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AS SOON AS SHE HEARD Ronnie was dead, Ruby Parker rushed to Thames House. She took some letter-paper from her desk and wrote: ‘Information Request: were you in any way involved in the murder of Agent Ronald Giles outside the Port Royal Hotel this evening?’
She sealed it in an envelope and took it upstairs to the receptionist on duty, a sallow young woman with thin hair.
“I’d like you to see this reaches the Blue Maiden as a matter of priority, please,” she told her.
Half an hour later she received a reply, bought to her in her office, as she expected, by a man she had never seen before. She tore open the envelope and read the single word, ‘Negative’.
She expelled a sigh of relief.
“Celia Demure,” Sir Anthony said. “And it’s a great opportunity. Don’t balk at it.”
“I wasn’t,” Marcie replied.
The four Hartley-Browns were eating breakfast in the dining room. Anya and Marcie had Sugar Puffs, Joy and Sir Anthony cornflakes. Outside, spring was at its zenith. The leaves fluttered and sparrows chased each other in and out of the branches. In here, everything was exactly it had been for over four hundred years. Marcie could actually feel herself wasting away.
“Back to school tomorrow, Anya, eh?” Sir Anthony said.
“Don’t remind her,” Marcie said.
Anya put a spoonful of Sugar Puffs in her mouth. “I don’t like school.”
“You’re not supposed to,” Sir Anthony said. “You go there to learn useful information so you can qualify as an investment banker or an expert in corporate law.”
“Who is this Celia Demure?” Joy said. “She’s not one of your bits on the side is she?”
“She’s seventy-something,” Sir Anthony said. “And I’d hardly be introducing her to Marcie if I was knocking her off, would I?”
Marcie slammed her spoon down, making Anya jump.
The two parents sulked for a few moments then Joy reached for the toast and butter. “So what’s going on?” she asked.
Sir Anthony smiled. “I’ve explained to Marcie, I’ll explain to you. I bumped into Celia Demure the other day. She’s not exactly a friend of mine, never has been, but she’s a friend of friends and people speak very highly of her. She used to be a gymnast, Olympic standard. A few injuries combined to ruin her chances. As luck would have it, she’s hoping to reopen the gym school she used to run in the eighties.”
“Where does Marcie come in? Given that she’s got all the athletic grace of an elephant?”
Marcie sighed. “Excuse me, Mummy, I am present in the room, you know.”
“No offence intended,” Joy said. “I’m just trying to work out where your father’s going with this.”
“Perhaps if you let me finish,” he said, “you’ll find out. You tell her, Marcie. She’s obviously not prepared to listen to me.”
Marcie swallowed what she was eating. “Pass me a piece of toast, please, Anya. The bottom line is, Mummy, Miss Demure can’t do gymnastics herself any more and it’s ‘moved on’ since her day. So she wants a guinea pig to order about, see if her methods still work.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Sir Anthony said. “She actually needs someone who’s got all the athletic grace of an elephant, see if she can turn her into Olga Korbut.”
“She’ll have her work cut out with Marcie,” Joy said. “Joke, dear. What’s she paying?”
“Frankly, it wouldn’t have to be much,” Sir Anthony replied. “But as it happens, she’s offering a very generous two hundred a week, plus accommodation in the heart of London, plus free evening meals.”
Marcie put her toast down. “Wow. You never told me that.”
“It’ll be bloody hard work, though, don’t get me wrong.”
“I don’t care. I can do hard work.”
“And of course, you’d be able to go and see Jonathan,” he said.
She’d just reached for the butter. She leant back again. “Is Jonathan in London? What’s he doing? I thought he was unemployed?”
“He must have come to his senses and kissed an arse or two.”
“Oh, how spineless,” she said.
He scoffed. “You can’t eat principles. They’re only made of gas. He’s finally growing up, if you ask me.”
“Is he still working with Mr Bronstein?”
“I don’t know. He hasn’t mentioned him.”
“What about Colonel Orlov? Have they sent him back to Russia?”
“I don’t know.”
“But Colonel Orlov could be in London, couldn’t he? With Jonathan?”
Sir Anthony and Joy exchanged looks. He sat up. “Don’t go falling for someone you know nothing about.”
“I wasn’t!”
“I’ve nothing against the Russians or anyone else, but you don’t know a blind thing about him. And don’t give me that wide-eyed innocent look, Marciella Hartley-Brown. You came down in a ne’er-seen-before dress and half a pound of grease-paint the day he was leaving.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Did he come on to you?”
