Blood Red City

by Rod Reynolds

  He followed her through the ticket gates onto the platform. She stood close to the edge so he kept back by the wall, out of her line of sight. She was wearing black jeans, pumps and a plain white top. She looked strained and short on sleep, and when he recognised that fact, guilt made it harder to keep watching.

  He tried to gauge how far she’d take this – as if her appearance could provide some clue. It hadn’t taken much digging to establish she’d done serious news before the showbiz fluff, but there was nothing in her record to suggest she was the crusading type either. He’d diverted journalists plenty of times in his work, but usually by trading one piece of dirt for a bigger one. It was standard practice, and when that failed, there was always someone who could be bought. But this represented a whole new level of risk.

  His phone rang and he saw it was Dalton’s number. He started walking without thinking, moving further along the platform and away from Wright.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where are you?’ Dalton said.

  ‘Around. Where’s Suslov?’

  Dalton coughed. ‘Andriy will be in London at two o’clock. He’ll see you then.’

  He checked his watch. ‘Fine. Where.’

  ‘Battersea. Do you know the heliport?’

  CHAPTER 14

  Lydia stopped by the office to collect a new phone from IT. As much as she resented being in that place on her day off, having no mobile was hindering her. The bonus was that it could double as her personal phone until payday at least. With the new one pocketed, she went to her desk to DM her contacts the new number from her laptop.

  The office looked different in daylight. The commercial teams, people she never saw anymore, were already in, and the editorial departments were starting to fill up too. But the atmosphere was flat and tense – a typical Monday morning, the kind she’d almost forgotten about. A crowd from the sales team skirted her desk on their way to one of the meeting rooms, and she clocked Ben Mottingham, one of the ad directors, pointing her out to his junior. ‘Dress down Monday?’ He winked at her as he said it.

  She kept her eyes on her keyboard. ‘Get your suit from an estate agent?’

  Mottingham blew a kiss and the junior looked away, embarrassed.

  She called the press office at the Met to ask if Paulina Dobriska had been reported missing – but they wouldn’t say anything beyond suggesting she file a report herself if she had concerns. She tried to do just that, but the first question they asked was the subject’s last known address, and when she couldn’t supply one, the conversation hit a wall. The officer on the other end suggested she get a relative to call them.

  Lydia turned her computer off and got up to go, with a detour to Stephen’s office on the way out. She weaved through the different departments and passed through the doors to the executive corridor. It was nicknamed The Reptile House because of the all-glass offices where they kept the bigwigs and not, so the story went, because it was full of snakes who’d eat their own eggs if the need arose.

  Stephen’s was a corner office with no one on the opposite side of the hallway, giving him more privacy than most. She came up to his door and saw him inside, standing, talking on the phone. She waited to knock, but he turned and waved her over, holding up one finger to signal he was nearly done.

  She looked across his office to the view outside: Canary Wharf and Docklands straight ahead, some miles distant; the sunlight was shining off the Thames, making it a ribbon of pure white lacing through the city.

  He finished his call and came around the desk. ‘Are you working late or ridiculously early?’ He pushed a chair back for her to sit down.

  The office smelled of his aftershave; not overdone, just a note of sandalwood, the same as she could smell on her pillow whenever he’d been over. She rested her hands on the back of the chair but stayed standing. ‘I’m not working tonight. I just came in to pick up a new phone.’

  ‘What happened to the other one?’ He was smiling, waiting for a punch line.

  ‘I was mugged on Saturday night. Outside.’

  ‘What?’ He glanced at the open door behind her. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She batted the air with her hands. ‘I’m fine. It was my fault really. Stupid.’

  He pushed the door closed and came to stand in front of her. ‘What happened?’

  She told him, struggling to meet his eyes, retelling how easy she’d made it for the woman who did it.

  ‘Don’t be hard on yourself. These people are professionals. It’s just bad luck.’

  ‘Yeah…’

  He looked at her, waiting for something more. ‘What is it?’

