Scared to Live (28 page)

Lazar gripped the handles of his brother's wheelchair and kicked off the foot brake The camera panned slowly to follow him as the two men headed towards the white Renault Kangoo parked outside the bakery. 'He's lost sight of whatever it was. Now, he just looks pissed off. He's saying something to Lazar. That's the trouble with making silent movies like this - you need subtitles. It's a pity Technical Support couldn't have got a microphone on to the wheelchair to pick up sound.' 'How would they have done that? Anton is only ever out of the thing when he goes to bed or to the toilet. Besides, how good is your Bulgarian?' By now, Lazar had stopped at the rear of the Kangoo and applied the brake on the chair. He thumbed an electronic key from his pocket and the lights on the vehicle flashed. The Kangoo had an electrically operated folding ramp and a power winch to load the wheelchair through the rear doors. Someone with too much time on his hands had added a note in the file to say it was a Bekker conversion. Lazar didn't look strong enough to have helped his brother out of his chair and into the van without the winch. And there was no doubt the Zhivkos could afford an extra thousand pounds or so for the technology. 'Well, business is over for the day. I reckon we can knock off and claim our Oscars.' 'Not until they're clear of the area. Let's do the job properly.' 'OK. But all this on account of some dodgy intelligence? I hope Europol appreciate what we're going through on their behalf.' The camera's field of view covered the Zhivkos' vehicle and three cars parked in front of it on the north side of Stephenson Place. Surveillance had confirmed that the brothers always arrived early to make sure they got a space for the Kangoo near their shop. To the west, there were double yellow lines

along the kerb all the way to the lights at the corner of Knifesmithgate, so the position of the camera had pretty much decided itself. The first-floor store room above the charity shop provided a decent vantage point, at the right angle to catch the face of anyone leaving the shop. Even better, there were bars on the store-room window and stacks of boxes already in place to disguise the camera's outline. A radio crackled. 'Have they left the shop?' 'Yes, they're in the street, about to load the wheelchair into the van. It looks like they're heading for home.' 'A wash-out, then.' The monitor showed that Lazar Zhivko had positioned his brother's chair behind the Renault and left him there while he went to the driver's door. There was still time for a contact, but not much. The brothers would be gone from the scene in the next couple of minutes. 'A couple of lads are walking towards the shop from Knifesmithgate.' 'Lads?' 'Sorry. Two white males, aged eighteen to twenty, wearing jeans and sweatshirts. They're slowing a bit as they get to the vehicle. No, they're just admiring the van.' 'They're not interested in the Zhivkos?' 'They're passing on. No contact. We got them on film anyway.' 'Nothing. As soon as the brothers move out of the street, we'll call it a day here. Team Two can pick them up at home.' The aluminium ramp was unfolding itself from the rear doors of the Kangoo. Lazar leaned in to press a button under the dashboard, and the lift lowered slowly towards the road. The roof of the vehicle was high enough to take both Anton and his wheelchair without any undignified heaving to transfer his body to a van seat. It wasn't the most stylish mode of transport, but it was convenient for the Zhivkos, and so distinctive that it was a gift for surveillance.

From this distance, it wasn't possible to hear the hum of the electric motor that drove the ramp. But because it was too loud, or for some other reason, the brothers didn't try to speak to each other over the noise. Lazar was by the driver's door, waiting for the platform to touch the road so he could connect the winch. Anton looked exhausted, his eyes cast down at his lap. He wasn't watching the ramp. He must have seen its operation many times before, perhaps regarded it with resentment. It was one more mechanical aid that he shouldn't have needed but for the damage done to his legs. Anton could have a weapon concealed under the rug across his knees. The nervous plucking of his fingers at the edges could be his way of keeping a handgun within easy reach, yet out of sight. But nothing in the intelligence reports had indicated the Zhivkos might be armed. In any case, there was no intention to arrest the brothers, not right there in the street with dozens of passers-by getting in the way. If an arrest ever happened, it would be done in the privacy of the brothers' home at dawn, with the advantage of surprise and force of numbers, a hydraulic ram through the front door and officers in body armour dragging them from their beds before they were even awake. Before the surveillance officers had turned away from the monitor, something strange happened. Both the Zhivko brothers reacted to something simultaneously. Their heads came up sharply, as if they'd been startled by a sudden noise. Their eyes met across the roof of the Kangoo, and for the first time Anton opened his mouth to speak. No - not to speak, but to shout, to yell. To scream. It was a scream that never came. If Anton made any sound at all, it was the last one of his life. The force of the explosion hurled him across the bonnet of a taxi and into the middle of the road. His chair was crushed by a bus, but Anton's body broke away from the wreckage and bounced across the tarmac