“No, he didn’t ‘come on’ to me! Look, Daddy, you’re hardly in a position to lecture me on inappropriate liaisons. If you’re up for a mud-slinging contest, though, fire away, because I warn you, I’ll give as good as I get!”
He reddened and deflated. “I – I’m sorry. I just care about you, that’s all. You’re my daughter. And you’re very attractive. And - and maybe you’re even a bit lonely sometimes. I don’t want men taking advantage of you.”
“Apology accepted. Now I don’t want to hear any more about it. Ever.”
Anya climbed onto Joy’s knee and put her arms round her neck. “I hate school, Mummy. Especially Janine.”
Joy kissed her. “You don’t have to become an investment banker or an expert in corporate law for me, beauty. I’ll always love you whatever.”
“So what do you say, Marcie?” Sir Anthony said. “Are you up for a spot of gymnastics?”
In a conference room on the fourth floor of Thames House, Orlov, Bronstein, Hartley-Brown and Ruby Parker sat watching a DVD of Tebloev’s party. The tables were set out in three sides of a square, with a retractable screen making up the fourth. A junior intelligence officer called Gavin stood by the picture with a pointing stick and kept freeze-framing it to identify individuals. He was tall with a suit and had black hair and a white, pudgy face.
“Although you weren’t at the party for very long, Colonel,” he said, “you managed to get a good few three-sixties, so we’ve been able to identify a number of faces.”
“Gavin’s being polite,” Ruby Parker said dryly. “The truth is, if it hadn’t been for Miss Demure’s involvement, we’d have very little footage.”
“She gave me the impression she was a frequent guest of Mr Tebloev’s,” Orlov said.
“Of course, she would.”
“Have you traced any of the money?”
Ruby Parker nodded. “Some of it. It’s as he said. It passes through an intricate network of accounts, from direct debit to direct debit. Almost impossible for anyone outside to keep track of. I think you’re right, though. It’s unlikely any of it’s going to Vera Gruchov.”
He smiled. “I’d go further than that.”
“Oh?”
“His sieving it through a matrix of micro-accounts indicates he wants to avoid embarrassing her. His throwing an ostentatious fundraiser in the middle of London indicates he doesn’t care. It can’t be both.”
“Given that it’s so conspicuous,” Hartley-Brown said, “she must have heard of it. Why doesn’t she say something?”
Bronstein rested his chin in his palm. “Perhaps she’s hoping he’ll go away.”
“Maybe she’s in a quandary,” Orlov said. “Doesn’t want to welcome Tebloev on board, doesn’t want to set sail without him. Whatever else he may be, he’s a talented businessman. One day soon, the wind in Russia will change – not necessarily for the good – and Tebloev will be pardoned. Then he’s likely to become very powerful again, quickly. A kingmaker, like your Rupert Murdoch.”
Bronstein laughed. “You mean, she’s hardly the idealist she’s cracked up to be? Golly gee.”
“Sensible idealists in politics only expose themselves when all the cards are on the table,” Orlov replied. “Those who show themselves too early aren’t doing anyone any favours.”
“I recognise those three men,” Hartley-Brown said, pointing to the evening suits on the screen.
Gavin paused it. “The first, of course, introduces himself. Lionel Edgeware, the Labour MP for Hayes and Harlington. About a year ago he was deeply implicated in the expenses scandal. Bought a Queen Anne fireplace plus basket, a state of the art television, inter alia.”
“‘Inter alia’?” Bronstein said.
“It means, ‘Among other things’,” Ruby Parker explained wearily. “Gavin went to Balliol, didn’t you, Gavin?”
“Sorry, ma’am, yes,” he replied. “Unlike many other MPs in his position, Mr Edgeware decided not to resign or retire, but to show public contrition. He spends most of his free time nowadays doing good works in his constituency, and since it’s a safe seat and he was always viewed as a bit of an eccentric anyway, he’s expecting to retain it at the next election.”
“Which is how far away?” Orlov said.
“Two months at the outside,” Gavin said.
“Did he get a new wife on expenses?” Bronstein asked.
