Читать книгу The Half Truth - Sue Fortin, Sue Fortin - Страница 8

Twenty minutes later, Tina burst through the kitchen door to her parents’ home.

‘Mum! Dad! Dimitri!’ she called, letting the door slam behind her.

‘In the living room,’ came back her mother’s voice from beyond.

Tina controlled her breathing. The casualness of her mother’s voice was an instant tonic to her panic. Pam met her in the hallway. ‘You all right, love?’

Tina forced a smile. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just pleased to finish work today and get home.’ She gave her mum a peck on the cheek. ‘Where’s Dimitri?’

‘He’s in the greenhouse with your father. They were going to do a bit of gardening, but then the rain started. I think they are sowing seeds in the seed trays now.’

Tina went to the back door and looked out at the greenhouse. There they were, standing at the bench, carefully drilling small holes and dropping seeds into each one. It was a comforting sight and brought back childhood memories to Tina of her and her dad doing exactly the same. Memories that warmed her as an adult and as a child had made her feel loved and safe. The lump that rose to her throat took her by surprise.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ asked Pam, putting a comforting arm around her daughter’s shoulder.

Tina nodded, blinking away unwanted tears. ‘Dimitri is so lucky to have such a wonderful granddad. He really is. I just wish …’ She couldn’t finish her sentence.

Pam squeezed her daughter tightly. ‘You just wish that Sasha was here to give his son these memories instead.’

‘Something like that.’ This time she didn’t blink back the tears. Her mum ushered her to the kitchen table and sat her down.

‘I hate to see you upset. I know you still miss Sasha.’

Tina took the sheet of kitchen roll her mother offered and dabbed at her eyes. Black streaks of mascara transferred onto the tissue. ‘I miss him on behalf of Dimitri, if that makes sense.’ She blew her nose and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Dimitri doesn’t know any different and, in a way, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want him to know the pain of losing his father.’

‘It won’t always be like this,’ said Pam. ‘One day there will be someone for Dimitri. And for you.’

‘Maybe.’ Tina knew they were on the brink of a familiar conversation. One where her mother would tell her she should get out and meet more people.

Her latest idea was Tina joining one of those online dating sites. So far Tina was resisting. She had been to a few dinner parties where match-making was definitely on the agenda. The last one had been a dinner party Fay had organised and Tina had accepted the invitation of a second date as a result. However, it hadn’t gone beyond that. Tina had made it as far as a kiss goodnight. It seemed so awkward and unnatural, not only because it wasn’t Sasha, but she was out of practice with the whole intimate kissing thing. The poor bloke must have thought he had eaten something nasty. She had muttered her apologies and practically fled into the waiting taxi.

‘Are you staying for tea?’ asked Pam, turning her attention to the oven. She opened the door and the smell of chicken casserole drifted out. Another comforting memory from Tina’s childhood. Another memory to chase away the demons of today.

‘How could I resist?’ said Tina. ‘I’ll set the table.’ She stood up, relieved that the earlier disquiet she had felt was slipping away. She was safe. Dimitri was safe. They were loved. All was well in the world.

John woke the next morning and for a moment couldn’t work out why it felt as if his head was being compressed from all sides. He groaned as he sat up. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he planted his feet on the floor.

Ah, now he remembered. The celebratory drink last night had been overdone. Still, they had good cause to celebrate.

The shower refreshed him, the coffee kick started his brain, the toast tamped down the queasiness and the Anadin relieved the pressure in his head. As he picked up his car keys from the sideboard, he noticed the brown envelope Brogan had given him the night before. He scooped it up; something to look over while he had his third coffee of the day at HQ.

The rest of the team seemed to be suffering slightly from the previous evening’s excesses too. A day of paperwork and no running around catching the bad guys wouldn’t go amiss. John settled at his desk.

‘Did you sort it with Maxine?’ he asked as Martin slid into his seat opposite him.

‘Yeah, all good,’ said Martin. He nodded at the photos in John’s hand. ‘Anything of interest.’

John studied the first one. It was a close-up of a man’s shoulders and top half of his torso. The victim’s throat had been cut. John passed it over to Martin.

‘It appears he didn’t die from natural causes,’ he said. ‘Slashed throat. Jagged edges to the wound, cut from right to left, I’d say.’

‘From someone facing him, as opposed to behind him – assuming they are right-handed,’ said Martin.

‘Yep, the jagged skin means the neck was loose as opposed to being taut when someone’s head is pulled from behind.’

‘Asleep?’

‘Probably. Unless there are other signs of injury, meaning he put up a fight. Probably didn’t know a thing about it.’ John passed over another photograph. ‘Otritsala.’

Martin shrugged. ‘You what?’

‘The eight-pointed stars, tattooed on each collar bone,’ said John. ‘A sign of defiance. Medals that existed before the Russian revolution and used now to signify defiance to the Soviet regime.’

‘So this is a Russian?’

‘Yep. Prison tattoos mostly.’ John slid another photograph over. ‘Dagger with three drops of blood. That’s typical of a murderer, the drops of blood reflecting the number of killings he’s carried out. Could be that this fella was a hired assassin.’

‘He’s got a Swastika too,’ said Martin, looking more closely at the photo.

‘Doesn’t mean he’s a right-wing sympathiser or a Nazi. It’s used as a sign of rebellion to authority. Some prisons have had these tattoos forcibly removed from their inmates.’

‘And I suppose the SOS on his forearm doesn’t mean Save Our Souls either,’ said Martin.

