The Dark Heart, page 32
* * *
The custody suite of the Newcastle Central Police Station was almost empty, all prisoners apart from Petrov being transferred to other stations.
Max looked on blankly as he watched Xavier Petrov snap his Rolex back on his wrist and put his wallet and coins back into his pocket. His solicitor stood there silently, eyeing Max with interest. He was a Slavic-looking man in a sharp three-piece suit, and he was clutching a briefcase.
‘Are we ready to release my client, DS Craigie?’ said the solicitor.
‘Aye,’ said Max, not looking at the man.
‘How about money in holdall? That’s fifty K of my country’s money.’ His eyes glinted with amusement. The solicitor whispered into his client’s ear, and they shared a smile.
‘Evidence. Coroner will need it for the inquest, so you can whistle for it, pal,’ said Max.
Petrov chuckled. ‘Tell you what, Detective Sergeant Max Craigie, of Police Scotland, put it in station fund for police widows, eh?’ His coal black eyes glittered with no amusement.
‘Aye,’ said Max, not breaking his stare directly into Petrov’s eyes, feeling his right fist balling and the desire to uppercut the man, smashing his jaw and rendering him unconscious. Instead, he breathed deeply, and smiled. It almost hurt.
‘I hear there are lots of police widows, DS Craigie. It’s so sad when a police officer dies, eh? Or their family die, eh? So, I donate all money to the worthy causes, as token of esteem for hospitality. Now, I hope I have a car coming to collect me, and take me to embassy in London.’
‘Follow me.’ Max turned and led the way out into the late afternoon sun.
A sleek Mercedes was parked at the front of the police station, a driver wearing a peaked cap was at the wheel, and the engine purred away. The number plates were unmistakable. Diplomatic plates. Making the occupants of the vehicle untouchable to law enforcement.
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Detective Sergeant Craigie,’ said Petrov, holding out his hand to shake. Max just stared at it, turned and walked back up the stairs to the station doors. He looked back just as Petrov was shaking hands with the solicitor and then climbing into the back seat of the Mercedes.
Max went back inside, feeling sick.
It was time to go home.
85
Xavier Petrov was sitting in the rear of the Mercedes, reading The Moscow Times on his iPad when his phone rang.
It was his contact at the Kazakh Embassy, the normally taciturn Amir, who had some type of role in the building on Park Lane.
‘Amir, what gives?’ he said, trying to sound bright and breezy. He realised that his popularity may not be particularly high at the moment. He’d caused a lot of people a lot of work, and he was thankful that his contacts in Moscow would be bringing pressure to bear to keep him out of too much shit. He was resigned to being sent back to Astana, probably tomorrow, but hopefully for not too long. He preferred London, but maybe he’d go to America next.
‘Where are you?’ Amir said without preamble.
Petrov looked out of the window. Rather than the dual carriageway he’d been expecting to see, he saw that he was actually on a quiet road, lined by tall hedges.
‘I’ve actually no idea. Driver, where are we?’ he said to the back of the man behind the wheel, whom he had taken absolutely no interest in so far.
‘Just a quick diversion, there’s an accident on the A1,’ he said, in a strange accent.
‘Amir, we’re on our way, I’m in a limo.’
‘Strange, we sent a car, and the driver’s just called asking when you’re coming out. Are you in a car already?’
‘Yes, he was waiting outside the police station, maybe they sent two by mistake?’ he said, feeling a chill descend on him, as he saw the driver’s eyes flick towards him in the rear-view mirror. They were steely blue and icy.
‘Perhaps. Get here fast, the Ambassador is keen to speak with you, as is your friend from Moscow.’ Amir rang off.
‘Driver, where are we going?’ said Petrov.
‘As I said, sir, diversion, it’ll be quicker in the long run.’ The car began to slow down before it pulled over into a passing place, letting a car go ahead.
