No Tomorrow (13 page)

The man in the suit remained silent.

“So,” Linnekin continued, “she's watching me, isn't she? She's watching my whole network, my men, everything we do. Everyone we meet. Which means she's now going to know all about . . . you.” Linnekin grinned. “Still think you're so smart, tough guy?”

V
ictor returned to the old plumbing supplies warehouse a little after eight a.m. He entered through the door leading into the office annex and followed the sound of grunting into the main warehouse space. Dmitri was working out—squats—with an improvised barbell weighted with sand-filled buckets and chains. Yigor spotted him. Both men were drenched in sweat. The air stank.

Dmitri noticed him and walked over. “Why have you got blood on you?”

Victor explained in as few words as possible.

Yigor grinned. “I knew it. You
are
Mr. Bad Man.”

“What's the next move?” Dmitri asked.

Victor didn't answer. He made his way back into the office annex and upstairs to the first floor, where he used a landline to call Norimov.

When the line connected, Victor said, “Do you know a man named Andrei Linnekin?”

“No. Who is he?”

“A Russian mob boss. He had a drug trafficker named Moran put a crew out to look for Gisele. They were the
guys who I encountered in her apartment. They'd been looking for her for the past week.”

Norimov said, “Why did he tell Moran to kidnap my daughter?”

“Because he was too lazy to do it himself.”

“I don't recognize the name Linnekin. I would have thought when my rivals were identified they would be men I knew, men I had broken bread with. He must be following orders for someone back here.”

“Not necessarily,” Victor said. He summarized what he'd been told about the blond woman with green eyes.

“So she's just another link in the chain.”

“I'm not so sure. According to Linnekin, she knew everything about him and his operation.”

“Because she was told it by the bosses. Linnekin may be a boss in London, but he'll answer to someone in Russia. That's how it works.”

“Then why didn't they go straight to Linnekin? Why trust the job to a foreigner only for her to go to a Russian? Unless things have dramatically changed in recent times, the Russian mob isn't exactly trusting of outsiders. Or women.”

“So who is she and why is she after me?”

“Smart enough not give Linnekin her name. Smart enough to convince him to take on a job he neither needed nor wanted. She wants Gisele, but couldn't do it herself. Either because she doesn't have the resources—which can't be the case if she knew so much about Linnekin—or she didn't want to get her hands dirty. Linnekin created a buffer between her and the kidnapping.”

“Why?”

“Again, I don't know. She's careful. She wants things done in a particular way. She didn't expect Linnekin to
palm the job off to someone like Moran. She won't be happy when she finds out he did and it's exposed her.”

“How will she find out? Don't tell me you didn't kill him.”

“We made a deal. If nothing else, I'm a man of my word. Besides, he's not my enemy. He's a middleman. If I killed him, I would need to kill his entire network. And I don't have the time for that.”

“If he finds you—”

Victor said, “You of all people should know that I'm more difficult to kill than I like to appear. Linnekin's smart. He won't come after me so soon. He knows nothing about me. He's going to enjoy being alive first.”

“You're taking a huge risk, my boy. That's most unlike you. Better not to take any chances, and kill Linnekin.”

“When, and only when, I deem it necessary,” Victor said. “But for now I have more pressing matters.”

There was silence on the line for a moment. Victor could hear the heavy footfalls of Dmitri and Yigor climbing the stairs nearby.

Eventually, Norimov said, “If this woman you speak of doesn't have Gisele, why is she missing?”

“I'm starting to think that maybe she's not.”

“What?”

“Something doesn't make sense. Gisele has been missing for a week—the same length of time since you were threatened—but if they have her they're not saying so. If they don't have her, where is she?”

“That's what I want you to find out.”

“There's a chance they've already come after her.”

“I know that. You don't have to keep telling me.”

“I don't mean they have her.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Victor said, “What if they tried to kidnap her before you received the photograph? Because then you wouldn't be able to warn her. That way, the first you'd know about the threat was when they told you they had your daughter or when you opened a box and found her head inside.”

“What are you getting at?”

