Sudden Death (2 page)

It took Jake a moment to process this.

‘You mean we’re going to Russia? That’s great. I
love
Russia. I mean, I’ve just started at a new school, but, y’know,
changing school again is no big deal.’
No more Olly Price,
he thought. ‘What about the apartment?’

His dad held up a hand. ‘Jake . . . I can’t take you with me.’

Jake felt like he’d been punched in the gut. ‘What are you talking about? Of course you can.’

‘I’m sorry, Jake. Not this time.’

There was no room for negotiation in his dad’s voice. Jake balled his fist under the table. The waiter returned and clumsily set down Jake’s walnut chicken; a little of the sauce splashed over the rim of the plate. Jake waited until he’d gone.

‘I’ve just come to London,’ he hissed. ‘To live with
you
.’

‘I know that, Jake,’ said his dad. ‘With your mother travelling all over the place doing her photography it seemed the best idea.’

‘Not that I had any say in it.’

His dad leant forward. ‘Jake, listen . . .’ His voice tailed off as Chernoff emerged from the toilet door and made his way back to the table. He looked a little unsteady on his feet and his skin appeared paler.

Jake’s dad didn’t seem to notice, and absently stirred his stew.

‘Mr Chernoff, are you OK?’ Jake asked.

‘I’m fine . . . I think.’ Chernoff took his seat.

The three of them sat in silence. The sound of their cutlery
against the plates was deafening to Jake’s ears as he chewed his chicken, trying to keep his temper from erupting again.

‘There are some good Russian restaurants in Paris,’ Jake’s dad said. ‘Did you go to many, Jake?’

‘A couple,’ Jake replied coldly.

The silence resumed. Chernoff kept taking nervous sips of water.

Jake ate until he could stand it no longer. He didn’t care if they had company. ‘Were you even planning to tell me?’ he asked.

Jake’s dad paused with his fork in front of his mouth, then laid it on his plate again. ‘Of course. The offer only came up . . . today.’

Now Jake understood: the offer had come from Chernoff. He looked across at him. Chernoff’s face was flushed. He was fiddling with his collar, as though he was too hot. Jake’s warm feelings for his new acquaintance disappeared, scout or not.

‘Maybe I should leave you two alone?’ Chernoff said in a slightly rasping voice. He coughed again.

‘Don’t worry, you do what you have to,’ Jake said to his dad.
Football first, everything and everyone else second.

But his dad wasn’t paying attention. He was leaning across the table towards Chernoff. ‘Andy?’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’

Chernoff’s fingers were tugging at the neck of his shirt.
His eyes were wide with panic. Jake instinctively pushed back his chair as Chernoff’s face went from scarlet to purple. The veins across his temples stood out like worms under his skin. He tried to stand but his knees caught the underside of the table and he fell back in his seat, which threatened to topple over. A choking gurgle emerged from his mouth and saliva bubbled over his lower lip and chin.

Jake looked to his dad in horror. ‘What’s happening?’

Chernoff suddenly pitched forward, his face slamming into his soup. The brown liquid cascaded over the edge of the bowl as Chernoff rolled out of his seat and crumpled to the floor.

‘Jesus, Andy!’ Jake’s dad jumped from his seat and rushed to help his friend.

Soup dripped from Chernoff’s motionless face on to Jake’s shoe. He pulled it back, stunned and revolted at the same time.

There was no doubt in Jake’s mind that the Russian man was dead.

J
ake’s dad knelt at Chernoff’s side. He placed both hands over the scout’s chest and began pumping up and down. Jake flipped open his phone and dialled. ‘Emergency,’ said a calm voice in Jake’s ear, ‘which service do you require?’

‘Ambulance, Obed restaurant, Brompton Road,’ said Jake. ‘A man’s having a . . . he’s dying . . . I think.’

Jake had just finished the call when the manager rushed over. ‘What? How?’ he stammered, looking from Chernoff to Jake.

‘Just stand back,’ Jake said, pushing at the crowd that had gathered. His dad continued CPR. For some reason, he wasn’t breathing into Chernoff’s mouth. Every so often he placed an ear to Chernoff’s chest.

‘Dad,’ Jake said, ‘you should give two breaths for ten compressions.’

His dad ignored him and continued compressions. He was still going, five minutes later, when Jake heard the distant wail of emergency sirens. The sound grew closer until an
ambulance screeched to a halt outside. Strobes of blue light flashed across the restaurant interior.

