Blood Red City

by Rod Reynolds

  He tapped the screen to text back his answer: Okay

  He stood at the window and looked at his watch. Ten hours to wait, a stretch of time that felt like a prison sentence. The pro and con of the message coming sooner than he expected, Shelby wasting no time setting him up.

  If his fears about Suslov were right, he’d be walking into a death trap. On the slim chance he was wrong, still Suslov would surely bring reinforcements, a beating the least he could expect for threatening the man’s money wizard. He looked down at the water, the Thames reflecting the blue-grey sky from his viewpoint. A luxury yacht crept out of the inlet on the opposite bank, a short channel between the high-rises that surrounded Chelsea Harbour, home to a handful of big-money boats. It turned east to head downriver, leaving a v-shaped wake in its trail.

  Then the wake started to break up, a helicopter swooping in overhead. He felt it before he heard it, the bass vibrations of the rotors coursing through his fingertips on the glass. Then the thumping sound, audible even through the triple-glazing. It crossed in front of the sun; in silhouette, like a carrion bird circling over a corpse.

  It came lower and he could see the craft was red and white with commercial markings, a sightseeing operator returning from a trip across the capital. There was a bustle of activity on the helipad below, and he watched the stick figures moving everything into place. He took it all in, finding focus in concentrating on the details.

  When the wheels touched the tarmac, he checked his watch again.

  Cawthorne Probert’s offices were five minutes’ walk from HFB, although Lydia only recognised the proximity of the two banks when the cab dropped her outside.

  She pushed through Probert’s double glass doors and found herself in the vaulting reception area. It was different to HFB and similar at the same time – the European architectural flourishes swapped for chino-and-blazer American conservatism, the contrasting styles unified in the trappings of wealth they conveyed.

  There were four receptionists spaced along a low granite desk. She went up to the oldest, a man in his late forties, her phone in her hand with the profile shot on screen. ‘Hi, I’m hoping you can help me. This is really random but my friend used to work here and we lost touch, I just wondered if she still does?’ She turned her phone around for the man to see.

  He looked at it and spread his hands. ‘Sorry, nope. I don’t recognise her.’

  ‘It was about three years ago the last time we spoke. Her name’s Alicia Crowley.’

  The woman next to him leaned over. ‘I remember Alicia.’

  Lydia flashed a hopeful smile, angling the phone towards her.

  The receptionist nodded, pointing to the screen that showed Alicia Tan’s LinkedIn picture. ‘Yeah. She left a good while back I’m afraid, couldn’t tell you where she went.’

  Lydia shrugged, stepping back slowly and fighting to keep the breezy smile on her face until she turned for the exit. ‘Thanks.’

  Confirmation. Alicia Tan, née Crowley, was one of the Cawthorne Probert staff exchanging emails with Peter Goddard three years before, trying to set up a meeting with the mayor’s office on behalf of their client, Andriy Suslov.

  CHAPTER 49

  Stringer stood listening.

  The darkness inside the toilet cubicle was complete, heightening his sense of hearing, every creak and hum laced with foreboding. The boat had made the short journey across the river and now was idling alongside the helipad, engine noise filling the blackness, as palpable as tar. He brought his hands to his mouth, to reassure himself they were still there and to quash the sense he was suffocating. He felt his breath coursing silently past his fingers and thought of Ellie blowing the head off a dandelion. He held on to the image.

  A new sound came from outside, rotor blades descending closer. He touched the knife in his jacket pocket for reassurance. Getting onto the yacht proved easier than he could have hoped. He’d watched it slip into Chelsea Harbour, the layup point while it waited for Suslov’s helicopter to arrive, and that was his cue to race across the river. When he got to the marina, the captain was at the other end of the dock, talking to another skipper, allowing Stringer to slip aboard unseen under the cover of dusk. All his cover stories and plans redundant, it turned out; the arrogance of money working in his favour for once.

