A Hard Woman to Kill (The DCI Hanlon Series) (21 page)

She would have novelty value, a genuine British whore. Nobody liked the British, so the chance to defile at least one of them would make her very marketable. After she’d seen what they would do to the policeman she would beg to serve them.

A shame for the
politseyskiy
that when the quietus came he wouldn’t be allowed the luxury of what the defeated and condemned-to-die gladiator used to do, to wrap his face in his cloak to hide his death agony.

Although when the time came, the
politseyskiy
would be begging for death, that was for sure. He would oversee it personally. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty, but he liked to watch.

Another barrel for the policeman, then make arrangements for their disposal. So much to do in such a limited time. He gathered that Anderson’s lawyer, Cunningham, who Arkady had contacted, was busy arranging the documents for sale of the Marylebone flat. The police, according to both Joad and the Chinaman, knew nothing of the killing of Jordan, Taverner and the girl Tatiana, but rumours had leaked out into the criminal community and Anderson’s prestige had taken an almighty knock.

He sipped his tea gently and looked at Arkady sitting opposite him, holding a large vodka.

Myasnikov knew what Anderson would be going through. He had experienced lows himself in his criminal career. Right now whores would be looking for other employers, creditors would be asking for repayment of loans or money up front and there would be a general rise in absenteeism from Anderson’s hired thugs. It was very much like a run on a bank, and fear would feed fear. Anderson’s stock had been irrevocably devalued and he would be feeling it.

Only Myasnikov’s death could restore Anderson to his former glory, and who would dare attempt that? No one. You wouldn’t be able to find a single person in London with the balls to try and kill him. Not one.

A couple of weeks ago Dave ‘Jesus’ Anderson had been one of the most feared men in London. An invincible criminal who had once crucified a man who had crossed him, hence the nickname.

Now the Moscow Butcher was the man to fear. A man who killed people at funerals. A man who beheaded his rivals. Myasnikov was furious at the Islamic terrorists in the Middle East. They were stealing his thunder. He felt that he was being devalued by their actions. How dared they chop heads off. People might think he was a copycat, that he lacked originality. He took another sip of tea.

It’s strange, thought Arkady, how normal Myasnikov looks in his conservative blue suit and tie, his thin, ascetic features, bald head and mild-mannered expression. Like a teacher marking homework. Then again, look at Lenin, who he faintly resembled. He had no qualms when it came to signing death warrants.

‘Tell Dimitri Nikolyavich to bring the girl along when he comes. I want as few loose ends as possible. We’ll speak to the cop tomorrow. Make sure that the cop has an uncomfortable night. Do we know anything about him?’

Arkady took a mouthful of vodka.

‘Joad says there is nothing unusual, nothing strange locally. No one is interested in us. This cop is Metropolitan
politseyskiy
, London, not Oxford. The Chinaman says nothing unusual too in London. They don’t seem to know about Anderson’s brothel. He’s covered that up.’ Arkady was wearing voluminous cream linen trousers and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt with a motif of yachts. It was loose-fitting but his huge gut strained at the fabric. The top of his slacks were darker than the rest where sweat had soaked through. He swirled the ice around in his drink. ‘Anderson must have got rid of the bodies effectively.’

Myasnikov frowned. ‘The Chinaman didn’t do very well with terminating Anderson’s brother at the cemetery. It was a fuck-up, Arkasha.’

Arkady nodded. ‘Yes, Konstantin Alexandrovich, but not the Chinaman’s fuck-up. Nikita dropped his rifle, messed up the sights.’

‘Mmm-hmm, and the Chinaman certainly messed Nikita up, I gather.’ Good, he thought. He didn’t like loose ends. It saved them a job.

‘So, all in all, Kostya, not too bad. And the Chinaman gave me the lead on Anderson’s lawyer, Cunningham. They’re ready to negotiate.’

‘Good,’ said Myasnikov. He thought for a minute and then looked out of the window. The gardens of the brothel were immaculate. He’d checked everything with his usual rigour, including the accounts.

