Den shuffled from side to side, waiting for a gesture to move forward and feeling very uneasy at what was to come. Maybe he should have brought Elfrid, the grinning dog, with him, but it was too late for that.

  "Ah, you are here, my friend," the Russian said, still rocking. His accent was thick like he'd just stepped off the plane from Moscow. "Come nearer. I want to see your eyes."

  Den shambled to within three feet of the desk.

  The Russian sucked on the cigar, exhaling a plume of foul smoke. "If someone makes a careful plan to meet with a contact on the pier and the police show up, what would you do?"

  Den said nothing. It hadn't started well and he feared it was downhill from here.

  The Russian spoke again, his voice void of emotion. "One might think you told the police about our plan to meet. One might also think you discussed with them my money-lending business. Isn't that so?"

  "No." Den said. "No way."

  "It makes one wonder if the police have been told other things." There was still no emotion in the Russian's voice. "Things that could bring a hard-working man like me a lot of, as you like to say in England, bother."

  Den heard feet shuffle behind him. The henchmen had stepped closer.

  "I didn't call the police," Den said.

  "Then, why my friend, were they there?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't know?"

  The Russian chuckled. "Ha-ha-ha. Funny, eh? Ha-ha-ha."

  The henchmen joined in, only they cackled like hungry hyenas. Den swallowed the lump in his throat. He squeezed his hands, wondering how he got into this mess and trying to figure a way out.

  The Russian clicked his fingers.

  The goons stopped laughing.

  The executive chair creaked.

  Slowly, the Russian placed the cigar in the ashtray. He sprang to his feet. He was short with skinny legs, had a meatball wide body and was as light on his feet as a dancer. His rag doll eyes stared at Den without blinking.

  It was a bad idea to come to the man's lair for money, Den thought. A very bad idea.

  The Russian leapt in front of his desk, spider fast. He folded his arms and tilted his head, regarding Den like he was a fly.

  Den stepped back. He didn't want to move too close to the Russian. The man had large hands and took unnatural pleasure in squeezing things until they were dead. He'd seen the bloke in action. Fast for a little bloke. Lethal hands. And his legs might look like toothpicks but they delivered a mighty kick.

  I should run for it now, Den told himself. He'd dodge past the two goons and make his escape. But he didn’t think he'd get as far as the door, not with the tremble in his legs.

  The Russian stepped forward, dropping his arms so they swung loose and easy at his side. He bounced on the tips of his toes. His fingers clenched and unclenched.

  Now, Den told himself and turned to run but felt the sour breath of a henchman in his face. The big man was grinning like he'd found an extra chicken nugget in the carton and was ready to chomp it down.

  Den turned back to face the Russian. A hollow pang hummed in his gut. It fluttered like the fast beat of bluebottle wings, bringing a fresh wave of dread.

  Now or never, he told himself as he sucked in a ragged breath and rolled the dice. "I want to ask a favour. I need two thousand in cash before I leave today."

  The Russian flexed a leg and adjusted his position.

  "Granted."

  It took Den some moments to realise the meaning of the single word. He opened his mouth but no words came out. Longshots sometimes won.

  The Russian smiled. "I hope the usual terms will be acceptable. Do unmarked fifty pound notes work for you?"

  "Deal," Den replied, stunned.

  A wave of relief washed away his tension. Next time he'd meet the Russian in a café with bright lights and surrounded by a horde of people. But he felt good now. With the cash he was back in the game. I'm not too old, he told himself. I've still got the magic touch.

  The Russian was smiling, his rag doll eyes like black beads. The henchmen shuffled back to the door. Den grinned now. It was easy. Too easy. He should have asked for more.

  The Russian raised his right hand to shake on the deal. They shook, long and hard.

  Too long.

  Too hard.

  The Russian held Den's hand in a solid grip. "You will get the cash after you have done a small favour for me."

  Chapter 45

  The favour was bigger than Den Ogden expected.