  The rotor noise peaked and subsided. He took his phones out of his pocket and made sure they were switched off. He counted off the minutes, trying to remember how long it’d taken between landing and embarking when he’d accompanied Suslov before.

  He heard the cabin door open and close outside. Sooner than he’d expected – or maybe not, his sense of time as disoriented as everything else. He listened for voices but there were none, just the sound of someone moving around the cabin. Then even that stopped. But the presence was unmistakable, the primal sense of another human in proximity, only the width of a flimsy door separating them. He waited until the boat moved off, the engine noise ramping up, then took the knife out of his pocket and stepped out of the cubicle.

  Suslov looked up too late, Stringer’s blade already at his throat. The shift into the light was dazzling him, but he held steady, his finger to his lips as an instruction. For his part, Suslov didn’t even move his head, looking up at Stringer through his eyebrows, his expression caught between shock and fury. Then, slowly, his hand reached for his chest, discomfort spreading across his face.

  Stringer glanced at the porthole in the cabin door, the bodyguard in place but not looking their way. He pulled Suslov up by the lapel and shoved him onto the seats opposite, out of sight of the window. He bent close to his ear. ‘Just fucking breathe.’

  Suslov massaged his chest, shooting a look that could eviscerate.

  ‘You make a sound and I’ll cut your throat.’

  ‘You’re already dead.’

  ‘Then I’ve got nothing to lose. Why did you set me up?’

  Suslov’s breathing started to level off. ‘What?’

  ‘Keep your voice down. You call to that meathead by the door and you’re dead before he turns the handle. Why did you set me up?’

  ‘Set you up? I wouldn’t waste my time.’

  He dug the blade deeper into his throat. ‘The answers you give determine whether you come off this boat alive or dead.’

  Suslov tensed every muscle in his neck, his voice coming out as a rasp. ‘If I die tonight, everyone in your family will be hurt by it. Your sister, her child, your parents. I make that promise to you.’

  His arm trembled, Suslov glancing down at it. He swallowed, a try at keeping it all together. ‘We can both still walk away from this. Tell me why you killed Tan.’

  ‘Is this money? You want your idiot money? You threatened to kill Shelby over thirty thousand?’

  ‘No, to get you here.’

  ‘What?’ Suslov pressed himself back against the seat. ‘What for?’

  ‘Because this ends tonight.’

  ‘I told you already, Tan only had value to me alive.’

  ‘I believed that until you told Dalton to put a gun to my head.’

  Suslov’s expression contorted, confused. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t…’ Stringer felt the first creep of doubt in his guts. ‘Don’t fucking lie to me.’

  ‘Dalton? Look outside, I have many others I would send with a gun before him.’

  The knife was suddenly heavy in his hand. ‘You were listening on the phone. Dalton took me into a car park with two of your men…’

  ‘Not my instructions.’

  ‘You didn’t know?’

  ‘What motive would I have? Have you considered this?’

  ‘I know about Withshaw. It’s yours, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. And?’

  There was nothing in his voice, in his tone, his expression even more twisted in confusion. A fucking question mark where the guilt should be. Stringer lifted the knife so it was no longer touching Suslov’s skin. ‘The men that killed Jamie Tan used a car
registered to Withshaw.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The fuck is “no”?’

  ‘No. Impossible. They’re my goddamn cars.’

  ‘I’ve seen the CCTV.’

  ‘Then you saw wrong. Why would I?’

  Stringer stared at him, his vision tunnelling. ‘Because someone told you to shut down Tan’s scheme. The money coming out of Russia.’

  ‘Shut it down?’

  ‘Mirror trades.’

  ‘You know that much and still you think I would kill him? You are a blind man.’

  Stringer cycled through questions in his head, calibrating for the possibility he’d got everything wrong. ‘He ran the scheme at HFB. You wanted him compromised – why?’

  ‘He’s got ten billion dollars a year passing through his fingers and you ask me why I do these things.’

