Ratcatcher (17 page)

‘The fallacy of motive,’ said Purkiss.

‘What?’

‘In every crime novel you read, the detective invests heavily in trying to work out what motive each suspect might have had, and more often than not solves the crime based on his deductions in this regard. Speak to any real detective and they’ll tell you that’s not how they work. They go by evidence, pure and simple. There’s less chance of being misled by wild speculation that way.’

‘But you can’t mean that people’s motives are irrelevant.’

‘Of course I don’t. It’s just that those motives can be figured out afterwards. All that matters when you’re trying to find a perpetrator is evidence of his or her guilt.’

His or her
. It hung between them like a trace of smoke from an illicit cigarette.

After a pause that seemed to last aeons Purkiss said, ‘He’ll have forewarned Rodina Security and Kuznetsov that we’re coming. Rossiter, if he’s the one.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re not worried.’

She shook her head. ‘They won’t harm us, not there. Richard – as you say, if it is him – knows you have another contact in the city, the person you met at the airport. He knows you’ll have told them where you’re going. If you disappeared on the premises of Rodina Security your contact would raise the alarm immediately.’

‘Right.’ He had in fact sent Abby a text message shortly before they’d set off, telling her where he was heading and asking her to dig up whatever she could on the security firm.

She said, ‘But it also means we’re not likely to get much out of them. They’ll be shut up tighter than a clam.’

‘Still worth a visit. It’ll give us a feel for them. Numbers, whether or not the whole firm’s involved, how jumpy they are.’

*

The offices of Rodina Security occupied the entire second floor of a block near what Elle informed Purkiss was the Central Bus Station. Behind the desk in the lobby the security guard looked bored beyond endurance.

Purkiss said in Russian: ‘Second floor. Rodina.’

The guard pushed across a book with removable slips of paper. They filled in their names, Purkiss using the Martin Hughes alias from his passport. The guard tore out the slips, folded each into a plastic badge holder with a metal clasp on the back, and handed them across.

The lift opened on to a corridor with marble-effect walls and a maroon carpet. Glass doors led into a waiting room and a young woman behind a reception desk looked up: austere, hair pulled sharply back, pale lipstick.

‘Good afternoon.’ Purkiss took the lead. ‘We’re here to see Mr Kuznetsov.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’ Her Russian was that of a native speaker.

‘No. But he’d want to see us. We have a business proposal he’d be very interested in.’

Her eyes and mouth were sceptical. ‘Mr Kuznetsov isn’t here now.’

‘Where might he be contacted, please?’

‘He’s out of the country on business.’

Elle spoke: ‘Is Mr Dobrynin available?’ Dobrynin was named on the website as the deputy director of the company.

The receptionist hesitated a second and Purkiss pressed the advantage, leaning in a little. ‘Please. Do us a big favour and bend the rules for us. Fifteen minutes of his time. He’ll be grateful to you once he’s heard what we’re offering, believe me.
Very
grateful.’

She held his gaze and he was glad he hadn’t offered a bribe. She looked as if she would take serious offence. He said, his voice low: ‘Tell Mr Dobrynin it’s about tomorrow.’

The receptionist sat back a little, her face betraying nothing. Keeping her eyes on him she picked up her phone and pressed a button and a man’s voice came in a tinny syllable through the receiver: ‘
Da?
’

She turned away and, still maintaining eye contact with him, murmured quietly enough that Purkiss couldn’t make out the words. After ten seconds she replaced the receiver and said, ‘Please take a seat. Mr Dobrynin will see you shortly.’

They didn’t sit, moving instead back towards the glass doors and out of earshot of the receptionist. Elle stepped in close and looked up at him, eyes taut. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘Direct confrontation. There’s no point pussyfooting. He knows who we are and that we know who he is. He’ll deny it all, of course, but it’ll spook him. It might shake them enough to make them slip up somewhere.’

‘What if he doesn’t deny it?’