‘This doesn’t feel like a …’ The words died in his throat. The driver turned to face him, a pistol in his hand, trained unerringly at him. The driver was a lean, hard-faced man, with short grey hair visible underneath his cap.
The corners of his eyes crinkled in the beginnings of a smile, and when he spoke, it was in accented Russian. ‘Alexsei Demidov sends his regards, Xavier Petrov.’ Petrov’s mouth gaped at the mention of the telecommunications oligarch, the President’s sworn enemy, treacherous friend of the West. Instantly, his heart froze in his chest. The pistol jerked in the man’s hands, and Petrov felt a sharp pain in his pectoral muscle where the projectile had buried into his chest. He looked down, seeing the tuft of a dart in his chest.
He reached for the dart, as his surroundings began to swim and his limbs suddenly became impossibly heavy, his vision fading.
86
It had been a proper police funeral.
The church in Dunkeld had been rammed to the rafters with cops in their best blue uniforms, along with lots of CID officers all wearing their smartest suits, generally reserved for High Court appearances. The front pews were packed full of family and friends.
Cops lining the pathway stood to attention as Joe’s body passed by in his flag-draped coffin on its journey into the small church.
Max barely heard a word that was said in the funeral service, he just stood there, numb, as the images of that day replayed, vivid and technicolour in his mind. He couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t look at Joe’s wife who was flanked by legions of her family.
But it was Joe’s kids. Three sweet, innocent wee toots, sobbing silently at the front of the church. The two twin boys, solid, stocky, the image of their dad; the daughter, blonde, and tiny. They were all broken. So young, so innocent, and distraught, having their dad torn from them. Max balled his fists so tight that his nails almost drew blood. He didn’t flinch when he felt Janie’s hand come down to his, gripping it. He turned to look down his pew: Ross, Barney, Janie and Norma were all there, solemn and pale.
His stomach roiled at the injustice of it all. The Russian tactics of using the useful idiots Stringer and Shorty, evil though they were, they were just tools. He tried to shake the anger at Xavier Petrov being driven away in a limousine. Even if he hadn’t been seen since, Max assumed that he had been squirrelled out of the country. The diplomatic wranglings had continued with expulsions and condemnations. But innocent people were still dead, and for what?
Max just clamped his jaw tight and stared straight ahead, ramrod straight, ignoring the tears that cascaded down his face. As the coffin passed them en route to the hearse, to be driven away for the private family cremation, he bowed his head, his stomach roiling and his mind spinning as if several cogs had worked loose.
Hettie was immediately behind the coffin, her two stocky boys holding her hands, their faces streaked with tears, but they walked upright, square-shouldered and proud. Just like their dad. Joe. A good cop, an even better man.
Hettie stopped when she saw Max and turned to face him, her face pale and shattered. Wordlessly, she reached up and touched the healing wound on his temple. It was pink and puckered, but it was fading day by day. She snaked an arm around Max’s neck, and pulled him in tight, shoulders heaving as she sobbed against his blue suit.
‘Thank you for trying, Max. I’ll never forget you.’ She wiped her eyes, grabbed her boys’ hands and continued the slow walk out of the church, out into the sun.
Max’s head surged, spinning as he closed his eyes. He began to sway and was reassured when he felt Janie’s firm grasp.
When the procession had filed out, Max sat and exhaled deeply.
The rest of the team followed suit. They all just sat there as the church emptied.
Chief Constable Chris Macdonald, resplendent in his best dress uniform, approached them.
‘Okay, guys?’ he said, his eyes soft.
No one said anything.
He tried again. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘What would Joe have done?’ said Janie.
‘As I understand it, he loved a beer,’ said Max.
‘Then let’s go and have a beer, The Taybank is just around the corner,’ said Ross.
* * *
Cops do what cops do at funeral services. They pay their respects, they often weep, they remember their fallen colleagues.
And then they go to the pub. It had always been the same.
