Ratcatcher

‘One more thing.’

‘Sure.’

‘There are three of them. The agents.’

‘Yes, you said.’

‘Two of us.’

She frowned for a second, then got it. ‘Aha. Want to even things up?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll ring him and make the arrangements.’

He was on his way back into the Old Town when the phone rang. He hit the speakerphone key. ‘Yes.’

‘Mr Purkiss, it’s Klavan. We — ’

‘John.’

‘John. We’ve got her.’

‘Good. I’m nearly there.’

He parked several streets away and walked to the office. When he gave his name the door buzzed and he climbed the stairs.

Rossiter let him in, his expression stone. Neither Teague nor Klavan was in the main area.

‘They’ve got her in my office.’ He jerked his head. ‘Took her two blocks from her flat.’

‘She resist?’

‘Like a cat in a sack. They’re good, though. She didn’t get hurt.’ A flicker of pride in Rossiter’s voice. Purkiss found himself liking the man for it.

‘How did they get her up here in broad daylight?’

‘There’s a side entrance down the alley.’

Rossiter tapped on the door of his office. Teague emerged, and Rossiter went in and closed the door behind him. Teague nodded to Purkiss.

‘We can watch and listen here.’

They moved behind a broad desk where on a computer monitor the woman sat, her head hidden by a canvas hood, on a swivel chair in front of a desk. Rossiter was perched on a corner of the desk, Klavan standing on the other side of the woman. Klavan reached out and pulled off the hood, and the woman’s face worked as though the canvas had been stifling her. Her expression was hard, surly. Purkiss understood why they’d removed the hood, even though leaving it on would have had the advantage of increasing her disorientation and keeping their identities secret. Without being able to see her face they might not know if she was lying.

Klavan spoke first, her voice slightly tinny through the speakers. She used Russian, fluent though accented.

‘We want information about the whereabouts of Julian Fisher, also known as Donal Fallon. We are prepared to use any means necessary to obtain this information, up to and including physical duress.’ She sounded like a flight attendant reciting the safety drill.

The woman said nothing, sat with arms folded and feet hooked behind the castors of the chair, staring ahead.

Klavan bent forward, hands resting on her knees, and peered into the woman’s face. ‘No? All right.’ She straightened, walked away; then half-turned.

‘Sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. I meant physical duress inflicted on your son.’

Lyuba Ilkun jerked erect, arms unfolding and hands moving to grip the seat as if to push herself up. Beside her Rossiter shook his head gently and put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

‘Ivan Andreyevich Ilkun. Seven, no, six years old. Lives with his grandmother because you can’t handle the responsibilities of motherhood — ’

‘That’s a lie.’ The woman was up now and screaming. Rossiter too stood and laid a hand on her shoulder, all that was needed for the moment. Klavan faced her, hands in the pockets of her jacket.

‘Where is he, Lyuba? Julian. The man we call Fallon.’

Purkiss leaned close to the monitor. The camera angle meant the woman’s eyes were slightly averted as she stared at Klavan, her voice a whisper.

‘For the love of God, I don’t know. He disappeared a week ago without saying. I haven’t heard from him since.’

Klavan watched her for a moment, then turned her back and faced the door. ‘What did the two of you talk about?’

‘Julian and me?’ She seemed thrown by the sudden change in tack. ‘How shit life was working in that club. How, once we’d saved enough, we were going on holiday together.’ Her eyes drifted off into the corner.

Still presenting her back to the woman, Klavan said: ‘Did he ask you about your background in the military?’

Purkiss glanced at Teague who nodded. ‘Elle had an idea to check up on her, found she had a record. Same unit as the man who tried to garrotte you, at roughly the same time.’

The woman was looking at Klavan’s back again. ‘No. I mentioned it to him, of course, and he asked a few polite questions, but no more than that.’

‘Lying,’ said Teague. Purkiss had come to the same conclusion. And he’d thought — couldn’t be sure, but had more than a notion — that she’d been lying when she’d sworn she didn’t know where Fallon was.

It went on for half an hour, back and forth, leading and loaded questions dropped in among open ones: how long have you known Fisher — three months — did he start asking you about your military career before or after you made plans to go on holiday — I told you, he didn’t ask — what do you do when you’re not working in the bar — I’m looking for work — did Fisher ask you about the work you do away from the bar — as I’ve said, I’m not doing any other work. Throughout, Klavan’s tone was patient. Lyuba struggled to keep hers the same, exasperation creeping in when old ground was gone over. Once, Klavan alluded to her son, and again there was genuine fear in the response. Purkiss noted with interest the woman’s posture. It wasn’t hunched, defensive, the way most people’s were under interrogation, particularly if they anticipated physical violence.

At last Klavan lifted her gaze to meet Rossiter’s and he nodded, not having said a word. He tapped Lyuba on the shoulder and motioned for her to stand. Klavan fitted the canvas hood back over her head and said, ‘Ms Ilkun, you won’t realise it but you’ve been very helpful. We’ll escort you to a place not far from your home.’

Klavan and Rossiter led the woman out of the room. Purkiss stepped forward and adjusted the hood where it was folded at the back of her head.

She said nothing, didn’t ask who they were or why they’d questioned her. Teague placed her phone in her hand and, with a hand on each of the woman’s forearms, he and Klavan walked her towards the fire exit.

Rossiter watched her go, and said into the silence: ‘Not much.’

‘Nothing, is how I’d put it.’

Rossiter glanced at him sharply. ‘But we didn’t expect much. The tracer’s now in her phone, though.’

Purkiss was half listening, distracted by what his inner voice was telling him. Ilkun had sat there, almost relaxed, as though she’d been prepared for the questioning. Klavan’s mention of her son had rattled her, admittedly. But even then, she had been able to lie. Almost as if she was confident that no threat against her or her son would be carried out.

It was as if she’d been primed. Someone had tipped her off that she was going to be interrogated, and about the line the questioning was going to take.

Rossiter stood, his back to Purkiss, working the computer that was going to be used to track Ilkun. Purkiss watched him.

It could only have been one of them, one of the three agents, who had primed her.

Fourteen