Vendetta (29 page)

‘She was found in some nasty hotel room with her face shot off. Did she tell you about having to meet someone?’

Mac shook his head, keeping up the dazed routine. ‘Do you think her murder is connected to what happened at the car wash?’

Reuben twisted the side of his mouth. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Someone, somewhere, is snuffing the life out of my people one by one.’

Mac let the harshness of his words grind in the room before saying, ‘What are you planning to do about it?’

‘Nothing. Not yet, anyway. But once the delivery has arrived . . .’

‘But what if someone is making sure you never make the delivery? Half your guys went down at the car wash. It could be another gang . . . ?’

‘Don’t you think I’ve considered that,’ Reuben snarled, turning the atmosphere in the room ugly.

Mac sensed this was his moment and took it. ‘But what about Bolshoi . . . ?’

Reuben’s gaze became fierce. ‘Who told you about Mister Bolshoi?’

‘Look, I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but it wasn’t only her lips between her legs that kept opening up when we were getting it on.’

Reuben flung the glass at the wall with such force it shattered into tiny pieces before it hit the carpet. ‘That . . .’ The rest of his words were a stream of furious Russian that Mac didn’t need to understand to know they weren’t complimentary about Elena. ‘I told Mister Bolshoi we shouldn’t have her in the crew, but he insisted . . .’

Mac straightened his spine. ‘So Elena knew him?’

Reuben stopped pacing and turned to Mac. ‘The only way he was going to let me set up in London was to take her on as my communications person.’ He sneered. ‘I hate working with bitches. They only bring trouble.’

Mac leaned over and picked his glass off the table. Held it out to Reuben. The other man just stared at it. Then moved forward and snatched it. Drained the remainder of the liquid deep into his body.

‘So who is Bolshoi?’ Mac asked. He knew he had to tread really carefully here.

‘Mister Bolshoi,’ Reuben threw back as he slammed the glass onto the table. He pushed down into his seat. ‘Call him Bolshoi and you’ll be lucky to still have your balls left. He’s “Mister” to everyone. I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it wasn’t for him.’

Mac kept his tone light. ‘You sound like you know him well.’

Reuben crossed his legs again, his breathing easing back into a regular rhythm. ‘I got myself into the army young. No one cared. There wasn’t exactly a queue of kids volunteering to play soldiers in the mountains of Afghani—’

‘You were in the Afghanistan war? But that was back in ’79 . . .’

‘I joined right near the end in ’87. I thought I was going to be some kind of hero like my grandfather who fought the Nazis. Instead I was fucked up and scared – it was like Vietnam had been for the Americans. I got into drinking. I was swigging medical alcohol, anti freeze – anything I could get my hands on. I was going off the rails, but luckily one of the officers took pity on me . . .’ Reuben tailed off, his eyes heavy with sadness. Then he seemed to notice what he’d been saying and stiffened. ‘Don’t worry about Mister Bolshoi, my friend. It’s safer.’

Silence surrounded them. Mac knew his line of questioning was at a dead end.

‘How’s Milos doing?’

Some of the strain left Reuben’s face. ‘He’s out of danger and I’ve got you to thank for that. And I won’t forget it. I’m in your debt now. For this is all about my son. The world is in a permanent state of war these days, and now I’m fighting for him rather than my country.’ He straightened his legs and leaned forward, his tone reverting to that of Reuben the arms dealer. ‘Later I’ll need you to meet me at Club Zee and we’ll go to the delivery together.’

‘But where is the delivery happening?’

Reuben laughed, not a lick of humour in the deep sound he made. ‘When we meet, you’ll know where we’re going.’

Mac’s mind quickly shifted through the information he now had about Bolshoi.
Mister
Bolshoi.

He was the real face behind Reuben’s operation, just as Calum had confirmed.

He’d been an officer in the Red Army.

He’d known Elena before she came to England.

Reuben, Elena, Mister Bolshoi. The only thing that tied them together was this delivery.

