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‘Just checking if she was telling the truth.’
‘Right, let’s go.’
‘I’m not ready yet, Hannah.’ He nodded to the corner shop at the end of the street. ‘Let’s have a word down there. The Russian gentleman with the scar interests me. Maybe he’s been in.’
They walked down the pavement towards the shop, and behind them Greta Novikova turned her Opel into the street and drove away.
The sign on the shop window said ‘M. Patel’. Dillon nodded. ‘Indian, that’s good.’
‘Why, particularly?’ Hannah asked.
‘Because they’re smart and they don’t screw around. They’ve got a head for business and they want to fit in. So let’s see what Mr Patel has to say and let’s use your warrant card.’
The shop was neat and orderly, and obviously sold a bit of everything. The Indian behind the counter reading the Evening Standard was in shirtsleeves and looked about fifty. He glanced up, smiling, looked them over and stopped smiling.
‘Can I help?’
Hannah produced her warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Bernstein, Special Branch. Mr Dillon is a colleague. We’re pursuing inquiries, which involve a Mrs Morgan who lives up the street. You know her?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Her son’s away,’ Dillon said. ‘New York, I understand?’
‘Yes, she did tell me that. Look, what is this?’
‘Don’t fret, Mr Patel, everything’s fine. Mrs Morgan is friendly with a Dr Ali Selim. You know who he is?’
Patel’s face slipped. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘And you don’t like him.’ Dillon smiled. ‘A Hindu–Muslim thing? Well, never mind. Sometimes when he sees Mrs Morgan he has a friend with him. Bad scar, from his eye to his mouth. She thinks he’s Russian.’
‘That’s right, he is. He’s called in to buy cigarettes, sometimes with the Arab. Selim calls him Yuri. They were in yesterday.’
Hannah glanced up at the security camera. ‘Was that working?’
He nodded. ‘I was busy, so when the tape stopped I didn’t run it back. I took it out and put a fresh tape in.’
‘Good,’ Dillon said. ‘I’m sure you have a television in the back room. Get us the tape and we’ll run it back.’
Patel proved accommodating, closed the shop for a while and ran the tape through for them. Finally he stopped.
‘There they are.’
Hannah and Dillon had a look. ‘So that’s him?’ Dillon said. ‘The Russian.’
‘Yes. And I’ve remembered something else,’ Patel said. ‘One day he was on his own and his mobile rang and he said, “Ashimov here.”’
‘You’re sure about that?’ Hannah asked.
‘Well, that’s how it sounded.’
‘Good man, yourself,’ Dillon said. ‘You’ve helped enormously.’
Patel hesitated. ‘Look, is Mrs Morgan in trouble? I mean, she’s not fit to be out, but she’s nice enough.’
‘No problem,’ Hannah said. ‘We’re just pursuing some inquiries.’
‘And I know exactly what that means with you people.’
Dillon patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, old son, we’re the good guys.’
They went out and walked towards the Mini. ‘Yuri Ashimov,’ Hannah said. ‘Interesting.’
‘Let’s go and see what Roper makes of it,’ Dillon suggested.
At Monk Street, Greta linked her digital camera to Ashimov’s television and ran the photos of Dillon and Hannah.
‘There you are. The social services I assume. I’ve no idea who the man is.’
Ashimov swore softly. ‘But I do. My God, Greta, you’re on to something here.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Last year, when Baron von Berger of Berger International was killed in that plane crash, and Belov took over his oil concessions and put me in charge of general security…I started going over all of Berger International’s previous security records. Did you know that Berger was in a state of open warfare against a man named General Charles Ferguson? Have you heard of him?’
‘Of course I have,’ Greta said. ‘He runs that special intelligence outfit for the Prime Minister.’
‘Gold star for you, Greta.’ Ashimov pointed to the last picture on the screen. ‘That’s Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein, Ferguson’s assistant.’
‘Good God,’ Greta said.
Ashimov flicked to Dillon. ‘And this gentleman – this one really is special. Sean Dillon, Ferguson’s strong right hand, and once the Provisional IRA’s top enforcer. For twenty years or more the British Army and the RUC couldn’t lay a hand on him.’
‘And now he works for the Prime Minister? That’s unbelievable.’
‘Well, it’s typically British. They’ll turn their hand to anything if it suits.’
‘So where does this leave us?’
‘With Ferguson’s outfit checking Mrs Morgan, whose son was supposed to have a go at President Jake Cazalet in New York and has now disappeared, or so it would seem. Would you say the appearance of Dillon and Bernstein at her front door was a coincidence?’
‘Not for a moment. What do you intend to do?’
‘I’ll alert Dr Ali Selim, naturally. We’ll take it from there. I’ll show them the photos.’
‘And Belov?’
‘He left this sort of thing in my hands, but I keep him informed.’ He smiled. ‘He’s not involved, Greta my love, you must understand. He’s too important. As regards operations at what you might call the coal face, I’m in charge.’ He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Trust me.’
Soon after, he was standing by an old jetty round the corner from the Queen Street mosque, overlooking the river. He leaned on a rail smoking a cigarette, enjoying the landscape, the views, the boats passing. Selim appeared after a while, a handsome bearded man wearing a Burberry raincoat, an umbrella guarding him from the rain.
