Swimming with Sharks Page 22

  Today will be different.

  Today he will sweep her off her feet and carry her inside the house just like he carried her into the ocean when her ankle was sore and swollen. He will shout to Agaata, ‘Look, Matushka! Look who has come to visit!’ He will kiss her all over: her hair and her eyes, her hands and her lips, and later on, when they are alone, he will kiss her neck, her breasts, her stomach and the inside of her thighs. His cheeks will be covered with day-old stubble and it will feel rough against the delicate skin of her inner thighs, but she will welcome the discomfort. Blood will rush to her head. She will gasp with pure pleasure. She will kiss him back and dig her nails into his back. They will be safe and happy in each other’s arms. He will forgive her for not listening. More than that – he will thank her for not listening because he has missed her unbearably and he simply cannot live another day without her.

  On the weekend they will drive across the border, to St Petersburg. He will show her the glitz and glitter of the city. They will drink champagne that flows like rivers, and eat caviar canapés. They will gamble and play cards, go to see Uncle Vanya in a theatre with crystal chandeliers and gold-plated picture frames. And next week – perhaps next month – they will go to the police. It will have to be done. For peace for mind. For that woman in the striped dress that ballooned in water but could not keep her afloat, because she was a dead weight. Nicola has been dreaming about her. She won’t go away. Just like Mishka’s wife – Dariushka – won’t go away until her killers are brought to justice. Then Mishka will be free of his past. Free to love Nicola.

  She has waited for him to come to her all her life. It was worth the wait. Every minute of awkwardness with other men, her spinsterhood and her acute loneliness – all of that was worth the wait. The terrible man smelling of booze and stale cigarette smoke, and whatever he did or didn’t do to her on that boat – it was worth the wait.

  She is nearly at the door, drawn to her darling Mishka like a moth to a candle flame, like Anna was to Alosha Vronsky. Beyond this moment nothing matters. Beyond this, to hell with the rest of the world!

  She can’t wait to see his face – the expression of shock, immediately replaced with joy. She knocks on the door. Silence. She closes her hand in a fist and bangs on the door. She hears steps. The door opens.

  It is the man from the boat, the one smelling of booze and stale cigarette smoke.

  Day Thirty

  Gillian has only herself to blame. She should have never let that woman go. She should’ve detained her – she should have kept her safe. Nicola Eagles was the most vulnerable, helpless creature Gillian has ever come across in her career. She had the word VICTIM printed on her forehead in bold capital letters. She had to be looked after and the problem was that there was no one out there to do the job. It was down to Gillian.

  Right from the beginning Gillian has had this irrational feeling that she was investigating Nicola Eagles’ death. Not just her disappearance, but her death. Now it has come to it. By the time Gillian had got Scarfe’s permission to travel to Finland, by the time she had met up with the Finnish police, by the time they got their act together and made it to Lakso’s house, Nicola was dead, her throat slit – one surgical cut. Her death must have been instant.

  Mikhail Lakso was found bound to a chair in the middle of his kitchen. He had been tortured and left for dead. They’d probably thought he was already dead: the stab wound between the third and fourth rib was deep, narrowly missing the heart. But he clearly has the constitution of an ox – for he survived.

  Gillian has been sitting in a brightly lit hospital corridor for what seems like days. Her back aches. The chair is hard and uncomfortable. Her eyes can’t get used to the light. She has been sustaining herself on caffeine, a collection of polystyrene cups by her side testifying to that. Her eyelids feel heavy, her mouth dry and her head is reeling. Her telephone is switched off. She won’t be distracted and she won’t leave until she has spoken to Mikhail Lakso, whenever that’s going to be.

  A Finnish policeman is sitting in another uncomfortable chair on the other side of the door, guarding the patient. Gillian is grateful. She can’t afford to lose her only witness. She no longer believes Lakso a murderer and kidnapper – he wouldn’t be where he is now, and in the state he’s in now, if he were. But he knows answers to all of Gillian’s questions. She won’t leave until they are answered. Not that any answers will bring Nicola back. Her preventable death is something Gillian will have to live with.

