Cold Blood (10 page)

As they turned into Mitch’s street they passed a four storey pink castle sitting next to a dilapidated bungalow. Arnaud had to admit that someday he’d love a castle of his own, although perhaps not pink. They sped along the narrow road; Mitch was showing off for his young friend. Snow’s knuckles were white on the dashboard and his face was emotionless. Mitch broke the silence. “See that one on the right?”

“Yeah.” Arnaud looked at the six storey building.

“The locals call it ‘Titanic’. You can’t see from this angle but the back is shaped a bit like a boat. They have a swimming pool on the second floor!”

“Jesus. How much would that cost?”

“There’s the funny part. It’s been empty for two years. It was up for sale for $80,000 but no one wanted it and now it’s on the market again for $250,000.”

Arnaud frowned. “But if it didn’t sell why put the price up?”

“Ukrainian economics, my friend. The owner didn’t want people to think he owned a cheap house.” Mitch slammed on the brakes as they arrived at his house. They went through the electronic gates which duly shut behind them. Mitch looked at Snow, who gave him an unimpressed stare.

“Next time I drive.” He exited the car.

“Bloody hell this is larger than my parents’ place!” Arnaud took in the three storey house in front of him.

“Impressive eh?” Mitch beckoned them follow him inside.

“Nah, you’ve seen one you’ve seen ’em all.” Snow winked, regaining his composure.

Mitch handed Arnaud and Snow a bottle of beer. “Actually that’s true. This one and the two behind are exactly the same, designed and built by the same people.”

“So how many bedrooms have you got Mitch?” Arnaud looked at the large chandelier hanging in the open plan lounge dining area.

Mitch ticked them off on his fingers. “Seven. One for each day of the week. In fact when I first moved in I slept each night in a different bed to see which I preferred.”

“And which one was that?”

Mitch pointed, “The couch. I fell asleep watching the baseball. I’ll give you a tour later if you’re interested.”

“So how come you’ve got such a large place then?” Arnaud could not stop gawking.

Mitch sat at the breakfast bar and bid the other two do the same. “My life story so far.”

Snow placed his bottle on the table, yawned and headed for the toilet, “Call me when he’s finished.”

Unperturbed Turney continued, “I’ve been with the company since I graduated UCLA. Before I came here I’d only worked in the states but all over, y’know, where I was needed. Anyhow just before I was offered this gig the wife and I decide to go our separate ways.”

“She didn’t understand him,” Snow shouted though the open toilet door.

“She understood me OK, it was the Puerto Rican maid I was screwing she couldn’t understand.” He took a swig of beer. “I know it shouldn’t have happened but I’m a bastard and it did. So hey. I looked at my options. The company wanted to expand here, so I asked for the job and hey presto. Anyway, I took over from the last guy they sent here; he had three kids, so I inherit this palace. That’s little me rattling around this place like Macaulay Culkin but with only a cleaner for company.” Another swig of beer and a grin spread across his face. “Best of all I arranged to have my salary part-paid into a Swiss account. She can’t touch it, the ex-wife.”

“You are a hard man Mr Turney.” Snow re-joined them.

“So seeing as we are swapping stories, are you going to tell him yours?” Mitch looked at Snow pointedly.

Arnaud noticed Snow’s eyes flicker angrily at Mitch before he batted away the suggestion with his hand. “Nah, I don’t want to give the poor kid nightmares.”

There was a pause and Arnaud sensed that he was either witness to a private joke or something they weren’t going to share. He broke the silence. “What are the neighbours like? I saw there were several Mercedes parked next door.”

“Mafia. The lot of them.”

“Really?” He leaned nearer.

“Who else could afford these places? Actually that’s not quite true. Come, I’ll show you.” Mitch walked through the French windows and into the garden. “Right; you see that one, three houses along – the light pink one.” Arnaud nodded. “It belongs to a famous Russian singer. Apparently she has sold more records than Tina Turner.”

Arnaud was impressed. “Any good?”

“Dunno, I’ve never bought her CD but sometimes I can hear her singing in the garden. I think it’s her or it could be next door’s cat.”

