Murder by Magic (17 page)

‘He
took me to meet someone, Guv – the
fixer
, he called him –
Leonid Pavlenko’s contact.’

‘What?’

Skelgill
turns back, dumfounded.

‘The
meeting wasn’t meant to be this morning, Guv – or rather it
was
this
morning – in the early hours – but Juri had this brilliant idea
–’

Her
voice tails off.  Skelgill is glaring furiously – although it is
impossible for her to discern what exactly might underlie his ire – it
could be anything along a broad spectrum of issues: his hangover, which must surely
be stellar – or that she has unilaterally met the gangster he has
travelled almost two thousand miles to interview – or that she
disappeared with Shevchenko and now is on intimate ‘Juri’ terms with him
– or even that, when he had rebelliously unpeeled himself from the sticky
honey-cling-film treatment and escaped the cell in which it was applied, in
tiptoeing past the ‘lather room’ he had heard her throaty chuckle, and a minute
later, upon retrieving his damp boxer shorts from the back of a lounger in the
central pool area, he had discovered her silky white underwear neatly folded,
bra
and
briefs.

‘What
brilliant idea?’

DS
Jones casts about – as if for a waiter.  There is a bar at the far
end of the extensive reception zone; a dark head bobs busily but makes no
attempt to court custom.  She takes a step towards Skelgill, her arms extended
in an appeal.

‘We
can penetrate this business, Guv – I can go undercover.’

Leaving
him to digest this startling suggestion, she turns and with her elegant figure
skater’s poise bisects the reflective millpond of the lobby, leaving him staring,
becalmed in her wake.  She waits at the counter while the order is
prepared, returning with two tall milky coffees upon a small round tray.

‘What
do you mean,
undercover
?’

DS
Jones, given a choice of seats opposite and perpendicular to Skelgill, opts to
settle beside him on the same settee.  Whether this is a gesture of
reconciliation or a tactic to avoid direct eye contact is a matter for conjecture. 
She arranges their drinks as she seeks to compose a reply.

‘It’s
trafficking, Guv – Ukrainian girls – Juri knows a lot more than he
admitted in writing to DS Leyton.’

Skelgill
scowls.

‘Let’s
stick to calling him Shevchenko, eh?’

‘Sure,
Guv.’

‘So
what was his bright idea?’

‘He
introduced me – they were speaking Russian – the fixer’s a Russian Pole
called Yashin and he couldn’t tell I wasn’t Ukrainian – Jur –’ (she
corrects herself) ‘
Shevchenko
– told him I was a mutual friend, of
his and the girl in the photo – that I wanted to go to the same place in
England and team up with her.’

‘What’s
Shevchenko on – doing deals with a crook?’

Studiously,
DS Jones stirs the froth into her latte.

‘
That
was his idea, Guv – on the spur of the moment – he’d been asking me
what we knew about the case – he said we could meet this guy officially
– as British police – but he doubted if he’d tell us anything
useful – or truthful.’

Skelgill’s
expression has moderated to mildly peeved.

‘Where
was this?’

‘A
flat nearby, Guv – I don’t know if it belongs to Shevchenko or if it’s
just one the police use.  We waited about forty minutes and Yashin appeared.’

Again
a frown clouds Skelgill’s features.  He fiddles with a spoon – he
has not yet tried his coffee.

‘Why
would he trust a cop?’

DS
Jones glances up, as if surprised by his question.

‘Like Shevchenko
says, Guv – this is Ukraine – the land of blurred lines.’

Skelgill
appears uncomfortable with this reference.  He takes a deep breath, as if
it is the precursor to a sigh.

‘So,
what’s the story?’

DS
Jones gathers herself; it is plain she is eager to get to the heart of the
matter.

‘He
was dead cocky – Yashin – but I could see he was scared of Shevchenko.’ 
She brushes away an unruly strand of hair from her eyes.  ‘He said we were
in luck – his contact in the Lake District – he actually spoke it
in English – is looking for someone else – to work as a chambermaid.’

