The Half Truth

SUE FORTIN

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

Copyright © Sue Fortin 2015

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

Cover design by Becky Glibbery

Sue Fortin asserts the moral right

to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.

Ebook Edition © March 2015 ISBN: 9780007556595

Version 2017-10-05

Dedication

Special dedication, thanks and love to my husband, Ged, for his constant encouragement and support, for believing I could finish writing this story when I doubted it myself and for tirelessly occupying our youngest so I could write. Much love to my older children Liam, Hayley & Ross for their moral support and independence and to Esther for patiently sharing mummy with the keyboard.

Many people have helped me to write The Half Truth but particular thanks to Julie Cohen and the day spent at her writing workshop. More gratitude to the HarperImpulse team for their invaluable input and support. To The Romaniacs for being the best cheerleaders. To my sister, Jacqueline, for telling me to write the Tina story and to Laura E. James who urged me to complete the Russian one, the end result of both being The Half Truth.

Finally, a big thank you to all my readers whose support makes writing so rewarding.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

About HarperImpulse

About the Author

Also by Sue Fortin …

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Tina spun around, her eyes scanning the play area and beyond. She turned to her left and then her right, the sensation of being watched searing through her like a hot poker. The park was busy, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention. She was simply another mum entertaining her child on a warm Sunday afternoon. She physically shrugged in a bid to relieve herself of the hunted feeling, her eyes now seeking out her five-year-old son, Dimitri.

‘Mummy!’ he called, appearing at the top of the climbing frame. Tina waved at him, smiling broadly, revelling in her son’s delight as he whizzed down the slide, landing with a bump in the sand at the end. He scampered up and darted back round to the steps.

Despite this momentary distraction, the feeling of being watched remained with her. She waited for Dimitri to complete a second descent.

‘Come on,’ she said, scooping him up as he landed with a dull thud on the ground again. ‘Time to go.’

As they left the play area, Tina took another glance around. Her heart gave a little skip and she drew breath. The figure of a man caught her attention, but before she could look more closely he had disappeared out of view behind the coffee stand.

She closed her eyes for a moment. It was no good. She had to stop this. She should be used to it by now. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be Sasha. He wasn’t coming back. Ever. A slither of pain spiked at her heart, not as sharp as it once had been, but still strong enough to make her flinch mentally. Five years as a widow had dulled the intensity, or had she simply got used to living with it? She wasn’t sure and now wasn’t the time to analyse the notion further. It never was. Relegating the thought of her husband to the back of her mind, Tina took Dimitri’s hand and headed over towards the kiosk.

‘Do you want an ice-cream?’ She knew she really didn’t need to ask, but it was lovely to see the excited, gleeful expression on her son’s face at the prospect of the treat.

‘Ice-cream! Ice-cream!’ sang Dimitri as he danced along beside her.

Standing in the queue, Tina realised she was doing it again; checking for anyone who might be watching her. As she looked beyond the kiosk her heart threw in an extra beat. There, hurrying away in the distance, was the man who had caught her attention earlier. The logical side of her brain challenged what was rapidly becoming her irrational part. It couldn’t be Sasha. He was dead. Killed in a car accident. Her mind was playing cruel tricks on her. Was it any wonder, though, she thought as the figure continued its hurried departure? He looked the same height and build as Sasha, even had the same gait, his long stride covering the ground with ease.

The tugging of her arm caused her to look away as Dimitri pointed animatedly at the ice-cream he wanted.

‘This one, with sprinkles and chocolate sauce,’ he beamed, tapping the picture.

‘Okay, sprinkles and chocolate sauce it is,’ replied Tina, returning the smile.

When she looked back across the park, the man had gone. However, the sadness in her heart was not so eager to leave.

The call he had been waiting for came in. It lasted two seconds. The words ‘We’re on’ were the only ones necessary. DS John Nightingale dropped the phone back in its cradle, simultaneously standing up. Seven pairs of eyes focused on him.

‘Here we go, lads,’ he said, the calm air in his voice belying the adrenalin rush that kicked at his heart rate. ‘And lasses,’ he added noting the raised eyebrows of his female colleague, Jackie.

John hiked his gun harness onto his shoulders, clipping it in place. He gave the Glock 26 snuggled in the holster a reassuring pat. An action born of habit; a subconscious reassurance.

There was a scuffling of chairs and flurry of action as the specialist organised crime- fighting unit scrambled. Primed, eager and hyped for what could be a particularly nasty encounter with the gang of armed robbers they had been tracking for the past six months.

The black BMW and 4x4 Range Rover sped swiftly through the dusk of the London streets, leaving a deserted headquarters behind them. They wove their way through the rear lights of the bedraggled tail end of rush-hour traffic, homing in on their target with stealth- like silence. No roaring engines, no flashing blue lights, no sirens. Purely an assured confidence in their training, experience and trust of each other.

John had been handpicked to head up this elite unit that operated loosely within the boundaries of London City’s Met. They had been working together as a team for six years now. Faces rarely changed. Once you were in, you stayed in. They likened themselves to a marriage, the unofficial motto between them of ‘Until death us do part.’ And in two cases, it had. John pushed the black-dog memory of Neil Edwards’ death away. Another reaction that had become a habit. He needed to stay focused on the task in hand. He wasn’t going to lose another member of his team.

John headed the unit in the BMW, his partner and close friend, Martin Caslake, at the wheel and two more officers in the back seat, another four in the vehicle behind.

A text message alert sounded from Martin’s pocket. He shifted in his seat, pulling out the phone and glancing at the screen. Reading the message, he cursed quietly to himself before tapping in a reply, all the time keeping one eye on the road ahead.

‘I don’t know why these private banks can’t keep normal hours like the British ones. It would make our hours much more civilised,’ said Martin.

‘It’s ten minutes before closing, the bank staff will be relaxed, on the wind-down for the weekend. It’s the best time for the gang to strike,’ said John.

‘They are a week early.’

‘Do you want to mention that to them?’ said John. True, the original intel had said next week, but the update when he had gone into work that morning was that it was all happening tonight. He looked over at Martin. ‘You got trouble?’

‘I promised Maxine I’d take her out for dinner this evening. I forgot to let her know I wouldn’t be able to make it after all.’

This provoked some jibes from the lads in the car. Mentions of ‘hen-pecked’ and ‘under the thumb’ banded about.

‘Fuck off, you lot,’ said Martin. He jabbed at the keyboard with his thumb.

‘That was a long text just to say you were working,’ said John, fighting to keep the smile from his face. ‘You’re very conscientious all of a sudden.’

More ribbing from the lads ensued.

‘Well, some girls are worth it,’ said Martin. ‘Not that any of you would know, with your chuck-away, disposable love lives.’

‘Sounds serious,’ said John.

Martin shrugged in response without commenting. John didn’t push for an answer. Personal relationships in the police force were difficult enough to maintain. Relationships within this specialist unit even more so. Hence why most of them were either single or divorced, John falling into the latter category.

As a car in front of them unexpectedly made a sharp right turn, causing Martin to swerve violently to the left, a tirade of comments on the other driver’s Highway Code knowledge, or lack of it, followed. Martin’s love life quickly forgotten. Subject matter no longer of any consequence.

‘How long?’ said John, checking his watch. The traffic was heavier than expected into the City.

‘Less than five,’ said Martin.

‘Make that less than three,’ said John.

Martin’s reply was to downshift the gears and accelerate, overtaking the cars queued at the lights. Flashing his headlights, he bullied his way through, ignoring the tooting car horns protesting at the move.

John took a look over his shoulder to check that the Range Rover was still with them. It was.

The ambush was quick and efficient. The tip-off had come at the eleventh hour, but John and his team were prepared. Each knew their role. Screeching to a halt outside the private bank in Knightsbridge, John was out of the car and exchanging shots with the getaway driver before Martin had even cut the engine.

John and his team rushed to the entrance to the bank, the armed robbers meeting them in the foyer. Rapid exchanges of fire rang out throughout the hallway. Bullets bounced off walls and took nips and chunks out of plasterwork.

One of the robbers was taken out almost instantly whilst another took cover behind the reception counter and a third raced back up the marble staircase. The sounds of screams coming from the upstairs banking room and a rapid tap, tap, tap of gunshots followed.

John was huddled behind a marble pillar, Martin on the opposite side in a doorway.

John indicated to Martin that he and two others would go upstairs whilst Martin and the others gave them cover and dealt with matey behind the counter.

Covering gunfire gave John the chance to race through the foyer and up the stairs. He recognised the sound of a semi-automatic going off. The armed robbers’ weapon of choice. The bullets rattled over his head, embedding themselves in the plasterwork. Ducking low, John ascended the staircase with speed. He heard the yell and groan of one of his team.

Taking a quick glance behind him, he saw Jackie sprawled on the steps, her hand clasping her leg, blood seeping through his fingers already.

‘I’m okay! Go!’ she shouted.

