Murder by Magic (15 page)

‘This
could be him.’

Now
Skelgill reclines, as though he has been calm all along.  DS Jones turns
expectantly to watch the entrance.

‘That’s
the right jacket, Guv.’

The
young man – for he can be no more than mid-twenties, and possibly inferior
in years to DS Jones’s twenty-six – walks with the casual purpose of one
who is returning to his seat, knowing where he is going, and already familiar
with those around him.  Indeed, he slides in at right angles to DS Jones,
on her other side from Skelgill.

‘Imagine
I visit the restroom – there is no need to attract attention.’

His
Slavic English has a mid-Atlantic drawl, as if American television has been his
formative fare.  His clothes fit him well, a sporty ensemble of shell jacket,
t-shirt, slim jeans and trainers – though cuffs and hems show signs of
wear that suggest, if he owns a new wardrobe, he has not dressed to impress them. 
Equally, if they were expecting the stereotypically wooden undercover policeman
in oversized square shoes and ill-fitting brown suit with 1970s lapels, then he
does not remotely conform.  Indeed, as if to allay any such concerns about
his rank or identity, he slides a palm across the table and lifts it briefly to
reveal his credentials; he seems to require nothing in return.

‘Inspector,
welcome – I am Shevchenko.’

Skelgill
nods; there is no suggestion that they shake hands.

The
newcomer has longish, neatly styled black hair, light olive skin, and deep
brown eyes fringed by extensive lashes; a handsome Mediterranean rather than
typically Slavic appearance.  His features are well defined, though lean
and perhaps slightly harried.  Still hunched forwards, he turns to look at
DS Jones and takes in her apparel – a cropped black leather jacket over a
snug white vest top, stretch hipster jeans, black ankle boots.

‘Ukrayins’kyy?’

DS
Jones seems momentarily startled, though she responds in kind to his inquiry
about her nationality.

‘Ni,
Brytans’ka.’

He shrugs
phlegmatically, as though this can’t be helped.  He holds her gaze for a
moment.

‘Krasyvyy.’

DS
Jones giggles involuntarily, and immediately blushes, clearly taken by surprise
by some compliment.  But Shevchenko looks with a concerned expression to Skelgill
and gestures to the bare table.

‘We
have a saying in Ukraine – no drink, no fun.’

And
with this he rises and disappears through the curtains as though he is acquainted
with whatever lies beyond.

Skelgill
– perhaps unwittingly – is scowling.

‘What was
that about?’

For a
moment DS Jones is tongue tied.

‘He
thought I was maybe Ukrainian, Guv.’  Her cheeks still tinged with pink, she
adds, unconvincingly, a rider.  ‘That I was your translator.’

‘Aye,
well – let’s stick to English, eh?’

He
folds his arms and glares across his right shoulder into the street.  An
elderly female flower-seller has drifted into his line of sight on the opposite
pavement.  Holding a basket of lilac carnations in the crook of an arm, she
halts more or less facing him.  She wears a green tailored coat with a
marbled pattern, a high blue polo neck sweater and a tightly drawn brown floral
headscarf.  Her flesh has a deathly pallor, and her pale eyes are sunken
into a long, lined countenance that exudes austerity.  Her bearing is one
of brave endurance, of mourning, her expression humble; she nods meekly to
passers-by, offering gentle, hopeful glances from within an all-consuming aura
of pathos.

But as
he watches, this practised graveside manner suddenly transforms; like the
screen vampire rudely woken by a hovering stake her eyes widen and her teeth become
bared, and she lets loose a string of (unintelligible) invective: for an
interloper has trespassed upon what is evidently her beat!  It is another
woman, younger, unkempt, large and rotund, partially wrapped in a threadbare
serge greatcoat with rope for a belt, and clutching only a single tired posy in
each unwashed fist.  The intruder at first begins to protest, but when she
sees that the old woman means business and is bearing down upon her she turns
and begins to hobble away, receiving a solid – and surprisingly athletic
– boot in her ample hindquarters for her trouble.