“And the other houses?”

“OK, next door there is a Dutch guy. I think he works for Unilever – he just moved in so I haven’t had the chance to say hello. On the left there is an old guy. I haven’t got a clue what he does but I know he’s got a pair of gorgeous daughters.”

“You hope they are his daughters,” noted Snow.

“Now the two houses at the back, the ones the same as this. One is empty and the other is owned by a businessman. I think he bought it about six months back. I’ve seen him around the centre when I’ve been entertaining clients; you know, Le Grand Café and places like that.”

“Yup.” Arnaud did know.

“Funny thing though, there’s always at least one light on, people coming and going and always several cars. My bet is that he actually is Mafia.”

“Don’t tell me you fancy his wife?” Snow asked with mock concern.

“I don’t think he has one.”

“That’s good. Otherwise he may make you an offer that you can’t remember.”

“What are you on about?” Arnaud was staring at the barred windows.

“
The Godfather
.”

“What?” He turned, puzzled.

“Jesus, Arnaud, how old are you again? Quick Mitch, take his beer before we’re arrested for corrupting a minor.”

TEN

Horley
,
United Kingdom

The mass of uniformed school children pushed past him like a tidal wave. Dressed in baggy black blazers they reminded him of Emperor Penguins, their head feathers replaced by unkempt hair. They were desperate to get home. Boarding the train Sergey forced his way up the carriage until he found one spare seat amongst a group of teenage boys. He looked at the seat next to the window and the boy whose feet were resting on it, his dirty white tennis shoes poking out from beneath a pair of regulation black trousers.

“Can I sit down please?” Sergey asked politely. There was no reply as the youths exchanged amused glances with each other. “Your feet are on the seat,” Sergey now stated curtly.

The youth and his mates looked up. “Yeah,” came the reply, another statement of fact, “and?”

The boy looked at the American but his face changed from amusement to uncertainty when he met his gaze. There was something about this geezer that was weird. The American stared back, his eyes not blinking and stepped forward. “Move them, move them now.”

The teenager started to say something but thought better of it. “I’m out of here.” He stated with a grunt and barged his way out of the carriage. Sergey sat in the vacant space, placing his rucksack on his lap. He smiled and called a loud “thank you” after the departing youth.

“Danny,” another youth shouted, “hold on.” The five remaining group members left muttering obscenities and making hand gestures.

Sergey looked around, diagonally across from him, next to the opposite door, a middle age man peered over a copy of the
Daily Mirror
and nodded, “Buggers, the lot of ’em.”

Sergey smiled although inside he was feeling far from jovial. Mark Peters had left Vienna early that morning taking Austrian Airlines Flight 451 to London Heathrow. Mark would stay for one night and fly back to Vienna on Saturday afternoon, his business meetings in London completed. Back in Vienna Mark Peters would again disappear and Sergey would board the Ukrainian International Airlines flight to Kyiv, a tourist who had spent a few days with friends in Austria.

As an American businessman Mark’s passport had been given a cursory examination and duly stamped. He had taken counter measures by riding the tube to Blackfriars, changing twice to check for a tail before backtracking to Victoria. There he again made certain that he was not being followed before checking his overnight case into left luggage and boarding the train to London’s other international airport – Gatwick. He would not be returning for the case which contained a change of new and unworn clothes purchased with cash in Vienna.

The ‘pickup’ had been simple. On arriving at Gatwick he had taken another train to Horley. There, sitting in an uninspiring car in an uninspiring car park, he had met a man with an Eastern European accent who had given him the Uzi and kit. The delivery boy, who called himself ‘Igor’, was paid in cash and asked no questions. Sergey had spoken in his American English and could have been George Bush himself as far as ‘Igor’ was concerned. He again took countermeasures, catching a train to East Croydon before doubling back to Gatwick Airport to take the Littlehampton service.

