Arkady Belanov’s mobile rang. It was Dimitri.
‘Mitya has the policeman under control now,’ said Arkady to Myasnikov. ‘What do you want doing with him?’ He knew, but he wanted confirmation.
Myasnikov raised surprised eyebrows. ‘I thought we’d agreed we’d take him to that warehouse in Slough. I certainly don’t want him here and the farm isn’t ready yet. We’re still waiting for the Yusopovs. I want this place to look as innocent as possible just in case his colleagues come looking for him.’
He shook his head at the stupidity of his subordinates. ‘And remind all the girls here of what will happen to them
if they speak to the police. You did film cutting off that scum’s head.’ Arkady nodded. Myasnikov said, ‘Show them that. When we kill the policeman, record that too. Let them know no one is above my law.’
Arkady picked up his landline phone and issued the relevant instructions to the Yusopov twins. They’d pick up Dimitri and the girl and drive them and Enver to the trading estate.
‘And the girl, Arkasha?’ asked Dimitri, still on the mobile. Arkady looked at Myasnikov. Myasnikov considered the question; it was a pleasing one. He felt like the emperor in a Roman amphitheatre. He had the power of life or death.
Thumbs up or thumbs down. It was a great feeling, known only to a select few.
‘Is she trouble?’ he asked. Arkady relayed the question. Dimitri, a few miles away on the other side of Oxford, looked at the hunched figure of Chantal, sitting on the bed staring bleakly into space, meekly awaiting whatever fate had in store for her.
‘No.’
Thumbs up then, thought Myasnikov. The emperor had exercised his power. In the Circus Maximus the crowds cheered, applauding his magnanimity. Soon, however, they would see his other side. They needed to question Enver before they got rid of him; they’d let her watch. After that there would be no doubt that she would do what she was told, and he could take her to Moscow and sell her. She was near the airport; they might as well make use of it. He’d fly her to Poland and drive her in that way, save messing around with visas. He knew people at a border crossing there; it would be easy.
She would have novelty value, a genuine British whore. Nobody liked the British, so the chance to defile at least one of them would make her very marketable. After she’d seen what they would do to the policeman she would beg to serve them. A shame for the politseyskiy that when the quietus came he wouldn’t be allowed the luxury of what the defeated and condemned-to-die gladiator used to do, to wrap his face in his
cloak to hide his death agony.
Although when the time came, the politseyskiy would be begging for death, that was for sure. He would oversee it personally. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty, but he liked to watch.
Another barrel for the policeman, then make arrangements for their disposal. So much to do in such a limited time. He
gathered that Anderson’s lawyer, Cunningham, who Arkady had contacted, was busy arranging the documents for sale of the Marylebone flat. The police, according to both Joad and the Chinaman, knew nothing of the killing of Jordan, Taverner and the girl Tatiana, but rumours had leaked out into the criminal community and Anderson’s prestige had taken an almighty knock.
He sipped his tea gently and looked at Arkady sitting opposite him, holding a large vodka.
Myasnikov knew what Anderson would be going through. He had experienced lows himself in his criminal career. Right now whores would be looking for other employers, creditors would be asking for repayment of loans or money up front and there would be a general rise in absenteeism from Anderson’s hired thugs. It was very much like a run on a bank, and fear would feed fear. Anderson’s stock had been irrevocably devalued and he would be feeling it.
Only Myasnikov’s death could restore Anderson to his former glory, and who would dare attempt that? No one. You wouldn’t be able to find a single person in London with the balls to try and kill him. Not one.
A couple of weeks ago Dave ‘Jesus’ Anderson had been one of the most feared men in London. An invincible criminal who had once crucified a man who had crossed him, hence the nickname.
Now the Moscow Butcher was the man to fear. A man who killed people at funerals. A man who beheaded his rivals. Myasnikov was furious at the Islamic terrorists in the Middle East. They were stealing his thunder. He felt that he was being devalued by their actions. How dared they chop heads off. People might think he was a copycat, that he lacked originality. He took another sip of tea.
It’s strange, thought Arkady, how normal Myasnikov looks in his conservative blue suit and tie, his thin, ascetic features, bald head and mild-mannered expression. Like a teacher marking homework. Then again, look at Lenin, who he faintly resembled. He had no qualms when it came to signing death warrants.
‘Tell Dimitri Nikolyavich to bring the girl along when he comes. I want as few loose ends as possible. We’ll speak to the cop tomorrow. Make sure that the cop has an uncomfortable night. Do we know anything about him?’
Arkady took a mouthful of vodka.
‘Joad says there is nothing unusual, nothing strange locally. No one is interested in us. This cop is Metropolitan politseyskiy, London, not Oxford. The Chinaman says nothing unusual too in London. They don’t seem to know about Anderson’s brothel. He’s covered that up.’ Arkady was wearing voluminous cream linen trousers and a bright blue Hawaiian shirt with a motif of yachts. It was loose-fitting but his huge gut strained at the fabric. The top of his slacks were darker than the rest where sweat had soaked through. He swirled the ice around in his drink. ‘Anderson must have got rid of the bodies effectively.’
Myasnikov frowned. ‘The Chinaman didn’t do very well with terminating Anderson’s brother at the cemetery. It was a fuck-up, Arkasha.’
Arkady nodded. ‘Yes, Konstantin Alexandrovich, but not the Chinaman’s fuck-up. Nikita dropped his rifle, messed up the sights.’
