Читать книгу The Half Truth - Sue Fortin, Sue Fortin - Страница 12

Straightening the tie he was unaccustomed to wearing these days, John knocked on the door of 17 Balfour Avenue. He had gone to the local supermarket washrooms to freshen himself up after a night spent sitting in the car.

John had waited for her to return home from dropping her son at school. She was wearing jeans, so he had assumed she wasn’t at work today.

Through the two narrow slits of obscure glass in the front door, John could see her silhouette, approach and hear the locks being turned. The door opened a couple of inches, the security chain doing its job.

‘Yes?’ Her voice had a wary tone to it.

John held up his police identity badge.

‘Hello, Mrs Bolotnikov?’ She nodded, her eyes scanning the ID card. ‘I’m DS Nightingale from London’s Metropolitan police force. Would it be possible to come in and have a chat with you?’

‘The Met?’ She reached her hand through and took the card. ‘I’ll need to confirm your ID, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Of course. I’ll wait here.’ She closed the door and again he heard the locks turning. She certainly wasn’t taking anything at face value.

John turned to face the road. Martin had moved the car, parking outside Tina’s property. John mouthed the words ‘checking badge’ at his partner, who nodded his understanding. Eventually, John heard the sound of the bolts being drawn back on the door. Tina opened the door, this time there was no security chain.

‘Come in Detective Sergeant,’ she said and offered a small smile.

John followed her into the living room. Neat and tidy but with a warm, lived-in feel to it.

‘Would you like a tea or a coffee?’ said Tina. John took her up on the offer of coffee. ‘Please take a seat. I won’t be a moment.’

John wandered over to the fireplace and looked at the photo of Tina and Sasha. A couple very much in love. Next to the fireplace, the alcove had been fitted with shelves, which contained more knick-knacks and a selection of books.

‘Do you take sugar?’ Tina called out from the kitchen.

‘Two, please.’ John inspected the books. You could tell a lot about someone by their book shelf. They ranged from hardbacks to paperbacks, pink covers with bubble writing to more sinister-looking ones with a bold font. She certainly had a broad taste in reading material. Tina came back into the room. ‘I was looking at your books,’ said John turning to her.

She raised her eyebrows, a small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. A smile John had seen before but not up close, always from behind a long-distance camera lens. John averted his eyes, looking back towards the books.

‘You fancy a bit of Jilly Cooper, then?’ Tina said, passing John a cup before sitting down on the sofa.

He took a sip of the rich, dark coffee. The supermarket coffee didn’t compare. ‘Not my cup of tea,’ he said.

‘Oh, I thought you said coffee,’ said Tina.

This time it was John’s turn to look amused. He chuckled. ‘No, I meant Jilly Cooper is not my thing.’ He raised his cup a fraction. ‘This is my cup of tea, though … well, coffee.’

He watched the thought trace across her face and then she broke into an embarrassed smile. She took a sip of tea, her hands clasped around the mug. John noticed her long, slender fingers, which matched the rest of her.

John couldn’t help but feel he was seeing her for the first time, despite the fact that he had watched her for months and months. Before it was as if he was watching her on TV, continually through the lens of a camera, now today he was in the same room as her, he was seeing her up close and in the flesh for real. This time he was actually talking to her.

‘So, what can I do for you?’ Tina said, breaking the small silence that had descended. ‘I’m guessing it’s nothing to do with the report I made of being followed and watched, not if you’re from the Met.’

‘Well, yes and no,’ said John. He sat down in the wing-backed armchair beside the fireplace. The bold geometric pattern gave the old-fashioned furniture a modern twist. ‘We are currently investigating the possibility that Pavel Bolotnikov is in the UK.’ He watched her face. Her pallid face turned the colour of dishwater. She hadn’t been expecting that, he was sure.

‘Pavel?’

‘Yes, your brother-in-law.’

‘I know who he is.’ There was a slight snap to her voice. She sat up straight and let out a controlled breath. When she spoke, her voice was calm. ‘What has this to do with me?’

‘We would very much like to speak to Pavel about an incident that happened five years ago. We thought he might be in touch with you. Perhaps needing somewhere to stay.’

‘I haven’t heard from him. In fact, I haven’t heard from him since … ‘

‘Since when, Mrs Bolotnikov?’

She dropped her gaze to her hands. Her thumb kneaded the china cup handle. ‘Since my husband died.’

‘My condolences, Mrs Bolotnikov,’ said John.

‘Thank you. And it’s Tina. Much easier and quicker than Bolotnikov.’ John gave a small nod of acknowledgement before continuing.

‘So, you haven’t heard from Pavel?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t keep in touch?’

Tina put the cup on the coffee table and stood up. She walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up the photograph of herself and her husband.

‘Pavel and I, we didn’t get on that well.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘You’re the police officer and you’re here asking about Pavel? I expect you can work it out.’ She replaced the photograph. ‘I didn’t like his career choice. I don’t know exactly what he was involved in, but I knew it wasn’t on the right side of the law.’