So here he sat, on the Littlehampton-bound train with a highly illegal machine pistol inside his rucksack and hoards of escaping school kids. Sergey closed his eyes in an attempt to focus his mind. He was very near now, so very near to avenging his brother that he could almost smell the cordite from the spent shells. The train stopped, he opened his eyes and read the sign ‘Haywards Heath’. Most of the school kids disappeared. There was a banging on the outside of the window as the expelled youth found a new confidence and shouted “Knob off, tosspot” at him. Sergey smiled and ran his index finger along his neck to signify a throat being cut. The expression on the youth changed to one of confusion as the train pulled out of the station.

Sergey closed his eyes and ran through the plan in his head. By the time he arrived at Lancing it would be dusk. He would make his way down to the beach via the target. As he passed the target he would be partly hidden by the failing light and workers returning home, so would perform a quick close target recce, choosing a place to lie up later. On the beach he would await darkness and hope that no one would use the beach on a dark October night. At two a.m. he would put on the oil skins and move from the beach to his chosen lying up position and await the target.

At the next stop a young mother and daughter sat opposite him. The mother busied herself with reading a magazine whilst the little girl stared directly at him with a serious face.

*

Crawley
,
West Sussex
,
UK

“
Da
. For sure.” Arkadi Cheban negotiated the roundabout with one hand. “I make drop off in thirty minutes.”

Business had been good for Cheban; including the meet with the American the day before, he had made two drops this month. He exited the roundabout and immediately had to swerve to avoid a learner driver who had taken the corner too wide and half mounted the opposite curb. He swore in his native Moldovan. The instructor held her hand up and smiled cheerily whilst the spotty teenager wrestled with the gear stick. Cheban gave the instructor a one-fingered salute in return and accelerated hard up the road.

“Here comes another punter,” P.C. Wilks aimed the speed gun. “Forty-eight point seven, Geoff. Stop him?”

P.C. Thorpe nodded; it had been a slow morning. “Go on then Rodge.”

Wilks climbed back into the patrol car and Thorpe entered the flow of traffic after the speeding Vectra.

Cheban saw blue flashing lights in his mirror and his heart almost stopped. He immediately dropped the phone leaving his contact talking to himself. He could not be stopped, not now with his consignment hidden in the boot. He assessed the road ahead. The traffic lights had turned red. He indicated left and pulled over. The police Astra came to a halt behind him, the passenger door opened, a police constable stepped out and walked towards his driver’s side window. Back in the patrol car Thorpe, as per usual, accessed the DVLA database to check if the vehicle had been reported stolen. Reaching the Vectra Wilks peered through the open window.

“Good afternoon sir.” He adopted his best ‘you’ve been naughty’ face.

Cheban nodded.

“Can you turn the engine off please? Is this your vehicle sir?” He removed his note pad and pen.

“Yes.”

“I’d like to speak to you about a safety issue. Are you aware that you were travelling at 49 mph in a thirty zone?”

Cheban’s hands started to sweat. “Yes officer I am sorry I have to meet a friend and I am late.”

Wilks nodded and listened to the accent, not knowing quite where it was from. “Well that is all ‘well and good’ but 49 mph is a lot faster than thirty sir. There are several schools in this area which is why we must enforce this limit.”

Cheban kept quiet and nodded, a bead of sweat forming on his temple.

“I am going to have to issue you with a fixed penalty ticket for driving in excess of the speed limit. Now if I may take your name Mr –?”

“Trillevich, Igor Trillevich.”

Wilks made a note. “How is that spelt? T… r… i… l…”

“T… r… i… l… l… e… v… i… c… h.” Cheban tried to stay calm.

“Do you have your licence with you, Mr Trillevich?”

Cheban swallowed, “I keep it at home is safer than to keep in car. What if the car gets stolen?”

Wilks smiled. “You never know who is about do you? OK just one moment while I speak to my colleague.” Wilks returned to the Astra.

Cheban lifted the phone and spoke rapidly in Russian before ending the call. In his mirror he could see the two police officers conferring.

“It all checks out, not reported stolen. Registered to a Richard Lewis of Horsham.” Thorpe tapped the screen.

“He said his name was Trillevich.”

