Oleg Dimitriev pretty much knew the aerial route from Ashleigh House to Bristol airport off by heart. It was a short flight. They had landed outside his personal hangar in which his Bombardier Global 7500 was housed. He was thinking how smoothly his extraction from the estate had gone. He would be on his yacht, for an unscheduled break, in under four hours, door to gangplank. The helicopter taxied towards the hangar and once the blades ceased rotating, the door was opened and Dimitriev stepped off. He walked towards the jet. The chief pilot, Mike, gave him a thumbs up from the cockpit window. Yvette the flight attendant waited for him at the bottom of the steps onto the plane. She smiled appreciatively. He was a good employer and had recently paid for her father’s hip replacement.
As he neared the steps, a voice beckoned him from behind.
‘Oleg Dimitriev?’
He turned to see George Cross approaching, flanked by four uniformed officers.
‘I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to murder Ed Squire. You don’t have to say anything…’ Cross continued, reciting his rights.
If Dimitriev was surprised by this development, he did well to disguise it.
Cross had noticed, the previous day, when studying one of the aerial photographs of Ashleigh House, a small grid of lights embedded in the grass to the side of the building. There was a tractor nearby which seemed to be driving in the direction of a newly constructed metal barn. Cross did a little research and discovered that, after a protracted battle with local residents, culminating in several generous donations to a variety of local charities, Dimitriev had been granted permission for a helipad at the estate. This was discreetly hidden in the lawn. He concluded that the helicopter was towed to and from the nearby barn, which functioned as a hangar.
On the basis of this Cross had taken a small gamble by enlisting the four officers and driving to the airport, where he discovered Dimitriev had a hangar for his jet. His logical thought process was proved to be correct when, on the way there, it was confirmed that a new flight plan had just been filed for the plane. Dimitriev was definitely on his way to him.
*
Carson couldn’t believe his eyes as he looked at a monitor feed showing interview room 1. There, as large as life, was indeed Oleg Dimitriev, sitting opposite George Cross and a DC. Ottey walked in and replaced the other officer. Dimitriev was flanked by an expensively attired lawyer. Carson was unsure what his emotions were in this moment. On the one hand he was pleased their suspect was in custody. But there was that familiar, irrational feeling he always got in situations like this. That, somehow, George Cross had done this deliberately. Just to annoy him. But he knew this wasn’t true. George just didn’t behave like that. Carson went back to his office with a much more pressing matter on his mind. How to spin this to his benefit, not only for the media but, more importantly, for his superiors.
*
‘Mr Dimitriev, where were you on the night of the twenty-fourth of April?’ asked Cross.
‘As I’ve already stated, my client will not be answering any questions,’ the lawyer informed him. Cross ignored this.
‘Did you threaten to kill Ed Squire?’ he went on.
‘No comment.’
‘Why did you threaten Torquil Squire that you would kill his son?’ Cross asked, as if his previous question had been answered.
‘No comment.’
‘Was it because he had sold you what he believed to be a genuine, legitimately sourced, historically important document, which turned out to be stolen? Causing you to lose over two million pounds as you did the only thing an honourable man could do in those circumstances, and returned it to its rightful owner?’ Cross asked. Dimitriev allowed himself a little smile at Cross’s obvious attempt to flatter him and soften him up.
‘No comment,’ he replied.
‘You sent your men to, well I’m not sure how best to describe it, loiter around Squire’s Rare Books and the square it’s situated in. How did you describe it? “An overt presence.” Why was that?’ Cross continued.
‘No comment.’
‘Was it to remind Torquil Squire of your prevailing threat?’
‘No comment.’
And so it went on for hours, Cross patiently going through his list of questions, ticking them off one by one, completely indifferent to the fact that none of them gleaned answers; just a constant litany of ‘no comments’. He was confident in the knowledge that, now and then, people would lose their patience with this endless, at times deliberately monotonous, questioning, and get bored. It was then that he introduced a topic or question that he knew they might think of as harmless or inconsequential and they would start to talk.
‘The SY Dacha, a beautiful boat,’ he began. Dimitriev smiled at the thought of his favourite sanctuary. ‘I admire the fact that you got hold of an old, classic vessel and restored it. It’s from the nineteen forties, isn’t it?’
‘Nineteen thirties,’ he replied. His lawyer shifted uneasily in the seat next to him.
‘So much more pleasing than these modern five-storey floating apartment blocks you see on the water these days,’ Cross continued. ‘Did you have much input in the design?’
‘I did, yes. We managed to source the original drawings and specs. It’s a modern version faithful to the old. It has new engines, of course,’ he answered.
‘How many guests can you accommodate?’ Cross asked.
‘Twelve.’
‘Quite modest, then,’ suggested Cross.
‘It meets my needs. I have no need for ostentatious displays of wealth,’ he said.