  It all rushed to spill out, like a bottleneck starting to clear, and she had to step back to stop herself. She went to the window to get her head straight before she spoke. ‘When I got into my emails, something had been deleted.’

  ‘Something? Did you change your pass—’

  ‘Yeah. Yes. First thing I did.’

  ‘What’s something? Was it sensitive?’

  She looked at him and then the floor. ‘It wasn’t from my work account. It was a personal email.’

  ‘What’re we talking about here?’

  She laid a finger on the corner of his desk. ‘A message from a friend.’

  He screwed his face up. ‘What? That’s just bizarre.’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘Maybe just kids mucking around? It’s not nice to think of them snooping in your emails, but better if that’s all it is, no?’

  ‘Maybe. They only deleted that one message though.’ Her finger started tapping on the desktop. ‘If I was looking into something in my own time, would you cover my back if it led somewhere?’

  He tilted his head. ‘Lydia, what exactly is going on?’

  Deep breath. ‘The email they deleted was something … Look, I don’t know what it was. Tammy Hodgson sent it to me…’

  ‘Tammy?’

  ‘But now it’s gone, and there’s more too – someone I think is connected to it has gone missing. And then on top of that I got robbed, and…’ She pushed a hair behind her ear. ‘Now you’re looking at me like I’m paranoid.’

  He folded his arms, but uncrossed them just as quickly and stepped towards her. ‘I’m just wondering what any of this has to do with showbiz.’ She dropped her eyes to the floor, but he ducked down so he was in her eyeline again, big eyes to show he wasn’t serious. ‘Is this related to the Goddard stuff?’ he said when she looked up again.

  Goddard again, a shadow looming over every conversation they had. ‘No.’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Then why don’t you start again at the beginning. What was in the email?’

  ‘It was … I don’t know, a video of a guy being attacked on the Tube.’

  ‘Attacked?’

  ‘Two men – it looked like they were trying to kill him. Suffocating him.’

  He frowned. ‘I didn’t see that anywhere.’

  ‘That’s just it. No one’s picked it up yet.’

  ‘That’s a red flag in itself. You said Tammy sent it to you?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘I know you were close, but you know what she was like towards the end.’

  She put her hands on her hips, remembering the tinfoil hat some joker had left on Tammy’s desk in her last week. ‘No, I don’t. I remember some juvenile wankers trying to get at her, that’s all.’

  ‘Has she authenticated what she sent?’

  She turned away, walking across the floor. ‘This is why I didn’t want to tell you…’

  His computer chimed and he went around his desk and flicked the mouse to bring the screen to life. ‘I have to be in a meeting. Look, if you really want to poke around this thing, I’ve got no problem with it, on the condition that it doesn’t interfere with the day job, and you keep me updated if it goes anywhere. But think about whether it’s worth the risk…’

  ‘I can handle it.’

&
nbsp; ‘I mean the internal risk. You need to think about how you’re perceived. Tammy’s a lovely woman, but you don’t want to be seen as her protégé. Not anymore.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want journalists turning up stories…’

  ‘That’s reductive and you know it.’

  ‘So is what you said.’

  He smiled, closing his eyes in a way that said you got me. When he opened them again, he said, ‘Are you sure you’re okay? Is there anything you need?’

  She circled around to stand between him and the door. ‘The missing woman I mentioned – she’s a witness, I think she might be in danger. Could you get me a contact to help trace her?’

  ‘What, a private eye?’

  ‘Don’t take the piss. A friendly name in the police. Just to tell me if she’s been reported missing or not. I lost touch with my sources when you lot binned me off.’

  He frowned and she inclined her head, as if to say, we’re even now.

  He pocketed his phone and picked up his notebook and pen. ‘I’ll find you someone.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He crossed to the door and held it open for her. ‘Shall I come over one night this week?’