‘Mm-hmm, and the Chinaman certainly messed Nikita up, I gather.’ Good, he thought. He didn’t like loose ends. It saved them a job.
‘So, all in all, Kostya, not too bad. And the Chinaman gave me the lead on Anderson’s lawyer, Cunningham. They’re ready to negotiate.’
‘Good,’ said Myasnikov. He thought for a minute and then looked out of the window. The gardens of the brothel were immaculate. He’d checked everything with his usual rigour, including the accounts.
The brothel was registered to his UK company, Godunov Holdings. The brothel was technically a ‘wellness’ centre. The dozen or so girls who worked out of it were qualified masseuses and reiki practitioners, nutritional experts and NLP counsellors. He’d bought a job lot of qualifications for them over the Internet. They were framed and sat on the walls of the girls’ bedrooms. They were all perfectly genuine qualifications. In Myasnikov’s opinion it was scandalous that you could buy such things legally. How could you know who to trust?
His filed accounts kept him just slightly over the wire, tax-wise, enough not to excite the attentions of HMRC, not enough to hurt. The warehouse in Slough was part of the portfolio. Myasnikov always did enough to stay on the right side of the authorities when he could.
The farm outside Oxford was registered in another name. Security within security. He had made millions through his hard work and he wasn’t going to have his wealth jeopardized by the government taking it away, if, God forbid, he were ever caught and sentenced. It’s partly why he was in England, a safe haven for his money. You couldn’t trust the Russian government and he most certainly didn’t trust the rouble.
If England was good enough for the oligarchs, it was good enough for him. Maybe he would take out citizenship.
He checked the slim, expensive watch on his wrist.
‘Tell Dimitri to make sure that the girl watches while he works the policeman. I want her to be in no doubt as to what will happen to her if she doesn’t cooperate fully. Oh, and, Arkady, tell Dimitri not to be too enthusiastic. I want him alive
and able to talk tomorrow morning. They’re fixing the farm to hold him for a couple of days. Just to recapitulate. Move him and the girl to Slough now, store them there till tonight, then we’ll move him back to the farm later when it’s ready. You and me will call in tonight, Arkasha. I want to see the girl. I want to see my investment. I want to make sure she’s worth keeping alive. Face it, Dima will fuck anything. I also want to make sure this Demirel is more or less in one piece. Tell Dimitri if he kills him, well, I’ll be unhappy.’
‘Yes, Konstantin Alexandrovich, it will be done.’
It was a day of meetings. While Myasnikov and Belanov were meeting at the brothel in Woodstock Road in Oxford, Anderson, Morris Jones, Danny and Robby were in the back bar of the Three Compasses, Edmonton.
It was a lot less salubrious than the brothel in Oxford. ‘Did you get a photo, Morris?’ asked Anderson. Today, Morris
Jones was wearing a paisley shirt and faded blue jeans; his training shoes with blue stitching had been handmade in Jermyn Street. Anderson was also casually dressed, in an old tracksuit that had been cheap when he’d bought it at Edmonton market. He was unshaven and Danny thought he looked crazier than usual.
Danny wasn’t feeling too clever himself. He’d spent the weekend on the piss, drinking himself unconscious. He couldn’t seem to clear the images of death out of his mind. He was alarmed to find himself trembling every now and again. It wasn’t dramatic but it worried him. He found that his heart would start racing at the same time and he would feel cold sweat on his brow. His nerves were pretty much shot. He was terrified that someone would notice. He didn’t want to end up like Barry Jackson and he didn’t want to end up like Jordan Anderson. He was between a rock and a hard place.
What with the Russians on one side and his employers on the other, Danny was beginning to feel very much out of his depth.
Morris Jones rested a speculative eye on him. Danny glared at him aggressively. Why are you looking at me like that? he thought. He felt his palms starting to sweat. Please God, not a panic attack, he prayed.
Morris Jones nodded and handed over a glossy head and shoulders print of a woman. Robby looked at it briefly. He’d had the best look at the woman. She had been caught looking into the camera. The expression was confident, maybe slightly arrogant, the dark hair thick and kinked, almost corkscrew-like. Her eyebrows were black and gracefully arched. Her jaw was determined, the eyes grey, but there were dark shadows underneath them as if she didn’t sleep well. It was a handsome face but hard. She had an attractive mouth yet it was somehow difficult to imagine it smiling.
‘That’s her,’ Robby said. ‘She can’t half run. Who is she anyway?’
Anderson smiled. He’d known it would be her. How many other women would jump from a twelve-foot wall at a gangster’s funeral, issue instructions to his security team, instructions that they’d all obeyed without thinking, and then outpace Robby up all those stairs to confront an armed man?
Danny had thought it might be her, but he’d only met her once, briefly, a while ago. He was unsure of her, but then he had been behaving a bit oddly of late. Anderson made a mental note. Maybe it was time to get rid of Danny.
‘That, Robby, is DCI Hanlon of the Met.’
Robby looked puzzled. ‘She didn’t stick around, not when we found matey up there. What was all that about then?’
‘That,’ said Anderson, ‘is what we’re going to find out.’ He
turned to Morris Jones. ‘Arrange it, Morris. Cunningham will know where to find her.’
Anderson looked at the photo of Hanlon he held between his strong fingers. I knew we’d meet again, he thought pleasurably.