Sergeant Wolfe was enjoying his day so far. There had only been three robberies, a kidnapping, four cases of pickpocketing and seven fights.
A quiet day.
He folded his arms over his chest, and, from his perch behind the vast oak desk of Central Station, surveyed his domain. The reception area was strangely silent. Nobody was clamouring for his attention. Nobody was arguing or shouting. And the beggars who usually hung around the place, sheltering for a few hours from the cold streets of the city, had all vanished.
A quiet day.
A large, thick-set man with a stomach dangling over the top of his trousers approached the desk. This one enjoyed his food and wasn’t short of opportunities to eat. ‘Can I help you?’ Sergeant Wolfe asked.
The man grunted and, in an accent thick with the streets of Moscow, said gruffly, ‘Inspector Danilov.’
‘He’s not here at the moment, can I take a message?’
The big man’s eyebrows went up, reaching his hairline. He grunted again and repeated, ‘Inspector Danilov.’
Sergeant Wolfe ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. He had noticed the grey was beginning to show around the temples again. Time to get his wife to bring out her magic box of tricks, helping him lose ten years of age with the nimble application of a few drops of dye. ‘Like I said, he’s not here. Can I take a message?’
The big man stared at him, hitched his trousers over the descending waist and said again, ‘Inspector Danilov.’
We’ve got a right one here. Either he’s deaf, or stupid, or both. ‘He’s not here.’
The waist of the man’s trousers slowly slid down, exposing the vast expanse of stomach once more. ‘Inspector Danilov?’
For the first time, this sounded like a question rather than a statement to Sergeant Wolfe. He was about to tell the man to wait in the corner when, in through the main doors, hurried Danilov and Strachan. ‘You’re here, Inspector Danilov.’
‘Was I supposed to be somewhere else?’
‘No, but we have a situation.’ Sergeant Wolfe stood up in his chair and lent across the oak desk. ‘This man keeps repeating your name,’ he whispered, pointing at the large man with his thumb.
Danilov took one look and smiled. ‘Sergei, priyasni snova vas videt.’
The large man stepped forward, holding his arms wide, enveloping the inspector in a large hug and kissing him on both cheeks. They both began speaking in a gabble of words.
‘I don’t go in for this kissing lark. Especially, two men kissing. Not very English, is it?’ Sergeant Wolfe said from behind the desk.
‘It’s because they are Russian,’ answered Strachan.
‘Still, not right is it? Two grown men kissing each other.’
Danilov’s face changed as he listened to the large man speaking. He put his hat back on his head and ran out of the reception area. ‘Come on, Strachan, this man is the Princess’s cook. She’s gone missing.’
Strachan followed him, as did the large man, moving with a speed and grace that belied his size. ‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘To the cafe, where she was last seen.’