‘I think the possession of a classic yacht, in and of itself, qualifies as a somewhat ostentatious display, Mr Dimitriev,’ Cross commented.
The Russian made no reply. Cross looked at him. Studying his face.
‘Did you have Ed Squire killed?’ he then asked, neutrally.
‘I did not,’ came the calm reply.
‘Did one of your men, under your instruction, having threatened Ed Squire, as you’ve previously alluded to, kill him?’ asked Cross.
‘No.’
Cross looked at Dimitriev for a length of time most people would’ve felt uncomfortable doing. Then he proceeded to pick up his notepad and pens. After four long hours and with the suspect finally beginning to speak, Cross had decided this part of the interview was over. He saw that Dimitriev was surprised by this development, little knowing it was a deliberate ploy on the detective’s part.
‘I would like to speak,’ Dimitriev suddenly announced. His lawyer immediately leaned forward and whispered in his client’s ear.
‘Perhaps you could give me five minutes while I speak with my lawyer,’ Dimitriev then said with such authority that it was almost as if he had convened them all for this interview himself.
Cross and Ottey waited in the corridor outside the interview room.
‘I feel like I owe you money,’ Ottey said.
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Cross. ‘I don’t as a rule lend people money. It inevitably leads to complications. What is more, if I had, I would undoubtedly have kept an accurate record of it.’
‘A huge, stinking, steaming wodge of cash,’ she continued.
He looked at her, puzzled.
‘For the look on Carson’s face when Prianka told him you had Dimitriev in custody. It was priceless,’ she gushed.
‘Ah,’ he said, beginning to understand. Although it hadn’t been his intention, his knowledge of Carson meant he understood her immediately.
‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t. I had no idea he would react like that. But in retrospect I can understand it.’
‘Not that, you idiot. Dimitriev heading for the airport?’ she asked.
‘It was logical. No mention was made of his helipad at the briefing. I felt it was an oversight and that it was the only possible exit from the estate in the circumstances. He wouldn’t go to London, as he’d assume the police were also there. He has a private hangar at Bristol airport. So, it seemed the most likely destination.’
‘Well, it made my day. What am I talking about? My month.’
‘I would enjoy it while you can. It won’t be long before Carson finds a way of spinning the entire episode to his credit,’ he said.
‘You would go and spoil it,’ she said, knowing this was true.
The lawyer opened the interview room door behind them and invited them back in. They sat opposite Dimitriev, expectantly.
‘I am very grateful for the domicile your country has afforded me,’ he began, as if reading from a written statement. ‘I now consider it to be my home. As you know, my wealth comes from Russia and there has been a considerable change in the attitude of the Kremlin to those of us who created wealth and then took some of it out of the country. Many of my friends have had sudden, unexplained deaths in this country, which the authorities, the British police included, have been unable to investigate successfully. So, it’s every man for himself. I make no complaint. I’m merely trying to explain my situation here and how I have to go to great lengths to protect myself. I try to live under the radar, DS Cross, and my wealth enables me to do that, more or less. I have no desire to attract any attention to myself, adverse or otherwise. So, please, ask yourself this question. Why would I risk all of this by having someone killed?’
‘You lost two million pounds,’ said Ottey. ‘That’s got to hurt.’
‘Not as much as you might think, despite it being a sizeable sum. I have a beautiful home here in Somerset with extensive grounds where I can be alone. I have another in London. A wonderful house back in Russia which I go back to frequently. Why would I risk all of this?’ he asked.
‘You lost two million pounds,’ Cross repeated.
‘If I had to pay money to protect my lifestyle, to be left alone, I would pay ten times that, Sergeant.’
‘You’ve already admitted to threatening Torquil Squire,’ Cross pointed out.
‘I have,’ he agreed.
‘What you didn’t tell us, though, was that you’d threatened to kill Ed Squire,’ Cross pointed out.
‘In the circumstances, I’m sure you can understand why. Not exactly a good look in light of the unfortunate man’s death,’ replied Dimitriev.
‘But a threat you made to his father, nonetheless, and his son is dead,’ said Cross.
‘Not by my hand, nor by any of my people,’ he insisted.
They looked into each other’s faces, trying to read each other.
‘I have two more things for you, detectives. As I’ve told you, I have a wonderful life here in your great country. But it is a life I live under a cloud. There is the constant, ever present, possibility that the arm of the Kremlin will reach out for my throat successfully at some point and kill me. I accept that,’ he continued.
‘Have any attempts been made on your life?’ asked Ottey.
He laughed quietly at this. ‘Too many to mention. It is part of my everyday existence. Now you can call me paranoid, many people do, or besieged by conspiracy theories. But has it occurred to you that this, the murder of Ed Squire, might be the action of a foreign state to get at me?’ he asked.
‘Now that does sound paranoid,’ commented Ottey.