Another cry and as John’s eyes swivelled in the direction of the counter, he caught a glimpse of the robber stumbling out from behind the counter. His finger closed over the trigger, gunfire spraying the foyer like a water sprinkler.

The next second a bullet shot through his forehead, exploding the back of his skull open. He was dead before he hit the floor.

John didn’t waste any time. He sprinted up the remainder of the stairs and into the banking hall, his gun sweeping the room. Staff and customers were huddled together in one corner. Someone gave a small scream of alarm. Another whimpered.

Standing in the middle of the hall, the third gunman held a young woman in front of him, a gun at her head.

‘I’ll shoot her!’ The gunman yelled through his ski mask.

‘No you won’t,’ said John, steadying the Glock. ‘Put the gun down.’

‘You’re not going to shoot me.’ It was a jeer.

John weighed up the situation. The hostage was a good three inches shorter than the robber. It gave him just enough clearance above her shoulder.

‘Are you going to do what I think you are?’ It was Martin’s voice behind him.

‘Yep,’ said John, his eyes fixed firmly ahead. ‘You going to do your bit?’

‘Yep. Already clocked her name badge.’

‘Well, do you want to get on with it?’

‘Alisha,’ said Martin, his voice calm and low. ‘Listen very carefully. You are going to be okay. I promise. All you have to do is stay very still. Do you understand?’

Alisha gave a small sob and eked out a sound of acknowledgement.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ said the gunman. ‘Don’t talk to her.’ He cocked his gun. ‘I’m not messing.’ John could see his opponent’s forefinger begin to squeeze the trigger. John’s training now automatic, he zoned out his surroundings, focusing only on the man in front of him. He breathed for the count of three and as he exhaled he fired off one clean shot.

The gunman cried out and spun backwards. Alisha screamed and fell to the other side.

John fired off another shot.

The first had hit the gunman in the shoulder, the second in the arm as he had tried to reach for the gun he had dropped. John raced over, kicking the gun away. Alisha was scrambling across the carpet, sobbing in relief, frightened but unharmed. John stood over the groaning gunman and placed a boot on his chest.

‘To coin a phrase,’ he said, pointing his gun at the robber’s chest. ‘You’re nicked.’

Chapter 2

It was a couple of hours later that John and his team regrouped back at HQ. The statements and paperwork could wait until the next day. The one surviving robber was under armed guard at the local hospital for the night. Interviewing would also wait until the next day.

‘Well done this evening, everybody,’ said DI Brogan, John’s boss, coming into the open- plan office. ‘No civilian casualties, despite that stunt you pulled, John.’

John gave a slight nod of apology. ‘How’s Jackie, Sir?’

‘Flesh wound. They’ve removed the bullet, fortunately no long-term damage. You’re obviously going to be a man down for a while.’

‘Don’t let Jackie hear you say that,’ said John. ‘Person down. We’re going to be a person down for a while.’ He stood up. ‘We’re going for a drink, Sir. Are you coming?’

‘Before you go,’ said Brogan. ‘CID sent over some photos. Wondered if you could translate them, given your expertise on gang tattoos.’ He dropped the brown envelope he had been carrying onto John’s desk.

John picked up the envelope and pulled the half a dozen or so black-and-white photos out. He gave them a cursory glance and slid them back inside. ‘What’s the history?’

‘Unidentified. Found dead, at the docks, yesterday. No ID, only the body art.’

‘Okay, I’ll take them home and have a look at them tonight,’ said John, pocketing the envelope.

‘Right, well, I’ll leave you all to it,’ said Brogan, turning and walking out of the office. ‘Well done again, everyone.’

‘It doesn’t look very nice out there now,’ said Tina as she began clearing the last of the tables at the café. She looked out of the window at the slate-grey clouds hovering overhead.

‘Looks like it’s about to rain,’ said Fay, following Tina’s gaze. ‘And I haven’t got my umbrella with me.’

‘Why don’t you get off early? I can finish up here.’ Tina carried the tray of dirty cups and saucers out to the kitchen. She came back out a moment later for the remaining crockery. ‘We’re not exactly going to have a big rush on in the last half an hour. And Old Grumpy has gone.’ She grinned at her colleague. Old Grumpy was their nickname for their boss; one he had earned with ease.

Fay was already untying her apron. ‘Only if you’re sure.’

‘Of course I’m sure. Now go on, otherwise you’ll get soaked.’

‘Thanks, hun,’ said Fay. She paused. ‘Don’t look straight away, but there’s a man standing across the road – in a baseball cap.’

Tina smiled to herself as she placed the teapot onto the tray. Was this another unsuspecting male to add to Fay’s Lust List? Fay’s recent fall into singleton territory had made her practically a predator to all men. Tina looked cautiously out of the window from under her fringe.

It took her a moment to spot the man in question, but when she did it forced a sharp in-take of breath. She raised her head some more and looked closer. The man’s eyes were hidden underneath the peak of the cap and the collar on his leather box jacket was pulled up. Although she couldn’t see his features, instinct told her the man had spotted her. For a moment they were both suspended in time as they appraised one another. Then the man stepped back into the shadows of the disused shop doorway behind him.

‘You all right?’ said Fay. ‘Tina?’

It took a second for Tina to register Fay’s voice. ‘Oh, yes, sorry.’

‘Creepy, isn’t he?’ said Fay. Tina nodded. She didn’t share with Fay that the man had reminded her of her ex-brother-in-law, Pavel. She didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was his build, his stance. Possibly even the clothing. Whatever it was, Pavel had come straight to the fore of her mind.

‘Why did you say creepy?’ asked Tina, unsure if she really wanted to know.

‘He was hanging around the other day. In fact, this is the third time I’ve seen him.’

‘Really? Perhaps he’s waiting for someone.’

‘Hmmm, then why does he keep staring in here?’

‘Stop it, Fay,’ said Tina, flicking her friend on the arm and feigning a grin. ‘I thought you were going anyway?’

Tina couldn’t deny the uneasy feeling resurrecting itself again, her moment of generosity in telling Fay to go home, now a regret.

‘I’ll see you in the morning, then,’ said Fay as she picked her jacket from the coat peg and hooked her arm through the handle of her bag.

Tina watched Fay disappear out the door and hurry off in the direction of the bus stop. She shivered at the rush of cold air, which had streaked in and was now winding itself around her body. She took another look across the road, the passing traffic partially obscuring her view.

There was movement in the darkened doorway. Tina narrowed her eyes, trying to get a clear view, but the traffic building up in the road was against her, the arrival of a bus making it impossible.

Drops of raining began to splatter against the glass and speckle the pavement. Within seconds the rain was pounding down, long stair rods of water hitting the tarmac and bouncing back up. Still the bus blocked a clear line of sight to the doorway opposite.

Tina checked her watch. Technically, it was still too early to close, but despite this she found herself walking towards the door, flipping the CLOSED sign around and sliding the bolts into their sockets at the top and bottom of the double glass doors.

As she busied herself with the final clean and tidy-up of the café, Tina couldn’t help glancing across the road. It was if something was drawing her eyes there, something out of her control. It was setting her nerves on edge. She fumbled with a cup – it slid between her fingers and smashed onto the floor.

‘Shit.’ Tina took a moment to calm herself. She silently cursed Fay for pointing out the man across the road, but then almost instantly berated herself for over-reacting. ‘It’s just a man waiting for someone,’ she said out loud.

With a renewed feeling of strength, Tina marched over to the door and, with her hands on her hips, looked across the road. Peering through the rain and gaps in the traffic, Tina studied the doorway. Empty.

‘There, he’s gone,’ she said.

As she left the café, locking up behind her, Tina forced herself to look once more across to the doorway. It was definitely empty. What made her cross the road, she didn’t know, but she found herself standing there. The rain was coming down harder now and people were rushing past her in the street, hurrying to get home or to their cars.

Tina stepped closer. The acrid smell of urine rose from the corner, the black-and-white- tiled doorway grubby and unloved. Four squashed cigarette ends lay next to a crumpled cigarette packet.

Tina’s mouth dried as she looked at the white box. She crouched down and picked it up. The word ‘Sobranie’ and the logo of the Russian imperial eagle emblazoned on the front made her drop the box as if her fingers had been burned.

Tina stood up, swinging around to face the street, her eyes frantically searching the pavement from left to right. Her stomach lurched and her heart pounded. The faces of the passers-by, strangers. She recognised no one.

Rain dripped from her now-soaked hair, streaking down her face. She ignored it. Thoughts of Dimitri rushed to the front of her mind. The maternal instinct to gather her child, take him home and keep him safe was overpowering. It was the stimulus she needed. Her feet responded. Only her first few steps were at a walk before she broke into a run. The urgency fuelled her.

Chapter 3

Twenty minutes later, Tina burst through the kitchen door to her parents’ home.

‘Mum! Dad! Dimitri!’ she called, letting the door slam behind her.

‘In the living room,’ came back her mother’s voice from beyond.