He was just going to have to sit it out for now, until the delivery arrived, before making his next move. Then Reuben dropped a bombshell into the room.

‘I hope Katia went the same way as her bitch-sister.’

Mac looked confused. Whoever the other man was talking about was bringing the heat of anger back to his face.

Reuben saw the expression on Mac’s face. ‘Elena’s sister, Katia. I just found out that the whore was screwing Sergei. I told Elena to keep her sister well away from him . . .’

Mac didn’t hear the rest. Elena had a sister? Here in London? Then he remembered the gym membership database and the name Katia Romanov. What a fool to dismiss the name and not realise she was connected to Elena. Double fool, because the database would have given him her address as well.

‘Did her sister stay with her?’ Mac asked, remembering the makeshift bed on the sofa at Elena’s home.

‘I think she stayed there sometimes, but she had her own place.’

So her sister had probably spent the night with her. And now she was missing. Maybe even dead?

‘Does she know about Elena and Sergei?’

Reuben snarled. ‘I don’t care if she does or not . . .’

Mac leaned urgently forward. ‘But what would Sergei care about? I know you loved your brother, and surely he would’ve wanted her to know what had happened to him?’

Mac watched as the emotions on Reuben’s face changed from fury to simple grief. ‘There’s no point going to her home. Remember Sergei couldn’t find her anywhere.’

‘I’ve got some time to kill before the delivery – let me go and see if she’s back at her place.’

Reuben said, ‘She lives in north London. Camden. Eight Calvin Street.’

sixty-seven

8:55 p.m.

Rio’s Black Magic Woman hit the street where Katia lived. Stopped outside the address she’d been given and was surprised. She’d been expecting some type of tatty hostel or block of flats. Number Eight Calvin Street was a house. Four storeys. Plain-bricked Georgian. And worth well over a couple of mill, if Rio’s guess was right. So Elena Romanov’s sister was either a woman with money to burn, or knew where to get her hands on a hot stash of cash?

The front yard had been replaced by a carport; sitting there was a red Mini. Rio turned to Detective Martin. ‘Make a note of the plates and we’ll phone them in after.’

The street was empty as Rio pulled back the solid knocker on the front door of the house. The door shook. The rain eased up slightly as she waited with Martin for someone to answer. No one came. Rio tried again.

‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s in. We’ll have to come back.’

Instead of answering him, Rio moved towards the large front window. The Roman blind was up. She cupped her hand around her face and peered inside. No sign of anyone. Rio took two steps back and stared up at the twin windows on the next floor. Curtains drawn. Her gaze skated to the top floor. Curtains closed.

She moved back to stand with Martin in front of the door and said, ‘Give me your jacket.’

‘What?’ came his startled response.

She held out her hand. He shrugged out of his deep blue jacket in an awkward set of movements. Handed it to her.

‘Step back,’ Rio ordered.

She wrapped the jacket round her right hand and wrist. Stepped close to the door. Turned her face away as she punched her material-protected hand against the door’s glass panel. The glass shattered, with a few shards falling onto the street but the majority of it dropping inside.

‘Boss, I don’t think we should be doing this,’ Martin said, nervously looking at Rio, but also casting his gaze along the street.

‘This case is going to be solved today,’ was all she said as she unwrapped the jacket from her hand.

‘But don’t we need a search warrant?’

She handed him back his jacket. ‘Wait in my car.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve just got an outstanding performance review, which means you can’t afford to have any red strikes against your name. So wait in the car.’

Without waiting for his response, Rio shoved her arm through the broken door panel and stretched it out along the inside of the door until she found the lock. Turned. Opened.

She stepped inside. The hall was narrow, with lemon painted walls and a white carpet. Despite its colour, the carpet was stain-free. The staircase was tight and wound upwards and down to a floor below street level. Rio stopped at the first room she came across, the same one she’d peered into from outside. The door was already open. Three-piece suite. Low-level round table. Old-style jet-black fireplace. Bare floorboards. No photos, no ornaments, no sign that someone had put their own brand of love in this place. More a showroom than somewhere lived in and . . . Rio jerked round when she heard a noise behind her.

