London Calling
"London calling,"
said the investigator in the Moscow
branch. "Interpol wants us to send
a liaison officer to them."
His
superior frowned. This might be a time
to get on someone's good side by sending their son to this brief. On the other
hand...
"We
don't want to make it a permanent posting," he said. "I can think of someone we can be well
rid of for a few months."
Arkady
Renko arrived in London
overland, having endured a long wearying journey and with one bag. Although he was well travelled, the price of
a taxi staggered him. Interpol, based in
Lyons, had a
branch office here in London
in an ordinary office building. Renko
showed his ID and asked for his contact.
"Good
to meet you, Investigator Renko," said a bluff man in his thirties with
fair hair razored short. His grey suit
was practical but much better tailored than Renko's. "I'm Derek Jameson. We've got an
apartment ready for you and we'll get you a security badge for this office
first thing. Then you can meet the rest
of the team."
This
office kept tabs on the many immigrants and migrants in London, business people and gangsters,
employers and exploiters. Renko nodded politely at the Jamaican, the Pole, the
Indian, the Lebanese and the several English men and women. He was too tired to
contribute much the first day, but after some days he had settled in and was
running through photo recognition software of people well known to him as
Russian merchants, or gangsters in this context. In the new Russia, one often equated to the
other.
"This
man imports luxury cars," he said, noticing a face on a surveillance
shot.
"Yes,
stolen to order, resprayed and driven across borders, sometimes hidden among
cargo in trucks," said Jameson.
"Interpol keeps a lookout for stolen Range Rovers, Mercedes,
Lamborghinis and the like. The database
is here... and there's one of stolen art and antiques, another very flexible
commodity."
Renko
had a lot to learn, including finding his way around the technology.
The
investigator had been there for a few weeks, gradually gaining confidence in
his peers, when the ground floor desk paged him on the mobile phone he'd been
issued.
"A
young man is here to see you, if that is possible," the receptionist told
him.
"I'm
not expecting anyone," said Renko.
"He
says his name is Pribluda."
Renko
stared at the young man, trying to recall the face of his friend and colleague
from Moscow,
all those years ago. This man was
dark-haired, with a round face, heavy eyebrows and a high forehead.
"I
used to know a Pribluda," Renko said.
"My
uncle," said the man simply.
"You
are?"
"Bas."
Renko
frowned.
"Vasily,
in fact, but the English find Basil easier."
"Tell
me about yourself," invited Renko, and they strolled to a nearby café
which broadcast a scent of strong coffee.
"The
man you knew had a little sister, called Anya. She says he hoarded goods. He
had tins of ham and warm socks and electrical items when the Iron Curtain made
importing difficult. He had a purpose...
he used them to buy his sister a place as costume maker with the Ballet, then
when they went on tour, she went along, and slipped away from the
supervisors. She's been here ever
since."
Renko
nodded, smiling. While Pribluda had
been a chubby man, tins of ham were far too valuable to eat at a time when city
dwellers lived on bread, sausage, pickle and vodka, and town dwellers had the
boon of gardens which had to be pressed into service to grow vegetables that
kept over winter, like cabbage. Tins and electrical goods were for bribes.
"He
kept that quiet."
"As
an investigator he could not afford to have a tainted family. He had to make it
appear as though they were estranged for years."
"Your
mother married here?"
"If
you can call it that," said Bas.
"Two years of a marriage. But she got me out of it. The man was gone by the time I was born, so I
have her surname. We live in Harlesden
because it's a mixed immigrant community, cheaper housing than the better
areas."
"How
did you know I was here?"
"The
Russian community isn't huge. I am night manager of a restaurant and people
talk."
"So,"
said Renko, "what do you want from me?"
Bas
picked up a menu.
"Can
I buy you lunch?"
"Here?"
"You
didn't come to London
to eat blinis," said Bas.
Over
fish and chips with a wedge of lemon, the young man opened up to Renko.
"My
girlfriend has gone missing."
"Report
it to the police."
"It's
not that simple," he said. "She was housekeeper for a
businessman. It's an investment, a London apartment, and
somewhere for him to run when the heat is on at home. His wife and children go
with him to Bulgaria
for skiing and sun holidays, but he doesn't bring them to London.
He wanted a girl here so he brought Nadia along, told her she was his
housekeeper and gave her an allowance for when he's not here. But her duties
then turned out to include in his bed, and she was beaten if she refused. I met
her at the restaurant and we got chatting, she started seeing me. If she lost her job she would have to go back
to Russia,
and she doesn't want that." Bas
produced a mobile phone and showed Renko photos of his girlfriend. She had dyed blonde hair with an inch of
roots showing, and she wore city fashions.
She looked young.
"How
old is she?"
"Just
twenty. I'm twenty-six. She doesn't want to be blonde, her boss
insisted she dye it. She was going to
try to get a college course; he refused to allow her to study, because then she
could have her own visa. But she vanished a couple of days ago and I think he's
come back and taken her back."
"Back
where?"
"Well,
to his apartment. I don't know the address. That's what I thought you might
help with. Nadia never wanted me to show
up there in case I'd get hurt - or she would - so she wouldn't tell me. She
moved in with me while the boss was away, but if he found her she'd be
terrified and I think she'd go with him."