Tina controlled her breathing. The casualness of her mother’s voice was an instant tonic to her panic. Pam met her in the hallway. ‘You all right, love?’

Tina forced a smile. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just pleased to finish work today and get home.’ She gave her mum a peck on the cheek. ‘Where’s Dimitri?’

‘He’s in the greenhouse with your father. They were going to do a bit of gardening, but then the rain started. I think they are sowing seeds in the seed trays now.’

Tina went to the back door and looked out at the greenhouse. There they were, standing at the bench, carefully drilling small holes and dropping seeds into each one. It was a comforting sight and brought back childhood memories to Tina of her and her dad doing exactly the same. Memories that warmed her as an adult and as a child had made her feel loved and safe. The lump that rose to her throat took her by surprise.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ asked Pam, putting a comforting arm around her daughter’s shoulder.

Tina nodded, blinking away unwanted tears. ‘Dimitri is so lucky to have such a wonderful granddad. He really is. I just wish …’ She couldn’t finish her sentence.

Pam squeezed her daughter tightly. ‘You just wish that Sasha was here to give his son these memories instead.’

‘Something like that.’ This time she didn’t blink back the tears. Her mum ushered her to the kitchen table and sat her down.

‘I hate to see you upset. I know you still miss Sasha.’

Tina took the sheet of kitchen roll her mother offered and dabbed at her eyes. Black streaks of mascara transferred onto the tissue. ‘I miss him on behalf of Dimitri, if that makes sense.’ She blew her nose and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Dimitri doesn’t know any different and, in a way, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want him to know the pain of losing his father.’

‘It won’t always be like this,’ said Pam. ‘One day there will be someone for Dimitri. And for you.’

‘Maybe.’ Tina knew they were on the brink of a familiar conversation. One where her mother would tell her she should get out and meet more people.

Her latest idea was Tina joining one of those online dating sites. So far Tina was resisting. She had been to a few dinner parties where match-making was definitely on the agenda. The last one had been a dinner party Fay had organised and Tina had accepted the invitation of a second date as a result. However, it hadn’t gone beyond that. Tina had made it as far as a kiss goodnight. It seemed so awkward and unnatural, not only because it wasn’t Sasha, but she was out of practice with the whole intimate kissing thing. The poor bloke must have thought he had eaten something nasty. She had muttered her apologies and practically fled into the waiting taxi.

‘Are you staying for tea?’ asked Pam, turning her attention to the oven. She opened the door and the smell of chicken casserole drifted out. Another comforting memory from Tina’s childhood. Another memory to chase away the demons of today.

‘How could I resist?’ said Tina. ‘I’ll set the table.’ She stood up, relieved that the earlier disquiet she had felt was slipping away. She was safe. Dimitri was safe. They were loved. All was well in the world.

John woke the next morning and for a moment couldn’t work out why it felt as if his head was being compressed from all sides. He groaned as he sat up. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he planted his feet on the floor.

Ah, now he remembered. The celebratory drink last night had been overdone. Still, they had good cause to celebrate.

The shower refreshed him, the coffee kick started his brain, the toast tamped down the queasiness and the Anadin relieved the pressure in his head. As he picked up his car keys from the sideboard, he noticed the brown envelope Brogan had given him the night before. He scooped it up; something to look over while he had his third coffee of the day at HQ.

The rest of the team seemed to be suffering slightly from the previous evening’s excesses too. A day of paperwork and no running around catching the bad guys wouldn’t go amiss. John settled at his desk.

‘Did you sort it with Maxine?’ he asked as Martin slid into his seat opposite him.

‘Yeah, all good,’ said Martin. He nodded at the photos in John’s hand. ‘Anything of interest.’

John studied the first one. It was a close-up of a man’s shoulders and top half of his torso. The victim’s throat had been cut. John passed it over to Martin.

‘It appears he didn’t die from natural causes,’ he said. ‘Slashed throat. Jagged edges to the wound, cut from right to left, I’d say.’

‘From someone facing him, as opposed to behind him – assuming they are right-handed,’ said Martin.

‘Yep, the jagged skin means the neck was loose as opposed to being taut when someone’s head is pulled from behind.’

‘Asleep?’

‘Probably. Unless there are other signs of injury, meaning he put up a fight. Probably didn’t know a thing about it.’ John passed over another photograph. ‘Otritsala.’

Martin shrugged. ‘You what?’

‘The eight-pointed stars, tattooed on each collar bone,’ said John. ‘A sign of defiance. Medals that existed before the Russian revolution and used now to signify defiance to the Soviet regime.’

‘So this is a Russian?’

‘Yep. Prison tattoos mostly.’ John slid another photograph over. ‘Dagger with three drops of blood. That’s typical of a murderer, the drops of blood reflecting the number of killings he’s carried out. Could be that this fella was a hired assassin.’

‘He’s got a Swastika too,’ said Martin, looking more closely at the photo.

‘Doesn’t mean he’s a right-wing sympathiser or a Nazi. It’s used as a sign of rebellion to authority. Some prisons have had these tattoos forcibly removed from their inmates.’

‘And I suppose the SOS on his forearm doesn’t mean Save Our Souls either,’ said Martin.

‘Spasite Ot Syda. Save me from judgement. Amongst other things.’ John stopped. The next picture knocked the air from his lungs.

‘You all right?’ said Martin.

John looked slowly up at his colleague. ‘This Russian was part of the Porboski gang.’

Martin sat up in his seat, his face alert. ‘You sure?’

‘See that tattoo on the inside of the upper arm. A dollar sign and that elaborate letter, which looks like a squared-off “n”? The dollar sign means he’s a safe-cracker. That letter in Russian is a “P” and stands for the gang he’s affiliated to.’

‘Where did these photos come from? Have you got one of the face?’

John looked at the final photo. Another close-up of the chest. ‘No. Just the arms and torso.’

‘What are the Porboski gang doing back in the UK?’ said Martin.

‘No idea, but whatever it is, you know it’s not good.’ John took a moment to compose himself. The usual rush of guilt and anger swept over him. Images of his ex-partner, Neil, fought their way to the front of his mind. Images he usually managed to keep filed away in a drawer marked ‘too close to home to think about’, this time refused to be catalogued and archived so readily.

John could feel a dark cloud forming around him, waiting to smother him, to suck away the oxygen, leaving him gasping for breath. John’s hand closed in a fist as the mental battle threatened to erupt. He was a good fighter. He could see off the attack. It seemed like minutes, but John knew from past experience it was merely one or two seconds. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Today’s battle won. John looked down at his clenched fist and unfurled his fingers. The photograph now crumpled and scrunched.

John eyed his partner of five years across the desk. Martin understood. He had seen this happen before. He knew the reasons. John looked for accusation in the other man’s eyes. There was none, although he felt sure his own screamed with guilt.

John stood up, gathering the photos together. ‘Where’s Brogan? We need to speak to CID. They seem to have found one of our Most Wanted. Just got to work out which one.’

CID couldn’t shed much light on the identity of the Russian. He had been found down by the docks in a disused warehouse.

‘Looks like he had been camping out. Used one of the old offices. Had a camp bed and camping stove. Nothing in the way of personal belongings,’ said the CID Officer, Carter. ‘Someone had tried to set fire to his stuff. Did a good job, mostly. There were a few charred remains left.’

‘Can I have a look at his clothing?’ said John. ‘And have you got a photograph of his face?’

Carter went off to collect the evidence bag.

‘It’s only clothes. The clothes he was wearing.’

‘Is it okay to take these out?’ asked John.

‘Yeah, go ahead. Forensics have been all over them.’

John inspected the clothing. ‘All labels have been cut out,’ he said. ‘But this leather jacket is quite distinctive. Have you had any luck identifying its origin?’

‘Not yet.’

The jacket was heavy in John’s hands, a black, padded three-quarter-length garment. Lined with heavy checked fabric – certainly one to keep the Russian winter at bay. John laid it out on the table and poked around in the pockets.

‘There’s nothing there,’ said Carter.

John felt the collar and gave the seam between the collar and lining a closer inspection. ‘Got a knife or pair of scissors?’

A pair of scissors was obtained and handed to John. He began snipping at the seam of the collar until an opening of about three inches had been achieved. John wriggled his fingers in, feeling from one side to the next.

‘Aha! Gotcha.’ he said. He pulled out a small grip-sealed bag, about two by five inches.

‘How did we miss that?’ said the CID officer.

‘Probably because you weren’t looking for it,’ said John opening the bag. He removed five folded twenty-pound notes and five ten-pound notes, together with three Russian notes of 5,000 roubles each. John did a quick calculation. ‘About the same worth. A little under one fifty pounds.’

‘Emergency funds,’ said Martin picking up one of the notes by the corner. ‘Don’t suppose we will get any decent prints off them. Been handled too many times.’

Carter slid over a box containing several clear-plastic evidence bags. John looked through them. The victim travelled light. Three bags with fabric remnants, a London Tube map – the kind you pick up from any underground station.

