by Keith Short
‘The brigadiers have become soft, Malkin. But their time is over. We no longer need their flabby supervision and the ineffective violence of their warriors. Only the best will be retained, those who understand much more than how to handle themselves in a fight. We will indeed continue to bleed the finances of the greedy pigs who wallow in this city’s excrement, but we no longer need to bleed their bodies. The days of leaving our enemies crippled on the streets are gone.’
Having said his piece, Chekhov’s demeanour switched yet again. His ferocity subsided and once more he came across as the kind fatherly figure. He smiled and placed his arm around Malkin as if he were his only son. ‘Oleg Malkin, I want you to stay on as my bookkeeper and reorganise this bratva’s internal structure. You will start to implement these changes at once.’
Chekhov’s squeeze almost crushed him. It reminded him of the many times Chekhov’s father had embraced him like that. As it did on those occasions, the embrace told him he was to be taken under Chekhov’s wing. But this time it also contained a subliminal warning – don’t fuck with me.
‘That is all for now,’ Chekhov declared, releasing his hold and inspecting his Rolex chronometer. ‘I leave for Monte Carlo this afternoon. We’ll speak in two days’ time.’
Malkin bowed his head. Not so much in relief or in respect for his new pakhan, it was more about hiding the pleasure that now flushed his face. He’d just taken the first big step towards his dream of becoming rich.
CHAPTER 3
Jean scrunched her way up the long gravel drive. When she reached the top of the steps leading up to the Highgate mansion’s main entrance, she paused to collect her thoughts. Three preliminary interviews in three separate hotels, each progressively more challenging, each requiring a supreme effort to hold herself together and mask her destroyed confidence and lack of self-esteem. By the end of so many aptitude tests, her confidence was coming back and the money she’d borrowed to buy new clothes and smarten her appearance had proved to be a good investment; she felt so much better in herself. And now here she was, standing outside the London home of one of the world’s richest men – on the shortlist for his final selection. ‘Jean Douglas,’ she announced on the intercom.
She took a step back, peered up towards the grey sky and counted the storeys in the building’s ornate façade. There were five as far as she could make out, six including the roof space. So, this was Goldhurst. Some place – it set her nerves jangling. The glass door opened to reveal a smart young man in his mid-twenties. With his brass-buckled uniform and pillbox cap, he looked like an old-fashioned bellboy from a Mayfair hotel. ‘Come this way, Madam Douglas,’ he said, in what sounded to her like a Russian accent.
The mansion’s entrance hall, a vast atrium providing bright natural light, had a welcoming feel to it, yet the female receptionists paid little attention as Jean and her guide clacked their way towards the lift. Inside the lift, Bellboy smiled at her as he reached for the control buttons and, to her surprise, the lift set off on a slow downwards journey into the basement. It was the best part of a minute before the lift came to a halt. The door opened and they stepped out into a wide modernist corridor with pale marble flooring and hidden lighting. She stopped to take it all in – and almost collapsed with shock. The walls were adorned with the paintings of Van Gogh, Renoir, Cezanne. There was a huge Monet that she wasn’t familiar with. In fact, she didn’t recognise any of the works on display but from her browsing of art books over many years, she could identify the unique styles of these Impressionist masters. And from what she’d seen so far of this magnificent building, they had to be genuine. Priceless?
She was torn from her spell as Bellboy took hold of her forearm and, as if they were going to be late, hurried her past the paintings. Perhaps she’d get the opportunity to saunter along this beautiful corridor and savour these works of art after the interview? Oh God, the interview.
At the end of the corridor, they stopped outside a large wooden door and Bellboy knocked twice. He turned the shiny brass knob at the door’s centre and the great door rumbled open. ‘Wait here, please.’
Jean tried to compose herself by taking a few deep breaths and straightening her blouse, while Bellboy went into the room. She heard him say something she didn’t understand, only to be reprimanded in English.