"How
could I find the address? Do you have
his name?"
"No,
but I do have his car registration. From
a photo she sent me of herself on her phone.
She's not answering now, but he'd take it away from her."
"I'll
look into it," said Renko. "No promises." He was thinking that he was no longer young
and his body had been through enough rough work, but still, he could remember
being the same age as this earnest, grey-eyed young man.
"I
just want to help her escape," said Bas.
Interpol
communicated with the Met and a plate read was returned with a name and
address.
"What
do you know of this man?" Renko asked Jameson.
"Feet
in trouble everywhere he steps. We keep
an eye on his movements but we've nothing solid... we'd love an excuse to
investigate his premises, see what exactly he's moving and who his contacts
are. Rumour says he traffics women. They move money between dozens of bank
accounts, use tax avoidance, make occasional donations to charity as a tax
loophole, appear to be solid burghers. He's got hired muscle in case of
kidnapping. These are ruthless people, as you know, business is done with
violence."
"Kensington
is a wealthy area," said Renko, who had got the hang of the Tube, strolled
around various streets, soaking up history, traffic, bike couriers, local
character and tourists.
"Expensive
homes often don't get offered on the English estate agent boards any more. Agents know where the money is. Arabs and
Russians are getting first pick."
Neither
Bas nor Nadia had any criminal background, to Renko's pleasure. Criminals
didn't normally walk into an Interpol office, but one could never be too
careful.
Renko
phoned Bas.
"I
have some information, but you must understand that I have no police standing
here. I can't make arrests. If this girl
is being harmed, she can make a complaint in a police station."
"If
I could just find out if she's there, if she's okay or being ill-treated,"
begged the young man.
After
further consideration, and a pleasant meal at Bas's restaurant with Interpol
picking up the tab, and Anya chatting volubly in Russian about the days before
she was free, Renko relented. He and Bas
sat in the young man's car at a corner of the road and watched the house. A whole three-storey town house was this
businessman's hedge against inflation or unfriendly competition, with a railed
park across the road. A couple of hours
passed with no result. They did not wish to ring the bell and draw attention
and censure on Nadia, if she was inside, and traffic was brisk enough that
their presence went unnoticed.
Bas
talked about his Jafraican neighbours, and the Armenian dry-cleaners, while
nannies and children with balloons walked past to play in the park. Renko, liking this young man, ventured some
stories of Havana,
and of a fishing vessel in the North Atlantic. London
was warmer than Moscow
in this autumn, and there were worse places to be.
A
car with tinted windows drew up and parked - illegally, Renko thought - near
the townhouse in question. A man in a long coat got out and walked up to the
door they'd been watching. Blinds were down barring a view inside, but he rang
the bell.
"This
doesn't look good," muttered Renko, his instincts sending a warning. He jotted a note of the car's number plate.
The
door opened and a girl with blonde hair was visible.
"Nadia." Bas sat straight. They were too far away to
be sure, but Renko thought the girl had bruising on her face.
The
newcomer pushed past the girl and she appeared to fall in the hallway. Bas was out of his car in an instant, and
cursing under his breath, Renko followed. His joints creaked from sitting. Next
they heard shots. Bas didn't slow. Renko
did. More shots pierced the afternoon air on this pleasant street. The man
who'd arrived stumbled out the door and back to his car, a pistol dangling from
his right hand. Blood splattered the pavement.
He got into the driving seat and started the engine, moving out without
indicating. Renko was already phoning for aid, giving the police the plate and
other details. Then the investigator continued to the door.
"She's
okay, just shocked," Bas said as he helped Nadia out to the street. Her eyes were wide and her hair was blonde
all the way to the roots, but the bruising on her cheek told its own tale, and
she was clinging to the young man's arm.
"Stay
right there. The police are
coming," Renko instructed, and Bas nodded.
"Police,"
he called out in English and in Russian.
Inside
Renko found a man slumped in the hallway, a bulky man with a gun on the floor
beside him and blood staining through the back of his jacket. A quick touch of his fingers told Renko that
the man had no pulse. He investigated
the downstairs room off the street, which had lights showing. This was a crime
scene, but there might be someone he could help; there might be someone who
could shoot first, as well.
The
man in this room was past either option. He was sprawled back in a leather
swivel chair, and a few bullets had found their mark. A sharp smell of blood
stained the air. There was a laptop computer open on the desk, and a screen
showing. Renko pulled on the thin latex gloves all police carried nowadays,
before touching anything. The screen was
open to a bank account with over a million pounds in the balance.
"Renko!
Police car coming," called Bas from outside.
Renko
made a swift bank transfer of one million pounds to an account number he knew
by heart, the charity Children of Chernobyl.
Then he left the house.
London Calling was the winning entry in the competition held on The Dark Pages to celebrate the launch of Tatiana, the brilliant new thriller from Martin Cruz Smith.
That’s pretty much how I felt about having given up the
comfort and safety of writing a series set in a city I know very well to
instead come up with an entirely new set of characters in a place I’d never
been to. Even worse - and yet in many ways better - it is set in a place far
removed from the Glasgow that’s home to my Tony Winter/Rachel Narey series.
