The Troika Dolls (6 page)

why he had destroyed us so completely.’ Her voice was velvety with pain. ‘He said he had found true love with Norah, that he had to follow his passion and that anything else would be hypocritical.’

Rice made a vicious noise in his throat. ‘I could kill him.’

Stevie gave him a small smile. ‘Thank you, David. He’s not worth it. But the ridiculous thing is, nothing’s felt the same since.’ She looked back down at her hands, still fiddling with the cigarette. ‘I hate it, but it’s the truth.’

Rice glared at her, then decided. ‘You need some time off. That’s all. You’re overdue to take leave. Take a week. Get some rest. You’re no good to me on less than top form.’

‘I’m not sure what I’d do with the time . . .’

‘Sleep, eat, get that worm out of your heart,’ he instructed. ‘One day the right person will come along and you need to be ready to see them when they do.’

‘Did you ever meet the right person, David?’ Stevie knew very little about Rice’s personal life, but she knew he wasn’t married.

Rice glanced at his watch, a Breguet with a brown crocodile strap that he had bought himself when he finished with active service. ‘Right.

Must go. I’m already late, all this nattering.’

Stevie wished he would stay, maybe invite her to dinner, but he didn’t. He left as quickly as he had come.

Watching him leave, Stevie felt very alone. She would book a flight back to Zurich tonight, she decided, and visit her grandmother Didi in the mountains.

Perhaps David was right, but it didn’t stop her hating herself for having placed her happiness in such unsafe hands—in the hands of another person at all. She would not be making that mistake again.

Stevie looked around. The bar had filled up. Elton John was playing at the Albert Hall. The shape of the overcoat standing at the bar was familiar. Her heart sank. Charlie was perfectly nice—in fact many people turned small somersaults just to meet him. He, or rather his father’s title, collected New Best Friends. But she wasn’t in a sociable mood, and Charlie was a close friend of Joss’.

Stevie and Charlie had met at Oxford. Together they had ridden bicycles drunk over perilous cobblestones, celebrated in shabby rooms, shrunken pubs and warm lawns. But they had never been close.

She remembered a
Glühwein
incident involving homemade fireworks and an enormous yellow teddy bear. Part of the upstairs floor had caved in. Charlie had leapt up in good cheer to urge the revels to continue. The armchair he landed on had wheels; it ran from under him, causing him to fall, jugular first, onto an abandoned glass of
Glühwein
.

Stevie had seen the whole thing. No one else seemed to notice, as he lay on the floor of his own sitting room, a shard of glass in his throat. He lay as still as a doll. As Stevie knelt down beside him, blood began to pulse from the wound. His pale yellow shirt turned quickly black with blood.

Stevie had pressed her fingers on his neck, as if feeling for a heartbeat, but pressing hard, trying to stop the blood from pumping out. The shard of glass was held in place between her fingers, like a piece of ice that refused to melt. She was afraid that if she pulled it out even more blood would start spurting.

Charlie’s face had turned waxy and he began to perspire. Stevie thought he would die. She whispered things to him, kissed his forehead, covering her own face and hair and hands with his blood. She remembered ambulances, people in green, his mother arriving at 4 am dressed in black mink.

Charlie recovered, but they had never spoken of the incident.

Stevie drew a breath and became visible again. She saw him notice her and approach.

‘Blasted barman tried to give me vodka with my tonic.’ He stood over her, very tall, very thin, very handsome if his eyes hadn’t been quite so close together. A large scar ran horizontally across his neck.

‘You should drink with me,’ Stevie replied mildly. ‘They don’t seem to be as careless. I’m staying here.’

Charlie looked up at the ceiling. ‘Bit gloomy. Still, not much to be cheerful about I suppose.’

Not the conversation Stevie needed tonight.

‘Joss is back from Barbados,’ he said.

Stevie swallowed her panic.

‘He’s been in Barbados with that Norah model.’ If Charlie had any idea of the effect his announcement might have on Stevie, he certainly didn’t show it. ‘Renting a house that belongs to a friend of mine. Terrible hailstorms.’

This was definitely not the conversation Stevie needed tonight.

‘How awful,’ she grimaced. ‘About the hailstorms, I mean.’

Charlie’s gaze slid around the room. His eyes seldom focused for long. It was a curiously unsettling quality.