A drink to remember your old colleague. You shared the good times, faced the same dangers, laughed at each other’s jokes, and if it went well, or even if it went badly, you dealt with it together.
And when one of you shuffled off this mortal coil, you went for a drink with those who were left behind, after the thin blue line became just that little bit thinner.
The team all stood together, clutching drinks in silence. No one seemed to know what to say, as was often the case until alcohol had loosened tongues, as the emotion of the service began to fade.
Max took a sip from his cranberry juice and felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was Katie.
Hope it went well, babe. I’m almost packed up, and excited about tomorrow.
Max had booked a week away and they were flying to Portugal in the morning. He knew that they all needed a total break.
His phone buzzed again, this time the familiar string of numbers, letters and characters. There was a video clip attached. Max felt his skin prickle, as he clicked on the play button. It took a moment to realise what he was seeing: it was the inside of a helicopter. The camera swung around and stopped on a short, lean man with black swept-back hair, who was slumped, unconscious in the seat next to an open door, the wind buffeting his hair.
It was Xavier Petrov.
Max knew what was coming. Bruce Ferguson wasn’t one to let bygones be bygones.
A hand grabbed the man by his jacket, heaved him up and tossed him out of the door, a length of heavy chain following him out into the abyss below. The camera followed the man out of the door, giving a view of Petrov cartwheeling, the chain glinting, as he headed towards the grey sea a thousand feet below.
Then the camera footage went blank.
Max continued to stare at the phone in his hands, a slow smile spreading across his face.
‘What’s so fucking funny, Craigie?’ said Ross.
‘Nothing, just Katie excited about going on holiday tomorrow.’
‘Aye, about time you took my goddaughter on holiday, you tight fud. All the overtime I pay you, least you can do, eh?’
Epilogue
Three months later
Bogdan Volkov looked up as Mr Jamieson, one of the friendlier screws, popped his head around the door of his cell.
‘You okay, Boggie?’ he said, raising his eyebrows knowingly.
‘Of course.’
‘Present for you, from an admirer on the outside, pal. He slipped me a few quid to get them through, said his name was X, and he was very insistent that I get it to you. He said you’d know why.’
‘X? You’re sure?’
‘What he said, Russian fella with black hair.’
Bogdan couldn’t believe it. He’d been led to believe that X was going to be sent back to Kazakhstan, but he had disappeared on his way back from Newcastle and hadn’t been seen since. Bogdan had suspected that X had kept his head down, secured a new identity and had carried on regardless with the business. This was good news.
Mr Jamieson was one of the more approachable screws on the wing, and could occasionally be relied upon to get a little contraband through.
‘Don’t leave me suspended, then. Hand over?’ he said, his excitement rising.
Jamieson entered the cell, pushed the door shut, held out his hand and dropped two miniature bottles of Beluga Gold vodka onto the bed.
‘He apologised for sending miniatures, but it’s not easy smuggling this shit in. For fuck’s sake don’t get caught with it.’ Jamieson grinned and left the cell.
Bogdan looked at the precious spirit, almost with awe. It had been so long since he’d experienced the five-times filtered, natural malt spirit from select grain, and the purest of Siberian water. His mouth almost watered at the sight of the spirit.
He opened the first of the small bottles and tipped it into his plastic mug. He smelled the clean, fresh spirit. No sipping. No Russian would sip a vodka, so he downed it, in one. Initially harsh, but then mellowing out on his tongue, with slightly sweet flavours of vanilla, oatmeal and honey, and a spicy finish on his palate. He sighed, the memories it evoked of happier times.
Suddenly sleepy, he lay down on his bed, a feeling of exhausted euphoria beginning to wash over him, which was unusual but expected after a four-year abstinence. He yawned and closed his eyes, drifting off, barely aware of someone returning to the cell and retrieving the bottle. He tried to move, to object, but his limbs were too heavy. Just so, so very heavy. Like the alcohol was withdrawing all of his energy from his sinewy body.
And then there was nothing.
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