  CHAPTER 15

  The helicopter made a steep descent from a clear blue sky, the downdraft flapping Stringer’s suit jacket. Dalton was standing next to him, holding a leather document case, his red tie blown over his shoulder. The rotor noise echoed off the small terminal building and the Crowne Plaza hotel behind them, scattering the gulls on the Thames.

  The helipad jutted out from the edge of the river, across the muddy bank and into the water. It was held up by a framework of wooden stilts that looked like the remnants of an old pier, a relic against the backdrop of expensive flats on either side of the Thames. A glimpse of what lay beneath London’s veneer. The structure vibrated as the craft landed, Stringer feeling as if it was shifting under him. It taxied a short way and came to a stop, the rotors slowing. Then the door opened and Andriy Suslov ducked out, older than in the most recent images Google turned up, but recognisable nonetheless. He was followed by a second man, much more heavyset. Suslov looked over, saw Dalton, and came towards them.

  Stringer studied him as he approached. He wore a navy suit, the cut too good to be anything but tailor-made, and a white shirt with an open collar. His hair was greying in places, but otherwise dark; he wore it neatly parted, and the downdraft barely disturbed it. He was lean, but he carried his weight more on his right leg as he walked – disguised, but there.

  Dalton held out the document case and Suslov took it. He pointed over. ‘This is Michael Stringer.’

  Stringer offered his hand but Suslov just looked at it. ‘I’m due in Canary Wharf; we’ll talk on the way.’ Suslov turned to Dalton. ‘Bring the car.’

  Dalton nodded and walked off towards the parking bays out front. Suslov and the second man headed towards the other side of the complex, and Stringer followed. They rounded the control office, and a steward in a fluorescent vest guided the group down a set of concrete steps leading to a pier where a luxury yacht was moored.

  Suslov crossed the metal gangplank onto the deck, where the captain was waiting to greet him, looking ready to salute. ‘Welcome aboard, sir.’

  Suslov barrelled past without acknowledging him. The second man off the helicopter opened the cabin and Suslov went inside. Stringer nodded as he passed him, evidently a bodyguard; the posture, the bearing, vibed ex-military type. He noted the contrast: a different class of hired help to the men at Lydia Wright’s flat. The bodyguard closed the door after him and stayed on the outside, the back of his head just visible through the porthole.

  Stringer hung back by the doorway. The interior of the cabin was decked out in teak, walnut and leather. Seating lined both sides, and Suslov plumped down at the far end, opening his hand for Stringer to take a seat opposite. Then he unlatched the document case and took a set of papers out, laid them on his lap and looked down to read. ‘So, Jamie Tan.’

  Stringer lowered himself onto the seat. The engines powered up and the boat moved out onto the river.

  When he didn’t answer, Suslov looked up.

  ‘Something changed,’ Stringer said.

  Suslov shook the paper he was holding to crease it towards him again. ‘An ambiguous phrase. He’s missing, I understand; you told Dalton he didn’t go home.’ The accent was a collector’s item – Americanised English with a hard Slavic edge.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Dalton implied you would have more than that.’

  He opened his jacket and took his phone out – slowly, the man’s bearing demanding it. He laid it on the seat next to him, watching for a reaction. ‘Mr Suslov, we need to talk about the money first.’

  Suslov kept his face impassive.

  He had his words planned out, but he was still settling on a figure when he started speaking. ‘Tan’s missing and I can provide some clarity on that. But I’ll need full payment of the agreed amount first, and thirty more on top – most of which will be used to facilitate rounding off some rough edges for you.’

  Suslov set the piece of paper back on the pile, staring at him now. The boat hummed, the smell of diesel fumes coming and going. The remains of Battersea Power Station passed by on the riverbank, its shell attended by the towering cranes working on its rebirth as luxury apartments. ‘You brought me from Paris to tell me you didn’t get the job done but you want double the fee.’ He put the papers down and crossed his arms. ‘You came recommended as a fixer, not a fucking thief.’