The brothel was registered to his UK company, Godunov Holdings. The brothel was technically a ‘wellness’ centre. The dozen or so girls who worked out of it were qualified masseuses and reiki practitioners, nutritional experts and NLP counsellors. He’d bought a job lot of qualifications for them over the Internet. They were framed and sat on the walls of the girls’ bedrooms. They were all perfectly genuine qualifications. In Myasnikov’s opinion it was scandalous that you could buy such things legally. How could you know who to trust?

His filed accounts kept him just slightly over the wire, tax-wise, enough not to excite the attentions of HMRC, not enough to hurt. The warehouse in Slough was part of the portfolio. Myasnikov always did enough to stay on the right side of the authorities when he could.

The farm outside Oxford was registered in another name. Security within security. He had made millions through his hard work and he wasn’t going to have his wealth jeopardized by the government taking it away, if, God forbid, he were ever caught and sentenced. It’s partly why he was in England, a safe haven for his money. You couldn’t trust the Russian government and he most certainly didn’t trust the rouble.

If England was good enough for the oligarchs, it was good enough for him. Maybe he would take out citizenship.

He checked the slim, expensive watch on his wrist.

‘Tell Dimitri to make sure that the girl watches while he works the policeman. I want her to be in no doubt as to what will happen to her if she doesn’t cooperate fully. Oh, and, Arkady, tell Dimitri not to be too enthusiastic. I want him alive and able to talk tomorrow morning. They’re fixing the farm to hold him for a couple of days. Just to recapitulate. Move him and the girl to Slough now, store them there till tonight, then we’ll move him back to the farm later when it’s ready. You and me will call in tonight, Arkasha. I want to see the girl. I want to see my investment. I want to make sure she’s worth keeping alive. Face it, Dima will fuck anything. I also want to make sure this Demirel is more or less in one piece. Tell Dimitri if he kills him, well, I’ll be unhappy.’

‘Yes, Konstantin Alexandrovich, it will be done.’

It was a day of meetings. While Myasnikov and Belanov were meeting at the brothel in Woodstock Road in Oxford, Anderson, Morris Jones, Danny and Robby were in the back bar of the Three Compasses, Edmonton.

It was a lot less salubrious than the brothel in Oxford.

‘Did you get a photo, Morris?’ asked Anderson. Today, Morris Jones was wearing a paisley shirt and faded blue jeans; his training shoes with blue stitching had been handmade in Jermyn Street. Anderson was also casually dressed, in an old tracksuit that had been cheap when he’d bought it at Edmonton market. He was unshaven and Danny thought he looked crazier than usual.

Danny wasn’t feeling too clever himself. He’d spent the weekend on the piss, drinking himself unconscious. He couldn’t seem to clear the images of death out of his mind. He was alarmed to find himself trembling every now and again. It wasn’t dramatic but it worried him. He found that his heart would start racing at the same time and he would feel cold sweat on his brow. His nerves were pretty much shot. He was terrified that someone would notice. He didn’t want to end up like Barry Jackson and he didn’t want to end up like Jordan Anderson. He was between a rock and a hard place.

What with the Russians on one side and his employers on the other, Danny was beginning to feel very much out of his depth.

Morris Jones rested a speculative eye on him. Danny glared at him aggressively. Why are you looking at me like that? he thought. He felt his palms starting to sweat. Please God, not a panic attack, he prayed.

Morris Jones nodded and handed over a glossy head and shoulders print of a woman. Robby looked at it briefly. He’d had the best look at the woman. She had been caught looking into the camera. The expression was confident, maybe slightly arrogant, the dark hair thick and kinked, almost corkscrew-like. Her eyebrows were black and gracefully arched. Her jaw was determined, the eyes grey, but there were dark shadows underneath them as if she didn’t sleep well. It was a handsome face but hard. She had an attractive mouth yet it was somehow difficult to imagine it smiling.

‘That’s her,’ Robby said. ‘She can’t half run. Who is she anyway?’

Anderson smiled. He’d known it would be her. How many other women would jump from a twelve-foot wall at a gangster’s funeral, issue instructions to his security team, instructions that they’d all obeyed without thinking, and then outpace Robby up all those stairs to confront an armed man?

Danny had thought it might be her, but he’d only met her once, briefly, a while ago. He was unsure of her, but then he had been behaving a bit oddly of late. Anderson made a mental note. Maybe it was time to get rid of Danny.

‘That, Robby, is DCI Hanlon of the Met.’