Gavin cleared his throat. “There’s every reason to think Mr Edgeware’s expressed concern for the case of the Khimki journalist, Mikhail Beketov, is genuine. We know he’s raised the matter with the British embassy in Moscow, and that he’s interested in several similar cases. Yuri Grachev, for instance, and Andrei Khmelevsky. It’s likely, in other words, that he’s at Mr Tebloev’s party because he’s a genuine idealist, not because he hopes to profit materially in some way.”
“Despite the antique fireplace and the state of the art TV?” Bronstein said. “I think we should keep an open mind.”
“Point taken,” Ruby Parker said.
“The other two men are Herbert McLellan and Charles Inwood, the conservative MPs for Enfield Southgate and Gravesham respectively. Fared similarly in the expenses scandal, for similar reasons. Adopted similar means of coping. They’re currently keeping a very low profile on the back benches, being nice to people, donating to charity, hoping to be forgiven.”
“Anyone else we ought to know about?” Orlov said.
“We were hoping for a sighting of the mysterious Constantine Slope,” Ruby Parker said. “He was supposed to be at the party somewhere. At least he was on the guest list. But we couldn’t see him on any of the footage, yours or Celia’s. Everyone who appears there is accounted for.”
“Who’s Constantine Slope?” Orlov asked.
“A businessman. Nothing intrinsically suspicious about him except that he’s very rich and we’ve no record of a previous connection between him and Tebloev.”
“Probably decided not to bother going,” Hartley-Brown said. “My father’s on the guest-list for a lot of parties. If he’s busy or reluctant, he just sends his apologies and that’s it.”
“The question is, why he was invited,” Ruby Parker said. “But it’s a minor one for now. While we’re all here, you might as well fill me in on how everything’s proceeding elsewhere. What about you, David?”
“I’ve checked out the contents of eight separate hard drives, over six hundred photos. There was nothing on any of them that we didn’t know already. Obviously, they were swapping significant JPGs hoping the potential for a scoop would grow to the point where it got lucrative. Now that we’ve put Kramski’s picture out there, we’ve popped their bubble. I don’t think they’ll be withholding any more evidence.”
“How close are we to finding Kramski?” Orlov said.
“No more than we were,” Ruby Parker said. “We’ve renewed the All Ports Warning. The police got an address for him after they interviewed Tebloev about Ronnie’s death. But he wasn’t living there any more, if he ever was.”
“And presumably Tebloev knew nothing about him.”
“According to Tebloev, he was a compatriot with a talent for protection, that’s all. He hardly knew him.”
“Clean as a whistle,” Bronstein said.
“What about the bugging device you installed in Jilly Bestwick’s flat?” Ruby Parker said. “How’s that coming along, information-wise?”
“Nothing yet,” Bronstein replied. “Although I’ve a hunch it’s going somewhere. I can’t make out what she and Zane Cruse see in each other. He’s got a girlfriend, so he’s not interested in her. And she’s not enticed by him. They don’t even seem to get on very well. Very occasionally, they’ll confide in each other. Something dumb, like he saw this hot girl in Tesco. Or what she read about Alesha Dixon in Reveal.”
“Is it worth maintaining?” Ruby Parker said.
“Until I work out what they’re doing together, yes. It was your idea to zero in on the celebs, after all. And I wouldn’t remind you of that, incidentally, if I didn’t think you were on to something.”
“What about you, Jonathan?”
“I agree with David. I don’t know quite what it is, but there’s something not quite right about them. I’ve interviewed all the celebrities involved in the shootings now, and – I don’t know, it’s just a hunch – none of them have seemed fully candid.”
“So what are we going to do to move the investigation forward?” Ruby Parker said.
“I’m going to attempt to draw Kramski,” Orlov said. “I’ve contacted the editor of the Russian London Courier and I intend to denounce Tebloev’s fundraiser a little more publicly. If Kramski’s in league with him, as I think he is, he’ll come after me.”
She bristled. “That would be a mistake.”
“Other than trying to follow the money and listening to the bug and hoping for another development, I’m not sure what options we’ve got.”
“You saw what happened when you tried to leave Russia,” she said. “As far as I know, the Kremlin now believes that if you were bent on divulging something it’s too late to stop you. And since they don’t know where you are, killing you for the sake of sending a message is likely to be too time consuming. If you go shouting from the rooftops, that may change. Leave it.”
“I want to go and have a look at the house where Tebloev claimed Kramski lived,” Hartley-Brown said. “There may be something the police have missed.”
Ruby Parker shook her head despairingly and folded her hands on the table. “We’re scraping the bottom of the barrel, gentlemen.”