  The doctor whom she saw enter Lakso’s room a few minutes ago comes out. She is a tall, slim woman with no time for appearances: her hair is in a knot so tight that her eyes slant; there is no trace of make up on her perfectly pale face with its high cheekbones. She reminds Gillian of an alien.

  ‘He’ll speak with you now,’ she tells Gillian. ‘You have five minutes. Then he will need his rest.’

  It is the man from the pages of Nicola’s Facebook. Even in a hospital bed he looks strong and invincible in a large, square way. His arms are long, lean and covered in fair, reddish hairs. The fingers of both hands are bandaged together – apparently his assailants broke all ten of them. They also used him as a punchbag, crushing most of his ribs, and finished it off with the stab that had just missed the heart. The final blow to his head with a blunt instrument left him bleeding profusely and concussed. His head is now bandaged, his bloodied left eye peering from under the dressing unblinkingly. A far cry from Count Karenin.

  ‘Nicola?’ he asks. The apprehension and urgency of that question are harrowing.

  Gillian shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It was instant.’

  ‘It is my fault.’

  Gillian could argue with that, but she leaves it. ‘I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘The body you found. Tell me.’ He has his own questions.

  ‘An elderly woman, in her mid to late seventies. Russian, very likely.’

  ‘My mother?’

  ‘I think so. I wanted to ask you –’

  ‘Yes, my mother. I thought – I hoped – they kept her alive … They took her from the boat just as she was leaving the island. I stayed behind so they would not make a connection between us. I hoped they would not know who she was, or maybe I hoped – durak! – that they would just let her go. It was nothing to do with her … I thought she had made it; I thought she was safely on her way home. I was wrong. When you called, told me you found Nicola’s body, I never –’ His voice falters, but he recovers it quickly. ‘Then when I saw Nicola in France, I knew it was Matushka. My mother was dead.’

  ‘Sorry, we made a mistake.’

  ‘What does it matter? They are both dead now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Some papers, that is why. They wanted the papers – shares, records. Important documents. My mother and Nicola – collateral damage … They took them both to exchange for the papers. But why did they kill them?’ he looks at her, puzzled and hurt.

  ‘I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me. I don’t even know who they are.’

  ‘Ah, I could have taken the secret to my grave. Mrozkov was sure I would.’

  ‘Mrozkov?’

  ‘Except, you see,’ Lakso sucks in his lips and makes a hollow popping noise, ‘I have already sent the papers to Nicola: the ledgers and the records, copies of all shares. I made copies in case … I told her to do with them as she liked. In a letter. I knew – I thought – she would take them to you, to the police. I just didn’t – I did not count with the possibility of her coming here! Durak! Silly, silly girl! But how was she to know what sort of people we were dealing with …’

  ‘Who is Mrozkov?’

  ‘I wrote it all down, in a statement, and sent it to Nicola. With the papers. It is all there. She would have taken it to the police. That is what she wanted to do. I thought she would. If only she had waited …’ His bloodied eye drifts out of focus. He’s gazing at the bland wall opposite his bed when he says, ‘She made me think there was
a way for us to go on. A chance! I wanted to believe it. I am a gambler, you see? Gamblers are eternal optimists, ha! I thought I could give it a go – we could start again. The two of us, hot sand, middle of nowhere. I wanted Nicola there with me!’ He refocuses on Gillian. ‘You think I’m lying … In five years’ time I will think I was lying. I was naïve, so naïve! I was going to get Nicola when it was safe, when I was sure … I found a place, in Thailand. It would remind us of how we met. I was so close! Durak!’ He punches the bed with his bandaged fist, and winces in pain. ‘When I saw her in the doorway … Durak! I said to myself, Durak, tyi ubiw Nicola! Ubiw!’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t speak Russian. Can you –’

  ‘They found me. They were bound to find me! What was I thinking! But still … They wanted the papers and I laughed in their faces! I did! I laughed! Because I had sent them all to Nicola. They would not find those damned papers! So I won, I thought, I paid Mrozkov back for everything – for Daria, for Matushka! And then I saw Nicola at the door. My blood ran cold. I knew it was no good. I knew they would kill her. I knew I could never win with Mrozkov. Durak! It’s my fault she is dead. I killed her. Like I killed Daria. Like I killed my mother. They are all dead.’ He is crying. It is a pitiful sight – an adult man crying. Gillian wishes she had it in her to offer him comfort, hold his hand, do something!

