her walk a long road back.
Opening up his laptop, Caslin fired it into life. Moments later, he brought up a search page and began tapping away at the keys. Within a few minutes his request for information on Russian mafia tattoos proved fruitful. Such was the level of folklore surrounding the practice of decorating themselves, he found a wealth of resource with ease. Scrolling through photographs, the majority taken of prison inmates over the course of the previous fifty years or so, Caslin searched for those he had seen on Vitsin.
It didn’t take long for him to come across a variation of the flaming star alongside a substantial array of religious iconography, crosses, angels and demons among them. The significance of the star was such that it denoted authority within the mafia. Vitsin was high up the food chain or had been at one time. The dagger through his neck advertised he’d committed murders in prison with each drop of blood signifying a kill. The tattoo was borne as a mark to indicate the killer was available to take on contracts.
Caslin passed over detailed shots of inmates identifying as homosexual or marking their criminal heritage as well as others sporting inked versions of pre-Soviet medals. The latter, highlighting their proud status as enemies of the state. Eventually, he came across the image depicted on Vitsin’s forearm. It wasn’t an exact match but undeniably similar. A woman catching her dress on a fishing line. The image related to rape and marked the man who bore it, in this case Vitsin
, as a serial rapist. Sitting back in his chair, Caslin figured it wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine Kuznetsov’s entire security apparatus was recruited from the ranks of the Russian mafia.
A knock at the door brought him back from the immersive darkness of Russian Organised Criminals. DC Kim Hardy was waiting patiently for him to notice her. He didn’t know how long she’d been standing there. He beckoned her in.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir,” she said.
“That’s okay, Kim. What can I do for you?”
“DCI Matheson wants to see you.”
“Tell her I’ll see her in her office in about five minutes.”
“She wants you upstairs with the Chief Superintendent.”
Caslin exhaled heavily, blowing out his cheeks, “I guess I should’ve anticipated that.”
“There’s more. I’ve just seen ACC Sinclair heading up as well,” Hardy said, almost apologetically. Caslin sank back further in his chair, raising his gaze to the ceiling.
“Okay. I definitely didn’t see that coming. Thanks, Kim.” She smiled weakly and with a bob of the head, turned and left. It didn’t matter what explanation he could come up with, regarding that morning’s debacle in court, Caslin knew he wasn’t going to come out of it without something of a kicking. The presence of the Assistant Chief Constable told him that in all likelihood, he’d be getting a real pasting. Reaching out, he closed down the lid of the computer. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and braced himself before heading upstairs.
Chapter 5
Caslin made his way up to the next floor. The events surrounding the apparent collapse of the Durakovic trial turning over in his mind. Should he have seen the manipulation of their chief witness coming? Undoubtedly. Since the death of her husband, Danika had proven more than adept at running his affairs. Having seen off a challenge to her authority from the organisation’s head of security, she now commanded a fearsome reputation of her own. Caslin cursed himself for failing to get this one over the line.
Blood Money Page 4