until he crumpled into a smouldering heap in the gutter. There was just one glimpse of his motionless figure before it disappeared in the cloud of black smoke that surged from the blazing Kangoo. Lazar Zhivko had been luckier. The blast had blown him backwards against the wing mirror of a parked Volvo. The mirror snapped and a three-inch steel shard pierced his back, penetrating his left kidney. Glass fragments from the Kangoo's shattered windscreen ripped into Lazar's face and hands, and shredded his clothes. Flames from the burning vehicle spread rapidly to nearby cars and the smoke dipped and swirled in a sudden breeze. The window of the store room had blown out, and the shop's alarms were ringing. The two officers had ducked and thrown their arms over their heads, but it was already too late. Smoke billowed across the window and surged through the gaps in the glass. Debris spattered on the cardboard boxes and showered the floor in a layer of grit. 'Jesus, what was that?' The radio was already calling for fire appliances and ambulances. The microphones in the shop would be picking up the sound of the explosion and shattering glass. Even inside the store room they could feel the heat of the flames. The blast had seemed to happen in slow motion, following a blinding flash of light powerful enough to etch the startled faces of the two victims into the retinas of watching eyes. Their faces would be there for days, forever staring, shocked and frightened, opening their mouths to speak, but never uttering a word. 'It looks as though someone visited the Zhivko brothers after all.'

23

At Manchester Terminal One, Fry stood in front of W. H. Smith's, waiting for passengers to emerge from baggage reclaim into the arrivals hall. In the amusement arcade, two teenage boys were playing a grand prix driving game, and the flashing lights were distracting Fry's attention. She was afraid she'd miss her visitor. But on the other hand, she knew he'd stand out all too well when she saw him. She recalled Cooper's comments as she'd left the office to collect Sergeant Kotsev. 'How will you recognize him?' he'd asked. 'He won't be in uniform, surely.' 'Well, he's six foot two inches tall, with black hair, dark brown eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache.' 'How do you know that? Did his brown eyes just come up in conversation?' 'Yes.' But, in fact, the description had been in an email he'd sent her. Fry had discovered it in her inbox immediately after receiving the phone message. Sergeant Kotsev was already in the air by then. So when he came in sight, Fry recognized him straight away. He was towing a large black suitcase with four wheels. It

seemed to trundle on behind him effortlessly, like the animated luggage in a Terry Pratchett story. Georgi Kotsev was definitely tall and dark. He had good bone structure, and a slight tan, but not too much. A recent holiday in one of those Black Sea resorts, perhaps? He wore a black leather jacket, quite new, though probably a cut-price copy of a designer label. Fry thought he'd have looked pretty good in a well-cut suit, too. His hair was black, trimmed short, but combed back to reveal a hint of waviness. He also looked vaguely angry as he came down the ramp. But his expression cleared quickly when Fry introduced herself. 'Welcome to England, Sergeant.' Kotsev smiled. 'Blagodariya. Thank you.' 'If you'll follow me, I've got a car waiting.' She ought to say something else, but she'd always found small talk difficult. All the way from Edendale to the airport, she'd been worrying about the prospect of making stilted conversation with a stranger. But as Fry led her visitor across the walkway to the short-stay car park, she found there'd been no need to worry. He began to talk without any prompting. 'I came by Lufthansa,' he said. 'The German airline, you know it? Only four hours and fifty-five minutes, including one stop at Frankfurt. Very quick, very efficient. A British Airways flight is two hours longer - and yet more expensive.' 'You know, your English is very good, Sergeant Kotsev.' 'Ah, merci. Thank you. And German aircraft have three inches more leg room. Did you know? That is important, too. For me, at least. Are the British less tall than Germans? No, I don't think so. Oh, and then there is Czech Airways. A joke, of course.' 'You're an admirer of German efficiency, then?' 'We have to give them credit for what they achieve,' he said.