‘Crap,’ she let out, seeing Martin standing there. ‘I told you not to come in here.’

He gave her a lopsided smile. ‘Sorry – but you know I’m always going to cover your back.’

Rio wasn’t sure whether to cuff him round the ear or be grateful for his loyalty.

‘Check through all this stuff here and the floor below.’

‘And what am I looking for?’

‘Anything.’ She wasn’t sure herself. ‘Just anything.’

As soon as Rio took the stairs up, the quiet intensified. A sweet fragrance drifted to meet her as she neared the first landing. At the top of the stairs was a small table on long legs, with a vase of flowers. Lilies. Oriental, if she had the scent right. A few of the off-white buds had yet to bloom, but most of the flowers were open. Rio noticed small, drying drops of water. Someone had been in this house not that long ago.

She made her way along the landing and opened up the first room. A bed and a built-in wardrobe. Nothing else. Then she noticed the cream cross above the bed on the wall. The same type of cross her grandmother would make with the palm she got from church on Palm Sunday. So Katia was a Catholic. She checked the wardrobe. Nothing inside. Not even hangers.

Abruptly Rio turned when she heard what she was sure were footsteps outside on the landing.

‘Martin?’ she called, as she moved towards the door. Stepped outside. No one. Must be the old house talking, Rio decided, with its unexpected creaks and groans. She checked the second room. The same as the one before; nothing in the wardrobe, but a palm cross above a bed.

The third room was different. On the bed lay an open rucksack. Squirrel grey. The type with a pull-out handle in the top and mini wheels at the bottom for easier transportation. Clothes were stuffed inside. Not too many, just enough for a weekend away. Was that why the rooms were so empty? Elena’s sister going out of town? Rio sorted through the clothes, but found nothing else. She needed to get a search warrant ASAP to do a thorough search of the house.

She took the shorter section of stairs to the next floor. Only one room there. This was empty except for the steam iron in the corner with its cord wrapped neatly around it and the palm cross on the wall. She left the room and walked back to the stairs, but stopped when she felt the carpet dip slightly beneath her shoes. Rio wriggled her toes and the balls of her feet against the carpet. Yeah, the ground was moving. The carpet was a neat fit with the edge of the wall, but was it properly nailed down? She moved towards the edge and dropped to her knees. Started tugging at the carpet, but it wouldn’t budge.

‘Martin,’ she yelled as she kept pulling.

No answer.
He must be on the lower floor
. She used both hands this time, the muscles in her arms burning as she kept the pressure up. The carpet gave way. In one fluid move, Rio dragged the carpet across until the ground where she’d been standing was bare. Floorboards like downstairs. She took out her keys from her bag. Used one to try to prise a floorboard up, but it wouldn’t move. She did the same to the one next to it. And the next. The fourth board rose up. She pulled it clear and threw it to the side.

Rio looked down into the hole. And smiled. Inside was a frame lying face down, a folded piece of paper and a small plastic bag. Rio started with the picture frame. A photo, almost a replica of the one Europol had sent over with Elena Romanov’s file. Still the two girls, but this time they posed with a man. She figured it was their father. The smallest girl was in his lap, while he had his arm slung around his eldest daughter’s shoulder. Something on his arm caught her eye. She dragged the picture closer. A tattoo. Red star with a yellow border. The tattoo artist said it had something to do with the Red Army. Maybe all new recruits in the army had to have it done? Then why did this man’s murdered daughter have one as well? She decided to leave the questions for now and pick Martin’s brain when she got back downstairs

Placing the photo to the side, Rio opened the sheet of paper. A4-sized street map, the type downloaded from the Internet. She couldn’t make out what it was at first. Carefully she looked it over, trying to identify names written in bolder black writing.