‘You should never enter before a lady. Off with you.’
Bellboy came out of the room with his head bowed in contrition and looking embarrassed. ‘My apologies, Madam Douglas.’ He took her hand and led her forward a step. ‘You may go in now,’ he said, then scuttled away along the corridor.
Jean found herself peering into a cavernous high-ceilinged chamber which reminded her of the entrance to a cathedral. The room was sparsely furnished with a single desk and two chairs; across the polished wooden floor stood a giant of a man in his thirties. He smiled at her as she walked slowly towards him.
His handshake was warm and firm. ‘Please be seated, Madam Douglas. I am Vladimir Chekhov,’ he said, before sitting down himself on what looked to Jean like a king’s throne. It was going to be a one-to-one interview. With a straight back and hands crossed on her lap, she waited nervously in the captain’s chair for his questions. How many other candidates today?
‘My team has done all that is necessary regarding preparation for this interview and I have your CV,’ Chekhov said, indicating with his open palm the single sheet of paper at the centre of the otherwise empty desktop.
She braced herself and tried to appear confident by smiling at him, but Chekhov ignored her and continued in his matter-of-fact fashion.
‘I have but one question for you,’ he said, rubbing his smooth chin as if composing the question for the first time. ‘Do you think you could ever replace Abram’s mother? Abram is my beautiful four-month-old son and, as you have no doubt already been told, my wife died bringing him into this world.’
Her intuition told her that it all came down to the answer to this question. ‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I’d look after your baby son as if he were my own. I’d nurture him, I’d teach him whatever you want me to teach him,’ she paused to muster as much assertiveness as she could find, ‘but the answer to your question is – no, I could never replace Abram’s mother.’
Chekhov smiled, took his reading glasses from his inner jacket pocket and picked up her CV. He glanced at it, but she could see he wasn’t reading the words. He placed the piece of paper back on the desk and dismissively slid it to one side. Returning the glasses to his pocket, he leaned back in his huge chair, tapped his lips with the top of his steepled fingers and studied her from across the period desk. ‘I would like you to start the job by the end of the week. I’ll take care of whatever is necessary to discharge you from your current position and make arrangements for your monthly remuneration to be transferred into a bank account of your choice.’
She was stunned. Was he really offering her the job? She felt like blurting out That’s fantastic, you won’t regret this, but bit her lip. Mustn’t throw it away at this last hurdle. ‘Thank you, sir,’ was the only feeble response she could manage.
Chekhov looked at his watch and was by now appearing to lose interest. ‘My house manager, Mr Malkin, will show you around your personal quarters before you leave. Good day, Madam Douglas.’
Chekhov must have been a man with enormous influence. The day after Jean’s interview, the health centre manager informed her of the decision to release her and, three days later, here she was – working for a Russian oligarch in what must be Highgate’s finest mansion. There’d been no redundancy payment, but she’d signed a contract with Chekhov that dwarfed her district nurse’s salary and promised eyewatering bonuses based on her performance in the role of nanny. She said nothing to Robert and Mary about her plans; she simply left a short note on the kitchen table explaining that she’d changed her job. They took her for granted and it would probably be a week or more before they realised that
she was gone. Even then, would they bother trying to find her? They could continue to live for nothing, although the house would no doubt degenerate into a hovel within days. And what do I care? They live in my house and I’m still supporting them.
By contrast, the Chekhov household was run with efficiency and style. There were forty or so household staff providing support to Chekhov’s bratva, as it was known. She had no idea what the bratva did or what sort of family business they all supported. All she could gather was that the business was in the services sector and organised in a similar manner to the military. Her charge, Abram Vladimir Chekhov, was the only bloodline family member in permanent residence following the demise of his grandfather, Anatoly Chekhov – the old pakhan as they all called him. Abram was a little gem. Despite what she’d said at her interview, she became his new mother instantly and settled back into the role of motherhood as if she’d never left that phase of her life. Abram’s father, Vladimir, had a suite at Goldhurst but rarely used it. If Vladimir Chekhov visited his London residence, it was for meetings at the Russian Embassy, she’d been told. And to see Abram, of course.