“It's a hypothesis,” Victor said. “Perhaps this woman tried to kidnap Gisele and failed. When she couldn't locate her, she went to Linnekin for help, to look for her in London. At that point you were sent the threatening photograph because the attack had begun and she didn't realize you two were estranged. The photograph was sent so you would know who was behind the kidnapping attempt, so that you would divide your forces to protect Gisele. Which is what happened. Maybe the attempted kidnap happened right outside Gisele's building. She was too scared to return home and so is staying elsewhere. There was a gap in her wardrobe that would fit a medium-sized wheeled suitcase.”

Norimov thought about this for a moment. “But where would she go?”

“How would I know? I've never met her. I know next to nothing about her. I don't know who her friends are or who she would stay with.”

“Please let it be so. You've got to find her before they do. Please, Vasily. You must protect her.”

“I'm aware of the objective. But she might turn up in a few days, blissfully ignorant of what's been going on in her absence.”

“I'll pray that she does,” Norimov said. “Some more of my men are on the next plane to London. An old friend in the FSB came through and managed to get them visas.”

“I don't want any help. I'm only using Dmitri and Yigor so I can keep an eye on them.”

“You're in charge, Vasily. My boys can sit on the sidelines until you need them.”

Victor hung up. He stood in the gloom, thinking. Something wasn't right. He didn't believe everything he'd told Norimov. But he wasn't sure what he did believe.

A
nderton's contact was a heavyset man with skin as black as the silk shirt he wore beneath a tailored charcoal suit. The only color came from a folded pink pocket square protruding from the suit jacket's breast pocket. He lounged at a corner table, his feet up and resting on a stool before him. Black loafers rested on the floor. Toes wiggled beneath socks.

A glass was raised Anderton's way as she approached through the clutter of tightly packed tables and chairs. The bistro was small and hot and close to capacity. The air was full of the sound of loud chatter.

Anderton said, “Marcus,” and smiled as she took a seat opposite.

Marcus Lambert smiled in return: a flash of large bright teeth. “My dear. How are you keeping?”

“I'd like to say as tremendous as always, but I'm afraid I have a delicate situation.”

Marcus responded with a slow nod. “So soon to the meat of the matter? No sexy waltz of chitchat first? I'm heartbroken.”

“I'm afraid so. Time is not my friend today.”

“And here I was thinking it was my caustic wit that brought you here.”

She said, “The pleasure of your company is why we're not doing this over the phone.”

“I shall accept that little lie. Why don't you tell me what kind of trouble you're in?”

She didn't respond. She held his gaze.

“Ah,” Marcus said eventually. “It's about that.”

“It was never going to be anything else.”

Marcus placed his wineglass on the table between them. He laced his fingers together. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but you said it was under control. And that was after you told me we were never supposed to mention it again.”

“Right on both counts. But I'm not mentioning it. Neither are you. Someone else is.”

“Oh,” Marcus said.

“Yes,
oh
,” Anderton said back.

“I thought that was solid. You told me it was.”

“That was then. This is now.”

Marcus sat back. “We don't work together any longer. How is this still my business?”

“Because your business only exists because of what I—
we—
did. And you've done so very well out of it, haven't you?”

He looked away while he considered. Anderton left him to it because there could be only one conclusion.

“What do you want me to do?” Marcus asked.

“I need your company. Specifically, I need some of your assets.”

“I don't like where you're going with this.”

Anderton smiled. “That's irrelevant, Marcus. You run
a private security firm and I'm your new client. I'm asking for a team. Off the books, of course. Only your best.”

“What exactly do you intend to use them for?”

“You know what I need them for. I have my own people for eyes and ears, but we're past that stage now. I can tell you specifics if you like, but I'm guessing you don't want to know any more than absolutely necessary.”

Marcus thought about this. “How much more damage must be done before this is over?”

“An old Cambridge tutor of mine—Professor Vaughn—used to say, ‘If you poke a bear once, you may as well keep poking.' Do you understand what that means?”

Marcus said, “I'm afraid I had a very different level of education than you have. In inner-city London, you count yourself lucky if your teacher shows up. Riddles were never on the agenda.”

“My point is that we've already crossed so many lines with our little indiscretion—”

“Indiscretion,”
Marcus echoed. “You make it sound so harmless.”

Anderton ignored the interruption. “So what use is there in debating how far we go now?”

Marcus finished his wine and poured himself another glass. “Does Sinclair know about this?”

She used her nails to lift a Sicilian green olive from a little bowl on the table. “Of course. He's been assisting me. He understands the importance of cleanliness.”

