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‘And you accepted that?’ he said.
‘What choice did I have? I didn’t know where or when the funeral would take place. I didn’t speak Russian. There was no one to ask. Pavel wouldn’t tell me. I tried asking his wife, but she refused to take my calls. Under his instructions, no doubt.’ She sat down on the sofa. Her shoulders dropped. ‘All I wanted was to say goodbye. It was hard to accept my husband had died when I had no funeral, nothing solid to help me come to terms with losing him.’
‘Why didn’t you go to Russia with him?’
‘It was a sudden decision. It wasn’t planned. He came home, said his grandfather was unwell and he had to travel to Russia that night.’
‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t go.’
‘I was pregnant. Early stages. I was very ill with morning sickness. Sasha didn’t want me to travel that far and be in a foreign country. He insisted I stay here.’ She twisted a silver band on the ring finger of her right hand. The usual hand for Russians to wear a wedding ring. ‘If I had known it was the last time I would see him, I wouldn’t have agreed to stay.’
‘But you could have been in the car with him.’ John’s reply was gentle. He could see the angst in her whole body language.
‘I’ve thought about that and in those early days it made me wish it even more.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘But once I had my son, I knew I had everything to live for and I have never once revisited those dark thoughts.’
‘Does Sasha’s family know about your son?’
‘I told Pavel, but he wasn’t interested. All he said was that the life insurance would see me right. I wrote to Sasha’s mother. I had an address in Russia for her. Not that she would be able to read it, but I thought maybe someone would translate it for her. It was a long shot, but I thought she had a right to know she was to become a grandmother. I never received a reply. I didn’t have their phone number and, besides, what use would phoning have been? I can’t speak Russian and she can’t speak English.’ She let out a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ve never heard from a single member of that family since Sasha’s death.’
John didn’t know why, call it intuition and years in the force, but he believed her. He was sure she hadn’t spoken or had any contact with any of them since that day.
‘Can I ask one thing?’ said John.
‘Sure.’
‘Did you ever get proof of your husband’s death?’
‘Like a death certificate? Yes, I did actually. Pavel sent it to me, said I would need it for insurance claims. Actually, he sent it to his solicitor here in the UK who translated it and signed it as an authentic copy and translation.’
‘Okay, thank you, Tina,’ he said standing up. ‘Can I leave you my number in case you think of anything or if, indeed, Pavel does get in touch?’
Tina took the card John proffered. ‘I don’t think he will, but if he does …’
John followed her out to the hallway. ‘If I find anything else out about Pavel, I’ll let you know,’ he said. ‘Please don’t worry, though.’ For some unexplained reason, he rested his hand on her arm reassuringly and allowed it to linger, probably longer than it should.
‘Thank you Detective Sergeant,’ she said.
‘John. Call me John, it’s much easier.’ He smiled into her forget-me-not blue eyes and saw nothing but trust.
She trusted him.
The satisfaction that this had been gained sat uncomfortably alongside his betrayal of her five years ago. He was responsible for Sasha leaving. He was responsible for the pain widowhood brought her. Blood had stained his hands then: blood that was washed away with soap and water. The moral stains, however, weren’t so easily removed.
His job sucked at times. John walked down the path feeling a complete and utter shit.
Chapter 8 (#ulink_7b3085c3-4024-5187-a933-566154c5196f)
John threw the manila file onto his desk and sighed. It was no good, he couldn’t make any headway into Sasha Bolotnikov’s death. All lines of enquiries led to dead ends. Sasha Bolotnikov had been killed in a road accident within weeks of returning to Russia. It was a convenient death, if nothing else. John wondered whether it had indeed been an accident.
At the time, John had been incapacitated, recovering from surgery to remove a bullet from his shoulder. He had wanted to come back to work but was overruled by both doctors and his superiors. When he did return to work, Sasha’s death had been investigated and no further questions asked.
He looked up as Martin came and sat at the desk. ‘Any luck?’
Martin shook his head. ‘Nope. The Russians aren’t playing ball. No one is talking. The official line is they can’t release any more information about Sasha’s accident than is already in the public domain and, as for Pavel, they have no idea where he is and have no interest in finding him for us.’