She turns
to face Skelgill, and holds his gaze as he searches for underlying meaning.

‘I
don’t suppose he named the contact?’

There
is a cynical note in his voice that anticipates the negative.

DS
Jones shakes her head.

‘Jur
– Shevchenko – said there’s no way he’d reveal his network –
he reckons he’s got people all over Europe – most probably Poles, too
– he said the guy considers himself as a kind of international recruitment
consultant.’

Skelgill
is looking pensive; but now his thoughts are jumping ahead.

‘So what’s
supposed to happen?’

‘Shevchenko
told him that he’d take care of getting me across the borders – he said
he didn’t want me suffocating in the boot of a car – it’s the job and
accommodation at the British end he wants arranged.’

‘What’s
the catch – the price?’

DS
Jones shrugs.

‘I
don’t think there’s either, Guv – I guess the fixer considers there’s a
quid pro quo – Shevchenko’s got tabs on him, so if he does him a favour
it gives him some leverage.’

‘Why
would Shevchenko take the risk – are you sure we can trust him?’

Now it
is DS Jones’s turn to frown.

‘He
wants to nail him, Guv – this might be a way of doing it – if we
can get witnesses who are prepared to testify.  Shevchenko believes he’s
responsible for hundreds of Ukrainian girls going missing.’

Skelgill
is silent for a moment as he considers this proposition.

‘And
what about Pavlenko?’

‘Shevchenko
thinks Yashin doesn’t know Leonid Pavlenko went after the girl – neither
of them mentioned him – as far as I could gather.’

‘So
where does Pavlenko fit in?’

‘Shevchenko
believes he and the girl must have been an item – of sorts – but
that she fell for Yashin’s story of easy money – she suspected Pavlenko
would object, since he knew the Pole’s game – and left without telling
him.’

‘And
then found our grass not so green.’

‘That’s
it, Guv – but instead of handing herself in to the authorities, she must
have called Pavlenko to get her out, undetected.’

Skelgill,
despite his reservations, is evidently making some analysis.

‘I
doubt Pavlenko would have told this fixer – pal or not – in case
he’d warned his British contact he was coming.’  He at last takes a long
draught of his drink.  ‘But if he’d disappeared from Kiev it wouldn’t take
a genius to guess where he might have gone.’

DS
Jones is nodding.

‘I
know, Guv.  He might have been intercepted.’

Skelgill
puts down his latte glass and punches a fist into the opposing palm.

‘If
only we could get the British contact.’

‘But I
can lead us to him, Guv.’  She raises the spread fingers of both hands to
her chest.  ‘All I have to do is turn up at a meeting point in England
– Shevchenko is going to let us know.’

‘But
they’ll blow your cover in an instant.’

‘No,
Guv – I can easily pretend I only speak Ukrainian – and the chances
of a Pole speaking Ukrainian are low.’

‘But
what about ID?  That’s the first thing I’d ask for.’

‘Shevchenko
says he can sort it – a Ukrainian identity card.  We just need to email
a photo of me and wire him four hundred dollars.’

‘Four
hundred dollars!’

‘If we
want it done express, Guv – otherwise it takes a month through the
official channels.’

Skelgill
is shaking his head.

‘How
do I explain that one to the Chief?’

DS
Jones grins.

‘She
would expect nothing less, Guv.’

*

‘Aw,
Guv – look at that – how cute.’

Skelgill
is already staring with eyes narrowed – though it might be the acute
morning sunshine that rakes between stuccoed buildings, as much as the curious
sight to which his colleague draws his attention.  They have ambled from
their hotel shirt-sleeved, amidst crowds in bright spring garb, through
unexpected heat, covering the kilometre of Khreschatyk to the Maidan, and
thence uphill to marvel at the shimmering golden domes and twirling white
brides of St Sophia’s cathedral.  Now arriving at the foot of Andriyivskyy
Descent, having run the gauntlet of eager artisans touting multi-coloured
crafts, they happen upon an altogether different appeal for their money –
and one that, as he digs into a back pocket, breaks Skelgill’s hitherto stern resistance.