“Is he still crazy?”

Anderton bit a piece from the olive and chewed. “
Mmm
, that's divine. I love it here. They use only the best.”

“Well?”

She finished eating and wiped her fingers on a napkin.
“He's who he's always been. Just like you, however much you try to hide it behind all this aspirational decadence.”

“Always has to come back to class with you, doesn't it, Nieve? If I so chose I could buy this here restaurant you're so partial to. Today. In cash.”

She smiled at him. “That's the thing about class, Marcus: the more you try to buy it, the more you find it's sold out.”

He swallowed some wine. “Sinclair's a liability. You know I had to fire him, don't you? The man took far too much pleasure in his work than is healthy, even for a mercenary. Using him for this makes me very uncomfortable. He's a dangerous dog who should have been destroyed long ago.”

“There's some merit in that analogy, granted. But he has as much stake in this as you and I. And you're forgetting the essential fact about our dear friend: I hold his leash.”

Marcus considered this. He toyed with the gold Patek Philippe on his left wrist. “I have a team in North Africa. They're good. More important, they're reliable.”

“They sound perfect,” Anderton said.

“When and where do you want them?”

“Here, in London. And I need them here yesterday.”

T
he United Kingdom has the highest rate of violent crime in the whole of Europe, but even so a triple murder in a leafy London street is a big deal. However, not even a day after Victor had killed three of Moran's men in Gisele's apartment there were no outward signs that any crime had been committed. The street seemed as quiet and peaceful as it had before. He expected there to have been a police car stationed outside the building last night, parked against the curb where it was visible to the residents, to reassure them. The two officers unlucky enough to have pulled that duty would have complained to each other about the waste of manpower, but the decision was for public relations. A triple murder, yes, but the three dead men were all criminals. Whoever had killed them wouldn't be coming back to butcher the neighbors.

Victor made sure his tie was straight and the knot tight as he walked up the gravel driveway. The same three cars were parked there as had been on his first visit. Gisele's sat in the same place as before. At the front door,
he knuckled the buzzers for the two flats below Gisele's. No one answered. He descended the steps and moved around the side of the building to where the garden flat was located. He knocked on the front door.

There was no answer, but he heard someone inside so knocked again.

A chain clinked in place and the door opened a few inches until it became taut.

“Yes?”

A narrow segment of a woman's face was visible in the gap between door and jamb. She looked in her late fifties or early sixties.

Victor flipped open his wallet to give the woman the briefest snapshot of the ID inside. Her limited line of sight helped. “How do you do, ma'am? I'm Detective Sergeant Blake with the Metropolitan Police. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the events of the other night.”

“I already spoke at length to a DCI Crawley.”

“I know, ma'am. But the inquiry is ongoing and with new information comes the need for new questions. May I come in?”

She chewed her lip for a second. “Now really isn't a good time for me.”

“I won't keep you long, I promise. The sooner we can fill in all our blanks, the sooner we can catch those responsible.”

“Those? Inspector Crawley gave me the impression you were only looking for a single perpetrator.”

That gave Victor a moment's pause. Whoever DCI Crawley was, he knew how to read a crime scene. “We can't rule anything or anyone out at this present time.
But the quicker they're off the streets, the better. As I'm sure you'll agree.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“May I come in?”

Deliberation. A sigh of defeat. “Okay. Yes. Come inside.”

She shut the door to unhook the chain and opened it to allow him to enter. He stepped through the doorway into the hall. The ceiling was only a few inches above his head.

“This way, please.”

The woman led him through to a lounge and offered him a seat. Floral paper covered the walls. Ornaments and antique oddities adorned every sideboard, of which there were many. Oil paintings hung from every wall. The floors were all carpeted and overlaid with colorful rugs.

He sat down in an armchair that gave him the best view of the door and the window. The curtains were closed. The flat was half-sunk into the ground, and even with the closed curtains he knew the driveway would only begin halfway up the window. Natural light would be a problem, especially in winter. Two lamps were switched on. The room had a warm, soft glow. The woman looked ten years younger than she had in the hallway. He didn't know her name. He'd been looking out for letters but there had been no mail by the door or left on sideboards.

“So, Sergeant. How can I help?”

“I wonder if I might trouble you for a glass of water first. Please.”