‘Anyway, we’re all going to the Savages this weekend. Can’t think of anything else to bloody do. Probably be bored out of my mind. Everything bores me at the moment.’

Stevie stared. She realised she had nothing to say to him.

‘I overheard two girls on a park bench today,’ she blurted out.

‘Someone wanted to kill them.’

Charlie’s eyes were drifting again. ‘Really? I suppose that’s what happens to girls who sit on park benches.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Joss’ show is opening tonight. You coming?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘He’s threatening to propose to the girl tonight. She’ll probably say yes, too,’ he snorted. ‘I’ll tell him I saw you.’ He finished his drink in a big gulp.

Stevie found herself checking quickly to make sure the scar was watertight.

He kissed her cheek. It felt like a hen-peck.

‘You don’t look well,’ he called over his shoulder as he left the bar.

It made Stevie marvel. His imperviousness. The world didn’t touch Charlie. Actually, it was more than that. The world didn’t exist outside what he chose to see. Inconceivable that other people had feelings, or cravings, or that ideas mattered, that the world changed every day, that people did things.

Things like marmalade were important to Charlie. She used to think it was all just a front. She had spent time wondering about Charlie when she had first met him, trying to get through to the real person. But Charlie managed to hold the entire world at arm’s length. It was a feat Stevie admired; the strength of will it must take to be so utterly blind.

Stevie asked politely for another drink and lit her second cigarette of the day.

Joss’ exhibition. Propose. He had always said he didn’t believe in forever . . . Had Norah changed all that? And now he would know that she was in town, that she didn’t have the courage to attend. Charlie would be sure to tell him. She would definitely book that flight home tonight.

A man from reception brought her a message slip:

Please phone Henning in Moscow 98 84 63 21.

Stevie stubbed out her cigarette and collected her coat. Henning would cheer her up.

She called from her room. ‘Hello, Henning.’

‘How are you, Stevie darling?’

‘Oh . . . you know.’ It was the second time she’d been called ‘darling’ that evening, the second time her cheeks had heated up—even though Henning often called her that. ‘Charging on—crime, paranoia, celebrity babies, the usual thing.’ She was aiming for ‘cheery’, but didn’t quite get there. ‘Actually it’s driving me a bit mad. I’m taking a week off.’

‘What’s brought all this on?’

Stevie told him about the young girls on the park bench. She couldn’t get the picture of the two of them sitting in the rain out of her mind.

‘They’re haunting me, Henning. Maybe . . .’ Stevie kicked off her shoes. ‘Maybe sometimes I think I’m protecting the wrong people. The clients I saw today are protected in so many other ways: they have money, friends, love, family, every opportunity. Those girls on the bench seemed so alone in the world. No one was going to worry about what happened to them. They seemed so . . . disposable. Does that make any sense?’

‘It’s an awful thought, that some people are disposable.’ Henning understood. His tone told her everything. He understood, he always did. That was the thing about Henning.

There was a long silence on the phone. Henning spoke first.

‘Stevie, will you come to Moscow tomorrow morning?’

‘Mmm, let’s see . . . no. No. Not possible at all I’m afraid. I have a client with a bad toupee who is terrified someone might catch a glimpse of his balding dome in this windy weather. He needs twenty-four-hour surveillance. Anything else I can do for you, Henning?’

‘I’m serious, Stevie.’

‘So am I. Would you mind terribly if I ran a bath while we chatted? This tub takes years to fill and I’m chilled to the bone.’ Stevie ran the taps and began to undress.

When he replied, Henning’s voice sounded a little huskier than usual. ‘It’s a business proposition of sorts. Just a small matter, private.’

‘In Moscow? It’s one of the most crime-ridden cities in the world, rotten with corruption. It’s unlikely to be a “small matter”. Everything is always connected to something bigger.’

In the mirror her face looked particularly pale. Charlie was right, she didn’t look well. No point staring.

‘It’s the head of the Russian Central Bank,’ Henning said. ‘He’s a friend. He wants a threat assessment on him and his family. He’s a good man, an honest man.’

‘Well, I can give you that over the phone.’ Stevie stood in her black bra and panties. Italian lace. She had started wearing beautiful underwear after Joss, to remind herself that she didn’t need a man’s gaze to feel sexy. Sometimes it even worked.

