‘No problem.’ Carlyle stood up. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to ask Shen why one of Falkirk’s clients had his phone number written on the back of a ticket for the London Eye. After all, that same phone number had got Simon Merrett killed. He looked down at Shen happily playing the victim in his hospital bed. What were the chances of getting a straight answer? The inspector turned to the door. ‘See you later. And you let me know if there’s anything I can do.’
‘Thanks. Let me know how you get on with the investigation.’
‘I will.’ As the words came out, Carlyle was already halfway through the door, happy to avoid another encounter with the formidable-looking Mrs Shen.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘And the Lord God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there He put the man whom He had formed.’
Sitting on the otherwise empty terrace of the Grand Restaurant, located within the Central Botanical Gardens of the Academy of Sciences of Ukraine, Ihor Chepoyak drank deeply from his bottle of Lvivske Premium beer and gazed north, past the domes of the Mikhailovsky Cathedral, towards the city. Although the cold wind made his eyes water, Ihor had no desire to go inside. It was good to be home.
The nature of his trip back from London had been a little improvised — ferry to Zeebrugge, train to Munich, flight to Kiev — but his Czech passport had been up to the job and, although slow, the journey had proceeded without drama. Sitting here, in the calm beauty of the carefully tended gardens, it was almost as if the grime and violence of London had never existed. Such a horrible city! He was more than pleased that he would never be going back there again.
At the same time, Ihor knew that he would not be staying in Kiev for long. The investigation into the Sandokan International Children’s Camp had been completed, and the Prosecutor General’s Office had called for arrests to be made. Deputy Prosecutor General Dmytro Gazizulin would now have to throw Parliament and the media a bone or two. Ihor knew that Falkirk might be untouchable, but he himself wasn’t. He would have to work hard to prove his continuing usefulness or face a bullet or, at least, a prison sentence. Ihor wasn’t sure which was worse. Going back on the road would be a small price to pay to avoid either.
Draining the last of his beer, he watched the woman’s slow, steady progress up the path towards him. As she got closer, he noticed that she wore no make-up. Her hair was pulled back into a simple ponytail, and she was dressed plainly, in jeans and a red fleece jacket, with a pair of black slip-on, flat shoes. My God, she is beautiful, he thought, in the detached way of a man aware that he has the intelligence and the strength to keep his thoughts to himself.
As she approached his table, he stood up.
‘Let’s go inside,’ she said, not breaking her stride.
The dining room of the Grand Restaurant was as empty as the terrace had been. A couple of waiters hovered around anxiously, possibly wondering if they’d ever see another customer. Choosing a table by the window, the woman ordered a mint tea. Ihor asked for another beer. ‘How are you, Olga?’ he asked, once the waiters had scurried away.
She frowned. Up close, he could see that she looked tired. ‘We’re not in London now,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to call me that any more.’
Ihor bowed slightly. ‘Of course, Ms Gazizulin.’
‘For God’s sake, Ihor.’ Pulling a packet of Marlboros out of her bag, she gestured through the window, towards the city. ‘Here, in the real world, Alexandra is my name.’ She offered him a cigarette. ‘But you know I’m not into formality or hierarchies, like my father. Alex is fine.’
‘Okay,
The waiter arrived and placed their drinks on the table. Alexandra Gazizulin stirred her tea at length, then took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled vigorously. ‘Ah! It’s so nice to be able to smoke where you like.’
‘Yes.’
She flicked some ash into the saucer of her cup. ‘My father is not happy.’
Ihor fingered the full bottle of Lvivske Premium but did not lift it from the table. ‘I can understand that. But there was no real alternative.’
She cut him off with a sharp look. ‘There is always an alternative. You have destroyed a valuable business.’
‘We were going to have to get out of London anyway,’ he said, as casually as he could manage, the relaxed mood he’d been enjoying since his return ebbing away. ‘Your English friend had already had enough.’
‘Falkirk?’ she scowled. ‘He was just being melodramatic.’
Ihor said nothing.
‘He’s confused,’ she continued, a sneer draining the beauty from her face. ‘He thinks he is some kind of entrepreneur, rather than what he really is.’ She stubbed her cigarette out violently in the ashtray.
‘Which is what?’ Ihor asked.
‘A rich pig.’
One of the waiters reappeared with menus in hand. Alex waved him away.
‘So what do we do now?’ Ihor asked, finishing his own cigarette.
‘Any ideas?’
Ihor knew better than to suggest anything. ‘No.’
‘I didn’t think you would.’ She pulled another cigarette from the packet and stuck it in her mouth, this time not offering him one. ‘Finish your beer quickly,’ she said, pulling a match from the book while glancing over his shoulder. ‘We have to go and see my father.’
Ihor felt a dull pain in his stomach. Turning in his seat, he saw the two men standing by the door. Suited, shaven-headed, expressionless, they were facsimiles of himself from fifteen years ago. Faces like granite, while smiling on the inside. Slowly he forced himself to finish the beer. Who knows? It might be his last in this life. Placing the empty bottle on the table, he fished a couple of notes from his pocket and let out a small burp.
‘Urgh!’ Alex grimaced. ‘Let’s go.’
Another night, another drinks reception. It was all so tiring. This time it was abstract paintings by a famous actor. All well and good, but if the old bugger hadn’t won a couple of Oscars, no one would give a hoot. Tiring of the gallery owner’s attempt to sell him one of the canvases for a ridiculous price, Gordon Elstree-Ullick stepped into the street to bum a cigarette from his protection officer.
‘Got a fag, Tommy?’
Stepping out of the shadows, Dolan pulled a packet of Rothmans King Size from the breast pocket of his jacket and tossed it to Falkirk.
Falkirk removed a cigarette, stuck it in his mouth and handed back the packet. ‘Got a light?’
‘Here you go.’ Dolan handed him a lighter, waited for him to light up, and then decided to have a cigarette himself.
For a few moments, both men stood smoking on the pavement eyeing each other carefully. This was the first time in almost a week that the SO14 man had turned up for work. Something was going on but, so far, Dolan hadn’t said a thing about what he had been up to. If there was one thing that Falkirk hated above all else, it was the help being unreliable. Unreliable and secretive.
At the same time, however, the Earl realised that things with Tommy Dolan were considerably more complicated than the traditional master-servant relationship. Taking a final couple of puffs, he ground out the remains of his cigarette beneath his Lobb shoes. ‘How’s it going?’
Dolan grunted noncommittally.
Falkirk watched a pretty girl walking down the other side of the road. ‘I hear you’ve lost another colleague.’
‘Messy,’ was Dolan’s only reply.
Falkirk half-turned to re-open the door to the gallery. ‘Tommy,’ he said almost casually, as if it was an
