Helen pauses at the main entrance and says her goodbyes. Ekaterina walks me to my cab. I open one of its rear passenger doors and as I’m about to get in, she says, ‘Catherine the Great may not have been great in the modern sense of the word, but she ruled Russia and its empires for over three decades. She founded cities, theatres and universities. She conquered countless lands. Was responsible for untold deaths. She also established Europe’s very first state-financed higher education institute for women.’
‘What’s your point?’
‘In her early days, Catherine’s opponents often underestimated her because she was a woman. Mr Novak, because of her femininity, men couldn’t see her for what she truly was.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Enlightened. Efficient. Cultured. But a killer.’
‘I still don’t get your point, Miss Romanova.’
‘History repeats itself.’ And as she turns to re-join Helen, Ekaterina adds, ‘Catherine wasn’t her real name, you know. Goodbye, Mr Novak.’
As my cab pulls away from the outer gates of Ipatiev House, I remove my tie and tell the driver where we’re off to. I look back and see Helen and Ekaterina watching me depart. It’s hard to tell what’s worrying them the most. It’s even money on the fact that now Thomas Maughan, the con artist formerly known as David Fenton, is lying cold in a mortuary somewhere, the chances of finding the Romanov Code have dwindled to pretty much zero. And it’s even money again that the prospect of the Foundation being linked to the priest’s death tops their angst list.
And now I know the truth about the Court, there’s an outside bet that they’re most concerned with me and what I’ll do next.
To tell you the truth, I’m worried about all three, but for different reasons.
I face forward. Take a black tie from my suit pocket and loop it around my collar. I’m already half-regretting not asking Ekaterina to fulfil her side of our bargain, but I want to question her about the man I’m seeking in connection to Diana’s death when we’re alone. I’ve a feeling Helen Merrydale’s presence would have made her less than forthright.
The cabbie glances in his rear-view mirror and spots my tie. ‘You going to a funeral, mate?’
‘Yeah,’ I reply as I fashion a half-Windsor, ‘I’m just hoping it’s not my own.’
I pull my phone from my pocket and google ‘Catherine the Great’. Turns out her real name was Sophie.
*
Nobody looks forward to a funeral, but I’ve been dreading this one more than most. Today, the friends, family and colleagues of Claudette Vale gather to bury her body and pay their last respects.
I arrive at the church in good time. A crowd has gathered around the main entrance and I spot Claudette’s sister, Émilie, a few feet away from the cluster of mourners. She’s tall, naturally elegant and has raven-black hair sculpted into a collarbone bob. She resembles her sibling, so much so that seeing her now, I’m taken back to the moment in the hospital where I looked down on Claudette’s pale, dead face. I try to shake that thought as I approach Émilie.
‘Hello! You probably don’t remember me but—’
‘Mr Novak!’ She embraces me. ‘Of course I do. We met at the ACTION fundraiser at the Waldorf. My sister always spoke of you very fondly.’
‘That was kind of her.’ I think back to our final meeting. Her overwhelming disappointment in me. Émilie won’t know the circumstances surrounding Claudette’s death and I’m glad I don’t need to explain what happened, but my feeling of guilt remains immense. ‘How are you doing?’ I ask.
‘Oh . . . You know.’
‘And how are things with ACTION? I heard you’ve taken over the organisation.’
‘Yes, yes I have.’ She purses her lips. ‘Things could be better, to be honest. Financially we’re in deep water. Very deep water. I don’t see how we can last another year. It’s a wonder we’ve been able to keep going as it is.’
I’m about to change the subject when a familiar figure joins us. ‘Ms Vale, I just wanted to offer you my deepest condolences. I knew your sister well. She was a great woman. I miss her very much.’
‘I appreciate that.’ Émilie touches the man’s forearm. ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’
‘No,’ says Jeremy Simmonds. ‘My name’s Thom Peters. I worked with Claudette. Now you’ve taken over the reins at ACTION, I hope we can continue that relationship.’
‘I’m afraid that’s unlikely. I was telling Mr Novak, it’s miraculous we’re afloat as it is.’
I start to ask Émilie about her brother, but Simmonds interrupts. ‘How so?’
‘The strangest thing . . . Shortly after my sister died, I got a package through the post. Huge. Unwrapped it. It was an attaché case!’
‘That’s amazing,’ I exclaim. ‘How’s your brother doing? Has he been able to get over from Christchurch?’
‘Yes, he should be—’
Simmonds won’t let it go. ‘An attaché case, Ms Vale?’
