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ORLOV AND BRONSTEIN sat in their office, filing reports and waiting for the phone to ring. The BBC news website was loaded on Bronstein’s computer and refreshed every two minutes. He accepted the Guardian Orlov passed him, folded over at page seven, International News. Under the banner, ‘Gruchov Publicly Distances Herself From Disgraced Russian Exile’ he read:
A political storm was brewing in Moscow last night after Vera Gruchov, the Vosstanovlenie (Restoration) party candidate for mayoral office, denied that her campaign is being funded from London by the Russian exile, Valentin Tebloev. Speaking with rare emotion at a hastily-convened press conference, she insisted all such claims were fabricated by her political rival, the present mayoral incumbent, Boris Pyatin. Once a media magnate, Tebloev is wanted in Russia for extortion.
“I have always kept my funding sources open for scrutiny,” she said. “Anyone can examine them. I have received no monies whatsoever from Mr Tebloev and given the meticulous detail with which my campaign is planned within the existing budget, I do not expect to. It is a disgraceful slur.”
But in a twist to the tale, Mr Tebloev last night claimed he had raised money for Vosstanovlenie, only without seeking its approval first. He said he now plans to donate the funds to a Moscow children’s charity. There was no hidden agenda behind his actions, he said. He apologised for causing Vera Gruchov any embarrassment.
But Boris Pyatin remains deeply sceptical. Addressing his supporters at a rally in Promzona he said, “This is a classic case of the right hand not knowing what the left is doing. Vera Gruchov put the fight against corruption in public life at the top of her political agenda and it goes without saying that a party funded by a known criminal cannot conceivably win such a fight.” To loud cheers, he dismissed Vera Gruchov as “a Russian Eva Perón, all style and no substance”.
The political editor of the Russian Courier in London, Mikhail Botov, says the affair is hugely embarrassing for Vera Gruchov. “Some commentators have accused Vosstanovlenie of being short on policies, saying its appeal rests largely on Vera Gruchov’s youth, looks and perceived irreproachability. This could potentially be the moment she hits the rocks. The next week of the campaign should prove very interesting.”
“What do you think?” Bronstein said, sitting down at his desk.
“I think we’ve been had. Obviously Tebloev was working for Pyatin all along. His ‘fundraiser’ was just a ruse to tar Vosstanovlenie.”
Bronstein shook his head. “And yet it does kind of consolidate Tebloev’s reputation as a two-bit criminal, it being the grounds on which both parties want to distance themselves from him. Why would he shoot himself in the foot like that?”
“A two-bit criminal who was only trying to help the anti-corruptionists and who’s now patron saint of Moscow’s orphans. I’m sure most Russians can find it in themselves to forgive that. As I’m sure Boris Pyatin can, once he’s back in office.”
“I see, yeah. When do you think Jonathan’s going to call?”
“Sometime this afternoon. If he makes a breakthrough he’ll take her to the police station by Waterloo Bridge. We’ll meet him there.”
“What if he doesn’t? Make a breakthrough?”
Orlov smiled. “You’re an American. What comes after good cop?”
“Maybe one of us should have gone with him. Keep an eye on him.”
“You mean you don’t trust him?”
“Sure I trust him. We’ve been through that. But if she knows the killer - ”
“It’s a risk he was prepared to take,” Orlov said. “We’re a team. We have to trust to each other’s instincts.”
“Guess so. Besides, his parents probably think we’ve left the country.”
“They must do. He’s still officially ‘inspector’. It would only take a few phone calls for the Shadow Foreign Secretary to discover we’re not working under Sir Colin Bowker any more.”
“Presumably, that means we can never meet them again.”
Orlov sat at his PC and began typing. “Not in this lifetime.”
“That’s a shame. I liked his mom. Strict but fair.”
“They were a very agreeable family. I don’t think Jonathan will be with us for long. I think he’ll marry Miss Bestwick and leave to run his father’s estate with her.”
“You figure?”
“It’s a foregone conclusion.”
Bronstein sighed. “What are you typing?”
“Not typing. Something I’ve been meaning to do for some time. Googling Constantine Slope. You’ll remember Ruby Parker said he was meant to be at Tebloev’s party. ‘A businessman. Not intrinsically suspicious but he’s very rich and we’ve no record of a previous connection between him and Tebloev’.”
“I can save you the effort. He’s dead.”
“When?”
“Week before last. It’s probably why he didn’t attend the party.”
Orlov raised his eyebrows. “It’s as good an excuse as any.”
“Listen, boss, I don’t want to sound critical, but the Internet’s for mail, porn and talking dogs on YouTube. There’s a perfectly good library on the third floor and we share a bunch of researchers with the House of Commons. Write your question on a yellow form and they’ll provide you with a brief. Sorry if that sounds a bit preachy.”