‘Extremely high,’ Stevie said, struggling with the clasp on her fancy bra. ‘Valery Kozkov, right? So far he’s shut down forty-four crooked banks, banned people from the banking industry for life, slapped down some heavy fines and it’s rumoured he’s chasing links between Russian organised crime and elements in the government. His one lucky star is that he is too high up to be killed without the consent of someone very senior in the political machine, but he’s swimming in dangerous waters with both the mafia and the politicians. I’m sure he knows that better than anybody. His family will be in danger, too. Certain elements will want to send him a strong message. They did that to Anatoly Chubais only a few months ago.’

Off. Small naked breasts freed. Stevie pinned her hair back.

‘The landmine by the side of the road outside Moscow?’ Henning asked.

‘Exactly. That wasn’t meant to kill him. The blast was directed away from the motorway, towards the woods. It was set off in front of his car. Fire was only exchanged when Chubais’ bodyguards gave chase to the attackers. He was not meant to die on that road. That sort of message.’

‘And Kozkov is incorruptible,’ Henning reminded her.

‘That is almost a death sentence in itself. He won’t be persuaded to go local?’

‘He feels he can’t trust anyone.’ Stevie could hear Henning flicking his lighter as he spoke. He did that when he was tense. ‘His action on the banks has touched so many shady people in so many different ways. And that includes bank employees and politicians. He doesn’t even know who will be after him most.’

‘And you call this a small matter? It’s way too big for me. Like I said, I do paranoid popstars and synagogues on holy days. You need a team for this. If you want I can put Kozkov in touch with the right people at Hazard.’

The bath was too hot but Stevie slid in anyway and gasped.

‘Sorry. Bath hot. Pheeew.’ She massaged the dark purple fencing bruises dotted on her thigh.

‘Stevie, listen. There’s a particular reason we need you. Five big guys from Hazard won’t do. You speak Russian and you have the right look . . .’

‘It’s not some weird sex thing, is it? Doesn’t hurt to ask,’ she added, when he seemed to choke in response. ‘I once got caught in a very uncomfortable situation on a night train to Budapest that I’d rather not go into.’

‘It’s not “some weird sex thing”, as you put it. I can’t tell you more over the phone. Please just come to Moscow and see for yourself.’

And then came the clincher, as if Henning had read her mind.

‘It might be good for you to get out of London for a few days—get your mind off—’ ‘I’m fine.’

‘You won’t be when you run into him,’ he said grimly.

‘I’m not coming.’

3

BA 176 took off from
Heathrow at 6.35 am. Stevie wondered whether accepting a glass of champagne before breakfast was bad form but decided that as it was not yet light outside, that made it still officially night and so everything was allowed.

She picked at her croissant and tried to read the papers, but the back pages were full of the Hammer-Belle move to London; articles on Joss and Norah Wolfe. Neither subject would improve her mood.

How had she ended up on the flight at all? When it came to Henning, it seemed that saying ‘no’ always, somehow, without Stevie ever really realising how, turned into ‘yes’. His powers of persuasion were maddening—she would make sure to tell him that when she saw him. She smiled to herself: it wouldn’t be long now.

Pale light bled into the sky and Stevie was able to make out the peaks of the Alps way below, jutting from the fog like the tips of slate-grey icebergs. They must be over Switzerland. She wondered if they were flying near . . .

Because she was sure, with the clarity brought by hindsight, that that weekend was when the affair with Norah Wolfe must have started. Or at least, that it was the weekend when, if she had been a little less in love, a little smarter, she would have ended it with Joss Carey.

Stevie had been home in her flat in Zurich when the invitation came. Joss had called from London, suggested a ski weekend in Switzerland. How terribly romantic, Stevie had thought. She would take the little red train up to Arosa on Friday. He would meet her there that afternoon.

Stevie packed her cashmere rollnecks, her furs, her ski boots and a bottle of her most passionate scent. She planned to dazzle him. In among the iced pines, in sleighs wrapped in fairy lights, surrounded by the deep, velvet snow, sitting by chalet fires, she would seduce him all over again.

The last few weeks he’d seemed distant, dreamier than usual. Perhaps this was his way of making it up to her. The ski weekend seemed like the perfect opportunity to show him that she, Stevie Margaret Duveen, was a girl with potential, someone his artistic soul could love deeply.