‘This looks a bit more interesting,’ said John looking at a bag containing the strap from the victim’s holdall with a flight tag still attached. Unfortunately, only a part of the digital flight code was left. ‘Have you checked this out?’

‘We think it’s a flight in from Stockholm. There’s only a partial barcode.’

‘Have you checked recent flights in?’ asked John.

‘Needle in a haystack,’ came the reply, accompanied by a shrug.

‘Who found him?’ asked John. ‘Has he been cleared of any involvement?’

‘A dock-worker. Had gone in for a crafty shut-eye. He was pretty shook up. Don’t think he had the guts for it.’

‘Did you get a photo of the victim?’ asked Martin.

Carter passed it over. ‘Recognise him?’

John and Martin both studied the face. A rounded thick-set face. Shaven head. An old scar above his left eye. A gold stud in the right ear. He didn’t look familiar to either of them.

‘Mind if we keep this?’ said John.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Right, what else have we got here?’ said John. He pulled out another bag containing the remains of a photograph.

‘Shit.’

Martin let out a long, low whistle. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

John took out the photograph, not worrying about holding the edges. Fingerprints were no longer a priority. A cold bead of sweat began its slow descent down his spine, undulating over every vertebrae. ‘Pavel Bolotnikov,’ he said, confirming Martin’s thoughts. ‘And who else was in the photograph?’ Draped over Pavel’s left shoulder was someone’s arm, the owner’s identity burned away.

‘What the fuck is that doing in there?’ said Martin.

Chapter 4

Back at HQ, John pinned the burnt photograph onto the evidence board. Underneath he pinned photographs of two men and a woman. He pointed to the first photograph and addressed his team.

‘Sasha Bolotnikov, wanted for money-laundering. Fled to Russia soon after the Moorgate robbery. Killed in a car crash within weeks of arriving.’ His team listened as he continued his commentary. ‘Pavel Bolotnikov, part of the Porboski gang, involved in the Moorgate robbery where Neil Edwards was killed. Wanted for Neil’s murder.’ He paused as he wrote on the board. ‘He too fled back to Russia afterwards.’ He moved on to the third picture. ‘Tina Bolotnikov. British passport-holder. Married Sasha Bolotnikov. Still in the UK. Living in West Sussex. And this,’ he said pointing to the photograph of the dead Russian, ‘is our unknown. A Russian gang member – Porboski gang, by the look of it, found murdered down at the docks. And this is a baggage tag, possibly from a Stockholm flight.’

‘He doesn’t look very Swedish to me,’ said Adam, one of John’s team.

‘It’s just a theory at present, but we think he may have caught a connecting flight to Stockholm from Tallinn. That’s Estonia,’ said John. ‘It’s a route favoured in the past by some of the Porboski gang.’

‘What’s he doing over here?’ asked one of the team.

‘We’re not sure. Obviously a connection to the Bolotnikovs. I want all the flights in from Stockholm over the past week checked for facial recognition against this photo.’ He tapped at the board. ‘Clearly there’s some connection with the Bolotnikovs, but what that is, I’ve no idea. Yet.’

‘Wading through CCTV and facial recognition is going to take forever, especially if we don’t know when he came into the UK,’ said Adam.

‘Have you got any better suggestions?’ said John. His colleague shrunk back in his seat. ‘We’re also checking for Pavel Bolotnikov. Our unknown hasn’t come over for a sightseeing trip. It could be that Pavel is in the country and that means trouble.’

‘I want three of you to go and check out all the old stomping grounds of the Bolotnikovs and the Porboskis. The gang moved out of the UK after the Moorgate job, but they will still have contacts. People will know. Get some tongues wagging. We’re playing catch-up now and I don’t like it.’

John took a sip of his coffee as he let the information settle with his team. The Moorgate robbery was a tough subject for them all. It had been a bad day for the team.

‘What about the wife?’ asked someone.

‘Martin and I are going down to West Sussex to check things out.’ John put his cup down on the table in front of him. ‘I’m waiting for the local police to run a few checks, see what she’s been up to lately. I don’t want to scare her off if she’s got info. She may even be harbouring Pavel for all we know.’

A gentle murmur rippled out amongst his colleagues as more speculation was bounced around.

‘No one wants Pavel Bolotnikov brought to justice more than I do,’ said John picking up on the conversation. ‘If he’s here, we’re going to nail him.’

John left work early. There was someone he needed to see. Neil Edwards’ widow, Hannah. Although Neil’s murder case had never officially been closed, all leads had dried up as to where Pavel Bolotnikov was. Reports had come back from Russia that after his brother’s funeral, Pavel had disappeared off the radar. If anyone knew where he was, they weren’t talking. With no bilateral extradition treaty between the UK and Russia, any hope of co-operation from the authorities to hand Pavel over, were non-existent. Hannah Edwards needed to hear it from him himself that there had been some development in the case. John didn’t want her switching on the news and finding out or some journalist turning up on her doorstep.

John parked across the road from the village school. He watched the parents arriving and lining up outside the gates, waiting for home time. He scanned the queue, looking for the familiar fair hair of his partner’s widow.

He spotted her halfway down the line, head bent looking at her phone. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and she had her gym wear on. She looked in good shape. John was pleased she seemed to be taking care of herself. There had been a time when he was worried she wasn’t bothering. After Neil’s death, her world had come to a standstill and John hadn’t been sure if it would ever start up again.

The guilt within surged, as it always did, when he saw her, but this time it receded with more ease than before. He hoped she was turning things around.

The gates opened and the parents filed into the playground. John got out of his car and leaned against the bonnet while he waited for Hannah to come back out with Ella; her and Neil’s eight-year-old daughter.

He didn’t have to wait long. As mother and daughter emerged from the crowd of navy and grey uniforms, Hannah looked up and met John’s gaze. She smiled and waved, said something to Ella, who looked over and waved too. Then they made their way across the road to John.

John kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hi, Hannah, good to see you.’ He leaned down and gave Ella a quick peck on the top of her head. ‘Hiya, Ella. How are you? That’s a nice school bag you’ve got there, is it new?’

‘Hi, John. It’s a High School Musical one.’ Proudly she held it up for John to see the picture. ‘It was a present.’

‘Wow! That looks nice. Who got you that?’

Hannah interrupted before Ella could reply. ‘You’ll have to explain to John about High School Musical and your bag some other time. I’m sure he’s really busy.’ She looked up at him. ‘Everything okay with you?’

‘Yeah, fine. Look, can I give you a lift home?’

Hannah looked uncertain. ‘It’s okay, we’re fine walking.’ She hesitated. ‘Is everything really okay?’

‘Let me take you home,’ said John. ‘I do need to speak to you, but not here.’

‘Not at the house. Let’s walk. We can go via the park.’ She didn’t wait for John to agree, but took Ella’s hand and began walking. John had no choice but to follow.

The walk to the park took only five minutes but each second lay heavier than the previous. Tension swirled around them. Only Ella was oblivious to it as she proceeded to tell John all about High School Musical. Hannah didn’t speak and as John stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye, he could see the stiffness in her face, neck and shoulders.

Once at the park, Ella happily went off on the climbing frame and slide. John and Hannah sat on the bench watching but not really looking.

‘What is it you need to tell me?’ said Hannah. Straight to the point, no messing around.

‘Just to forewarn you that there’s been some development in the Porboski case.’

‘You mean in the murder case? Neil’s murder case.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘You can say it, John. There’s no point pretending it’s just the Porboski case. At the heart of it and the all-important part is the murder of Neil. It won’t break me if you say it. I’m not going to collapse in a heap simply because you’ve mentioned his name. Or what happened to him.’

John sat forward on the bench, resting his arms on his knees, bringing his hands together. ‘Yes, you’re right. Sorry.’

‘What’s happened, then? I’m guessing you didn’t come and see me personally purely to tell me that.’

‘Off the record, we think there’s a strong possibility Pavel Bolotnikov is back in the UK. We don’t know why but I wanted to give you the heads up, just in case.’

Now she looked at him. ‘Just in case what? Are we in some sort of danger?’ Her eyes flitted to Hannah and back to John.

John placed a hand over hers. ‘No, I don’t think that at all. We’re working on tracking him down right now, but I didn’t want you to hear it from somewhere else, especially if the press get hold of it.’

‘You could have just phoned. You didn’t need to make a special trip out to the backwater of Berkshire.’

‘I wanted to see you both. See how you were doing. Do you need anything? What about Ella? Is she okay for everything?’

Hannah moved her hand away. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know.’

‘Do what?’

‘Protect me. Look out for me. For Ella.’ She turned to face him now. ‘We’re not your responsibility. No. Don’t say anything. Listen, you were Neil’s partner. I was his wife. Ella his daughter. The most awful thing happened. Neil was killed. You’ve been great to us, John, you really have and the first few months, I’m sure I would have died myself had it not been for you. And for that I am truly grateful. But, you know what? We’ve come out the other side and Ella and I are doing great. You need to look after yourself, so you can come out the other side too.’

