Cross was beginning to think that getting a meeting with Vladimir Putin himself, in the Kremlin, would be easier than arranging to see the elusive Oleg Dimitriev. They were told he was in London. Met officers were dispatched to his address in Eaton Square, only to be told that he was actually in Somerset. It became a game of residential ping-pong.
A meeting was finally arranged. As Ottey drove them down to Ashleigh House, Cross filled her in on what he knew about the billionaire.
‘Dimitriev made his fortune from a gas company in Russia. Common story with a Russian oligarch – bought at a knockdown price in the wake of glasnost, thanks to a generous government loan. When the government insisted on buying it back from him at a price many millions below its true worth, he didn’t make the same mistake as others and complain. He’d made billions after all. So he’s still alive. Never speaks out publicly against the Kremlin. Got his wealth out of the motherland through various nefarious financial structures which means, despite his silence on politics, he’s no longer exactly approved of back home.’
‘Probably needs to watch his back then,’ commented Ottey.
‘Without question,’ replied Cross.
*
‘Please, follow me,’ said Jeremy Perrin as he greeted Cross and Ottey on the front steps. They didn’t go into the house but walked round the front past the orangery. It had orange and lemon tree espaliers against the back wall. To the side of the house was a very decorative formal garden, manicured to within an inch of its life. A deep and fulsomely planted herbaceous border ran the length of a red-brick wall, which looked centuries old. On the other side of the gardens was a twenty-foot hedge which had been trimmed and shaped over the years and now looked like a long, flowing Henry Moore sculpture.
‘This is all very impressive,’ commented Ottey. ‘How long has Mr Dimitriev lived here?’
‘Over twenty years now. It wasn’t like this when he bought it, though. It was owned by some ministry or other. It’s become his life’s project,’ Perrin replied.
‘Well, if you have the money,’ she commented.
‘It’s not just the money. He likes a project. Very hands on, as you’re about to see.’
They walked through a gap in the red-brick wall to enter a large kitchen garden. It was well ordered with timber encased beds. These beds were immaculately weeded and abundantly prolific. Each bed of plants had a small slate label pushed into the soil with the name of the plant written on it in liquid chalk. A long Victorian greenhouse ran the length of one wall. Perrin led them to a short bald man who looked like the head gardener. Work boots, rough corduroy trousers, a leather apron with a suede tool belt wrapped around his waist. He wore a thick checked shirt which was stubble-worn round the collar. He was talking to a young man with a clipped beard, several facial piercings and tattoo-laden arms who was holding the handles of a barrow filled with produce, as if he was about to leave. The short man turned to greet them.
‘Detectives! Oleg Dimitriev. Nice to meet you,’ he announced. Ottey shook his hand while Cross just looked away, deliberately not availing himself. The Russian probably thought it was a deliberate gesture to offend, but didn’t show it. Ottey couldn’t get over the fact that the man was an absolute spit of Putin. Short, stocky, bald with narrow gimlet eyes. It was uncanny. For a moment she fantasised about the possibility of the Russian leader actually holidaying in the UK, living in plain sight of everyone, able to do so because no one would believe it was actually him. He was in his late fifties. He turned to the young man with the barrow.
‘This is Joe. He’s from Earth, the restaurant in the village. Have you eaten there?’ he asked Cross.
‘I have not.’
‘Probably a bit far from Bristol. But you really should try it some time. We provide all his vegetables as well as meat from the farm. Joe, see you soon.’
‘Thanks, Oleg,’ the young man replied and walked away with his barrow.
‘We’re completely organic here,’ continued Oleg, as if pitching to a prospective buyer.
‘Surely you can’t eat all this veg?’ asked Ottey.
‘I know,’ he laughed. ‘I started just wanting to be self-sufficient and then got hooked. First the garden and now the farm. I truly love it. Do you have the gardening bug?’ he asked Cross, still trying to engage him.
‘I do not,’ came the short answer.
‘In answer to your question,’ he said to the more obviously receptive Ottey, ‘we supply Joe and another restaurant in Taunton. We also sell through a local farm shop. All profits go to local charities. Any surplus goes to a couple of food banks.’
‘Gosh,’ replied Ottey.
‘Food banks, I know. Anyone would think we were in Russia,’ he joked.
‘I didn’t realise they were needed in rural areas,’ replied Ottey.
‘Of course they are. Successive shambolic Tory governments don’t discriminate when it comes to sharing out poverty. So, you think I had something to do with Ed Squire’s murder?’ he finished by saying.
‘We’d certainly like to talk to you about it,’ replied Cross.
‘Okay, let’s go into the garden kitchen and talk,’ he said, walking away towards a small outbuilding at the far end of the garden. As they walked over, Cross observed other gardeners working in the beds. Also, at a discreet distance, two men who had the distinct vigilance of a pair of guards. One of them had virtually no neck. The other wore a black bomber jacket with a transparent plastic pouch on the upper arm.