‘Didn’t your husband ever say anything?’

‘No. Pavel was his brother. My husband still felt loyal to him. It was a moot point. We ceased discussing it as it caused too many arguments between us.’

‘Does the name Porboski mean anything to you?’ This time the physical jolt was apparent.

‘Then. But not now.’ John waited for her to continue. ‘Everyone in the Russian community knew the Porboskis were involved in all sorts of criminal activity. Is that the right phrase?’

‘It’s as good as any,’ said John. He gave a small smile to reassure her. ‘Did your husband ever mention the Porboski gang?’

‘No. Well, maybe. Only in passing. It was a long time ago. As I said, everyone knew who they were. You didn’t mess with them.’

John allowed for another pause. He needed to tread carefully and decide where to take the conversation.

‘Just going back to Pavel. You’ve not heard from him since your husband’s death?’

‘That’s right.’

‘By that I take it you mean the funeral?’

Tina looked at him for a moment. She appeared to be coming to some sort of decision. He allowed her time to wrestle with whatever it was. If he was too keen to encourage her, she might clam up. His patience won out.

‘I didn’t go to the funeral. It was in Russia. It was organised and carried out within a matter of days. I was told not to come.’

John knew this. It was in the file. After the Moorgate robbery, Tina had been kept under surveillance for another two weeks in the hope she would lead them to Sasha. When the reports of his death came in and still she didn’t make any attempt to go, the trail had gone cold. John had been convinced at the time she was in on it and would fly out to Russia sooner or later. He was wrong on that occasion. He had never understood why she hadn’t gone though.

‘And you accepted that?’ he said.

‘What choice did I have? I didn’t know where or when the funeral would take place. I didn’t speak Russian. There was no one to ask. Pavel wouldn’t tell me. I tried asking his wife, but she refused to take my calls. Under his instructions, no doubt.’ She sat down on the sofa. Her shoulders dropped. ‘All I wanted was to say goodbye. It was hard to accept my husband had died when I had no funeral, nothing solid to help me come to terms with losing him.’

‘Why didn’t you go to Russia with him?’

‘It was a sudden decision. It wasn’t planned. He came home, said his grandfather was unwell and he had to travel to Russia that night.’

‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t go.’

‘I was pregnant. Early stages. I was very ill with morning sickness. Sasha didn’t want me to travel that far and be in a foreign country. He insisted I stay here.’ She twisted a silver band on the ring finger of her right hand. The usual hand for Russians to wear a wedding ring. ‘If I had known it was the last time I would see him, I wouldn’t have agreed to stay.’

‘But you could have been in the car with him.’ John’s reply was gentle. He could see the angst in her whole body language.

‘I’ve thought about that and in those early days it made me wish it even more.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘But once I had my son, I knew I had everything to live for and I have never once revisited those dark thoughts.’

‘Does Sasha’s family know about your son?’

‘I told Pavel, but he wasn’t interested. All he said was that the life insurance would see me right. I wrote to Sasha’s mother. I had an address in Russia for her. Not that she would be able to read it, but I thought maybe someone would translate it for her. It was a long shot, but I thought she had a right to know she was to become a grandmother. I never received a reply. I didn’t have their phone number and, besides, what use would phoning have been? I can’t speak Russian and she can’t speak English.’ She let out a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ve never heard from a single member of that family since Sasha’s death.’

John didn’t know why, call it intuition and years in the force, but he believed her. He was sure she hadn’t spoken or had any contact with any of them since that day.

‘Can I ask one thing?’ said John.

‘Sure.’

‘Did you ever get proof of your husband’s death?’

‘Like a death certificate? Yes, I did actually. Pavel sent it to me, said I would need it for insurance claims. Actually, he sent it to his solicitor here in the UK who translated it and signed it as an authentic copy and translation.’

‘Okay, thank you, Tina,’ he said standing up. ‘Can I leave you my number in case you think of anything or if, indeed, Pavel does get in touch?’

Tina took the card John proffered. ‘I don’t think he will, but if he does …’

John followed her out to the hallway. ‘If I find anything else out about Pavel, I’ll let you know,’ he said. ‘Please don’t worry, though.’ For some unexplained reason, he rested his hand on her arm reassuringly and allowed it to linger, probably longer than it should.

‘Thank you Detective Sergeant,’ she said.

‘John. Call me John, it’s much easier.’ He smiled into her forget-me-not blue eyes and saw nothing but trust.

She trusted him.

The satisfaction that this had been gained sat uncomfortably alongside his betrayal of her five years ago. He was responsible for Sasha leaving. He was responsible for the pain widowhood brought her. Blood had stained his hands then: blood that was washed away with soap and water. The moral stains, however, weren’t so easily removed.

His job sucked at times. John walked down the path feeling a complete and utter shit.