  ‘Money? You wanted a cut?’

  ‘Not a cut. Jesus.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The end destination. Once the money’s out in the wild, it needs to find a home. People don’t take all those risks so it can sit around doing nothing.’

  ‘Your investment funds.’

  ‘Of course. Control Tan, control the destination.’

  ‘Ten billion a year flowing into your coffers. You taking your percentage.’

  ‘My business feeds on cash, the same as any other. More so.’

  Stringer ducked down to look out the window, gauging how far they’d travelled. He saw Tower Bridge coming up, maybe only ten minutes more until they reached Docklands.

  ‘Say again about the cars,’ Suslov said. ‘Withshaw.’

  ‘A black Honda SUV, registration LD16—’

  Suslov was shaking his head. ‘I own cars on three continents. I don’t know the plates.’

  ‘Registered name is Andrew Pitts.’

  He kept shaking. ‘I don’t know the name of everyone that works for me.’

  ‘Does Dalton?’

  ‘Yes. But he wouldn’t know which end to hold a gun.’

  ‘He had men with him who did.’

  ‘Impossible. He has no authority. He is my fucking bag carrier.’

  Stringer let his gaze stray to the water, everything out of focus. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Get him to meet us in Docklands.’

  ‘He already knows you are here tonight. I told him to arrange a car to have me picked up.’

  ‘Then he knows he’s blown.’ The scene was shifting so fast he couldn’t stay on top of it. ‘Why would he fuck you over?’

  Suslov pushed the knife away from his throat already hanging low. ‘There is no way.’

  ‘There’s CCTV of Jamie Tan being put into your car. I’m the only person can put this together for you.’

  Suslov loosened his tie and unfastened his top button. ‘You come for me with a knife and now you want to help me.’

  ‘Dalton set you up for Tan’s murder. Your house, your cars.’ Stringer held the knife up, then made a show of slipping it into his pocket. ‘You underestimated him.’

  Suslov stared at him, a fire raging behind his eyes.

  CHAPTER 50

  Lydia pressed the buzzer again. When no one answered, she rattled the driveway gate, the black metal barely moving. ‘Alicia…’

  She cupped her hands around her mouth. ‘Alicia Tan, I need to speak to you. It’s about Jamie.’

  The Tans’ house loomed over her in the gloaming. Using his name was low, but it came from acceptance that Alicia wasn’t there; we let ourselves down the most when we think no one’s watching. Next door, a light came on in an upstairs room, a shadow visible behind the drapes.

  She crossed the pavement and opened the back door of the cab, holding it while she took out her phone. She’d missed four calls from Stephen, the time gap between each one growing shorter, the sense that she’d finally pushed him too far. She brought up her call list and dialled Michael’s number again.

  The driver turned around to look at her. ‘Where we headed?’

  She ducked into the cab and raised her hand apologetically to him, phone to her ear. ‘Two seconds.’ She stood up again, hearing the automated voicemail message kick in.

  She redialled, getting the same result. This time she let the automated voice finish; then the beep and a yawning silence.

  ‘It’s me, where the hell are you? I know…’ She looked up, grasping for the words. ‘I can link Tan and Andriy Suslov going back three years. You already knew that, because I’m pretty sure you work for Suslov and I want to hear you say it. Call me back, you lying fucking coward.’

  The voice was her own, but not the emotion. The words were fierce, angry, but what she felt inside was only disappointment. The knowledge she’d betrayed her judgement, her instincts.

  She bent over to fold herself into the cab’s back seat.

  The driver looked at her in the mirror. ‘All set?’

  ‘Palgrave Estate on Cranbourne Street, please. It’s near Euston.’

  The bodyguard threw Stringer onto the deck. He couldn’t get his hands out to break his fall, landing on his elbow, pain shooting up his arm. The man stamped on his ankle, pinning him down with his foot. Then Suslov came up behind, a hand on the man’s shoulder to restrain him. Canary Wharf stood silent above them, its outline as hard and sharp as the point of a sword in the night.