For
here is a Mother Theresa of sorts – a bag woman who has struck camp in
the shade of a peeling, bill-stickered wall, where she squats surrounded by
some fifteen slumbering dogs, splayed listlessly over the cobbles, half black,
a quarter toffee, and a quarter unclassified, though hairy.  Her
collection of bulging carrier bags is mostly stacked at the foot of the wall,
though a couple hang straining from a truncated zinc downpipe at head height
– perhaps foodstuffs judiciously placed beyond reach of hungry hounds on
hind legs.

Despite
the growing warmth the woman – diminutive, perhaps late fifties –
wears the greatcoat characteristic of so many of her compatriots; this one is
camel, and seems nearly new, but it is oversized and she has the cuffs turned
back.  Beneath is a navy blue ankle-length dress with paler hoops; she has
a matching woollen muffler around her neck, and a black headscarf emblazoned
with a bright red and green rose print.  Her brown face is wrinkled like a
prune, but she looks clean and her attire freshly laundered.  The same
cannot be said of the snoring pack, whose coats are tinged with grime and oil, and
whose fitful itching suggests the presence of an unseen class of micro-fauna. 
That DS Jones has cooed over this scene of dubious charm relates to the ostentatious
raising by the woman of a sleepy pup by the scruff of its neck, and its
repositioning in a more suitable spot – although the cynic might submit
this is a well-practised move calculated to win the hearts of passers-by. 
If so, it has worked.  Skelgill extracts from his wallet two five-hundred
hryvnia notes.

‘That’s
thirty pounds, Guv.’

‘Better
she has it – I’ll only spend it on ale.’

DS
Jones suddenly chuckles, for the woman has stooped to swig from a brown bottle –
a brand of Ukrainian beer.  Skelgill shrugs and steps forward.  Propped
up by a wooden crate and held fast by two uneven cobbles, a large rectangle of
torn cardboard advertises a proposition in neat marker-pen lettering.  In
front of it sits a cut-off plastic water bottle for donations.  This
arrangement is guarded on either side by a massive recumbent mongrel, their
broad muscular heads and malevolent slits for eyes leaving little to the
imagination as far as biting an uncharitable hand is concerned.  Allowing
the sleeping dogs to lie, Skelgill gingerly releases the notes and retreats.

‘There
you go, love.’

The
woman raises the bottle in a gesture of thanks and bows her head.  Then
she settles on a folding stool and picks up a hardback book.  Judging by
its monochrome cover – a bare-breasted woman striking a stiff Edwardian
pose – it is not the kind of reading one might have anticipated.  Skelgill
however is staring at the hand-printed sign.

‘What
does it say?’

‘Something
about gullible foreign tourists, Guv.’

‘Ha-ha,
Jones – wait till
you
start shopping.’

DS
Jones grins.

‘I
look like a local, remember, Guv.’

‘Don’t
remind me.’

Skelgill
saunters away – he is following his nose and senses the river is not too
far from their present location.  They cross a tram stop, an open siding
where pitted iron rails buckle from irregular rows of piano key paving.  A
massive-billed piebald bird is picking at something between the tracks,
standing astride a bloody splatter of crimson entrails and grey feathers.

‘Look
at that – a hoodie – we only get them in Scotland.’

‘What’s
it eating, Guv?’

‘A slow
pigeon.’

‘Aw, gross.’

In
recoiling she places an involuntary hand on Skelgill’s upper arm – and
perhaps her lingering contact acknowledges that, in revealing his chagrin a
moment ago, he has opened a little door on his unspoken feelings.  She
keeps in step, close alongside him.  Then as a preface to speaking, she
makes a nervous giggle.

‘It
was probably down to me that we ended up in the sauna, Guv – I insisted
we went back to the hotel – I think they might have had other plans for
us.’