“On the other hand, if someone’s taken the trouble to put a lot of disinformation on the web, surely that has to be significant?”
“Yeah, all right. Just checking.”
“So what does your brief on Slope say?”
Bronstein grinned. “It’s less than a side of A4. He’s a businessman. Originally from Albania. Not intrinsically suspicious but very rich. And he’s kaput.”
“There can’t be many businessmen whose biographies fit on a single sheet of paper.”
“He’s religious.”
“Even so.”
The smile fell off Bronstein’s face. “My God.”
“What?”
“Jilly Bestwick. She ... She’s dead. Come round here. Come and look on my monitor, quick. Shit, this can’t be happening.”
Orlov arrived just as Bronstein was unticking ‘mute’ and going to the video channel. A woman reporter in her late twenties stood outside a suburban house that was surrounded by police vehicles and cordoned off with yellow tape. She held on to her hair as the wind teased it out of place.
“The police are still refusing to comment,” she said, “but I can definitely tell you, Jane, that the bodies are those of the Four Girls on Fire singer, Jilly Bestwick, and her boyfriend, the Li’l Baby Boy frontman, Zane Cruse. It is understood they died from gunshot wounds to the head and body. It’s not yet clear whether this is a murder inquiry.”
“Is there any reason to think it might not be?” Jane said from the studio.
“Some witnesses I’ve spoken to say they heard voices raised between Miss Bestwick and Mr Cruse in the moments leading up to the shooting. It is known that they were very close, but that Miss Bestwick seems to have begun seeing someone else very recently. I understand the police are desperate to contact that person and are prepared to offer a reward for information identifying him. They’re expected to make an appeal for him to come forward within the next twenty minutes, when of course, they will give us more details.”
Orlov was already on the phone. “Get me Ruby Parker.”
Jonathan didn’t come back to explain to his parents what had happened, but since it was obvious, they didn’t feel it worth discussing. Sir Anthony ate his lunch and returned to Campaign Headquarters. Joy took Anya to her piano lesson, went shopping in Hertford and picked her up again an hour later. She didn’t expect to see Anthony again till after nine pm, and she assumed Jonathan was either pleading with his now ex-girlfriend or on his way back to London and work.
She was therefore surprised when, arriving home at four, with Anya, she found her husband striding to meet her as she got out of the car. She wondered what it could possibly be, then her heart crumpled. “He’s had a crash, hasn’t he?”
“I take it you haven’t been listening to the news. Because it could be worse than that.”
“Anya, go inside.”
Anya ran off at speed.
“His girlfriend,” Sir Anthony said breathlessly, “Jilly Bestwick. She’s been murdered.”
“What?”
He swallowed. “Apparently she was seeing someone else. Some rock band chap by the name of Zane Cruse. Someone shot both of them dead.”
Joy’s fingertips tried to find her face. “Oh, oh, oh my God.”
“Take a few deep breaths,” he said, putting a hand on each of her shoulders. “Just breathe deeply.”
“It isn’t Jonathan that did it. It isn’t Jonathan! Tell them, Anthony - ”
“Get a grip on yourself, Joy. No one’s accusing Jonathan – yet. Although they probably would be if they knew of his involvement with her. I know I would be.”
“But – but - I don’t understand how ...”
“It’s like this. She was seeing someone else, he brought her here, she probably thought they were just friends - you know how girls are with Jonathan - they had an almighty row, she cleared off back to her boyfriend, he followed her. And now she’s dead, and so is her boyfriend. What is anyone supposed to think?”
She started crying. “It isn’t Jonathan, Anthony, I know it isn’t!”
“You heard them shouting at each other in the study, Joy. Look, no one knows she was even seeing Jonathan yet. But her murder’s all over the news, so wherever he is, he must know about it. The obvious question is, why hasn’t he come forward? If he’s innocent?”
She looked round herself like she was floating in white. “What are we going to do?”
“He’s got to ring us sooner or later. You’re just going to sit at home and wait. I’m going back to base to get on with some canvassing. It’s horrid, I know, utterly ghastly, but I haven’t the least choice. We’ve got to make things look normal or someone will suspect. We’ve got to think about Jonathan.”
She seemed to have regained a measure of control. She was still deep breathing. “Have you tried ringing him?”
“Of course I’ve tried ringing him. It just keeps ringing. It’s not switched off or anything. I’ve been ringing him since I found out. He’s not answering.”
“Why doesn’t he switch it off if he doesn’t want to talk to us? He must know it’s us.”
He ran his hand back and forth through his hair. “I don’t know, Joy. I don’t bloody know.”
“Try again, now.”
“I’m not sure - ”
“Please, Anthony.”
He shrugged and took out his mobile. He scrolled through the names and pressed call. “It’s ringing.”