Robby looked puzzled. ‘She didn’t stick around, not when we found matey up there. What was all that about then?’

‘That,’ said Anderson, ‘is what we’re going to find out.’ He turned to Morris Jones. ‘Arrange it, Morris. Cunningham will know where to find her.’

Anderson looked at the photo of Hanlon he held between his strong fingers. I knew we’d meet again, he thought pleasurably.

Enver Demirel woke up feeling terrible. He felt sick, sore and disorientated. There were no effects from the taser but the ketamine that he had been injected with had left him tired and lethargic. Its pain-killing effects had worn off and he was aware of an aching pain in his groin from where Dimitri had kicked him.

He shook his head to clear it and looked around. His thoughts were still slow and confused. He was mentally zoning in and out of the here and now like a randomly focused lens.

He was in a very large empty room with a high corrugated roof. Light filtered in from small windows set up in the walls near the ceiling. The overall impression was one of dark, damp, grey gloom. The only objects in the vast space seemed to be several oil drums, nothing else. He shifted his attention to his own body.

His hands were behind his back and he was secured by his wrists to an old-fashioned radiator. Handcuffed with what looked suspiciously like his own police-issue rigid cuffs. The cold radiator was made of heavy iron and securely bracketed; he wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. His ankles were gaffer-taped together.

He sank back into unconsciousness.

He awoke again with no knowledge of how much time had elapsed since he had last come to. He was still feeling disassociated from his surroundings by the drug. He closed his eyes and maybe he drifted off; he wasn’t quite sure. He opened his eyes again and this time noticed that he wasn’t alone.

Chantal Jenkins was also attached to the other end of the radiator. She looked at him unhappily. ‘Are you awake now?’ she said. ‘How are you feeling?’

Back at her flat, when she’d opened the door to let Enver in and seen this big, powerful man with the kind face, the floor creaking under his heavy tread, momentarily hope had flared in her heart. For a flickering instant she had thought of pointing at the bathroom door where Dimitri was and mouthing something. A warning; a plea.

But equally quickly had come the knowledge that even if Enver overpowered and arrested him, Dimitri would be released by the end of the evening. Or, even if he wasn’t, Belanov would come for her and, if not him, someone else. And where could she hide, where could she go? Nowhere. They would come for her. Nobody had ever helped her in her life and they weren’t going to start now.

The best it ever got had been Curtis. That was far from brilliant but he had cared for her in a way. Now he was gone.

So she’d done what Dimitri had told her, distracted Enver with the sight of her body, allowing Dimitri to emerge and taser him in the back.

‘Hello, Chantal,’ said Enver. He remembered everything clearly up until he had been tasered. Dimitri, he guessed. He bore her no ill will. He rubbed his thick hair against the radiator, tested the metal of the rigid handcuffs. Oh, for a malfunction. They were working perfectly; he was going nowhere.

‘Do you know where we are?’ he asked.

Chantal shook her head. ‘We were in the back of a van,’ she said. ‘You were in a box,’ she added unhappily. ‘I looked at my watch, we’re about an hour from Oxford. Most of it was on the motorway.’ She paused. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Not really, I suppose,’ Enver said. He tested the mounting of the old-fashioned radiator with his strong hands. It didn’t move a millimetre.

Enver briefly considered his fate. All in all, he decided, it didn’t look promising. Dimitri could hardly release him – well, not unless he planned a return to Russia. The odds on a successful extradition attempt would be low. That was his only chance really. That, and being rescued by some fluke. Still, at least he was still alive. That was something.

But his work colleagues thought he was in France. The only person who would miss him would be Melinda Huss.

‘Have you still got your watch?’ he asked Chantal.

She shook her head. ‘They took it.’

What would Huss do? thought Enver. He pictured her getting off the train at Paddington, failing to find him. The unanswered calls to his mobile, her rising anger, her returning on the train to Oxford. He clamped down on the thought as best he could.

Enver was one of those people who would fret about trivial things –
what will happen if . . . ?
– and construct elaborate, doom-laden scenarios based on nothing but pessimism. Faced with real and terrifying danger, such as the inevitability of much physical pain when boxing and the possibility of severe injury, even worse, he was cheerily fatalistic.