  The alien doctor spares her the trouble. ‘Your five minutes is up. The patient needs to rest.’

  Day Forty

  The sense of failure persists. Gillian derived little satisfaction from the arrest of the two henchmen: Vladimir Hanik and Sasha Raskalin. The moment they were picked out by Lakso in the police line-up, the moment Igor Mrozkov severed all his links with them. After all, what those two had been getting up to while on holiday in the Maldives and soon thereafter in Finland was none of his concern. They were loose associates – sort of … freelance contractors. In their turn, Hanik and Raskalin had never heard of Igor Mrozkov. It was a dead end.

  Only this morning, Mrozkov’s smug, •150-an-hour solicitor wearing a hyphenated name and an Armani suit, got his client released without the faintest possibility for Mrozkov ever returning to as much as assist the Police with their inquiries. There was no evidence to link Mrozkov to the murders of either Agaata Lakso or Nicola Eagles. Even though the leisure cruiser upon which Nicola was smuggled across the seven seas did belong to Mrozkov. Again, according to the smug solicitor, the two freelance contractors had taken the liberty of helping themselves to the vessel without the owner’s knowledge or permission. Mr Mrozkov was most displeased when he heard about it …

  Gillian was not allowed to tread into the murky waters of fraudulent share trading in Irkutskiy Steel. For Igor Mrozkov is a law-abiding resident on an investor’s visa with high stakes in the British economy. As such he is presumed innocent until proved guilty – and beyond. Scarfe got his instructions from above and passed them on to Gillian in no uncertain terms: keep your hands off Mrozkov. Lakso’s papers, together with his willingness to testify against Mrozkov, have been dispatched to Foreign Affairs to be passed onto the Russian authorities. Apparently. Gillian will never know whether they will ever see the light of day. In all likelihood they will be buried alongside Dariushka, Agaata and one rather insignificant other in the greater scheme of things: Nicola Eagles, a 42-year-old spinster from Sexton’s Canning.

  Thus the sense of failure.

  The traffic is slow-moving. It’s the rush hour. In London every minute of day and night blends into one endless rush hour, though rush has nothing to do with it. She is going to be late! Another failure – this time as a mother. Once again, invariably, Gillian will find herself on the wrong side of the word reliable when it comes to her parenting style.

  Now it is a definite standstill. She takes her frustration out on the steering wheel. Inadvertently, she hits the horn and within seconds other vehicles respond with equal force. It is a motionless cacophony. Road rage. But it won’t change the fact that she is late.

  In the Arrivals Hall she instantly spots a tiny, lone figure sitting on top of a bulging backpack. Gillian dashes towards the little person, her heart racing ahead of her.

  ‘Tara, I’m so sorry! The traffic was awful!’ Gillian throws her arms over her daughter like a fishing net of motherly love. In her embrace, Tara is a shivering bird with a broken wing. She has lost plenty of weight. Is that what puppy love does to youngsters?

  ‘Let me look at you!’ Gillian pulls her child away and clutches her by the arms, scrutinising her drawn face, swollen eyelids and red patches of raw emotion on her skin.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Where did you lose Charlie?’ Suddenly, she has remembered to mention the significant other half. The plan was to meet them both at the airport – Charlie was coming home with them for a few days. Gillian has a Chinese takeaway in the oven on 150 degrees, keeping warm. She has made the bed in the spare room. Everything, short of a WELCOME HOME banner, is ready and waiting. She has already reconciled with the young man’s presence in Tara’s – and her – life. She did some background checks – who wouldn’t? At least Charlie Outhwaite has no criminal record.

  Tara motions towards the escalator. ‘There,’ she says. ‘His girlfriend is taking him home. I think her name is Phoebe.’