Her Peugeot was fortunately close to the entrance. She was anxious to get in the car and be under way. 'Wasn't Bulgaria invaded by the Germans during the last war?' she said as she opened the boot for his suitcase. The question had come out of her mouth before it had even occurred to her she might sound too much like a character out of a Fawlty Towers episode. Well, that was the danger of making small talk. The pressure to say something that would fill the silence led to stupid comments. Kotsev started to nod his head, then seemed to change his mind and shook it vigorously instead. 'No, no - we were on their side. It was the Russians who invaded us.' 'Really?' He folded the handle of his case and loaded it into the car. 'Sadly, there is some ignorance here about our history.' Fry thought of the people Kotsev might meet back at Edendale. 'I can't promise you anything else.' He politely remained silent while she exited the car park and negotiated her way out of the airport, following the signs back to the motorway. When the silence began to feel uncomfortable, she searched her mind for something else to say. What did you say in these circumstances? What the hell are you doing here? Why don't you just go back home where you belong? 'So where did you learn to speak English so well, Sergeant Kotsev?' 'Ah, I attended a good school in our capital, Sofia, and later at university. Regrettably, there are still very few police officers in my country who speak English well. You could visit many provincial police stations in Bulgaria and find no officers who speak English at all.' Fry laughed. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of. How many police officers do you think we have in Edendale who speak Bulgarian?' Kotsev smiled. 'It's different. It will be necessary for many

more of us to speak your tongue when we enter the European Union.' 'Still, it must be very irritating to have us all coming to your country and expecting you to speak to us in English.' 'Ah, but ours is an unimportant little language.' It was intriguing to hear Kotsev say that without sarcasm or bitterness, as if he actually meant it. She would normally have expected at least a small chip on the shoulder. 'Well, it's true that Bulgarian wasn't offered as a course option when I was a student,' she said. Her visitor seemed to take in everything they passed on the journey from the airport. Not that there was much to see on the M60 orbital. He'd pushed the passenger seat as far back as it would go to accommodate his long legs, and Fry was conscious of the fact that he could watch her from that angle without her knowing it. She stood the uncertainty for as long as she could, then she turned to meet his eyes. Kotsev had been right about how brown they were. They made her think of dark chocolate. Thornton's apricot parfait. 'So you are a graduate, Sergeant Fry?' said Kotsev. 'What is your degree, a Bachelor of Arts or a Bachelor of Science? Police officers should have a good education, I believe. It's very important, if we are to have the respect of the people. Myself, I attended the University Saint Kliment Ohridski in Sofia.' 'I was at the University of Central England in Birmingham. We called it UCE. As a comedian said once, it isn't named after its initials, but the grades you need to get in.' He regarded her quizzically, perhaps not fully understanding what she'd said, but recognizing the self-deprecating tone. Fry immediately felt embarrassed. She didn't know what had made her say that about her old university. She had no reason to denigrate it. At the time, UCE had been exactly what she needed - a route to escape into a different world, where opportunities were available for the grasping. She was sure it had been a lifeline for many who'd gone there before her, and

since. Some said that institutions like UCE served a more useful purpose in society than any number of Oxbridge colleges, with their dreaming spires and drunken hoorays throwing themselves off bridges. 'It's kind of you to escort me,' said Kotsev. 'You must be very busy, I'm sure. A shooting enquiry for you to pursue. Connections to organized crime. Worrying complications for a small police department.' 'Yes, it is a bit hectic' He fell silent until they were out of Glossop and travelling southwards along the ridge through Hayfield and past Chapel-en-le-Frith. 'So this is the county of Derbyshire,' he said. 'Very pretty.' Fry didn't respond. She generally tried to avert her gaze from the view whenever there was a steep drop away from the road. 'What are these hills called?' asked Kotsev. 'Er . . . I'm not sure.' 'And this valley? The river?' 'I forget. But if you really want to know, I'll introduce you to one of my colleagues when we get to Edendale. He knows everything about the area.' His eyes were on her again, she could feel it. It was making her tense. Watch the countryside going by, why don't you? 'So what sort of place is Pleven?' she said, trying to sound as though she was interested in the answer. 'Pleven is located in the agricultural region of Miziya, in the north of Bulgaria. It's surrounded by limestone hills. You might feel at home if you visited there.' 'Might I? Why?' 'Those are limestone quarries I can see ahead of us, if I'm not mistaken.' 'Oh. Probably.' 'So the hills are very much like these. But the city of Pleven has a population of a hundred and forty-three thousand persons. Not like this.'