“No problem,” she said, sounding like it was. She left him to go to the kitchen.

He stood and slid open the drawers of a corner bureau
until he found utility bills and bank statements. He was back in the armchair when she reentered with a highball glass of water.

“There you go.”

“Thank you. . . . Is it Miss or Mrs. Cooper?”

“Miss. But call me Yvette, please.”

“Thank you, Yvette.”

He sipped the water and set the glass down. “As I'm sure you're aware by now, there was a violent crime in the top-floor flat two nights ago.”

“Three murders.”

“That's right. I'd like to talk to you about the flat's occupier.”

“Okay.”

He saw she was suspicious and holding back, perhaps not believing he was who he said.

“Do you know Gisele Maynard?”

“We're neighbors. I knew her about enough to say hello in the morning. That kind of thing.”

“Do you know where she is?”

Yvette shook her head. “I haven't a clue.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Oh, I really don't know. Obviously, before she went missing.”

Victor nodded. “So you believe she is missing?”

“I . . . Well, no one's seen her, have they?”

“That's what we're trying to establish. She hasn't been to work in more than a week now. Does she have a boyfriend she might be staying with?”

“No. There's hasn't been anyone like that in her life for a while.”

“What about friends?”

“I don't think she had many. At least, proper friends. All she did was work. She was very passionate about her job.”

“And family? She has a father in Russia. Might she be visiting him?”

Yvette shook her head. “Definitely not. She had nothing to do with him. He's not a nice man. Shouldn't you be writing all this down?”

“I have a good memory for these things.” He smiled and tapped the side of his skull while thinking the woman knew a lot about Gisele for someone who only ever said hello in the morning. “On the night of the murders, did you hear or see anything?”

“No, I was at work that night. Thank God.”

“What kind of work do you do, Miss Cooper? I'm sorry—Yvette.”

“I do shifts at the delivery office. I hate it.” She smiled and laughed. “Don't have much choice at my age.”

Victor nodded. Yvette sat with her knees close together and her hands in her lap.

“Do you live alone, Miss Cooper?”

“Yes. Why?”

“If there was another resident, I would have to speak to him or her about the other night. That's all.”

“I had a flatmate once. Years ago now. I prefer living on my own. Not sure how much longer I'll be able to afford it, though. It's so expensive in London.”

“I know what you mean,” Victor said. “My partner and I are struggling to save for a deposit.”

“Take my advice and go somewhere where you'll get a place twice the size for the same money. But good luck with it.”

Victor said, “I think that's everything. Thank you for
your time.” He stood, and said as she went to do the same, “Don't worry. I'll see myself out.”

“Do you have a card? In case I think of anything else.”

He patted the left side of his chest, over his inside jacket pocket. “Not on me, I'm afraid. But someone will probably pop round to see you again.”

“Great,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Cheers. May I use your bathroom?”

“If you must.”

Like the rest of the flat it had a low ceiling. A ventilation fan buzzed on when he flicked the light switch. He closed the door behind him. He stood for a minute. He didn't move. He didn't need to do anything because he had seen what he had come into the bathroom to see.

When he stepped out and back into the hallway he found Yvette standing there, waiting for him. Her face was stern and frowning. “Are you really a copper? Let me see your ID again. You'd better not be a bloody journalist after scraps. You people make me sick.”

Victor didn't bother arguing. He opened the closed door.

“Hey,” Yvette called, “what are you doing? That's my room.”

On the other side of the door was a bedroom. It was as full of ornaments as the lounge. The bed was immaculately made. There was no en suite or sliding door or walk-in wardrobe. He approached the second door. Yvette stood in his path.

“I'd like you to leave.”

Victor said, “You claim to live alone yet there are two toothbrushes in your bathroom. You told me you weren't here the other night but I saw your lights were on. You
also know a lot about her for someone who is just a neighbor.”

“I said I'd like you to go now. Get out of my home.”

“I will have no choice but to move you if you don't let me pass.”

She squared herself in front of him. “If you do, I'll call the police. The
real
police.”

“Last chance,” Victor said. “Move.”

She glared at him. “Get. Out. Now.”

“It's okay, Yvette,” a voice said from behind the closed door.

It opened and a young woman appeared.

“Hello, Gisele,” Victor said.