‘It may sound absurd to you, DI Ottey. But I can assure you, from where I sit, it is a very real and distinct possibility.’
‘How would the Russian authorities even know about the Ed Squire situation?’ asked Cross.
‘Sadly, my operation is not immune to having people within it who still have one eye glancing back east to the homeland. We’ve discovered people in my employ who were on the payroll of the FSB. Some have had their families back home threatened; their safety only guaranteed by a steady supply of information about me. My whereabouts, for example. Travel plans. The changes in security at Ashleigh,’ he told them.
‘It all sounds a little far-fetched to me, I’m afraid,’ said Ottey suspiciously.
‘That’s because you have no idea of how great the anger in the Kremlin these days is, for people like me. Even when, as in my case, I have said nothing negative about Putin or his regime. I consider myself still to be an ally. But the resentment and classification of us as persona non grata has increased year on year. If you think about it, it’s the perfect scenario for the FSB to murder a bookseller in his place of work, and put me in the frame for a life in prison, where I can easily be reached and killed. Much simpler than coming after me, not only in full view, but also with all my security in place,’ he argued.
‘Some people might argue that you opened the door for the Kremlin, if what you say is true,’ suggested Cross.
‘And sadly, they would not be wrong. I didn’t listen to my closest friends and advisers who told me to just let the Ed Squire situation go. But pride is a spiteful, vindictive thing, as I’m sure your experience in this very room will have told you over the years,’ he agreed.
‘An interesting theory, but one I fear, from your point of view, is almost impossible to prove,’ commented Cross.
‘Then let me put something else to you, DS Cross. A few weeks ago I came into some information, from Ed himself, about the identity and whereabouts of the original seller of the stolen Columbus letters.’
‘We are aware of this,’ said Cross.
‘Then you will know they were in Italy, which was where I was the first time you tried to see me. In Naples.’
‘And what happened?’ asked Ottey.
‘After lengthy negotiations,’ he said, with a knowing smile, ‘an arrangement was made, and the monies returned.’
‘Don’t tell me. You made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,’ suggested Ottey.
‘To be honest it was little more venal and direct than that,’ he replied coldly, without going into any further detail. The smile no longer there.
‘Can you prove you were paid back in full?’ asked Cross.
‘Sadly, not.’ He laughed. ‘My finances are quite complex, as was the source of the returned two million. I can’t just get my current account up on an app and show you. It simply doesn’t work like that.’
‘It was paid in cash,’ Cross suggested. Dimitriev paused briefly.
‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘But what you have to ask yourselves is – why would I kill him, when I now had my money? The issue had been resolved.’
‘We only have your word for that,’ observed Cross.
‘True.’
‘And he was killed before you went to Naples,’ Ottey reminded him.
‘Also true, but I had the relevant information before he was killed.’
‘You couldn’t have known it would be resolved to your satisfaction, though,’ Ottey pointed out.
Dimitriev said nothing. Silence filled the room. Cross just stared at him. The Russian blinked first.
‘What are you thinking, Sergeant? That it makes a modicum of logical sense, which is irritating for you?’
‘Not at all. I was thinking, your English is excellent,’ Cross replied.
‘Thank you.’
‘But I have something for you. The justice system in this country is good, compared to many others. But it isn’t infallible. A jury-based justice system rarely is. It all comes down to twelve people’s opinion of the evidence laid out in front of them in court. They are supposed to be open-minded and without prejudice. But if I were you I wouldn’t be too confident in your chances of acquittal when the evidence we have is presented in front of an English jury. People in this country, like many people all over the world, have a very ambivalent attitude when it comes to extremely wealthy people. They don’t like them. They think that people like that feel the rules don’t apply to them as they do to ordinary people. People like those on the jury. They see a classic yacht, stately homes, jets, helicopters and art, the ability to buy a two-million-pound, fifteenth-century manuscript on a whim, and they don’t like it. Why does he need all that when there’s so much poverty around? Maybe one or two of the jurors have to rely on food banks to feed their family. You’re a Russian oligarch, used to getting his own way, the prosecutor might say. You’ve admitted threatening to kill Ed unless Torquil Squire released cash from the Berkeley Square building to pay his son’s debt. You’ve had men, your thugs, he’ll probably describe them as, hounding the bookshop and the square. Ed is now dead. I really wouldn’t be as confident, as your current attitude would suggest you are, that with the facts, such as they are, an English jury won’t find you guilty and have you sent away – this, despite the most expensive lawyers money can buy – to a prison where without question the Russian state, if they were so inclined, could get a shank plunged through your heart without going to too much trouble.’
Dimitriev said nothing. Then, to crown it all, Cross said, ‘And there’s one other thing which might sway a jury away from finding in your favour. You bear an uncanny resemblance to Vladimir Putin.’
Ottey was so shocked she actually had to stop herself from laughing out loud. Had he really just said that?