Two paramedics carrying small holdalls burst into the dining area. One knelt beside Chernoff, her fingers feeling for a pulse on his neck. Jake’s dad sat back, his head glistening with sweat.

‘What’s his name?’ asked the paramedic matter-of-factly.

‘It’s Andrew,’ said his dad quietly. ‘Andrew Chernoff. I’ve checked his airways – they’re clear.’

The woman put her ear to Chernoff’s chest, with her fingers still at his throat. After a few seconds she straightened and gave a small shake of her head to her male colleague. Chernoff’s lips were blue and his open eyes were unseeing.

The other customers were standing huddled like statues, but Jake caught a flash of movement by their table. The untidy waiter deftly picked up the bowl containing the remains of Chernoff’s soup and his dirty napkin, then headed towards the kitchens.

Why is he clearing up now?
Jake wondered.

As the ambulance crew lifted Chernoff on to a concertina stretcher, Jake slipped through the spectators, tracking the waiter. He peered through the small glass panels in the double-doors to the kitchen. He saw the waiter drop the napkin on a draining board beside an industrial dishwasher,
then pick up Chernoff’s bowl and place it in the sink. He turned on both taps, blasting it with water. Something about his calm, studied actions made Jake very uneasy.

He pushed open the doors and stepped in. ‘What are you doing?’

The waiter was side-on to Jake. Jake’s skin prickled. His brain said,
Run!

But his feet didn’t move . . .

‘I said, what are you doing?’ Jake repeated. His heart was pounding and it took a huge effort to keep his voice from trembling.

Suddenly the waiter’s hand jerked up, spraying soap suds towards Jake. Jake ducked automatically, glimpsing a flash of metal. Something whooshed past his ear and thudded into the wall behind him. A meat cleaver was embedded in the doorframe, quivering.

Jake didn’t stop to think – he ran straight at the waiter.

The waiter tried to kick out but Jake caught his foot and reached for the man’s other leg, sweeping it away. They crashed together on to the lino floor, and Jake used all his upper body weight to pin the waiter down. The man said something in Russian, then tried to punch Jake in the side of the head. Jake reacted quickly and took the blow on his elbow, then he crunched his own
fist into the Russian’s teeth. Blood spattered around his mouth.

The waiter wouldn’t give up. He jerked his hips and Jake toppled off him, his fingers catching the edge of the bin. Rubbish poured on top of him. He rolled over, fists up and ready to face his attacker.

But the Russian was disappearing out of a back door. Jake jumped up and went after him. He emerged into an alleyway. The waiter, shirt torn, was pelting towards Brompton Road. Jake sprinted in pursuit, but pain shot through his leg. He pulled up, grimacing. Warm blood was seeping through his trousers below the knee and he could feel the bandage he’d applied earlier hanging loose.

Jake limped out on to the busy street. He scanned left, then right, but the pavements were bustling with pedestrians carrying shopping bags and commuters walking home from work. The waiter was gone.

Jake kicked a bin angrily. He headed back down the alley, breathing heavily as he tried to swallow down his frustration. In the kitchen, the napkin was still on the draining board. Jake picked it up and hurried back through into the dining area. Everyone was outside now and he saw that the police had arrived as well: one patrol car and one unmarked vehicle – both silent, but with their blue lights slowly
spinning. Jake’s dad was leaning against the wall of the restaurant, rubbing his temples.

Jake dashed outside. ‘Something’s going on. Did you see the waiter? He tried to kill me. He –’

His dad grabbed him by the shoulders, scanned him up and down. ‘Are you all right? Slow down, Jake. What happened?’

Jake took a breath and started again. ‘The waiter attacked me,’ he said slowly. ‘He was throwing away Mr Chernoff’s bowl. I got the napkin. I thought –’

His dad glanced back into the restaurant, then frowned at the napkin in Jake’s hand. He took it, then pulled Jake tightly to him. ‘You stupid boy. You could have been . . .’ Jake twisted free of his dad’s awkward embrace.

His dad’s eyes were wet. Were there tears?

‘Was . . . was Mr Chernoff murdered?’ Jake asked.

But his dad was looking over Jake’s shoulder and tucking Chernoff’s soiled napkin into his jacket pocket. A suited man was making a beeline towards them. He nodded curtly to Jake’s dad, flipping open his ID badge.

‘Detective Farrimond, sir. The ambulance crew said you were dining with the deceased. I’m very sorry. Can I take your name, please?’

‘Steve Bastin.’