“Oh. In that case it doesn’t.” Thorpe squinted at the display.

Cheban wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his t-shirt and his hands on his jeans. It was now or never. He started the engine, put the car into gear and floored the accelerator. The Vectra shot forward tyres squealing, reaching the junction in seconds he swung left through the lights which were again red and entered Newton Road on the Manor Royal trading estate.

“Cheeky bugger!” Thorpe floored his own accelerator and, sirens flashing, followed. A double decker Crawley bus slammed on its breaks and narrowly missed the patrol car.

Cheban sweated profusely as he worked the Vectra up through the gears. Into third and hitting sixty, past the Gatso camera, which flashed obligingly, and the BMW dealership, through a pedestrian crossing and on towards the roundabout. Wilks called for backup and Thorpe fought to keep up with the more powerful car.

“That’s right, right, right at the roundabout.” Thorpe gave a running commentary for his colleagues in order to help locate the chase. The Vectra had increased the gap and was now at the next roundabout joining Crawley Avenue, the M23 slip road. Cheban’s drop off was in Croydon but he would not lead them there so he powered around the roundabout and hit the M23 south. What now? What now? He shouted at himself in Moldovan, mind now fully in ‘panic mode’. Head south and take a turn off, lose yourself in any number of country roads and villages, get to the coast and a boat?

Two miles to the North at Gatwick’s South Terminal a high powered Police Subaru Impretza joined the chase. The advanced police driver eased the cruiser onto the motorway. He was in no doubt that his 155 mph ‘Scuby’ would soon catch the Vectra, especially with the tail back caused by road works at Handcross Hill.

The Astra maxed out at 102 mph and whilst Thorpe cursed his luck at being given a shopping cart to drive, Wilks talked the Impretza into the chase.

In the fast lane, lights flashing other road users aside, Cheban hit 110 mph. His vision became limited to the road ahead as he concentrated on getting as far away as possible. Traffic in his peripheral vision became just a blur as he flew south.

Wilks and Thorpe slowed to 90 mph as the Impretza catapulted past them. The lunchtime traffic pulled to one side and more than one envious sales rep re-evaluated their chosen profession.

Cheban saw the distant blue lights in his mirror and realised that they were getting nearer. He pushed the Vectra’s V6 engine further with the needle now dancing.

The Impretza tore on like a bullet, the advanced police driver, although outwardly concerned for the general motoring public, secretly hoped that he could enjoy this speed for a while more.

Signs cautioned the end of the motorway, further signs signalled the road narrowing to two lanes. Cheban’s lane abruptly disappeared and he swung left in front of a BMW Z4, which had been happily cruising at eighty-five. Down Handcross Hill now and he had to use his breaks, 90 mph – he dared go no faster. Down the dip and up the next crest, right bend and –
suka
! Cheban saw the queue of traffic stretching ahead and his mind went into overdrive. He slammed on the breaks harder than ever and tried to swing left into a fast approaching ‘B road’. The front wheels fought to bite the asphalt, the combination of torque steer and ABS made the Vectra understeer. Touching the grass verge it lurched sideways, the rear of the car suddenly swung out as two tyres found traction in the mud. Unable to steer, Cheban froze in terror as the vehicle rolled into a ditch. Momentarily he saw earth and sky swap places before the airbags inflated at the moment of impact and his world went black.

Seconds later the Impretza came to a halt in the slow lane, the passenger disembarking and placing a warning triangle on the road. The Astra arrived a minute later, Wilks and Thorpe both keen to see what had happened. The Vectra had come to rest on its driver’s side in the ditch, Wilks could see the driver lolling inside the crumpled wreck against the imploded side window. He was motionless. As the driver of the Impretza called for an ambulance the passenger was in the ditch trying to get to Cheban. Thorpe inspected the rear of the vehicle, which seemed to have taken the brunt of the impact. He saw the boot that had been ripped open and the contents which had fallen out.

“Bloody hell!” Stunned, he raised his radio to his mouth. “This is Thorpe. Alert the anti-terrorist squad!”