‘Is
doggy-dog world, no?’

While
the modest drama has been unfolding, Shevchenko has slipped back into their
cubicle.  Skelgill turns to face him, looking a little startled.  DS
Jones laughs – perhaps she prefers to believe the malapropism to be
intentional.  But the officer does not wait for further approbation; he
breaks open a new packet of cigarettes, and offers first to her, then to
Skelgill.  When they each decline he makes no comment but takes one
himself and strikes up.

‘How
is your hotel?’

Skelgill
is surprised by the mundane question.

‘Seems
pretty quiet.’

‘It
gets interesting later.’

Keeping
his eyes on Skelgill, Shevchenko leans back into the sofa, blows a stream of
smoke from his nostrils, and makes a short and sharp though deliberate jerk of
his head, indicating the two girls at his back.  DS Jones, detecting the signal,
glances to see Skelgill’s reaction – but he has already turned away: a pair
of waiters approaches their table.  The first grasps by its neck a bottle
of clear liquid, and in his other hand three shot glasses, which he proceeds to
fill and slide like a croupier, one before each player.  He places the
bottle in the centre of the table; then he unloads from the tray borne by his
colleague a large steaming dish of what, beneath Skelgill’s critical scrutiny,
looks vaguely like dim sum.  Finally he roughly distributes side plates,
cutlery and napkins and bows to Shevchenko – who ignores him – and
backs away.  It is left to DS Jones to intercede with a modicum of
protocol.

‘Spasybi.’

‘Bud’
laska.’

Shevchenko
has already lifted his glass.  He holds it out, obliging the others to reciprocate. 
However, he toasts DS Jones.

‘To
your accent – it is very convincing.’

Skelgill
looks mildly irritated.

‘She’s
got a Ukrainian granny.’

Shevchenko
squints as smoke drifts into his eyes.

‘Then
you have tried
horilka
.’

DS
Jones sniffs the liquid experimentally.

‘I’m
not sure.’

Shevchenko
grins knowingly.

‘
Bud’mo!’

He
swallows the drink in one.  Skelgill and DS Jones exchange glances;
Skelgill makes a ‘when in Rome’ kind of face.  They follow suit.

During
the hiatus in which the two English detectives are unable to speak, Shevchenko
first refills their glasses and then presents the bottle so they can see the label
more clearly.

‘You
might know this as Russian vodka – but horilka was invented by Ukrainian
Cossacks in the fifteenth century.  We have many varieties – but
basically it is grain spirit – think of it as white whisky without the headache.’

‘It
certainly hits the spot.’  Skelgill’s expression may not convey this precise
sentiment, but nonetheless he now drinks about half of his second measure, this
time merely grimacing as it goes down.  ‘The trick’s just to swallow.’

He
turns to DS Jones for approval, but she is not looking at him and instead
gestures with an outstretched hand to the food.

‘Varenyky,
Guv.’

Skelgill
empties his glass and slides it closer to Shevchenko for a refill.  He
leans to get a closer look at the little crescent-shaped doughy parcels, garnished
with diced fat and fried onions and accompanied by a dish of sour cream. 
Shevchenko addresses DS Jones.

‘Your
grandmother make?’

DS
Jones nods.

‘When
I was young.’

‘You
are young.’

Her
eyebrows flicker but she avoids eye contact with Shevchenko.  Instead she
gets to work with a ladle; Skelgill is watching and seems content when she serves
his helping first.  Unsure of precisely what to do he slices a parcel in
half and eats it from his fork; it is almost too hot and he has to employ his
cheeks like bellows.  Shevchenko simply uses his fingers, and dunks a
parcel into the cooling sour cream before taking a bite.

‘As I
recall there’s usually a selection of fillings, Guv.’

Shevchenko
waggles his remaining portion.

‘Mine
is offal.’

‘This
one’s alright.’

DS
Jones grins apprehensively at Skelgill’s remark – it is never easy to
tell when he is joking, and the retort is quick-fire, which might suggest otherwise. 
However, perhaps the horilka is getting to work, for he has a punchline.