Orlov went to sit outside Tebloev’s flat, and log arrivals and departures. Hartley-Brown and Bronstein went downstairs to their office in Basement One.
Bronstein donned a pair of headphones and listened to another tape of Jilly Bestwick in her flat. She had Casualty on and she was stirring something. Hartley-Brown took out a fountain pen, filled in a form then went out to the kitchen and made them both a coffee.
Bronstein removed his headphones. “Thanks, Buddy.”
“Can I tell you something, David? I mean, in confidence?”
“Sure.”
“I think I’m in love with Jilly Bestwick.”
Bronstein whistled a long descending note and laughed. “Well, you did the right thing, informing a colleague. We wouldn’t want you to be compromised. Are you going to ask to be taken off the case?”
“I think I probably should.”
Bronstein seemed to consider something then make up his mind. “I was saving this for a rainy day.”
“Saving what?”
“I thought it would crack you up. Sit down, sit down. Wait, I’ll just rewind to ... 4632, that’s right, I made a note. Listen to this.”
He pressed play. In the background, Rihanna sang Umbrella. There was a clunk, then Jilly said, “Can I tell you something, Zane?”
“Yeah, sure,” Zane said.
“I think I’ve met someone I really fancy.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem, your bod.”
More Umbrella.
“I don’t mean I want to sleep with him,” she said. “I mean, I do, but ... ”
“Who is he?”
“That’s the problem. He’s a policeman. Jonathan, he’s called. You met him the other day.”
“What? That fag?”
“He’s not a ‘fag’. Anyway, that’s homophobic.”
“All right, queer then.”
“Bloody hell, Zane, you’re a Nazi. I don’t know what you’re laughing for either. If your fans find out, you might as well kiss them goodbye. Serve you right too.”
“Take it easy.”
“No, I won’t take it easy,” she said. “That sort of thing gets right up my nose. I wish I’d never said anything now.”
“Yeah that’s right, you just keep your trap shut.”
Bronstein pressed stop. “See what I mean about their relationship? Weird.”
“I wonder if I should invite her home to meet my parents,” Hartley-Brown said.
“She’s one quarter of a girl band, so she’s got three cute friends she could hang out with. There’s no friction between them as far as I’ve been able to discover. And yet she chooses to chill with Hermann Goering.”
“I agree, it doesn’t make sense.”
“How far has it gone already? You and her?”
“I’ve done nothing to reproach myself for.”
Bronstein grinned. “Yeah, but seriously, what?”
“We went for a coffee and an ice-cream, then a day later I took her to dinner, then we went to the Tate Modern and yesterday to Hampton Court Maze.”
“Sheesh. All in the line of duty?”
“I think so, yes, although obviously I enjoyed it. I filed a report.”
“Paparazzi there?”
“She dresses down when she doesn’t want to be recognised. But I suppose it’s only a matter of time.”
Bronstein hooted. “Don’t you see?”
“What?”
“You heard what Ruby Tuesday just said. We’re scraping the bottom of the barrel. This could be just what the investigation’s looking for.”
“I still don’t follow.”
“Whatever the connection between her and Kramski – whatever he was doing outside her guest house in the Lake District, if he’s just some kind of twisted stalker – maybe the news that she’s dating a cop will rile him. Especially if you’re both seen in company with the Colonel.”
“How could we do that?”
“You’ve got to persuade Jilly she could use a bodyguard. Then we get him to apply and you’re there when she makes her choice.”
Hartley-Brown thought for a moment. He sipped his coffee. “I think I love her. I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“And yet it’s your job.”
“Maybe I should resign then.”
Bronstein clicked his tongue. “You’ve done that once already since I arrived in this country. You can’t hand in your notice every time you hit choppy water. Anyway, she’s a pop star, probably a millionaire. How many pop stars do you know who have boyfriends with no job and no prospects? Pop star plus cop has low enough odds already.”
“Yes, yes, I take your point.”
“Look, we’ll look after her. We’ll get the Maiden to put a few extra guys on. She’ll be more than happy if she thinks we’re up and running. And when it’s all over, when Kramski’s in the slammer and we’ve fed Tebloev to the lions, you can even tie the knot if you’re still hot for each other. Meanwhile, here’s a twenty. Go and buy Jilly a bunch of flowers. I mean it, boy. Drink up and scoot.”