  When the Russian with rag doll eyes asked for help, he did not take 'no' for an answer. It was not the first time Den had been asked to help out. Not the last time either. And every time Den found himself deeper in a quagmire from which there was no escape.

  The Russian watched Den with a steely gaze. His rag doll eyes were jet black and flecked with yellow specks. They reminded Den of a spider.

  The Russian clicked his fingers and the two henchmen retreated from the room. The door closed with a solid click.

  They were left standing in front of the executive desk, less than two feet from each other. Close. Too close for Den, but he didn't want to step back now the goons were gone, didn't want to give any ground. The odds, he thought, were moving in his favour.

  The Russian touched his silk tie with the frolicking dogs. "Tell me, what happened to that hound?"

  "Hound?"

  "I saw you with a dog on the pier."

  "Oh, that was Elfrid. I took him back to the animal shelter. Told them he was always barking and that I couldn't stand the noise. They said they'd give him till Friday."

  "What is important about Friday?"

  "That's when the vet comes to put the old-timers to sleep."

  "Shame," the Russian said, waving a large hand, his fingers as fat as cigars. "He suited you."

  "That is what I thought at first, but he was attractive to young girls."

  "How young?"

  "Twelve."

  "You hound dog." The Russian clicked his teeth. "You want to get a schnauzer; women go wild for them. Eighteen-year-olds. Nineteen-year-olds. Twenties. Throwing themselves at you because of a dog. All legal. Trust me, I know."

  "Schnauzer," Den said, wondering if he'd seen that breed in the animal shelter. "Thank you for the tip."

  The Russian stepped closer, tilted his nose and sniffed the stale chamber air. His black beady eyes shone as though he liked the reek and wanted more of the foul pong. He sniffed again, keeping Den in his yellow specked gaze. It gave Den the creeps.

  The Russian adjusted his silk tie with the frolicking dogs. "Now that favour you will do for me."

  There was something wild and unpredictable about the way the man watched you. Still, Den held his ground, to step back would be a sign of weakness.

  "Go on," Den said, voice guarded, massaging his dome shaped double chin. "What type of favour?"

  "A small one."

  "That's what you said last time."

  "You got the money, didn't you?"

  "And I paid back the loan with interest."

  "That is why I am asking you. You are reliable, have shown yourself to be a trustworthy friend over the years. I value that."

  Although the Russian's dark eyes were hard to read, Den thought he saw a predatory flash in them. Like a spider creeping up on a fly.

  Den frowned. "It has to be something big to be worth two grand. I'd like to know what I am getting involved with."

  "Nothing you can't handle," the Russian replied. "Unmarked fifty pound notes to do with as you please. How does that sound?"

  Den considered. The task might not be too bad this time. It might be something easy. Hadn't the Russian's jobs always worked out well for him in the past? Yes, he was certain the job would be easy.

  He touched his double chin. "Ten grand."

  "We have already shaken hands," the Russian replied.

  "Eight."

  "Three."

  "Seven, with no interest and a year to pay it back," Den said.

  "An interest-free loan?"

  "That's right."

  The Russian began to hum. A melancholy tune. Den tried to make it out. The Funeral March. My God, he thought. Is Rag Doll Eyes trying to unnerve me?

  Although they were in a sealed metal chamber Den wasn't about to flake. He needed cash and he needed it now and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He would not back down. Not a chance now the henchmen were gone. If the midget got shirty, he'd grab the silk tie with the frolicking dogs and strangle the bugger. The odds were in his favour. The little meatball of a man in his black ninja suit didn't stand a chance.

  "Deal," the Russian said, reaching out his hand for the second time.

  Den shook, wished he'd asked for more and said, "What do I have to do?"

  "I have a slight problem with an item stolen to order. The buyers didn't come up with the money. I want you to keep it for a few days until I shift it on."

  The last time it had been guns. The time before that, drugs. Den didn’t like guarding either. "What type of item?"

  "A small baby. You like those, don't you?"

  Den said nothing.

  "You will look after it until I can sell her. A week at most. All expenses covered."