At that point Ella skipped over. ‘Can we go home, mummy? I’m hungry.’

‘Yes, come on, let’s go.’ Hannah rose from the bench and took her daughter’s hand.

‘Is John coming?’ said Ella. ‘He can meet Dan.’

John’s eyes snapped up to look at Hannah. A look of unease swept over her face. ‘Who’s Dan?’ said John.

‘Mummy’s friend. He bought me the bag,’ said Ella, running her finger and thumb up and down the strap.

John stood up. ‘Why didn’t you just say?’ His voice was cold despite the hot ember of anger igniting inside. Was he angry that she hadn’t told him about another bloke or was he angry because she was no longer the proverbial grieving widow, which ultimately meant she didn’t need him?

‘It’s none of your business, really,’ said Hannah, she raised her eyebrows. ‘The Met, the unit, my life as a widow are in the past, John. It’s been five years now. I can’t pause time any longer. If there’s something good that’s come from Neil’s death, it’s that more than ever I value my future, Ella’s future.’

‘With this … Dan.’

‘Maybe. Who knows? But I deserve some happiness and so does Ella.’ Hannah began walking away, she paused and looked over her shoulder. ‘You should be happy for us. Neil would want us to be happy.’

John didn’t say anything. He stood and watched Hannah and Ella walk away. What was there to say? He didn’t want the burden of Neil’s memory to carry on his own. He thought it was a load he shared with Hannah. How could he have closure and move on when Neil’s killer was still out there? When John’s own guilt ravaged his mind and conscience both day and night.

Chapter 5

John had been parked up outside Tina Bolotnikov’s house for about an hour. He looked through his notes once more, impatient for the return of their target.

He wondered what she would look like after all this time. He picked up an old surveillance photo from when they were watching Sasha. A young couple, not been married very long, about eighteen months, if he remembered rightly. At the time he had been struck by their happiness; it had radiated off them. They had shared lots of happy times.

John felt as if he had lived them too, although it had been from the other side of the camera. He was the third person in their marriage; unseen, unheard, unknown, but definitely there. He knew with certainty he would be able to talk to Tina about things that had happened as if he had been part of it. Like the time Sasha and Tina went to Hyde Park and got caught in a sudden rain storm. He knew they took cover under a large tree. He knew the lightning frightened her. He knew they ran to the café at the Serpentine. He knew they had hot chocolate. Tina had marshmallows. Sasha didn’t. He knew more details about their married life than a third party should.

‘Eyes up,’ said Martin. ‘Here comes the lovely Mrs B.’ Martin shoved his newspaper into the foot-well and focused on the mother and child walking towards him. ‘That’s her, isn’t it?’

Picking up the camera, John zoomed in on Tina Bolotnikov. For a moment he was stilled by the sight of her. She was as beautiful as she was five years ago. She had the same elegance about her. Head held high, shoulders back. Her hair, the colour of cocoa beans, bounced on her shoulders as the late-afternoon sun highlighted the milk-chocolate tones running through it. But there was something in her eyes that he couldn’t remember seeing before. A wariness. Her blue eyes darted around all over the place.

Martin punched his shoulder. ‘You going to take some photos or what?’

John began taking some snaps, distance ones and close-up ones.

‘Take some of the boy as well,’ said Martin. ‘Do you think it’s hers?’

John focused the camera on the dark-headed boy and took some more shots. Adjusting the lens, he took a close-up as the lad looked up. In that instant, he could see it by the eyes. He knew exactly who the father was. ‘That’s Sasha Bolotnikov’s son.’

‘How do you know that?’

John lowered the camera from his face and watched through the car window. He knew Tina was pregnant when they had been under surveillance. He had been in their flat, poking around, looking for evidence one morning when they had both left to work in the deli. He hadn’t found anything, only a pregnancy test stick. Tina had left it sitting on the bedside table where she must have told Sasha that morning. Funny, he remembered, he had noticed how happy they were opening up the shop and going about their business. They had a secret; one which John now shared with them.

A small flicker of guilt wavered within John. He had used the new-found knowledge to his advantage. At the time it was a case of a means to an end; there was no guilt attached. He was simply doing his job, using this intel to his advantage in the war against crime.

He had managed to convince himself for a long time after the botched Moorgate takedown that it was all part of the job, but as time wore on, guilt had come knocking. A gentle tap at first, one he could ignore. Now, however, it was practically hammering at the door but John wasn’t answering.

‘Work it out, dummy. The boy’s about five years old. She was pregnant around when we had Sasha and the gang under surveillance. Anyway, you only have to look at him to know he’s a Bolotnikov.’ For a fleeting moment he felt a wave of sympathy for Sasha Bolotnikov. He must never have seen his son.

John took the final snaps as she opened the gate and walked up the path with her son, before letting them in and closing the door behind her.

John put the camera down and settled back in his seat. ‘Let’s sit and watch for a while. I don’t want to speak to her yet. Someone might come a-calling.’

John settled back in his seat. This could be a long wait.

That night Tina sat on the edge of Dimitri’s bed, watching until he had drifted off to sleep. She had read a story to him, as she usually did, but instead of leaving him to settle on his own, she had stayed.

Tea at her parents’ house had been an enjoyable occasion, her earlier sense of unease having all but disappeared. She watched his eyes flutter open and then close, gradually becoming defeated by the heaviness of sleep. Listening to the gentle rhythm of his breathing gave Tina a sense of calm. It soothed her soul.

It was somewhat reluctantly that she left his room to go and tidy up the kitchen and settle herself in front of the TV. She hoped that catching the cooking programme showing on BBC2 would take her mind off recent events, enough that she could get a good night’s sleep herself.

Tina went downstairs and through to the back of the house, into the kitchen. It was dark outside now and her reflection against the glass made her jump. She let out a startled cry.

‘For goodness sake!’ she admonished herself.

The air in the kitchen seemed cold. Tina shivered, her eyes immediately scoped the windows. They were all closed to keep the cool night air out. Something made her look beyond her reflection in the glass.

Her small garden backed onto an alleyway used as access for the middle terraced houses. A movement caught her eye behind the brick wall. This time she screamed. Without looking closer, she rushed to the windows and yanked the roller blinds down, shutting out the danger.

The door. Was it locked? Tina rattled the handled and pulled against it. It was definitely locked.

Someone was out there, watching her. She hadn’t imagined it this time. Her heart pumped wildly as she dialled 999.

Chapter 6

‘Sorry, Mrs Bolotnikov, but we can’t find anything or anyone suspicious out there,’ said the police officer as he came into the kitchen from the garden. ‘Are you certain you saw someone?

Tina shifted uncomfortably in her seat, reluctant to speak. It sounded so stupid now. She caught a look pass between the police officer and his female colleague, who was sitting at the table with her, drinking a cup of tea. They clearly didn’t believe Tina had seen anyone.

‘I definitely saw someone looking over the garden wall,’ she said, with as much confidence as she could muster. ‘As I came into the kitchen, I had that feeling of being watched. That’s what made me look up.’

‘It was getting dark. Could it have maybe been a shadow from the trees at the back? Or a cat on the wall?’ suggested the other officer.

Tina considered this idea for a moment, although she was in no doubt herself, she at least wanted the police to believe she was being rational. She shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t a cat or a shadow. It was definitely a person.’ Tina got up and put her cup on the worktop.

‘What about someone next door? Do they use the back gate at all? Kids maybe?’ The female officer enquired. Tina could sense her frustration rising. They didn’t believe her. She graced them with an answer all the same.

‘No one really uses the alleyway. It’s only access for the middle terraces. Mr Cooper lives next door. Some days, not every day, I pop round there with a bit of dinner for him if I’ve made too much. I use the back gates then. He’s in his eighties and lives alone. It wouldn’t have been anything to do with him.’

The police officers gave another cursory look around the garden and into the alleyway, reporting back that if there had been anyone here, they were long gone.

Tina sighed as she closed the door on the departing officers. She turned the key in the lock and slid the bolts across at both the bottom and top. She yanked on the door handle and tried to open the door, just to check that there was no way anyone could get in. She repeated the procedure with the back door. The excitement of all the police activity had woken Dimitri, but Tina had managed to distract him with a Spiderman video in the living room. She poked her head around the door.

‘Come on then, Dimitri,’ she smiled at him. ‘Excitement’s all over. Best get you back to bed.’

‘Did the police catch the bad man?’

‘There wasn’t a bad man, darling. Mummy made a mistake.’ She scooped her son up from the sofa, groaning slightly at the weight of him. He’d soon be getting too old and big for carries. ‘You will never guess what it was.’

Dimitri shook his head, returning her smile before snuggling his chin onto her shoulder.

‘What was it?’

‘Turned out it was the cat, that’s all.’ Tina made her way upstairs to Dimitri’s room.

‘Our cat, Rascal?’

Yes, Rascal. Silly old mummy.’ She hoped she sounded convincing.