John looked across the office at Adam. ‘Anything with the facial recognition for the Russian or Pavel?’
‘Not yet. We’re going back another week now.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ John tapped his biro between his teeth and turned to Martin. ‘We’ve tried all the official lines, let’s try unofficial.’
‘Anyone in mind?’
‘Baz Fisher.’
John eyed Baz Fisher across the Formica table top of the Rosie Lea Café.
‘Come on, Baz, you must know something,’ he coaxed as he slowly stirred the teaspoon around in the dark-brown liquid.
‘Look, John …’ began Baz Fisher.
Martin cut him off. ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Nightingale to you, Baz. Don’t forget your manners, now. There’s nothing I hate more than disrespect.’ He picked up his plastic teaspoon and snapped it in half between his fingers. ‘It gets me agitated, see.’
John watched Baz Fisher, local ‘fence’, well known for being a mine of information. Through his café business and his rather unfavourable associations with a local gambling syndicate, Baz got to hear a lot of things. Baz flicked a glance in John’s direction before nodding towards Martin. ‘Put ya pet on a lead, will ya.’
‘Come on, Baz.’ John gave a faux reassuring smile. ‘All you have to do is tell us what you know about Pavel Bolotnikov.’
‘I dunno, John,’ he threw Martin a defiant look. ‘These Russians don’t like people poking about in their business. It’s dangerous, like. Know what I mean?’
‘Baz, we can do this two ways,’ said John. ‘We can take you in for questioning, which will no doubt mean word will get out that you’ve been singing or we can do it nice and discreetly here, where no one gets to know.’
Baz eyed John and then Martin. ‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’
‘I’m not asking much’ said John. ‘Just tell me if Pavel Bolotnikov is in the UK and where.’
A bead of sweat traced its way down the side of Baz’s temple. He wiped at it with a paper serviette.
‘You didn’t hear from me. Got that?’ conceded Baz after a few moments.
‘When have we ever heard it from you?’ said John. ‘You know we will look after you.’
Baz cleared his throat, looking around the café once more. John bit down the impatient breath that was threatening to escape,
‘Pavel is not in London any more. I don’t know exactly where he was staying, but I do know he’s gone.’
‘How did he get into London?’
‘Flew.’
‘From where and when?’
‘Two weeks ago yesterday. I don’t know where from. I’m not his travel agent.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Like I said, I don’t know.’ Baz wiped at the newly formed sweat on his forehead. ‘Come on, John, give us a break. I’ve said too much already.’
John exchanged a look with Martin before both men looked back at their informant. After a few moments’ silence, John prompted him. ‘Tell us where he is now and we’re done.’
Baz went to protest, but must have thought better of it. He cursed quietly. ‘I swear, John, this is all I know.’ He leaned in and spoke in a hushed voice. ‘Word has it, Pavel’s gone to the seaside.’
‘Seeing as the UK is an island, that gives a lot of scope as to where he could be,’ snapped Martin.
‘Okay, okay.’ Baz held up his hands. ‘West Sussex.’
‘A lot of coastline in West Sussex,’ replied John.
‘Littlehampton. He’s gone to Littlehampton.’ Baz let out a sigh. ‘Now that’s got to be worth something.’ He pointed towards the pocket that housed John’s wallet.
John obliged and drew out a crisp twenty-pound note. He placed it slowly on the table before repeating the process with another one.
As Baz went to scoop the notes up, John laid his hand flat over them. ‘Was he alone?’
Baz shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ He looked at John and then Martin. ‘And that’s straight up, I’m not his secretary.’ He looked at the notes.
John lifted his hand and watched as Baz greedily shoved his earnings into his trouser pocket. ‘If that’s all, gentlemen, I’ll be on my way.’
As Baz went to leave, John stuck out his hand and caught the man’s arm. ‘Keep your ear to the ground and let me know if you hear anything. Anything at all. Got it?’
‘Yeah, course,’ muttered Baz before scurrying into the back of the café.
‘You reckon he knows anything else?’ queried Martin.