‘Chicken
Kiev, I reckon.’

‘Is not
chicken in varenyky, Inspector – maybe you have cheese.’

Shevchenko’s
straight response suggests the British irony has evaded him.  Meanwhile
Skelgill is starting on his second parcel.  He cuts it open and examines
the contents, which could be minced cabbage.

‘Make
a decent fry-up, these would.’

Shevchenko
speaks as he chews.

‘We
fry the leftovers – the next day.’

Skelgill
frowns, leftovers being something of a scarce commodity in his kitchen.  He
glances to see how DS Jones is getting on – but, as he does so, behind
her in the street a car slowly draws up.  It is a large Mercedes, its
stealth both enhanced and simultaneously undermined by distinctive matt black paintwork
that singles it out as some kind of statement.  Behind tinted glass the
occupants are invisible – until the driver, a stocky dark-suited
character of Slavic appearance sporting a severe expression and matching
haircut gets out and rounds to the passenger door.  He checks about and
then opens it for a small pale man in his early forties, who slips on a pair of
aviator shades to accessorise his smart-casual ensemble of stressed jeans, crocodile
shoes, black crew-neck cashmere sweater, Italian jacket and prominent designer
wristwatch.  He is speaking into a mobile phone, and continues to do so as
he enters the restaurant and – monitored surreptitiously by Skelgill
– self-assuredly joins the two blonde girls.  In the absence of an
acknowledgement, the females fall silent and retreat dutifully from their
handsets.  The nearest of them delves into an extravagantly branded
leather purse that rests upon the cushion beside her and pulls out a compact
– but what now fascinates Skelgill is not the rather sensual manner in
which she adjusts her make-up, but that peering at him from over the rim of the
bag is a tiny white bat-eared dog.

‘We
should discuss business, Inspector.’  There is a note of warning in
Shevchenko’s voice, as if he seeks to divert Skelgill’s attention.

Skelgill
shrugs and pops another slice of varenyky into his mouth.  He turns to DS
Jones with a pronounced nod of the head.  She seems to understand and
reaches for her shoulder bag.  From a small folder she produces Leonid
Pavlenko’s passport and the photograph of the blonde girl that had originally fluttered
from it.  As she positions these on the table for Shevchenko, Skelgill
seems to be drawing a comparison between the image and the two females beyond
him.  Shevchenko is bent over the picture, but does not touch it. 
His reaction suggests he thinks along similar lines.

‘I
could show you a thousand girls like this in Kiev tonight.’

He
sits upright and drains his glass.  Then he stretches for the bottle to
dispense top-ups.  Skelgill looks pensive.

‘What are
you saying?’

‘Is
only one reason why a woman has this type of photo shoot.’

Skelgill’s
gaze again falls upon the girls in the next cubicle.  Almost
imperceptibly, Shevchenko seems to be nodding in confirmation.

‘Maybe
two – second to attract western husband.’  Now he smiles boyishly,
showing even white teeth.  ‘I expect you already have English wife, Inspector?’

Skelgill
simpers; he glances at DS Jones, who is concentrating hard upon a page of notes. 
But before he can fashion a reply there is a distraction, for the two blonde
girls rise in unison and sweep elegantly towards the exit, turning a succession
of heads.  The man is still engaged with his telephone conversation, but
as he too stands he swivels to look at the trio of detectives, catching them in
the act of observation.  From behind the sunglasses the precise direction
of his gaze is indeterminate, though to Skelgill’s eye it appears he exchanges
the merest of nods with Shevchenko.  The females are already being fed
into the rear compartment of the charcoal limousine by the driver, and in
another thirty seconds the man has joined them and the vehicle pulls away.

‘Know
him?’

Skelgill’s
inquiry is casually spoken over a sip of horilka.

‘Let’s
say I know who he is.’

It
appears Shevchenko will be no more forthcoming.  Skelgill turns his
attention back to matters lying before them.