Tina didn’t sleep well at all that night. She’d welcomed the dawn with bleary eyes and a hard day at work had done nothing to make her face seem any fresher. Fay had commented on how tired she looked, but Tina passed it off as staying up late to watch a DVD.

Dimitri seemed to be suffering too. The walk home from school that was usually filled with chatter of how the day had gone was today a rather silent affair. An early night for both of them, Tina decided, pushing down the uneasy feeling that nightfall would soon be upon them. She’d draw her curtains early tonight, before it even got dark. She would be safer then. Cocooned.

As she stepped in through the front door, Tina was immediately greeted by Rascal, mewing at her ankles, winding his polar-white body around Tina’s legs.

‘Rascal! What are you doing here?’ said Tina stooping to pick the cat up. She nuzzled her face against the animal’s neck. ‘How did you get out of the kitchen?’ As Tina walked down the hallway to the kitchen her mind went over the routine of that morning. Rascal was always confined to the kitchen during the day when Tina was at work. His passion for bringing his kill into the house and dropping it on the floor had meant his days of having access to all areas were gone. The live mouse had been the prize too far.

Tina remembered closing the door so the cat couldn’t venture anywhere else in the house. It was always the last thing she did before going out. She wondered if perhaps today she had forgotten to do it, what with all the upset of the night before. To be honest, she couldn’t remember. It was something she did every day: a matter of habit. She couldn’t recall doing it or not doing it. Maybe Dimitri had gone back into the kitchen for something. But she didn’t think so.

Tina felt her mouth dry and the reflex action to swallow stilted. Did that mean someone had been in the house today? Other than her leaving the kitchen door open, it was the only other explanation. They certainly wouldn’t have been able to come through the front door, but she would check with Mr Cooper anyway, just in case he had seen something. The windows were all double-glazed units and all were locked closed. There was no way anyone could have got in through a window. That left only the back door.

Striding into the kitchen and over to the half-glazed UPVC door, Tina rattled the handle. Locked. Definitely locked. No, she must have forgotten about the internal door and left it open or not shut it properly. Was it any wonder she wasn’t thinking straight after the night she’d had.

Later that evening, plating an extra dinner up, Tina popped next door to Mr Cooper. As was customary, she knocked on the back door and then let herself in. Tina had long given up telling him to keep the door locked. He was stuck in his ways, had never locked the door in all the time he had been there, in excess of fifty years – as he liked to remind her – so he didn’t see why he should now. Of course, he would lock it at night time, but not during the day. He wasn’t going to let society turn him into a jibbering wreck, afraid of his own shadow.

‘Mr Cooper!’ Tina called out, knowing full well he’d be sitting in the living room with the telly on loud. She could hear it blaring out now. She was thankful, as ever, that their dividing wall separated her living room from his staircase. She pitied the neighbours on the other side of him whose living room was back to back with Mr Cooper’s. Tina placed the dinner plate on the kitchen table and went further into the house.

The usual smell of mustiness, rather like a charity shop, assailed her nostrils, as did the smell of the downstairs toilet. Mr Cooper lived on the ground floor now, the dining room converted into a bedroom and what once would have been the scullery now a wet room.

Tina knocked loudly on the living-room door and pushed it open. ‘Hello, Mr Cooper.’

He looked up from his winged back chair and smiled a toothless mouth to her.

‘Hello, love. You all right?’ Mr Cooper smoothed his hand over his head, a mixture of grey wispy hairs and a balding patch, speckled with age spots. Ever the gentleman, he made to stand up, one hand grasping his walking stick and the other trying to gain leverage from the arm of the chair.

Tina waited until he had risen slightly and indicated to the other chair for her to sit. He really didn’t need to, but it was an old habit he clearly had no intention of breaking, despite her protests not to get up in the early days of her visits. She duly took her seat next to the fireplace.

‘I’ve put a dinner out on the kitchen table for you. Chicken pie and veg. Hope that’s okay.’ She smiled as he nodded.

‘Thank you. I’ll look forward to that for my lunch tomorrow.’ He settled himself back in his chair again. ‘How’s Dimitri? School okay, is it?’

The usual questions. It was comforting. However, Tina wanted to ask him about last night, but not in a way that would alarm him. ‘Did you sleep all right last night?’ she ventured.

‘Not too bad, love. Not too bad at all.’

‘You didn’t hear anything, then?’ She toyed with the idea of not mentioning the police, but then thought better of it. If one of the other neighbours spoke to him they might tell him. ‘I thought I saw someone in the alley last night. I was a bit frightened and got the police to come round. Just to check it out. Everything was okay, though. I must have imagined it.’ She added the last bit hurriedly to allay any fears.

‘Really? Well, no, I didn’t hear a thing. But then you know me, deaf as a post.’ He chuckled and tapped his ear. ‘I suppose you’ve come round to tell me to lock my back door.’ He looked good-humouredly over his glasses at her.

‘You know my feelings on that,’ Tina replied with warmth in her voice.

‘And you know mine, love.’

She let it drop. It was pointless trying to convince him otherwise. ‘Do you want me to make you a Horlicks before I go?’ Tina asked standing up.

‘That’ll be nice, thanks, love.’

Opening the fridge for the milk, Tina tutted to herself. Mr Cooper was low on milk. She’d have to nip back home and get some. She popped her head back round the living-room door. ‘You haven’t got enough milk, Mr Cooper. I’ll quickly nip next door and get some. Won’t be a minute.’

‘Wait, love. There’s plenty of milk there. Should be at least a pint.’

‘You’ve got enough for a couple of cups of tea, but that’s about it.’

A look of concern settled in the creases of Mr Cooper’s weathered skin, accompanied by a deep sigh. ‘I must be losing my marbles. I could have sworn there was a pint there. Look, don’t worry, love. I’ll be okay tonight.’

‘I’ll bring you some first thing in the morning,’ said Tina. ‘I’ll see you then, okay?’

‘Yes, okay, pet. See you in the morning.’

Tina smiled as she left. In all the time she had lived here, Mr Cooper had never once called her by her name. It was always some term of endearment or another. She wondered if he actually could remember her name. Poor thing! Maybe he was getting a bit forgetful. Looking in the breadbin, she saw that there were only a couple of slices left. She’d get him some bread as well. She paused before opening the back door and called out loudly. ‘And don’t forget to lock the door!’

John flexed his shoulders and rotated his neck. It had been a long night sitting in the BMW with Martin. The September weather was still warm in the day, but dipped into autumn during the night. The coffee in his flask long gone, as were the sandwiches they had bought from the garage the day before.

They had watched the police activity at Tina Bolotnikov’s house the night before. A quick call to the local police station had told them what was going on. John had decided not to go in with all guns blazing at that point. The local police seemed to have it under control and there was definitely no one about. John had decided to sit it out. He didn’t want to spook their target straight away.

‘I’ll phone in to the office,’ said John. ‘See if they’ve had any reports back from the local police or any luck on the facial recognition.’

‘It’s all right, that facial recognition, if the person looks straight on at the camera,’ said Martin. ‘Not so good on profiles.’

‘I know,’ said John. ‘But it’s our only lead at the moment. You never know, we might get lucky. It’s not as if they are going to come through passport control with a hat and glasses on. Have a bit of faith.’

John got through to the office.

‘We’re still looking through CCTV of Heathrow,’ said Adam. ‘Have you any idea how many flights come through that airport every day, not to mention passengers?’

‘Keep looking. We need to find him.’ John ignored the deep sigh from Adam. He knew it was a shit of a job, but it needed doing. John needed to know who the dead Russian was, when he came into the UK and if Pavel Bolotnikov was back as well. If he had come in, John needed to track Pavel down – and fast. The Russian had slipped through his fingers once before. John wasn’t about to let it happen again. This wasn’t simply professional. This was personal.

‘Before you go, the Boss wants a word with you,’ said Adam. ‘Hold on, I’ll put you through.’

Brogan’s voice came on the line.

‘Anything to report?’ he asked.

‘Nothing as yet, Sir,’ said John. ‘There was a bit of activity here last night. I spoke to the local nick and apparently she reported a Peeping Tom in the alleyway behind her house.’

‘And was there?’

‘The local police didn’t find anyone.’

‘What do you think?’

‘Hard to say. Could be a coincidence. Adam is working on the CCTV at Heathrow now, but it could be a long and, possibly fruitless, task.’

‘Mmm, I know,’ said Brogan. ‘Man-hours wasted that could be put to better use elsewhere.’

‘Give him a bit longer, Guv,’ said John. ‘Whether it was Pavel here last night or not, doesn’t really matter now. If it was, after the police activity last night, he’s hardly like to come strolling down the road.’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Direct approach. I’ll go and speak to Tina Bolotnikov. If Pavel’s back and she knows, she’s hardly likely to be reporting intruders. My guess is she doesn’t know anything. Her and Pavel were never great friends when they all lived in London, so I can’t imagine anything has changed since then. I want to persuade her to call us if he turns up.’