‘Yuri, my friend.’ He smiled. ‘You said it was urgent. Why not call at my office at the mosque?’
‘Not again,’ Ashimov told him. ‘I’ve got news for you. Our friend Morgan’s trip to New York would seem to have disappeared into a black hole.’
‘How unfortunate,’ Selim said calmly.
‘Listen.’ Ashimov went through everything.
Afterwards Selim said, ‘We can’t be certain he met a bad end. That’s supposition, surely?’
‘Ali, my friend, if Ferguson’s lot are involved, particularly this Dillon, then the end is as certain as the coffin lid closing.’
‘You consider the man exceptional, it would seem.’
‘And for good reason. He’s a man of many skills. An experienced pilot, for instance, and a linguist. Russian and Arabic, for example.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Besides his years with the IRA, he worked for the PLO as a mercenary, and for the Israelis in Lebanon in the old days.’ Ashimov lit a cigarette. ‘He kills at the drop of a hat, this one.’
‘Oh, in a dark street on a rainy night, I’m sure he’s as susceptible to a knife under the ribs as anyone.’
‘My dear Ali.’ Ashimov smiled. ‘If you believe that, you’ll be making the worst mistake of your life.’
Selim said, ‘So, what about Mrs Morgan? If they’re sniffing around there, she could be saying the wrong things.’
‘I don’t know. She’s an ageing cripple in a wheelchair. She can’t speak in much more than a whisper. And what could she tell him? That she’s a woman who returned to Islam after her husband’s death, whose son also discovered the faith and lightened her grief. Wouldn’t you, as her imam, agree with all this?’
‘Of course.’
‘Exactly, and you are a man of impeccable background and highly respected. Whatever has happened to the son has no connection with you. You’re too important, Ali, that’s why we keep you out of it. You even sat on a committee at the House of Commons last week. Nothing could be more respectable. No, my friend, you’re a real asset.’
‘And too valuable to lose,’ Selim said. ‘And loose ends are loose ends. If Mrs Morgan should happen to mention you and me in the same breath, they’ll discover who you are. The man who is Belov’s security.’
Ashimov sighed. ‘All right, leave it to me. Now we’d better split up. I’ll be in touch.’
Selim hesitated. ‘Morgan was a soldier of God. If the worst has come to the worst, he is also a true martyr.’
‘Save that tripe for the young fools at the mosque, your Wrath of Allah fanatics. Go on, get going.’
Selim went, and Ashimov stayed there thinking about it. Perhaps Selim had a point. After all, why would Bernstein and Dillon be calling on the old lady at all? Better to be safe than sorry. He looked over at the incoming tide, then pulled up his collar against the rain, walked round to Chandler Street and rang the bell at Number Thirteen.
She answered it after a while and peered out over the chain. ‘It’s me. Mr Ashimov,’ he said. ‘Dr Selim’s friend. He asked me to call and see if you wanted to go to the mosque.’
‘That is kind,’ she said. ‘I was going to go a little later.’
‘Since I’m here, why don’t you go now? It’s much easier if I push you,’ he said. ‘Bring an umbrella. It’s raining.’
She closed the door, undid the chain and opened it again, and Ashimov stepped in. ‘Let me help you.’ He reached for a raincoat and a beret hanging on a hall stand and helped her. ‘There you are, and here’s an umbrella.’ He took one down and gave it to her.
‘So kind,’ she said.
‘Not at all. Have you got your key?’
‘Yes.’
‘You had a visit this afternoon, I believe. A lady from the social services department?’
‘Did I?’ she frowned. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘Yes, with a gentleman. What did they ask you? About your son in New York?’
She was confused and bewildered. Few things seemed real to her any more, and her memory was fading fast these days.
‘I can’t remember. I can’t remember anyone calling.’
Which was true, for she was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It was obvious to Ashimov that he was wasting his time.
‘Never mind. Let’s be on our way, then.’
The rain was driving down, no one around as they went along the street, the fog drifting up from the river. They went past the shop, which now showed a closed sign inside the door.
‘It’s going to be a dirty night later,’ he said.
‘I think you’re right.’
‘But still a nice view of the Thames.’ He turned in at the old wooden jetty, the wheels of her chair trembling over the warped wooden boarding.
‘There you are.’ He paused at the top of the steps going down to the river.
‘I like it at night with the lights on the boats.’
Her voice was like a small wind through the trees on a dark evening, as he looked at the river high with water lapping at the bottom of the steps. Then he shoved the chair forward. Strangely enough, she didn’t call out, but gripped the arms of her chair tightly, and when she hit the water she went under instantly as the chair emptied her out.
It was only four or five feet deep, a mud bank when the tide was out. Someone would find her soon enough. He’d done her a favour, really. He lit a cigarette and walked away.
A few minutes later, standing in a doorway, he phoned Ali Selim. ‘You can relax. Mrs Morgan has met with an unfortunate accident.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ashimov told him. Selim sounded horrified. ‘Was that necessary?’
‘Come on, Selim, you were the one talking about loose ends. Now, don’t forget, if the police enquire, you were unhappy about her habit of going to the mosque alone in her wheelchair, which is why you often sent young men to fetch her.’
Selim took a deep breath. ‘Of course.’
‘She was prematurely ageing, confused a great deal of the time.’
‘She had Alzheimer’s.’