John shook his head. ‘Don’t think so.’ He took a slurp of his tea before pushing it away. ‘Jesus, that’s disgusting. Come on.’ He stood up. ‘We can pin the facial recognition down to a date now. I want to see if Pavel came in alone or not.’
‘Do you know something I don’t?’ asked Martin following John out of the café.
‘Just a hunch. I want to see the CCTV first, though.’
John and Martin arrived back at the office to find Adam looking rather pleased with himself.
‘I take it that’s your good-news face,’ said John.
‘We’ve got a match for the dead Russian,’ said Adam, tapping at the keys on his computer. The victim’s face appeared on the screen next to his personal details. Adam gave a summary. ‘Ivan Gromov. Porboski gang member. Lives in Russia. Was a regular visitor to the UK up until about five years ago. Not known to us. Has used various different aliases.’ He scrolled down the screen for more information.
‘Came into the UK via Stockholm ten days ago. Connecting flight from Tallinn,’ said John.
Adam looked at his boss. ‘You beat me to it.’
‘Good stuff,’ said John, conscious of not spoiling his junior colleague’s moment. ‘Can you look for Pavel Bolotnikov now? We’re pretty sure he came into the country prior to Gromov. My guess is Gromov was sent to follow Pavel, either to find out what Pavel was up to or to stop him from doing it. Pavel turned the tables on him.’
‘Pavel killed Gromov?’ said Adam.
‘Kill or be killed,’ said John. He nodded at the computer. ‘Get cracking, then, and see what you can find. I want to know if Pavel came in alone.’
Adam got to it straight away. Within an hour he was calling John over.
‘Sir, you might want to come and look at this.’ John came and looked at the monitor. There was Pavel Bolotnikov in full Technicolor.
‘Was he alone?’
Adam flicked to another CCTV screen capture. ‘It would appear not. Came through passport control and customs separately, but joined up in arrivals.’ Adam zoomed in on Pavel and his accomplice.
Martin came and peered over his shoulder at the screen.
‘Is that who I think it is?’
Chapter 9 (#ulink_3a5e724d-8f1f-51ca-94cb-5bf483a38958)
Tina smiled as Dimitri danced in and out of the shade of the sycamore trees, the late afternoon sun stretching the shadows into long, narrow strips, which spread over the pavement and climbed the garden walls.
‘The crocodiles can’t get me when I’m on the black bits,’ said Dimitri, as he hopped from one shaded patch to another.
The light breeze that tripped through the trees threw the edges of the shadows from side to side, making the jumping across the sea of crocodiles quite precarious.
‘Ah! Your foot landed in the water,’ said Tina as Dimitri performed a rather optimistic leap from one shadow to another. She chased after him, snapping her hands together. ‘Snap! Snap! Snap! Here comes the crocodile!’
He squealed and laughed as he darted to the shade of another tree and leaned against the trunk. ‘Not quick enough, Mr Crocodile.’
Dimitri looked on further down the avenue, assessing his next death-defying leap across crocodile-infested waters. He raised himself from the tree trunk and peered more closely at something ahead of him.
‘There’s a man outside our house,’ he said.
Tina followed his gaze. Standing outside her front gate was John Nightingale. She was surprised to see him and found herself subconsciously running her hand across her hair, which was tied back in a ponytail. A fleeting thought, that she wished she had her hair loose today, whizzed through her mind. Swiftly followed by another that she was in her work uniform. However, these were soon overtaken by the idea that something might be wrong. She hadn’t been expecting to see the police again, unless there had been some developments.
‘Hello, Tina,’ said John as she neared him.
‘Hello,’ said Tina. ‘Is everything all right?’ An uneasy sensation pitched up in her stomach and instinctively she took Dimitri by the hand, drawing him into her.
‘Everything is fine,’ replied John, he looked down at Dimitri and smiled. ‘Hello, I’m John. You must be Dimitri.’
Dimitri turned into Tina’s legs. ‘Say hello to John,’ she said. John crouched down and held out his hand.
‘Hello,’ said Dimitri. He looked at John’s hand for a moment and then solemnly shook it.
‘I wondered if we could have a word,’ said John standing up.
‘We?’