‘Just go easy, though, John,’ said Brogan. ‘Don’t overdo the Pavel bit, not until we know if he’s here and why.’

‘Sir.’

Chapter 7

Straightening the tie he was unaccustomed to wearing these days, John knocked on the door of 17 Balfour Avenue. He had gone to the local supermarket washrooms to freshen himself up after a night spent sitting in the car.

John had waited for her to return home from dropping her son at school. She was wearing jeans, so he had assumed she wasn’t at work today.

Through the two narrow slits of obscure glass in the front door, John could see her silhouette, approach and hear the locks being turned. The door opened a couple of inches, the security chain doing its job.

‘Yes?’ Her voice had a wary tone to it.

John held up his police identity badge.

‘Hello, Mrs Bolotnikov?’ She nodded, her eyes scanning the ID card. ‘I’m DS Nightingale from London’s Metropolitan police force. Would it be possible to come in and have a chat with you?’

‘The Met?’ She reached her hand through and took the card. ‘I’ll need to confirm your ID, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Of course. I’ll wait here.’ She closed the door and again he heard the locks turning. She certainly wasn’t taking anything at face value.

John turned to face the road. Martin had moved the car, parking outside Tina’s property. John mouthed the words ‘checking badge’ at his partner, who nodded his understanding. Eventually, John heard the sound of the bolts being drawn back on the door. Tina opened the door, this time there was no security chain.

‘Come in Detective Sergeant,’ she said and offered a small smile.

John followed her into the living room. Neat and tidy but with a warm, lived-in feel to it.

‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ said Tina. John took her up on the offer of coffee. ‘Please take a seat. I won’t be a moment.’

John wandered over to the fireplace and looked at the photo of Tina and Sasha. A couple very much in love. Next to the fireplace, the alcove had been fitted with shelves, which contained more knick-knacks and a selection of books.

‘Do you take sugar?’ Tina called out from the kitchen.

‘Two, please.’ John inspected the books. You could tell a lot about someone by their book shelf. They ranged from hardbacks to paperbacks, pink covers with bubble writing to more sinister-looking ones with a bold font. She certainly had a broad taste in reading material. Tina came back into the room. ‘I was looking at your books,’ said John turning to her.

She raised her eyebrows, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. A smile John had seen before but not up close, always from behind a long-distance camera lens. John averted his eyes, looking back towards the books.

‘You fancy a bit of Jilly Cooper, then?’ Tina said, passing John a cup before sitting down on the sofa.

He took a sip of the rich, dark coffee. The supermarket coffee didn’t compare. ‘Not my cup of tea,’ he said.

‘Oh, I thought you said coffee,’ said Tina.

This time it was John’s turn to look amused. He chuckled. ‘No, I meant Jilly Cooper is not my thing.’ He raised his cup a fraction. ‘This is my cup of tea, though … well, coffee.’

He watched the thought trace across her face and then she broke into an embarrassed smile. She took a sip of tea, her hands clasped around the mug. John noticed her long, slender fingers, which matched the rest of her.

John couldn’t help but feel he was seeing her for the first time, despite the fact that he had watched her for months and months. Before it was as if he was watching her on TV, continually through the lens of a camera, now today he was in the same room as her, he was seeing her up close and in the flesh for real. This time he was actually talking to her.

‘So, what can I do for you?’ Tina said, breaking the small silence that had descended. ‘I’m guessing it’s nothing to do with the report I made of being followed and watched, not if you’re from the Met.’

‘Well, yes and no,’ said John. He sat down in the wing-backed armchair beside the fireplace. The bold geometric pattern gave the old-fashioned furniture a modern twist. ‘We are currently investigating the possibility that Pavel Bolotnikov is in the UK.’ He watched her face. Her pallid face turned the colour of dishwater. She hadn’t been expecting that, he was sure.

‘Pavel?’

‘Yes, your brother-in-law.’

‘I know who he is.’ There was a slight snap to her voice. She sat up straight and let out a controlled breath. When she spoke, her voice was calm. ‘What has this to do with me?’

‘We would very much like to speak to Pavel about an incident that happened five years ago. We thought he might be in touch with you. Perhaps needing somewhere to stay.’

‘I haven’t heard from him. In fact, I haven’t heard from him since … ‘

‘Since when, Mrs Bolotnikov?’

She dropped her gaze to her hands. Her thumb kneaded the china cup handle. ‘Since my husband died.’

‘My condolences, Mrs Bolotnikov,’ said John.

‘Thank you. And it’s Tina. Much easier and quicker than Bolotnikov.’ John gave a small nod of acknowledgement before continuing.

‘So, you haven’t heard from Pavel?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t keep in touch?’

Tina put the cup on the coffee table and stood up. She walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up the photograph of herself and her husband.

‘Pavel and I, we didn’t get on that well.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You’re the police officer and you’re here asking about Pavel? I expect you can work it out.’ She replaced the photograph. ‘I didn’t like his career choice. I don’t know exactly what he was involved in, but I knew it wasn’t on the right side of the law.’

‘Didn’t your husband ever say anything?’

‘No. Pavel was his brother. My husband still felt loyal to him. It was a moot point. We ceased discussing it as it caused too many arguments between us.’

‘Does the name Porboski mean anything to you?’ This time the physical jolt was apparent.

‘Then. But not now.’ John waited for her to continue. ‘Everyone in the Russian community knew the Porboskis were involved in all sorts of criminal activity. Is that the right phrase?’

‘It’s as good as any,’ said John. He gave a small smile to reassure her. ‘Did your husband ever mention the Porboski gang?’

‘No. Well, maybe. Only in passing. It was a long time ago. As I said, everyone knew who they were. You didn’t mess with them.’

John allowed for another pause. He needed to tread carefully and decide where to take the conversation.

‘Just going back to Pavel. You’ve not heard from him since your husband’s death?’

‘That’s right.’

‘By that I take it you mean the funeral?’

Tina looked at him for a moment. She appeared to be coming to some sort of decision. He allowed her time to wrestle with whatever it was. If he was too keen to encourage her, she might clam up. His patience won out.

‘I didn’t go to the funeral. It was in Russia. It was organised and carried out within a matter of days. I was told not to come.’

John knew this. It was in the file. After the Moorgate robbery, Tina had been kept under surveillance for another two weeks in the hope she would lead them to Sasha. When the reports of his death came in and still she didn’t make any attempt to go, the trail had gone cold. John had been convinced at the time she was in on it and would fly out to Russia sooner or later. He was wrong on that occasion. He had never understood why she hadn’t gone though.

‘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

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

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?’

John motioned with his head to the other side of the road. Another man Tina didn’t recognise lounged against the side of a black BMW. ‘Martin, he’s my partner.’

‘Two of you. That sounds to me like everything is not fine.’

She watched John’s face for any sign that she might be right. It was impassive. ‘Can we come in?’ he said after a moment.

‘I suppose you had better.’

Tina hoped that the air of calm she was desperately trying to project was working. She didn’t want to alarm Dimitri any more than he had already been the past few weeks. She was very much aware he was picking up on her anxieties. He had started having upsetting dreams about hearing footsteps in the night and being watched. A couple of nights ago, his whimpering had woken her, the result of a nightmare that someone was in his room.

Once inside she busied herself making tea for the adults and poured a glass of milk for her son. ‘Why don’t you pop the TV on?’ she said to Dimitri as she took the drink and a biscuit through to the living room.

‘TV? Now?’ said Dimitri excitedly. ‘I can watch it now?’

‘Yes, just this once I’ll make an exception to no TV immediately you get in. You can do your reading and writing later instead.’

Martin followed her into the living room. ‘I’ll watch TV with you, if you want. Haven’t seen Tom and Jerry in years.’

‘Tom and Jerry,’ said Dimitri. ‘I don’t watch that, it’s for babies. No, I’m going to watch Ben 10.’

‘Ben what?’

‘Sit down and you’ll find out,’ said Tina. She was grateful that Martin was acting as a distraction for Dimitri but, at the same time, apprehensive as to what John was about to spring on her.

‘How’s everything?’ John asked her as she came back into the kitchen.

‘Okay. Nothing I can really put my finger on,’ said Tina, motioning towards the table. She took the two cups over. ‘I’ve still got that being watched feeling, which I can’t seem to shake off. I used to always leave the curtains and blinds open when it was dark, but I don’t any more. I find myself double-checking doors are locked. That sort of thing.’

‘You can call me if you’re worried about anything,’ said John.

‘Thank you but I don’t really think you want me to call you at every bump in the night.’ She took a sip of her drink. ‘Last night, I was lying in bed and I was sure I could hear floorboards creaking every now and then.’

‘Really?’

She gave a small laugh at the look of concern on his face. ‘You know what these old houses are like. I was just dropping off to sleep, so I wasn’t really sure what it was. Probably the wind or something.’

‘You weren’t frightened?’