‘Then we won’t walk out of here. But as you said before, that’s unlikely to happen.’

A man appeared at the reception desk, mid-fifties, trim in a tailored but plain charcoal suit. ‘Mr Hughes and Ms Klavan.’

They approached. In his gaze Purkiss saw a mild curiosity but otherwise almost friendliness. The man shook his hand. ‘Anton Dobrynin.’

The hand felt odd, knuckly and too narrow, and as it was withdrawn Purkiss glanced at it and saw its deformity, one third of it missing including the ring and little fingers.

Dobrynin gestured for them to precede him down a corridor at the end of which a door stood ajar. Purkiss went through first, saw a medium-sized conference table, windows darkened by drawn blinds, a connecting door opposite the one by which they had entered. It wasn’t until Dobrynin had closed the door behind them that the connecting one opened and two men in shirtsleeves came through, handguns drawn but held pointing down at their sides.

Dobrynin said, ‘Sit.’

NINETEEN

‘A business deal.’

‘Correct.’

Dobrynin watched him, seated opposite him at the table, the fingertips of his good hand supporting his chin. Elle sat beside Purkiss and the gunmen had taken up position on either side of Dobrynin, their pistols out of sight. They had frisked him and Elle thoroughly, had taken their phones from them and placed them in a small soundproofed safe in one wall. Clever, thought Purkiss, and professional.

‘Mr Dobrynin,’ Purkiss said, ‘you’ll have realised, of course, that we have insurance in place. If we don’t leave here, unharmed, by five o’clock, my associates will blow the whistle and this place will be buried under so many layers of anti-terrorist police you won’t be able to breathe.’ He’d pulled the five o’clock part out of the air.

Dobrynin’s expression remained mild.

Purkiss said, ‘This is my offer. You tell us where we can find the Englishman, Fallon, and we’ll walk out of here and leave you in peace.’ 

A frown of interest drew Dobrynin’s brows together. ‘Mr – Hughes, yes? There are two problems with what you say. The first is that I don’t know what kind of a threat you believe yourself to be to me or my company, such that your leaving us in peace would be a blessing.’ The affability hadn’t left his manner. Over the edge of the table his mutilated right hand showed for an instant.

‘You evidently see us as a threat.’

Dobrynin raised his eyebrows. ‘The guns? Security, nothing more. You and your colleague arrive and demand an audience in a fairly threatening manner. It’s natural we should be cautious. In our work we come up against men of violence all the time. Somebody whom we have previously upset might have sent you, for all I know.’ He paused a beat. ‘The second problem is that I don’t know any Englishman called Fallon, or anyone else by that name, come to that.’ Palm raised to the heavens, he smiled ruefully. ‘So I’m afraid I can’t help you.’

It was going to be a game of bluff, then. Fair enough. Purkiss said, ‘Fine. But it’s a pity. Because when Fallon goes down, you’re going down with him, and it could have been avoided.’ He stood up. Neither of the gunmen moved. Elle rose as well. Dobrynin watched Purkiss, his smile lingering.

‘Sit, please, Mr Hughes. Coffee?’

‘No.’ They stayed on their feet.

‘Perhaps my company can help you find this Fallon. We carry out investigations as well as performing security operations. Who is he?’

Again the interest in the narrowed eyes. Purkiss realised suddenly:
he doesn’t know
. What did that mean?

‘Former British Secret Service. Now a wanted criminal. A murderer.’

He leaned slightly forward as he said it and although the muscles of the man’s face remained shaped in the same expression of polite attention, the change in Dobrynin’s eyes was unmistakeable: a dilation in the pupils crowding out the surrounding grey irises, an almost imperceptible raising of the upper lids. 

‘I see.’ For the second time Dobrynin’s mangled right hand came into view as he massaged it with the other. Then it disappeared again as if he’d been caught out indulging a nervous mannerism. ‘And what is he doing in Tallinn?’