Jake saw the flicker of recognition in the detective’s face,
and he was grateful the detective didn’t pursue it.

‘And you knew Andrew Chernoff, the victim, Mr Bastin?’

‘Only professionally,’ Jake’s dad said.

What?
thought Jake.
You were joking together like mates a quarter of an hour ago. You called him ‘Andy’.

‘So you don’t know if he was in poor health? Might this have been a heart attack?’

‘It’s possible,’ Jake’s dad said.

Jake couldn’t believe the words coming out of his dad’s mouth. Chernoff had looked in great shape.

‘Do you know his next of kin?’ the detective asked.

Jake’s dad shook his head. ‘He has a sister, I think. Lives in the States now. As I said, we weren’t close.’

‘Dad . . .’ Jake began, but his dad silenced him with a hard stare.

The female paramedic came alongside the detective. ‘We’re going to head off now, if that’s OK with you?’

‘Excuse me a moment, sir,’ said Detective Farrimond to Jake’s dad.

As the detective and the paramedic separated themselves and talked in hushed tones, Jake turned to whisper, ‘Dad, Mr Chernoff started getting ill when he was eating.’

His dad sighed, his eyes not leaving the detective and paramedic. ‘It might have been a coincidence,’ he said.

‘But don’t you think we should tell the police?’ Jake noticed his dad’s jaw tighten.

‘Let the police do their job.’ His dad frowned.

‘What about the napkin? The waiter –’

Jake’s dad spoke in a low but insistent tone. ‘Jake, drop it . . . I’ll handle this.’

The detective returned.

‘Can we do anything else for you, detective?’

The investigator shook his head. ‘No, sir. We’ll notify the family.’

Jake’s dad nodded. ‘And you think it was cardiac arrest?’

‘Almost certainly, sir. There’ll be an autopsy; in cases like this it’s procedure.’

Jake remembered the spittle and the gurgling sounds. He knew they weren’t symptoms of a heart attack. And why wasn’t his dad telling the police about the waiter?

A flash went off and Jake saw a photographer already on the scene, snapping pictures. When he lowered his camera, Jake noticed his wide-set pale eyes and square jaw. He had the kind of all-American look that Jake had come across so many times at his various international schools.

The ‘American’ was wearing a dark beanie hat, a strand of blond fringe peeking out above his brow. When he lifted his camera again, a uniformed policeman placed a sturdy
arm in front of him and told him to move on.

The ambulance pulled away from the kerb, sirens and lights off. Detective Farrimond walked over and leant in close. ‘I say, sir,’ he said quietly, holding out his notepad. ‘If you wouldn’t mind . . . my son would be awfully grateful . . .’

Jake’s dad gave a thin smile. ‘Of course,’ he said, taking the pad and pen. ‘It’s no problem. What’s his name?’

‘Er . . . it’s Paul,’ said the police officer.

Jake rolled his eyes. Why do they always say it’s for their sons? If this man has a son, he’s probably never heard of Steve Bastin . . .

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the detective, beaming as he took back the notepad. ‘He’ll be pleased as punch.’

Jake and his dad took a black cab home to Fulham in silence. The three-bedroom apartment they lived in was on two floors of a grand Victorian house set back from the road, with a semi-circular gravel drive out the front. The taxi skidded away, leaving them alone. When they reached the door, Jake’s dad fished inside his wallet and took out a twenty-pound note.

‘Are you still hungry? Why don’t you order yourself a takeaway?’ he said.

Jake took the money. ‘Don’t you want anything?’

Jake’s dad shook his head. ‘Lost my appetite.’ He put his
hand on Jake’s shoulder. ‘Listen . . . I’ve got some work to do. We’ll talk in the morning, OK?’

Jake tried to smile. It had been the same ever since he came to live in London:
in the morning, tomorrow, later
. . . He wondered, with Chernoff dead, would the move to Russia still happen? One look at his dad’s drawn face told him now wasn’t the time to ask. Even at sixteen, Jake was old enough to see something bigger was going on here. And he intended to get to the bottom of it, with or without his dad’s help.

Up in his bedroom, Jake turned on his computer. The screen commands blinked into life and Jake’s fingers shook over the keyboard as the full horror of the evening hit home. His stomach felt knotted up.

I saw someone die tonight.

It wasn’t that he’d never seen a dead body. His mother was Irish Catholic and he remembered clearly the pale, waxy skin of his grandmother lying in her open coffin before the funeral in Dublin.