‘Spasite Ot Syda. Save me from judgement. Amongst other things.’ John stopped. The next picture knocked the air from his lungs.

‘You all right?’ said Martin.

John looked slowly up at his colleague. ‘This Russian was part of the Porboski gang.’

Martin sat up in his seat, his face alert. ‘You sure?’

‘See that tattoo on the inside of the upper arm. A dollar sign and that elaborate letter, which looks like a squared-off “n”? The dollar sign means he’s a safe-cracker. That letter in Russian is a “P” and stands for the gang he’s affiliated to.’

‘Where did these photos come from? Have you got one of the face?’

John looked at the final photo. Another close-up of the chest. ‘No. Just the arms and torso.’

‘What are the Porboski gang doing back in the UK?’ said Martin.

‘No idea, but whatever it is, you know it’s not good.’ John took a moment to compose himself. The usual rush of guilt and anger swept over him. Images of his ex-partner, Neil, fought their way to the front of his mind. Images he usually managed to keep filed away in a drawer marked ‘too close to home to think about’, this time refused to be catalogued and archived so readily.

John could feel a dark cloud forming around him, waiting to smother him, to suck away the oxygen, leaving him gasping for breath. John’s hand closed in a fist as the mental battle threatened to erupt. He was a good fighter. He could see off the attack. It seemed like minutes, but John knew from past experience it was merely one or two seconds. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Today’s battle won. John looked down at his clenched fist and unfurled his fingers. The photograph now crumpled and scrunched.

John eyed his partner of five years across the desk. Martin understood. He had seen this happen before. He knew the reasons. John looked for accusation in the other man’s eyes. There was none, although he felt sure his own screamed with guilt.

John stood up, gathering the photos together. ‘Where’s Brogan? We need to speak to CID. They seem to have found one of our Most Wanted. Just got to work out which one.’

CID couldn’t shed much light on the identity of the Russian. He had been found down by the docks in a disused warehouse.

‘Looks like he had been camping out. Used one of the old offices. Had a camp bed and camping stove. Nothing in the way of personal belongings,’ said the CID Officer, Carter. ‘Someone had tried to set fire to his stuff. Did a good job, mostly. There were a few charred remains left.’

‘Can I have a look at his clothing?’ said John. ‘And have you got a photograph of his face?’

Carter went off to collect the evidence bag.

‘It’s only clothes. The clothes he was wearing.’

‘Is it okay to take these out?’ asked John.

‘Yeah, go ahead. Forensics have been all over them.’

John inspected the clothing. ‘All labels have been cut out,’ he said. ‘But this leather jacket is quite distinctive. Have you had any luck identifying its origin?’

‘Not yet.’

The jacket was heavy in John’s hands, a black, padded three-quarter-length garment. Lined with heavy checked fabric – certainly one to keep the Russian winter at bay. John laid it out on the table and poked around in the pockets.

‘There’s nothing there,’ said Carter.

John felt the collar and gave the seam between the collar and lining a closer inspection. ‘Got a knife or pair of scissors?’

A pair of scissors was obtained and handed to John. He began snipping at the seam of the collar until an opening of about three inches had been achieved. John wriggled his fingers in, feeling from one side to the next.

‘Aha! Gotcha.’ he said. He pulled out a small grip-sealed bag, about two by five inches.

‘How did we miss that?’ said the CID officer.

‘Probably because you weren’t looking for it,’ said John opening the bag. He removed five folded twenty-pound notes and five ten-pound notes, together with three Russian notes of 5,000 roubles each. John did a quick calculation. ‘About the same worth. A little under one fifty pounds.’

‘Emergency funds,’ said Martin picking up one of the notes by the corner. ‘Don’t suppose we will get any decent prints off them. Been handled too many times.’

Carter slid over a box containing several clear-plastic evidence bags. John looked through them. The victim travelled light. Three bags with fabric remnants, a London Tube map – the kind you pick up from any underground station.

‘This looks a bit more interesting,’ said John looking at a bag containing the strap from the victim’s holdall with a flight tag still attached. Unfortunately, only a part of the digital flight code was left. ‘Have you checked this out?’

‘We think it’s a flight in from Stockholm. There’s only a partial barcode.’

‘Have you checked recent flights in?’ asked John.

‘Needle in a haystack,’ came the reply, accompanied by a shrug.

‘Who found him?’ asked John. ‘Has he been cleared of any involvement?’

‘A dock-worker. Had gone in for a crafty shut-eye. He was pretty shook up. Don’t think he had the guts for it.’

‘Did you get a photo of the victim?’ asked Martin.

Carter passed it over. ‘Recognise him?’

John and Martin both studied the face. A rounded thick-set face. Shaven head. An old scar above his left eye. A gold stud in the right ear. He didn’t look familiar to either of them.

‘Mind if we keep this?’ said John.

‘Go ahead.’

‘Right, what else have we got here?’ said John. He pulled out another bag containing the remains of a photograph.

‘Shit.’

Martin let out a long, low whistle. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

John took out the photograph, not worrying about holding the edges. Fingerprints were no longer a priority. A cold bead of sweat began its slow descent down his spine, undulating over every vertebrae. ‘Pavel Bolotnikov,’ he said, confirming Martin’s thoughts. ‘And who else was in the photograph?’ Draped over Pavel’s left shoulder was someone’s arm, the owner’s identity burned away.

‘What the fuck is that doing in there?’ said Martin.