At first, she wasn’t allowed to leave the mansion with Abram. However, with external grounds of over three acres and an underground complex the size of Buckingham Palace, there were plenty of places for them to explore. The iceberg house, as it was apparently known locally, included a huge nursery dedicated to Abram. Its construction had begun the moment Natalia Chekhov discovered her pregnancy, and the rooms included a mathematics suite and a language laboratory for when Abram became old enough to require specialist teachers. Her bond with Abram was becoming stronger by the day. He was happy and never demanding, though like any baby he would always let you know when he was hungry. God willing, he’d never become like Robert. But Robert wasn’t brought up in an environment like this. He never had a chance with a father like his. When she thought of her own children, she felt guilty about her new-found happiness with Abram and everything else at Goldhurst. But it wasn’t her fault her children had turned out as they did, was it? She still loved them, but she couldn’t live her life like that anymore. She was happy now, wasn’t she? And that was down to the beautiful little boy she cradled in her arms and the lovely place in which she’d come to live.
From the lounge of her private quarters, Jean could look out through the tall bay window over Hampstead Heath and beyond, and take in whatever the day presented in the way of weather and mood. Inside this room, she felt smug in her own surroundings, safe from everything and everyone in the world outside. But this evening, she disregarded the magnificent view. Abram was wide awake and she was cooing him and watching him cackle with glee as she played ‘This Little Piggy’ on his bare toes. Her own children were tiny like this once. She would recite the same rhymes as she did now and she would cuddle them like she cuddled Abram. She studied the beautiful child in her arms and stroked his forehead. He was just like Robert at that age. Abram smiled at her and the tears cascaded down her cheeks. How could Robert and Mary have turned out like they did? It had to be their father.
‘Stupid bitch! Can’t you stop that kid from crying?’
‘Babies cry, George. He’s hungry, I’m sure that’s all it is.’
‘Well, feed the little bastard.’
George was back from the pub and she felt sick with worry. She carried Robert through to the kitchen where she’d left his milk bottle. The milk was still lukewarm; he hadn’t taken any at all when she tried to feed him fifteen minutes earlier – and he had a temperature. She’d try again; it was all she could do to protect them both from George’s temper. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Be a good boy now.’ Please take it, son, please don’t cry. But Robert pushed the teat away from his mouth and continued his wailing. His eyes screwed up tight and his face turned red as if about to explode. His screams became louder and more piercing as he squirmed in his mother’s arms, rejecting her desperate attempts to cosset him. He’s in pain, I need to call a doctor.
‘Here, give him to me, I’ll fix him.’ George startled her as he snatched the defenceless baby from her arms. She followed him back into the living room and watched in horror as he threw Robert into the cot like a rag doll. ‘Get to sleep, you little brat!’
‘No, George, please. He’s not well.’
‘Not well? Maybe he’ll die and leave us all better off.’
This time, he’d pushed her too far. ‘He’s your son, for God’s sake – an innocent little child.’ She launched herself at him with every ounce of her strength, scratching at his face and swinging a wild punch that missed his head. She flailed with her fists but she was getting nowhere – George had her by the throat and was holding her at arm’s length with ease, despite his inebriated state. With his free hand, he wiped the blood from his cheek and studied it. His drunken eyes turned dark with anger.
‘That’s it, you bitch!’ he shouted, as the back of his hand swiped her face.
She’d brought this on herself with her uncharacteristic outburst, hadn’t she? She provided no resistance as she took her punishment; it would have been futile anyway. Curling into a ball she gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, relieved that George was venting his anger on her and not on their son. Robert echoed his mother’s squeals throughout her whipping with the buckled end of his father’s belt. Perhaps this was the moment his tiny brain started to form its subliminal life-shaping programme?
