‘You know,’ said Law, extending the apparent friendliness. ‘Of all the people we’ve interviewed, you’re probably the most fortunate.’
‘How’s that, superintendent?’
‘Apart from the money … and as you say, that’s not a great deal … you’ve lost practically nothing.’
‘Except my faith in the safety of British banks,’ suggested Charlie, trying to lighten the mood.
Law didn’t smile.
‘In every other box there was more money … jewellery … stuff like that Really you are very lucky,’ insisted the superintendent.
‘Very lucky,’ concurred Charlie.
Law looked hopeful, as if expecting Charlie to say more.
‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ asked Charlie. He shouldn’t seem too eager to end the meeting, he knew. But equally it would be a mistake to abandon the attitude with which he’d begun the encounter, wrong though he now knew it to be. It was the sort of change Law would recognise.
The superintendent gazed directly at him. Then he shook his head.
‘Not at the moment, sir. Just make the statement, tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course not.’
‘And let us know if you’re thinking of going anywhere,’ the detective continued.
Charlie allowed just the right amount of time to elapse.
‘All right,’ he said.
‘And perhaps tomorrow you could let my sergeant have the Swiss address?’
Charlie nodded.
‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Law, standing. Immediately Hardiman followed.
‘Good night, sir,’ said Law.
‘Good night, superintendent. Don’t hesitate to contact me if I can do anything further to help.’
‘Oh we won’t, sir,’ Law assured him. ‘We won’t hesitate for a moment.’
Charlie stood at the doorway until he saw them enter their car and then returned to the lounge. He’d just got away with it, he judged, pouring himself a second whisky.
But only just. Not good enough, in fact. He’d lost his edge, in two years. So he’d better find it again, bloody quickly.
‘Otherwise, Charlie, your bollocks are going to be on the hook,’ he warned himself.
He looked curiously at the whisky, putting the glass down untouched.
‘And that’s how they got there last time,’ he added into the empty room.
For several minutes the policemen sat silently in the car. The lights of Palace Pier were appearing on the left before Law spoke.
‘What do you think?’ he asked Hardiman.
‘Cocky,’ replied the sergeant, immediately. He’d been waiting for the question.
‘But involved?’
Hardiman shook his head.
‘Would you rent a box to discover the layout practically next door to your own house? And having pulled off a million-pound robbery, risk coming back and being questioned, even if you had been that stupid in the first place?’
Law moved his head, in agreement.
‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘They’re big points in his favour.’
The car entered the town, pulling away from the sea-front.
‘There was something though, wasn’t there?’ said Hardiman.
Law smiled at the other man’s reservations.
‘Couldn’t lose the feeling that he was used to interrogation … didn’t have the uncertainty that most people have … the natural nervousness that causes them to make silly mistakes,’ he confirmed.
‘Yet he
‘Know something else that struck me as odd?’ continued Law.
‘What?’
‘For a financier, he was a scruffy bastard.’
‘Yes,’ agreed the sergeant. ‘Still, don’t they say that only the truly rich can afford to dress like tramps?’
‘And can you really believe,’ went on the superintendent, ignoring the sergeant’s remark, ‘that a financier with a house like he’s got here and who openly admits to another home in Switzerland would only have five hundred quid in a safe deposit box?’
‘No,’ agreed Hardiman, as the car entered the police station compound. ‘But he’s not the first one we’ve encountered on this job who’s lied about the amount. That’s just tax avoidance, surely?’
‘Probably,’ said Law. He started to get out of the car, then turned back into the vehicle, towards the other man.
‘Let’s just keep an eye on him,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to waste any men on full-time observation, but I want some sort of check kept.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Hardiman. ‘Who knows what we might come up with?’
‘Who knows?’ echoed the superintendent.
Despite a friendship that stretched back more than two decades, there had been few meetings with Berenkov since his repatriation to Moscow from British imprisonment, General Valery Kalenin accepted. Too few, in fact. He enjoyed the company of the burly, flamboyant Georgian. The K.G.B. chief smiled across the table, offering the bottle.
Berenkov took the wine, topping up his glass.
‘French is still best,’ he said, professionally. ‘More body.’
During his twenty years in London, Berenkov had developed the cover as a wine importer, which had allowed him frequent trips to Europe for contact meetings, into an enormously successful business.
‘Not the sort of remark a loyal Russian should make,’ said Kalenin, in mock rebuke. ‘You’ll have to get used to Russian products from now on.’
‘That won’t be difficult,’ said Berenkov, sincerely.
Kalenin pushed aside the remains of the meal he had cooked for them both in his bachelor apartment on Kutuzovsky Prospect. Berenkov had enjoyed the food, the other Russian knew.
‘Glad to be back?’ Kalenin asked, caught by the tone in the man’s voice.
Berenkov nodded.
‘I’d had enough,’ he admitted. ‘My nerve was beginning to go.’
Kalenin nodded. Now Berenkov could lead a pampered life in the Russian capital, he thought, teaching at the spy college to justify the large salary to which he was entitled after the success of such a long operational life, spending the week-ends at the dacha and the vacations in the sunshine of Sochi.
‘You did very well,’ Kalenin praised him. ‘You were one of the best.’
Berenkov smiled at the flattery, sipping his wine.
‘But I got caught in the end,’ he said. ‘There was someone better than me.’
‘Law of averages,’ said Kalenin. Should he tell Berenkov? he wondered. The man had developed a strong feeling for Charlie Muffin, he knew. A friendship, almost.
‘Charlie has been trapped,’ he announced bluntly, making the decision.
Berenkov stared down into his wine, his head moving slowly, a man getting confirmation of long-expected bad news.
‘How?’ he asked.
Kalenin gestured vaguely.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But from the amount of leakage it’s obvious the British want it recognised they intend creating an example out of him.’
‘Charlie would have expected it, of course,’ said Berenkov distantly.
Kalenin said nothing.
The former spymaster looked up at him.
‘No chance of your intervening, I suppose? To give him any help?’