  Den wondered why he had not seen this coming. He'd heard the Russian was dabbling in the people trafficking business, and there was always an eager buyer ready to snap up a stray child. Good news, for the Russian, he supposed. And good news for him, except he felt uneasy. Selling babies came with hiccups, and it would hinder his own business in Port St Giles.

  He said, "I don't have a place to stay."

  "Already sorted."

  "Wouldn't a woman be better?"

  "You'd think so, but the last one took an overdose and ended up in the hospital. I can't take a chance. This time I hire a man. And that means you will be living with the child until I get things sorted at my end."

  For all his menace Den knew then the Russian was in a tight corner. He puffed out his chest, cockerel style, thin lips stretched into a smile over his crooked teeth. He had the upper hand. His luck had turned. The odds were on his side now. He'd squeeze every penny from Rag Doll Eyes. Squeeze him for all the loan shark interest he'd paid over the years. Squeeze him for enough cash to finish his business in Port St Giles and get back on his feet. Then he'd go back to the animal shelter and get himself a schnauzer.

  "Twenty grand," Den said, folding his arms across his chest. I'll take care of me, if you will please take care of you. "I won't do it for less, and I want half up front. Take it or leave it."

  Den heard the crack of his jaw a second before his face hit the floor. He didn't see the fist. As he lay on his back struggling for air, he became conscious of the sweet, fishy, gaseous stench which hung in the windowless chamber. He tried to slow his breathing.

  In-out.

  In-out.

  Waiting for the next blow to land.

  It never came.

  And it was in those few moments when dazed relief gave way to joy at being alive that Den felt knees pressing against his chest; strong hands around his neck; felt the first nauseating wave of choking rise in his throat as thick fingers squeezed and squeezed and squeezed.

  Chapter 46

  It was that pleasant period a couple of hours before sunset when the day's work is over. Before Fenella knocked at the door, it flew open and Gail Stubbs let out a shriek of joy.

  "Welcome," Gail said, with a smile, ushering her into the flat.

  "Here is something for us to enjoy," Fenella replied, handing over a bottle of wine.

  She'd splurged on a pricy Pinot which went well with fish. Tonight, her friend had big news.

  Gail eyed the label, her smile stretching wider. "God, this is good stuff."

  It was a small flat with a tiny kitchen. Soft jazz music mingled with the aroma of cooking. The living room served as a dining area. A blue and white floral table cloth covered the scrubbed pine table. Two place settings with wine glasses and silverware polished to a shine.

  Fenella sniffed the delicious aromas wafting in from the kitchen. Nowt better than hearing news with a plate of good food. She didn’t want to rush her friend to spill the beans, so she slipped into an armchair by the window. Her stomach rumbled. She craved food after a long day in court and endless meetings with senior management. She also craved Gail's news. Her friend was a superb nurse and an excellent cook whose food was well worth the wait. And so were her secrets.

  Fenella nodded toward the kitchen. "What have you got in the pot?"

  "Guess."

  "You said fish, earlier, so I'll go with that."

  "One point Sherlock. Guess the name of the dish and you'll get three."

  Fenella made a show of sniffing. "Not fried in batter?"

  "No."

  "Or grilled to a crisp?"

  "Do you smell burning?"

  "Baked, then?" Fenella sniffed again. "Baked haddock in garlic sauce?"

  Gail grinned. "Close. It is Cajun cod in garlic butter, a dish from Louisiana."

  "Oooh," Fenella said, rubbing her hands. "You are a genius with food."

  Gail threw her head back and laughed. "Got the recipe from your mam."

  "Nan?"

  Gail nodded. "And she got it from Priscilla, Dexter's…" Gail searched for the right words. " … long time ex-girlfriend."

  Fenella said, "Priscilla lives in New York City and travels all over as a backup singer. I guess she must have visited the Bayou State. What a life, eh?"

  "Exotic," Gail replied.

  "Like what you've got in the pot," Fenella said, "I'm dying to hear about your fish dish."