Tina dropped her eyes. She felt foolish, although at the time she had woken with a start and her heart had raced liked an F1 car off the starting grid. ‘Just a bit unnerved. What with what’s been going on recently. I think I’ve been overreacting. Anyway, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘I don’t want to alarm you any more, but things have moved on with our investigation and we know Pavel came into the country over a couple of weeks ago.’

Tina slowly put her cup of the table. ‘Do you think it was him I saw in the garden?’

John shrugged. ‘Honestly, I can’t say. We don’t know why he’s here. Has he been in touch with you at all?’

‘No. No, he hasn’t. I don’t really know what to make of it. What exactly do you think Pavel is involved in? Why do you need to speak to him?’

She watched John take a sip of his tea, clearly stalling for time as he weighed up her question and formulated his response. His eyes met hers. The evening light bounced off the flecks of gold that laced his green eyes. Troubled eyes. She braced herself for his response.

‘And before you say “to help us with our enquiries” you need to come up with a better reason than that.’ She felt agitated now. John was definitely holding back.

‘I’d love to tell you everything, but at this stage in the investigation …’

She held up her hand to stop him continuing. ‘Police bullshit. Waffle. Call it what you like, but it’s not answering the question.’ She saw the corners of his mouth twitch slightly, as if amused, before a frown settled on his face. He gently drummed his fingers on the table. Long, lean fingers that looked like they should be playing the piano. Fingernails clipped short. There was no wedding band or even a sign that he had ever worn a ring on his finger. She wondered briefly if there was a girlfriend on the scene.

‘Okay, I’ll be honest with you,’ he said.

‘Good. I don’t like being taken for a fool and not told everything.’

‘Pavel was involved in an organised money-laundering ring.’

‘Money-laundering.’ Tina couldn’t help giving a small laugh. The serious look on John’s face killed her laughter. ‘That’s a serious offence. Is there anything else?’

‘Organised crime. Armed robbery and money-laundering. Yeah, you could say they are serious offences.’

‘I knew he was involved with the Porboski gang, but I didn’t think it was anything as serious as armed robbery and money-laundering,’ said Tina. ‘I thought it was more petty crime, a bit of smuggling in vodka or passing on stolen items – that sort of thing.’

‘Much more serious,’ said John. ‘Murder.’

Tina balked. Murder? Pavel? No, that was way off.

‘Are you sure?’ she said. ‘You think Pavel is involved with a murder? Who?’

‘A police officer.’

‘Oh God, that’s serious.’ Tina rested her head in her hands.

‘All murder is serious,’ said John.

There was an uneasy silence whilst Tina took in what she had just been told. Much as she disliked Pavel, she had never had him down as a hardened criminal – a murderer.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last. ‘I’m finding this really hard to take in. Sasha never said a word. He couldn’t have known.’

‘Do you recognise this man?’ said John. The change in direction was welcomed. Tina looked at the photograph John placed on the table in front of her.

‘Is he dead?’ She leaned back in her chair, averting her eyes from the image.

‘Yes, he is,’ said John. ‘Found at some docks in London in the last few days. We believe he was looking for Pavel.’

‘Pavel’s very popular.’ Her voice was dry. ‘And no, I don’t recognise him.’

‘Are you sure? Perhaps he came into the deli your husband ran?’

Tina’s eyes flipped to him. ‘How did you know Sasha ran a deli?’ She never referred to it as a deli, it was always ‘the shop’.

‘It’s on record,’ said John. He moved position in his seat. ‘Intelligence-gathering.’

‘Surveillance? Were you watching the shop? Have you been spying on us?’

‘Gathering information on suspected criminals goes with the job. It says here that Pavel frequented a deli. You mentioned the shop before. I put two and two together. It’s what I do. I’m a detective.’ He gave a smile.

‘Sorry, of course,’ said Tina. ‘I’m just a bit on edge, that’s all.’

‘It’s okay,’ said John. He picked the photo up of Ivan Gromov and slipped it back into his inside pocket. ‘Did Sasha ever give you anything to look after? Did he ever say anything about what Pavel was up to?’

Tina thought back and shook her head. ‘As I said before, we didn’t talk about Pavel and as for giving me anything of significance, then, no. He didn’t.’

‘Okay, well thanks for your time again,’ said John. He stood up. ‘If you think of anything, let me know. In the meantime, we’re going to keep a discreet eye out for Pavel. Surveillance. Don’t look alarmed. There’s nothing for you to worry about.’

‘You think he will try and contact me?’

‘It’s one of our theories. We’ll be parked up overnight, in case he does show.’ He passed Tina his card. ‘Here’s my number, put it in your phone. If you think of anything, call me. If you’re worried about anything, call me.’

‘Thank you,’ said Tina. She couldn’t help feeling slightly unnerved again and that John was keeping something from her. ‘Is there anything I should know?’

‘Please don’t worry,’ said John. ‘If there are any developments, I’ll contact you straight away.’

‘What did you tell her?’ said Martin as John got into the passenger seat of the BMW.

‘That Pavel was back in the UK. Kept it simple for now. I don’t want her freaking out on us,’ said John. ‘We need her to draw Pavel out of the woodwork.’

‘What’s the plan now?’

‘Back to the office. I want to check in with the team. See if anyone has got any info about the Porboski gang making a comeback. You have another chat with Baz Fisher. All this poking around is bound to have stirred up the locals. He might have heard some more by now.’ John looked up at 17 Belfour Avenue. ‘I’ll come back later to see if Pavel turns up.’

‘So, go on, admit it,’ said Martin.

‘Admit what?’ said John. He had an idea what Martin was referring to, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. The ribbing that would follow would be enough.

‘You’ve got more than just a passing interest in Mrs B.’ Martin pushed the keys into the ignition and fired up the engine.

‘Of course I have. This case means a lot to me,’ said John. He fastened his seat belt and looked straight ahead, purposefully avoiding any eye contact with his friend.

‘You know what I mean,’ said Martin as he pulled out onto Belfour Terrace. ‘Just don’t let Brogan get wind of it.’

‘You worry about the driving and I’ll worry about what Brogan knows, or thinks he knows,’ said John. ‘I’m not about to compromise the operation, despite my suspicions. I’m sure Tina is the link, even if she doesn’t know it herself.’

‘See! I told you.’ A big grin swept across Martin’s face.

‘What?’

‘It’s Tina, now. Not Mrs Bolotnikov. Absolutely proves my point.’

John shook his head. ‘You’re a dick at times, you know that?’

‘It might have been said once or twice before. Mostly by you, granted. But, I’m a dick who’s right.’ Martin laughed out loud, clearly delighted with himself.

Trouble was, John couldn’t really deny it. He was very much taken with Tina. Despite thinking he knew her from the surveillance five years ago, he didn’t know the woman she was now. She was something of an enigma, a woman who sparked his interest in more ways than one. However, he was painfully aware that she was, at best, a witness, at worst a suspect.

Chapter 10

Tina watched from her window as the BMW drew off down the road. She craned her neck until it had disappeared out of sight. A little feeling of unease snuck up on her and she glanced up and down the road, half expecting to see Pavel outside.

What exactly he was doing back in the UK, she had no idea. Had he really been spying on her? She wished she could have found out more about what he had been up to when he had lived in the UK, but John had been tight-lipped.

She wondered if Sasha had known anything. He had certainly never given her any indication that Pavel was mixed up in anything as serious as murder. Sasha would have told her. They shared everything. She turned away from the window and her eyes came to rest on the photo frame on the mantelpiece. She walked over and picked it up. A sparkly frame with bits of tiny mirror tiles, sparkly glass, a bric-a-brac home-crafted frame that Sasha had given her. Inside was a photograph of the two of them, taken on Brighton Pier.

She smiled. The frame really wasn’t her style and didn’t fit in with anything else in the house. She remembered how proud Sasha had been when he had presented it to her. She had wanted to laugh, but he had been deadly serious when he said how precious it was. A token of how precious she was and how precious their love was. How sad that they had so little time together. She replaced the frame.

‘I’m going to pop upstairs to get changed,’ she said to Dimitri. ‘Then I’ll go next door and see if Mr Cooper wants some tea. You okay there?’

A brief ‘yes’ in reply, which didn’t even involve her son taking his eyes from the screen. Okay, the TV wasn’t the ideal babysitter, but today she was grateful for it.

Tina sighed to herself as she climbed the stairs, picking up a couple of toys that Dimitri had discarded at some point that morning before school. All she ever seemed to do was tidy up after him. How was it possible a six-year-old could make so much mess? She reached the landing and, just to prove her point, there was a sprinkling of what looked like powder on the carpet.

She scuffed it with her foot in an attempt to rub it in. She paused. Not simply because she knew she was being lazy and should really get the Hoover out, but because the powder had a grey tinge to it. What on earth had he tipped out? She looked into his bedroom and noticed an old cardboard box in the corner that he had brought home from school. Well, he told her it was a robot, hence the silver foil stuck randomly all over it, together with milk-bottle lids. The dust and dirt had probably come from there. She went to call out his name and tell him to come and tidy up, but stopped herself.