She heard the key turning in the door and gasped as Vladimir Chekhov appeared in her room. Doesn’t he have the courtesy to knock? She gathered herself – after all, she’d always have to be grateful for the position he’d given her. ‘Sir, this is a pleasant surprise.’
‘Ah, there you are, my little warrior.’ Chekhov plucked Abram from Jean’s arms without acknowledging her presence. Like the inexperienced father he was, he swung him through the air and jiggled him up and down until the baby threw up over his white linen jacket. ‘Forgive the intrusion, Madam Douglas,’ he said, as he handed Abram back to her, ‘I have a meeting with the Russian Consul this evening and I wished to see my son while I was over here. How are you getting on with him?’ He made a despairing attempt to wipe the sick from his sleeve with a silk pocket handkerchief and Jean had to supress her laughter.
‘We’re getting along fine, aren’t we, little man?’ she said, fingering Abram’s cheek.
‘Yes, I can see you’re bonding well.’
Discarding the sodden handkerchief, Chekhov took a small object from his jacket pocket and Jean could see it was a tiny mobile phone. Some of her friends who were better off than her possessed mobile phones but she’d never been able to afford one. Robert had a mobile phone but it was much larger than the one Chekhov was now showing her.
‘This is the latest technology, not yet available on the wider market,’ he explained. ‘There is no external aerial and it fits easily into a purse. You must charge it every day.’ He produced a bulky charger from another pocket. ‘I’ll call you whenever I wish to check on Abram’s welfare, so you must keep it close to your person at all times. If Abram is ever in danger, you can contact me by pressing this button.’ He pressed the contact button on the phone’s keypad and Jean heard a ring-tone coming from somewhere within Chekhov’s jacket. ‘But you need to be aware that the phone has been adapted so you can call no other person.’
He was giving her a phone? Was this really to check on his son or was he keeping track of her? Why would he do this?
‘Abram is precious to me. He is my sole heir and I wish him to be brought up correctly, here in England. I want someone there for him every day, someone who can provide the devotion of a mother. You will recall your aptitude tests, Madam Douglas? My psychologists chose you from over a hundred candidates. And you gave me the exact answer I wanted at our face-to-face interview. That is why I’ve employed you and why I’m asking you to look after my cherished son. He means everything to me. I want you to protect him with your life.’
Jean was in her third week. It would be another week before they allowed her to set foot outside the grounds of Goldhurst with Abram, but the mansion still offered what seemed to her like endless new places to visit and her days were full and satisfying. If Abram looked like he wanted to play, she would take him into the gardens at the back of the house or into his nursery if the weather was inclement. If he was sleeping, she would wheel his buggy to the library that was being assembled and see what new books appeared on the shelves. They were gradually allowing her more freedom – yet she couldn’t shake off the uncanny feeling that she was constantly being watched.
‘What shall we do today, Abram?’ Jean said as she tickled the baby under the chin. Abram giggled and she gently poked his tummy. ‘I know, let’s go down to the lower basement and see those marvellous paintings. Do you fancy that?’ She tickled him again and he whimpered. ‘Oh well, you’ll just have to lump it, grumpy drawers. I’ve been dying to take a good look around down there.’
The lift’s downward journey seemed endless – there were so many more levels than in the upper storeys. The lift finally stopped and the door opened, but this wasn’t the corridor she’d been expecting. And who were these people?
‘Where are you going?’ asked a tall thin man as he stepped inside the lift.
‘I was trying to get to the corridor with the Impressionist paintings on the walls.’ The half-dozen younger men who entered the lift behind him were smirking. To her horror, one of them adjusted a pistol in its holder under his coat. She spotted another slip a knuckle-duster off his fingers and into his jacket pocket. The thin man scowled in turn at those who’d made such clumsy attempts at concealing their weapons; he had to be their leader.
‘Has no one told you? You’re not allowed down here with the baby.’