  "Tender cod fillets baked in a buttery Cajun seasoning with crushed garlic cloves, a splash of extra virgin olive oil and a dash of cracked black pepper." Gail looked radiant, glowing. "All served with a fresh garden salad and cob rolls with local butter."

  Fenella stared at her friend. Anyone with a face that radiant over baked fish had huge news to tell. If they hadn't been friends for donkey's years, she would have demanded to know right away. But she knew Gail. Knew things had to be done in their own time. Food first, then drinks and then a chat to share secrets.

  When they had finished the cod, which was superb, and Fenella was enjoying the last spoonful of dessert, homemade bread pudding, Gail said, "How about I whip up a hot buttered rum? We can sip and chat while relaxing in the armchairs."

  "Let me help you clear up the dishes," Fenella said.

  The sooner they relaxed in the armchairs by the window, the sooner their conversation would turn to Gail's news.

  They laughed and chatted about the latest soaps on the telly as they washed the dishes—Coronation Street, Emmerdale, and EastEnders. After the last dish was dried and stacked away, Gail whipped up two hot buttered rums and they sank into the armchairs by the window. It was a picture of contentment. Two friends, bellies full of fine food, slowly downing strong drink. Not a care in the world. Nothing to worry about, except discovering Gail's news.

  And they had the whole evening ahead of them.

  Time enough for a long natter.

  The sun had sunk behind the rooftops, but this late in May it remained light outside. At last, it was time for Gail's news.

  Fenella sipped her toddy, licked her lips and said, "So?"

  The phoned jangled from the kitchen. A cock-a-doodle-doo which jerked Gail to her feet. "I'd better take that," she said, hurrying from the room.

  Fenella looked at Gail's empty armchair and she looked at the fading light through the window and she looked at her rum toddy. She rose, glass in hand, and followed Gail to the kitchen.

  "It's Olivia," Gail whispered. "Olivia Clemens."

  Olivia Clemens was a mutual friend who worked as an emergency room nurse. The three had been friends for over twenty years and hung out when time allowed. Not so much these days with their busy schedules, but once a year at least.

  Gail pushed a button and the speakerphone came on. "Fenella's here with me as a witness. Are you calling to say you have won the lottery and are giving me half?"

  Fenella giggled. When the three got together, all hell broke loose. Was it too late for Olivia to pop over? When they were younger, they often met up midweek for an all-nighter. As they got older, with bairns and family, they reserved that luxury for the weekends. Fewer as the years went by. Nowadays, it took the weekend to recover.

  "If only life were that easy," Olivia Clemens said with a sharp and anxious lilt to her tone.

  Troubling.

  Something terrible had happened. Fenella stared at the phone as if it were a hot poker. "What is wrong?"

  A moment of silence. A sharp intake of breath. "An unusual spate of emergency admissions to the hospital," Olivia Clemens said in a frantic rush. "Seven at the last count. Gail, can you come in?"

  It took three seconds for her words to sink in.

  "On my way," Gail said, already moving toward the hall.

  Fenella loved that about her friend. Nursing wasn't a career. It was a vocation. Tonight she was on a mission. Tonight Gail Stubbs would save lives.

  Olivia Clemens was still talking. "Just had word of two more sick women. They are on their way in. This is so strange. They have all come in unconscious, and they are all middle-class women from the villages. Fenella, you'll want to be part of this."

  Fenella kept her first aid skills up to date and had just renewed her CPR training, but nursing in a hospital was another level. "Oh aye," she muttered, feeling a knot of tension in her neck. "And why would that be?"

  "Sir Curt Kiku has just arrived and is spouting off about a drug overdose and tainted supplies. The news media will be all over this." The phone went quiet for a heartbeat. "Oh my God, I've just got word of another one."

  Chapter 47

  Detective Constable Ria Leigh slouched at the table in the kitchen as the last of the sun's golden rays disappeared beyond the horizon. Not that she saw the majesty of the setting orb. The room was pitch-black. The curtains drawn. A bottle of rum and a shot glass rested on the table. The perfect place to plan a murder.

 

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