  Suslov circled around and stopped by his feet, a glance at the riverbank, the gentle sound of water slapping against wooden pilings. True to his word, there was no greeting party there to meet them. He really had come in good faith – or whatever the right term was for him showing up in the belief he was protecting Shelby. There was no good faith, no good intentions, in this fucking sinkhole.

  Suslov took his phone from his ear. ‘He does not answer.’

  Stringer turned his body, trying to ease the pressure on his ankle. ‘He’s not here. He knows.’

  Suslov motioned for the bodyguard to lift his foot, then spoke to him in Ukrainian. Stringer grabbed his ankle, writhing on the deck. He made out the word ‘Dalton’ and nothing more, but Suslov’s tone was vicious. When he finished, the man kicked Stringer and motioned for him to get to his feet.

  ‘Just give me a place to start,’ Stringer said, almost pleading. ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘This is no longer your concern,’ Suslov said. He looked at the bodyguard again. ‘Get him inside and get everything out of him. What happened.’ He switched to Ukrainian and added something else. Stringer got it straight away.

  Get him inside the boat no one had seen him board. The boat no one knew he was on. He glanced around, Docklands deserted at this hour, no witnesses on the riverbank either. ‘Wait…’

  The bodyguard grabbed his arm and pulled him up. Then he twisted it behind him and started walking him back into the cabin, Stringer’s elbow exploding.

  ‘Somebody bought Dalton off,’ Stringer shouted over his shoulder. ‘I’m the only one who can put it all together.’

  Suslov had his eyes on his phone, typing something, ignoring him.

  ‘They got to him and they’re coming for you.’

  The bodyguard stopped, hesitating as he reached to open the cabin door, waiting for confirmation to continue.

  ‘Fucking think…’

  Suslov looked up, a crack forming, the bodyguard still looking to him.

  ‘Someone powerful enough that he’d even fuck you over. And I can find them.’

  Suslov held up a hand. ‘How?’

  ‘I need my phone.’

  Suslov considered it, then nodded warily for the man to let him go. Stringer took it out of his pocket and held the power button to turn it on – slow, deliberate movements.

  His phone came alive and the notifications rained in. A voicemail message and four emails. The top one was from Milos – the first line showing in the notification bubble. The call log from Dalton’s phone – he’d come through with it. He opened the attachment, his eyes flicking back and forth between the
screen and the oligarch.

  The bodyguard asked something in Ukrainian, but Suslov shook his head, an expression that said not yet.

  ‘This is Dalton’s call list.’ Skimming it, tripping over his words. There: one that lasted twenty-six minutes and change, corresponding to the date and time they’d been in the underground garage. Much longer than the rest of his calls, obvious for it. ‘I’ve got the mobile number he was taking instructions from.’ Before Suslov could say anything, Stringer dialled it, holding the phone out between them to show it wasn’t a trick.

  He put it on speaker as it started ringing. Suslov had his own phone in his hand, and it remained silent and still – likely confirmation he’d been telling the truth.

  The phone rang for another thirty seconds before it finally cut out. No voicemail message, no name.

  Suslov took a step towards him. ‘How can I trust this? Everything you do is telling lies.’

  ‘The risk I took tonight. I thought it was you.’

  ‘And now you know you were wrong.’

  Stringer looked away, no defence he could offer.

  Suslov put his hands on his hips. ‘This man. If he exists, he is the one ordered Tan’s death.’

  Stringer nodded once. ‘With Dalton’s help.’

  ‘So.’

  A single word that offered a lifeline. What he wanted obvious, nothing more to be said.

  The city glowed in the distance upriver, red lights flaring in the dark. Stringer put his phone away and looked at Suslov again. ‘They tried to kill me. Let me find them and I’ll square it for both of us.’