“I – I can hear something,” she said. “It’s coming from the house.”
They ran inside and into the study. Jonathan’s phone was on the floor next to where he’d been sitting earlier. Sir Anthony picked it up, ashen-faced. He switched it off. Joy cast her arms round him and thrust her cheek against his tie and wept.
Within an hour of Orlov’s call, Thames House obtained the Home Secretary’s permission to clear the crime scene of policemen. MI7 agents swarmed into the building and began scrutinising every detail, bagging, dusting, swabbing, taking photographs, measuring distances, calculating angles. It was a large two bedroom flat with new furniture and a water bed on which the murdered couple lay with their arms round each other. Within thirty minutes, the investigative team established that Jilly Bestwick had died of suffocation long before the bullet entered her temple and that Zane Cruse could not have shot himself. These were therefore murders, not, as elements of the press were already beginning to speculate, suicides. They were premeditated – which strongly ruled out Jonathan Hartley-Brown. And the murderer was still at large.
At two-fifteen, Ruby Parker sat down at a table in the crime-scene Living Room with Orlov and Bronstein to write the statement the police were due to read to the press. The families of the murder victims arrived and were received in a tent set up outside. At half past two, Agent Forsby came in.
“Bingo,” he said.
“Kramski?” Ruby Parker said.
“Same description.”
“From how many people?”
“Two.”
“Thank God. Thank God.” She blinked slowly. “Did you contact Jonathan’s parents?”
“I pretended to be an old school friend in Hertford for the day,” Forsby replied. “He’s not with them. They say they haven’t seen him all day. They sounded cagey but composed.”
“He must have told them he was bringing her to see them,” Bronstein said.
“Not necessarily,” Orlov said. “He might have told them he was bringing his girlfriend, but not named her. The English usually do names face to face.”
“Guess so,” Bronstein said. “Maybe that was why they sounded cagey. Maybe they were expecting a girl and got nothing. Maybe they think there’s been a tiff.”
“I contacted his sister too,” Forsby said. “She hasn’t seen him for weeks.”
“Give the police Kramski’s description,” Ruby Parker said. “Tell them he’s their man. They can take it from here. Our number one priority now is to find Jonathan.”
“I’m going back to see Tebloev,” Orlov said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said.
“What choice have we got? It’s a race against time, you know that.”
“I’ll have Tebloev brought in for questioning,” she said. “It’s cleaner and the fewer forms we have to fill in afterwards, the better.”
“You need to put more pressure on the Russian embassy,” Bronstein said. “I can’t believe they don’t know someone who knows someone who knows Kramski. It’s horseshit.”
“If Jonathan turns up dead, they’d better get more proactive,” she said irascibly. “We’ll give them a timetable and a rocket.”
“I’m trying to think where the hell I’d go if I had a man to get rid of,” Bronstein said, running his fingers through his hair.
“We’ve got the Thames River Police on full alert,” she said. “I’ve contacted the Road Policing Unit and told them to disseminate a nationwide ANPR. Other than that, I’m not sure we can do any more than wait.”
At one thirty the next morning, Bronstein sat in the office with a cup of coffee, grinding his teeth and clenching and unclenching his fists. He was thinking about what he’d do to whoever had done whatever to Jonathan, when Orlov walked in and sat down.
“Tebloev still missing?” Bronstein said.
“Apparently. I want to be here when they find him.”
Ruby Parker came in with a folder under her arm. “They’ve found Jonathan. Brace yourselves, it’s bad. Beachy Head, 162 metres. They’ve taken him to an intensive care unit in Eastbourne but he’s not expected to last the night.”
Neither Orlov nor Bronstein spoke for a moment, then Bronstein shook his head bitterly. “I guess he had the murder weapon planted on him?”
“Yes.”
“Car?”
“Parked on the clifftop. If it hadn’t been for the local Chaplaincy Team – they actually keep watch up there, hoping to dissuade suicides - he’d have washed out to sea.”
“Fingerprints?”
“No.”
Orlov pinched his forehead. “I have to ask. Is there any possibility ...?”
“His car had been hotwired,” Ruby Parker said. “And there’s blood on the inside of the boot, not just his: Jilly Bestwick’s. Kramski tried to burn it out, but he was out of petrol and it was raining hard. It’s obvious what he wanted us to think. If we hadn’t taken over from the police when we did this afternoon and slapped a DA Notice on the press, the whole country would have been taken in.”
“I take it we can’t go to the hospital and see him,” Bronstein said.
“Out of the question. I’ve arranged for the police to inform his parents. They’re going to tell them he crashed his police car in the line of duty. I don’t want them to think anything other than that he was an exceptionally fine officer.”