  A young couple are strolling nonchalantly, holding hands, their backs to her. The man with gangly limbs and messy blond hair carries a camouflage-green backpack. The woman keeps turning her face towards him, talking animatedly. She kisses him on the cheek and it is then that he turns briefly and looks back. It is a fleeting glance. Furtive. Bastardly. It is at this point that Gillian makes a few steps towards them, white fury engulfing her mind, fists clenched. She cannot think, but even without thinking, she knows what she wants – she wants to punch the bastard in the face. Break his nose.

  She stops in her tracks, and turns back. Tara doesn’t need to see her irrational mother’s fury. Tara just needs her mother. She is only a little girl – as little as Gillian once was, when life dealt her a blow or two of her own – and all she needs is holding tight. Gillian holds her tight. Despite the initial protest, the shrugging of the shoulders, the twisting of the face to stop tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling.’

  It feels good to have her little girl buckled up in the car, next to her mother who will never let her down. Because mothers don’t, even if they’re habitually late.

  They brave the raging traffic together. Thelma and Louise. All men are bastards, a thought that gives Gillian a strange sense of accomplishment. Mainly because she is not a man.

  She does not dare ask Tara any questions. Answers would not heal any wounds anyway. Charlie Outhwaite is gone. On some level Gillian could consider sending him a thank you card. He has returned her daughter to her bosom. It isn’t a very charitable sentiment, not to Tara, but Gillian finds comfort in it: it isn’t yet Tara’s time to flee the nest. She has stuck her hand out and got burned. Retreated. Gillian has her baby back.

  At the end of the day, Gillian ponders further, it isn’t that bad. Tara is young, so young! She has many rejections ahead of her, and plenty of time to get over them.

  Unlike Nicola Eagles.

  As if reading her thoughts, Tara asks, ‘How is your case? The missing person case?’

  Gillian glances across at her daughter before responding.

  ‘That case is closed.’

  THE END

  ANNA LEGAT

  NOTHING TO LOSE

  The second DI Gillian Marsh mystery by Anna Legat

  When a head-on collision involving four cars occurs on a stretch of peaceful country road, resulting in four deaths and a fifth person fighting for his life, DI Gillian Marsh is sent to investigate. There are no simple explanations as to why the accident happened: there were no hazards on the road, and it was a quiet, sunny morning with clear visibility and little traffic. There was no obvious cause, so why did four sensible and capable drivers end up de
ad in a pile-up?

  As Gillian delves into the victims’ lives and unpicks their stories one by one, she uncovers secrets that lead her to discover the cause of this tragedy. And tragedy is brewing in Gillian’s own life … can she help her daughter before it’s too late?

  ANNA LEGAT

  THICKER THAN BLOOD

  The third DI Gillian Marsh mystery by Anna Legat

  Liam Cox is at his wits’ end: he owes lots of money to a South African crime lord who has forced him into a world of shady deals. The police are on his back and he needs to buy his way out of trouble, so Liam looks to his mother Mildred to bail him out – but, despite sitting on a goldmine in the shape of her farm, she refuses to sell up. With his back to the wall, Liam is desperate – and he’s not the only one. Someone is bound to snap … it’s only a matter of time.

  When the situation blows up and someone is murdered, DI Gillian Marsh steps in to investigate. As she uncovers deceptions and heinous acts, Gillian stumbles upon a man who could well be the love of her life … but will the circumstances allow her any happiness?

  Anna Legat

  life without me

  Georgie Ibsen is a successful, cynical hotshot lawyer. She runs her life, professional and personal, with precision and clear purpose. She’s just made a breakthrough in a crucial case, her family is growing more independent … things couldn’t be better. Until it all comes to a screeching halt when she’s hit by a car and ends up in a coma …

  Somehow, in her comatose state, Georgie is given unique glimpses into the lives of her nearest and dearest, their most intimate secrets: her boring husband’s involvement with a colleague; her son’s lovelorn yearning for his mother’s nurse; her fifteen-year-old daughter’s bad boy boyfriend, who just might be linked to the criminal mastermind involved in her last big case …