‘Conspiring. As you know perfectly well.’

‘Conspiring to do what?’ He spoke as if he hadn’t heard the second part.

‘To derail tomorrow’s summit meeting.’

Dobrynin’s stare lasted a full five seconds before he blinked and shook his head. ‘Mr Hughes, I’m sorry, I really can’t do business with you. Not to put too fine a point on it but you’re a crank. If somebody you know is planning something as serious as you say, then it’s the police you should be talking to.’ He stood, as did his men. One of them waited for his nod, then went to retrieve their phones from the wall safe.

‘Goodbye.’ Dobrynin didn’t offer his hand this time. Purkiss said nothing, trying to keep his churning thoughts in check long enough that he didn’t mistake what he was seeing in Dobrynin’s face. The two gunmen opened the door and gestured them through. At the last glimpse, the rest of his face neutral, Dobrynin’s eyes were lit up with the unmistakeable fire of triumph.

*

They rode the lift in silence. Purkiss braced himself all the way for the sudden jolting halt, rough hands and gun butts taking over, but by the time they handed in their plastic visitors’ badges to the guard at the front desk he realised they were in fact going to be allowed out.

On the street Elle let out her breath in a slow whistle.

‘What the
hell
was that all about?’

‘Three possibilities.’ The car was parked two blocks away and as if they had communicated telepathically they began walking in the other direction to flush out tags. ‘One, Dobrynin genuinely has nothing to do with any of this, it’s all his boss Kuznetsov’s operation.’

‘Highly unlikely,’ she said. ‘He’s a good liar but not that good.’

‘You saw it?’

‘The hand? Yes.’ Dobrynin had kept his disfigured appendage out of sight beneath the desk except when he’d been saying he didn’t know what kind of a threat they thought they posed to him and his firm. Unskilled liars will touch their faces during the act of lying, as though trying to keep the untruths from escaping their mouths. More accomplished ones usually still struggle to prevent their hands from beginning the movement.

They paused at a corner as if debating which way to go, and Purkiss did a quick check. Nobody obvious behind them. Turning left, he said, ‘So. Possibility number two is that Fallon is working freelance. They’ve obviously come across him – he was sleeping with one of their number, Ilkun – but Dobrynin was genuinely surprised in there when I mentioned both that Fallon was former SIS and that he planned to scupper the summit.’

‘So both Fallon and Kuznetsov’s crew are working independently to achieve the same thing?’

‘Doesn’t seem credible, does it.’ A car was crawling alongside them but it was just an elderly driver, peering at the street signs. ‘Unless Fallon is trying to hijack their operation for his own ends. It’s the only explanation that makes the remotest sense that I can think of.’

‘That look on Dobrynin’s face at the end,’ she said. ‘It was as if the penny had dropped. As if he understood that Fallon was in competition with them.’

‘Yes.’

They had come almost full circle and the car was in sight.

‘You said three possibilities.’

‘The third is that we’re completely wrong about the first two.’

At the car they took turns, one keeping watch for tags while the other ducked to peer under the chassis for tracking devices. They’d parked far enough away that it wasn’t likely they had been spotted emerging from the vehicle but it was worth taking precautions.

He’d thought about telling her about the satnav he’d salvaged from the wreck of the car earlier, about what he had planned for that evening once dark had fallen. But he thought again of how he’d been caught off guard by his surprise when she’d pulled the gun.

No. It was best to trust only those you knew.

*

‘Play it back.’

Venedikt had gone inside as soon as Dobrynin called. The noise of the men in the yard was distracting. He sat at the kitchen table and listened to the live feed, then to Dobrynin’s voice directly into the mouthpiece: ‘They’ve gone.’

He listened again, keeping his breathing even, trying not to let delight overwhelm him.

Afterwards he said, ‘As we suspected.’

‘Yes.’

‘Our British friend has been lying to us.’

‘It looks that way, Venedikt Vasilyevich.’