mobile. Deciding not to take it, Shen dropped the phone into the pocket of his jacket and crossed the road, heading north up Dover Street. Taking his life into his hands, Merrett danced across the four lanes of traffic, and followed at what he hoped was a discreet distance.
A couple of minutes later, Shen took a left down Hay Hill and stepped into an expensive-looking bar called Palermo. Standing on the corner, Merrett pondered what to do next. He was cold and tired, and the dull ache from his broken wrist was driving him mad. Scratching at it under the plaster cast, he cursed himself for giving up a day off to follow this guy around Central London, on the basis of what? A hunch? A desire to be seen to be doing
After discussing the situation with Rose Scripps, they had decided that it would be premature to approach Shen directly until they had a better idea at least of what was going on. They had no evidence that Shen was bent but, by the same token, they had nothing to say that he wasn’t. CEOP had experience of dealing with police officers who had got caught up in its investigations, most of it bad. It was hard enough getting a result with civilians; but dealing with people who knew how to hide behind the law, and could effortlessly play the system, made it well-nigh impossible. To protect their investigation, such as it was, they had to tread warily. Equally, to protect any investigation that Shen
It started to rain.
‘Shit!’ Zipping up his jacket, Merrett looked around for some shelter. Finding none, he jogged down the hill to the entrance of the Palermo bar. Arriving at the entrance, he was almost knocked over by a young guy in a suit and a tie on his way out.
‘Hey!’
The man just ignored him and kept on going. Cursing under his breath, Merrett stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Looking casually around the room, he saw Shen sitting at a table near the bar with a large, shaven-headed guy. He caught the big guy’s eye and quickly looked away. The rest of the place was fairly empty. There was a smattering of tourists and shoppers, but at least half the tables were unoccupied. Moving to the bar, he had to wait for a couple of minutes before the barman condescended to serve him. Trying not to wince at paying?4.50 for a bottle of Beck’s beer, he took a seat at a table on the far side of the room, from where he could keep an eye on proceedings.
Pouring half of his beer into the glass provided, Merrett began surfing the net on his mobile, to give the impression of having something to do. Shen and his companion were still deep in conversation. Merrett resisted the temptation to try and take a photo of the pair, worried that it might attract the attention of the shaven-headed guy, whose gaze swept the room at regular intervals.
Finishing his beer, Merrett headed back to the bar for another Beck’s. Just as he did so, Shen stood up, shook hands with his associate and walked towards the door. As casually as he could manage, Merrett did a U-turn, and followed him out. However, as he reached the door his exit was blocked by a short, stocky man stepping in front of him.
‘Sorry,’ said Merrett brusquely. ‘Excuse me.’
The man placed a firm hand on his chest. ‘Back,’ he said, his English heavily accented.
‘What?’ Merrett took a step backwards, looking the man up and down, and did a double-take. He had the same shaved head and squat features as the man at Shen’s table. Merrett glanced over his shoulder to check that there were, indeed, two of them.
‘Yes,’ said the voice, now behind him, pushing him towards the table just vacated by Shen. ‘Over there.’ He pointed to his colleague waiting patiently at the table, an amused grin on his face.
‘I don’t think so,’ Merrett hissed. He looked around the bar. No one was showing any interest in his predicament, and the bartender had disappeared. What would happen if he kicked up a fuss?
The man gave him another shove. Then he stuck a hand into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a switchblade. ‘I could gut you with this and walk straight out of the door,’ he said casually. ‘You would bleed to death on the carpet before anyone even noticed.’ He slipped the knife back in his pocket and gestured over to the table with his chin. ‘Now, do as I tell you. Go and sit down.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Merrett’s brain had frozen. He stepped quickly over to the table and sat down in front of the large smirking type, conscious of the man with the knife at his back, standing over him.
‘Why were you watching me?’ Ihor Chepoyak said by way of introduction.
Merrett tried to look nonchalant. ‘I wasn’t.’
Ihor looked at his empty glass and smiled. ‘Don’t lie to me. Are you a policeman? I can smell policemen from a mile away.’
‘No.’ The word was out of his mouth before Merrett realised it.
Ihor looked lazily up, past Merrett. ‘Artem. .’
Merrett felt a knee shoved into his back. As he leaned forward, an arm went round his neck. Before he could react, the man behind him had skilfully removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and dropped it on the table.
Rubbing his back, Merrett coughed as he watched Ihor pick up the wallet and slowly rifle through it until he found what he wanted. Tossing the wallet back to Merrett, he brought the ID card close to his face. ‘CEOP,’ he mumbled eventually. ‘What is this?’
Sticking the wallet back in his pocket, Merrett said nothing.
Ihor’s face broke into a broad smile, a gold tooth visible in the back of his mouth. ‘So you are a kind of. . pretend policeman,
‘Give me back my ID,’ Merrett said, with all the authority of a bullied and beaten schoolboy.
‘Certainly.’ Standing up, Ihor pushed the card into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘But first you come with us.’
‘Like hell I-’ Merrett felt a hand on his shoulder, quickly followed by the tip of the blade at his neck.
‘Get up.’ Ihor walked past him, heading for the door. ‘I think you know the alternative.’
Mouth dry, legs weak, Merrett allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. He looked round the bar for someone who could help. But, compared to when he had come in, the place seemed almost empty. He felt the beer churning in his stomach. ‘I need to piss,’ he said nervously.
‘Piss in your pants,’ said Artem grimly, as he ushered him towards the street.
SEVENTEEN
The clock on the wall showed that it was edging towards 5.31 p.m. Well past the time for her to be out of here. Sighing, Rose Scripps switched off her computer and dropped her purse into her bag. She would be late home again. Her commute normally took at least fifty minutes, assuming that the public transport system was working ‘normally’ — a leap of faith that was rarely justified when it came to London’s antiquated tube network — and Sasha, her au pair, was due to clock off at six. Sasha wouldn’t mind waiting, but Rose didn’t like to go into overtime; she couldn’t afford to pay for the extra help and felt guilty about leaving the girl to pick up the slack, even if it only meant twenty minutes here and there.
Scooping up her mobile, she felt it start vibrating in her hand. It was probably Sasha checking where she was. With a feeling of guilt bubbling up in her stomach, she hit the ‘receive’ button.
‘Rose?’ The anxious voice on the line wasn’t Sasha at all.
‘It’s Claire.’
Rose recognised the voice. Simon Merrett’s wife. ‘Oh. Hi, Claire,’ she said, belatedly trying to hide the complete lack of patience in her voice. She had met Mrs Merrett once, when Simon had organised a not particularly successful play-date for their respective kids in Hyde Park. The woman had seemed patronising and slightly