At two o’clock the next morning, Joy and Sir Anthony sat in the morning room listening to the clock tick and waiting for the phone. Every hour, Sir Anthony poured himself a brandy. Joy fell into a snooze and awoke with a start and a groan. Mostly, they sat holding their heads in their hands.
“I don’t know whether we’ve got a duty to tell the police,” Joy said.
“Don’t be an idiot, Joy.”
“You heard the news. They’ve started looking for a man who looks nothing like Jonathan. What if they find him?”
“What if they do?”
“What reason have they got to assume that that man killed them?”
“We don’t know what reason. They may have a very good reason.”
“Oh, come on, Anthony. Think of the Birmingham Six and the Guildford Four. Once the police get an idea fixed in their brains? They don’t know what we know. All they’re aware of is that some poor fellow who looks nothing like Jonathan was seen nearby, round about the time of the murder, acting suspiciously.”
“I repeat: we don’t know what they know.”
She scoffed. “They certainly don’t know what we know.”
“As I recall, it was you who said it couldn’t be Jonathan.”
“But if it is - ”
“Just let’s wait till we’ve talked to him, shall we?”
“Have you rung Sir Colin Bowker?”
“How do you think that would look?”
“You could find some excuse,” she said frailly.
“You’re not thinking, Joy. Circumstantially, everything’s against him, everything. Any false move on our part, no matter how superficially innocuous, might tip the scale later. I’ve never rung Colin Bowker before and I’m not the kind of man who rings the Metropolitan Police Commissioner about his son unless something’s very wrong. Added to which, I’m the Shadow bloody Foreign Secretary. Could you tell my son he forgot to pick up his packed lunch just won’t cut it.”
She cried again. “There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
“I - I’m sorry. I’m as much of a wreck as you are. I’m just trying to keep a grip on reality.”
“I know.”
She put her arms round him, something she hadn’t done in a long time. He kissed her hair. There was a knock at the door.
“Oh, God,” she said.
“You stay there.”
But she followed him into the hallway. He opened the door to find himself looking at a policeman and a policewoman.
The policeman removed his hat. “Sir Anthony Hartley-Brown? Sir, we’ve come about your son, Jonathan. There’s been an accident, I’m afraid. We’ve been instructed to offer you a lift to the hospital.”
Joy fainted.
Marcie finished dodging tennis balls and doing backward flips at midnight. She went home, showered and fell fast asleep in bed. It took her a few moments to realise that that sound was her mobile. She crawled out of bed and looked at the screen. Daddy. Something must be very wrong for him to be calling at this time. She picked up.
“Hi, has something happened?”
“There’s been an accident,” her father said. “It’s Jonathan. He crashed into a lamp post chasing some slimy little bastard in a modified car.”
“Shit, oh shit.”
“You need to get over - ”
“How bad is it?”
“About as bad as it gets, I believe. Your mother and I are on our way. Eastbourne District General Hospital. Get a taxi, I’ll give you the money when you arrive.”
“Eastbourne?”
“Look, I haven’t time for an interrogation. You can imagine the state your mother’s in. I need both arms. Just get there.”
They got out of the car and gave their names at the front desk. A middle-aged consultant with a moustache and half-rim glasses took them to Intensive Care. Jonathan was bruised and swollen to the point of being unrecognisable and punctured with wires and tubes connected to monitors and drips. A nurse stood watch. There were three chairs and a smell of disinfectant.
“Is he ...?” Sir Anthony said, not knowing how to complete the sentence.
“He could go at any minute,” the doctor said. “We’ve done everything we can. I’m very sorry, but there’s just too much internal damage.”
“Tell him ... tell the doctor we’re with BUPA,” Joy instructed her husband through her gasping.
“Sorry, doctor ... my wife ... I’m ... I’m the Shadow Foreign Secretary ...”
The consultant shook his head. “Again, I’m very, very sorry.”
Marcie arrived at 4.30 and, after hearing the bare details, sat down to join the vigil. The darkness seemed to breed in the corners of the room and ooze down the walls. Somewhere in the far distance, a dog barked patiently. They all heard it, though none of them tried to account for it. Marcie held hands with her mother and looked at the floor. Occasionally, her father stroked her back.
A nurse sat by the life support on the edge of her seat, her eyes glued to the ECG screen, her hands folded on her lap. At 4.50, the signal jumped high then levelled to a line and a monotone. The family all whimpered. Four staff came in and surged to the patient. Someone said ‘Stand back’ and there was a bang and Jonathan’s body bounced. The pulse resumed and the screen showed troughs and peaks and everyone sighed.
But then the signal flattened again. There was another ‘Stand back’ and Jonathan bounced, but this time nothing happened. A squealing noise filled the room. The doctors and nurses looked at each other and seemed to deflate. Their hands fell to their sides and they separated as if they’d been disgraced.
When they re-converged on Jonathan, it was without the slightest urgency.