  Stringer upended his phone on the seat, flipping it end over end like a deck of playing cards. ‘I want to show you something.’

  No reaction. He sat forward and unlocked it, started the video and held it out for Suslov to watch. A blurry reflection played out on Suslov’s glasses, his expression unchanging. The reflection went still, and Suslov took the phone and watched it through again. When it was finished, he tossed it back to Stringer.

  Suslov set his gaze on a point somewhere out on the river. His jaw muscles tensed, but he said nothing at first. Then, ‘This is authentic?’

  ‘Best I can tell.’

  ‘He is dead?’

  ‘Unknown. I assume so.’

  ‘Where did you get it from?’

  He put his phone back in his pocket. ‘I need assurances on the money first.’

  ‘Why do you fixate on the money? You believe you’re in danger from me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have shown you if I did.’

  Suslov straightened in his seat, coming to a realisation. ‘You think I am behind this.’

  ‘I keep an open mind. I’d rate it unlikely now.’

  ‘What reason would I have…?’ Suslov waved his hand to dismiss the idea, annoyed. ‘Jamie Tan has value to me alive, not dead.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry it didn’t work out. But I put too much time into him to be left out of pocket.’

  ‘You don’t know who did this?’

  He shook his head. ‘Bold, though.’

  Suslov leaned forward. ‘Maybe it was you? Now you come asking for more money…’

  His lies, their lies…

  ‘I’m more subtle than that.’ He held his stare.

  Suslov leaned back and crossed his left leg over his right. He looked towards the door, the bodyguard still with his back to them, then down at his lap. ‘You’ve been working at this for months. The night I tell you to earn your money, he disappears.’ He pushed the document bag onto the floor. ‘Whoever did this, it’s a shitshow, so it was arranged in a rush. Knowing who and why would earn your fee.’

  ‘I’ve already earned it, Mr Suslov.’

  ‘No.’

  Stringer edged forward on his seat, a weak attempt at projecting confidence. ‘It’s not my concern who did this.’

  ‘You’re supposed to know more about Tan than anyone. You’d have the advantage on any police agency.’

  ‘I don’t do detective work.’

  ‘Then you have no val
ue to me.’

  ‘I have my dossier on Tan. I have the video. If you don’t want them, I’ll find someone who does.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to try blackmailing me.’

  The threat was barely disguised. If it was supposed to prompt thoughts of the journalist killed in Moscow, and the rumours of Suslov’s involvement, it worked. Stringer wondered if that felt like blackmail at the time too; if this was all the same thing to him. ‘Not blackmail. But information has a value.’

  Suslov got to his feet. ‘You think you can sell it to the people behind this? If you are so naive, I wish you good luck. They won’t negotiate, they’ll kill you.’

  The phrasing resonated; it didn’t sound like a general statement, more like he had a known entity in mind. ‘They’d still have the dossier. Your name as the client on the cover. Useful for whoever’s coming at you. That’s what this is, isn’t it?’

  Suslov whipped off his glasses, discarding them on the seat. ‘If these people moved on Tan in a rush, it’s because they knew about your work. So maybe you won’t have to go looking for them.’

  A trail of logic he hadn’t considered; the implications hit him all at once. ‘If you told someone I was working for you…’

  ‘No one knows my business. My guess is you screwed up.’

  He looked to one side, hearing it as a message: I know about your slip. I still might punish you for it. The boat rolled, buffeted by the wake from a Thames Clipper passing the other way.

  ‘You’re saying the same thing to yourself,’ Suslov said. ‘No one knows my business. But here we are, and now we have the same needs, so I say to you again: find out who and why. There’s money on the table, this is your last chance to earn it.’

  Stringer stared at him, not a hair out of place, not the slightest reaction to being shown footage of a brutal attempt on a man’s life. He put it back to fifty-fifty whether Suslov had ordered it. ‘Thirty up front, the rest when I come up with a name.’ And more again to give it to you.