‘Yes! And here’s the extraordinary thing! Miracle one – it was jam-packed with money! Miracle two – it arrived without any conditions, so we were able to use the cash immediately. There was enough to keep ACTION going, in the short term at least.’
Simmonds slowly nods. ‘As you say, miraculous.’
‘Would you gentlemen excuse me? You mentioned my brother and, funnily enough, here he is . . .’
Émilie drifts away and Simmonds fixes me with one of his headmaster stares. ‘Care to share?’
I ignore his question. ‘What are you doing here? If you’ve come for your hip flask you’re out of luck. I left it at home.’
‘Émilie Vale’s piece of news . . .’
‘What about it?’
‘Know anything about the miracles?’
‘They were never as good after Smokey Robinson left.’
‘You know damn well what I mean, Novak! We picked up one of the men responsible for the death of Miss Winters. He told us they’d been ordered to give you an attaché case. He thought it was full of money.’
‘Simmonds, if I’d been given a case full of money, don’t you think I’d have used it?’
‘Given the circumstances, you may have thought – incorrectly – that it was blood money and decided not to spend it on yourself due to some . . . misplaced morality.’
‘Morality is always misplaced in my business.’
‘You do talk absolute tommyrot sometimes.’
‘Any news about Sandy Paige?’
Simmonds checks his watch. ‘Good lord, is that the time?’
‘Your changing-the-subject skills really need a bit of work.’
‘I thought it was marginally better than how’s your brother doing?’
‘Simmonds! Come on!’
‘We’ve been pressing forward. Finding out more regarding his child trafficking operations.’
‘And?’
‘And it’s bizarre. Paige had every client interviewed at least three times. He provided them with kids illegally, but he made damn sure the children were going to homes where they’d be taken good care of. Loved. Brought up well. Trust me, that’s not how trafficking rings normally function. It’s unbelievable.’
I think back to Paige’s wife, Louisa, revealing that her husband began the networks after they’d discovered they couldn’t have kids themselves. ‘Oh, I believe it.’ I rub the bridge of my nose. Close my eyes.
In truth, my investigations had suggested Paige was running his operations along those lines. It seems there is greyness in all things. Perhaps his approach influenced me on a subconscious level and was partially responsible for my offer to him, allowing him to escape a custodial sentence. But examining my decision now, I know I chose poorly. I feel for the kids he supplied to wealthy families. I know the pain of padding downstairs one morning to find the woman at the centre of your world is absent. Forever.
I was a kid when I lost my mum and the period where we struggled to come to terms with her death . . . well, it never really ended. The children Paige trafficked were stolen souls. I should never have shown him a flicker of mercy. It could be argued that, ethically speaking, I’d been right to act the way I did. To give him an out. But, like I said, morality is always misplaced in my business.
I say to Simmonds, ‘How are you getting on with tracking him down?’
‘Dammit, man! I’ve already overshared!’ He lowers his voice a fraction. ‘I’ve told you before! The case runs on a need-to-know basis.’
‘And I’ve told you before, I need to know.’ He shakes his head and begins to head to the church, but I grasp his arm. ‘You see, I think you’ve found him.’
He faces me. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Then how exactly? Please! I risked my life on this one!’
‘We reached out via some of the contacts you suggested. We offered him a deal.’
‘How cosy.’
‘It’s not a best-case scenario,’ he snaps, ‘but that’s not the world we live in.’
‘What’s the deal?’
‘He’s given us details of all the trafficking networks he was involved in and several more that he had knowledge of. The intel he’s delivered means many rings will be broken forever and we’re hopeful that literally hundreds of children will be reunited with their families.’
‘But Paige walks free?’
‘He’s retiring from public life. When the time’s right, we’ll put out a story that he suffered a stroke and would like his privacy respected at this difficult time. We’re relocating him and Louisa to somewhere far, far away.’
‘But he keeps his cash? And his liberty? Christ! Who brokered the deal? Your new boss?’ I tighten my grip on his arm. ‘You’ve got to overturn it!’
He angrily swipes my hand away. ‘I made the deal! And an integral part of it was his agreement to call off the dogs he’d unleashed on you!’
‘But we could have found him and—’
‘Novak! I’ve been to too many funerals recently!’ I’ve never seen Jeremy Simmonds this angry. ‘Miss Winters’. Gerry Whittaker’s. Claudette’s. I didn’t want the next one to be yours. And if you think that makes me weak . . . if it makes you hate me . . . well, join the queue.’
To my right, I see the hearse pull up to the church.
‘Time to bury the dead,’ Simmonds mutters, and hurries away from me.