Inside the small building was a rustic but well-appointed kitchen. A long wooden table occupied the centre of the room. There was a large American-style fridge and a dresser covered in plates and mugs.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ he asked.
‘Tea would be great, thanks,’ said Ottey politely, before reminding herself not to fall into this man’s web of mellifluous charm.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed as he saw a cloth-covered plate in the centre of the table. ‘As promised, Mrs Hodge has made us some of her miraculous shortbread. You have to try it. Best shortbread in the county. I do not exaggerate. That is actually factual. I made her enter the county fair a couple of years ago and she won!’
He filled a kettle from the brass tap in the white butler’s sink.
‘English breakfast, or would you prefer Darjeeling?’ he asked, looking at his watch. ‘It is late morning, after all.’
‘Darjeeling,’ pronounced Cross, a little too enthusiastically perhaps.
‘Jeremy, are you having tea?’ Dimitriev asked the hovering Perrin.
‘Yes please, boss.’
‘Why don’t you start your interrogation, DI Ottey?’ he joked. ‘No need to wait for me to finish brewing.’ She suspected he’d timed his question deliberately at the moment she’d taken a large chunk out of one of the shortbreads, crumbs tumbling off her chin like a small avalanche. Cross saw her problem and so stepped in.
‘I would normally ask where you were on the night of Ed’s Squire’s murder, but I have the feeling that would be irrelevant,’ he began.
‘And why is that?’
‘I think if you were involved in the murder, you’d have employed someone else to do it.’
‘What makes you think that? As you can see, I’m not averse to getting my hands dirty,’ he said, holding up his dirt-encrusted palms. He noticed Cross transfixed by them. ‘You’re quite right. I wasn’t thinking. Where are my manners and sense of hygiene? I should wash my hands before making you tea.’
He did so.
‘So where were you that night?’ Cross asked.
‘I was here with my girlfriend.’
The mention of a girlfriend reminded Ottey that Dimitriev had been involved in one of the most expensive divorces in British history. It had made his ex-wife one of the richest women in the UK.
‘We had some friends over. Jeremy has drawn up a list of all of them, together with their contact details.’
Perrin then produced a sheet of paper, which he gave to Cross. He looked at it very briefly.
‘Why have you been sending three of your men to Ed Squire’s premises over the last few months?’ Cross asked.
‘It was four, actually. They did it in shifts, as it were,’ Dimitriev responded.
Cross was impressed by the man’s English. Not only was it without any accent but he was completely fluent. It was as if he’d made a huge effort to assimilate himself seamlessly into English society.
‘What was the purpose of these visits?’ asked Cross.
‘I would’ve thought that was obvious. To intimidate the man,’ he replied matter-of-factly.
‘To what end?’
‘I was angry, detective. He had cost me two million pounds.’
‘What were you trying to achieve?’ Cross went on.
‘Again, I would’ve thought that much was obvious. I wanted paying back.’
‘And how was he supposed to achieve this?’
‘I don’t know. Not my problem. Except, of course, it was,’ he said ruefully. ‘My men were there to encourage him to find a solution.’
‘How?’
‘Oh, the usual. An overt presence. Threats of violence. Arson. Do you take milk?’ he asked, pouring the tea. Cross was actually more appalled by this suggestion than what Dimitriev had just said.
‘Certainly not,’ he said.
‘Good man. DI Ottey?’ he asked.
‘Milk and one sugar,’ she replied. Cross was unable to suppress a sigh of disapproval.
‘Each to their own, Sergeant. Have you tried the shortbread?’
‘I have not.’
‘You really should. I think you’ll find it the perfect accompaniment to the tea.’
Cross wasn’t going to play this game, despite the shortbreads looking irresistible with an inviting, light dusting of sugar.
‘You seem to have a somewhat glib attitude when it comes to admitting to the issuance of threats and the general intimidation of a murder victim, shortly before his death. Particularly when you’re speaking to part of the murder investigation team,’ Cross said.
‘You’ve already admitted threatening him. Perhaps it was a case of intimidation gone too far?’ Ottey suggested.
‘An interesting theory and one I hadn’t factored in. Perhaps I should consider my answers to any further questions a little more carefully,’ he said.
‘That would be more than advisable in the circumstances,’ replied Cross.
‘You were angry. You wanted your money back and it took a fatal turn,’ Ottey offered. Dimitriev thought about this for a moment.
‘No. My men are far too professional to make such a mistake,’ he said.
‘Then perhaps you’d reached the end of your tether and just had him killed. People have been killed for a lot less than two million,’ Ottey went on.
‘Killing him would not have got my money back, Inspector. I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. In all sincerity I think you should concentrate your efforts elsewhere if you want to have any chance of finding Ed Squire’s killer.’
There was something chillingly unsettling about Dimitriev’s cold charm. Neither of the detectives were inclined to take him at face value.
It was time to talk to their victim’s father again. But only after George Cross had finished drinking what turned out to be an excellently made cup of tea.