Murder by Magic (16 page)

‘About
the photograph.’

Shevchenko
nods.

‘You
think this girl go to England – she hide from the authorities and now
Pavlenko, he join her?’

Skelgill
seems unwilling to confirm this version of events.  He picks up the
horilka and replenishes their glasses – though only he and Shevchenko
have finished their latest measures.  The bottle emptied, he raises it and
examines it critically.

‘How
easy is it to get into Britain?’

‘Not
so difficult.  We have a five hundred kilometre border with Poland that
leaks like a sieve.’

He
clicks his fingers, as though it is as simple as that.  But DS Jones has a
caveat.

‘Captain
– we’re not in the Schengen Area – they’d still have to get past
British Immigration.’

Shevchenko
is starting on another cigarette.  He glances up from the act of lighting
it with an amused glint in his eye.  Of course, he has not offered a
Christian name, and DS Jones is perhaps unsure of how she ranks alongside him.

‘It is
Juri.’

‘I’m
sorry?’

‘My
name – it is Juri.’

He
raises his drink to her – then he looks back to Skelgill, who drains his
glass with a grimace.  Shevchenko shrugs languorously.

‘Inspector
– these questions – they will be better answered by Pavlenko’s
associate –
tomorrow
.’  He seems to vacillate over the word
tomorrow.  ‘Tonight you are guests in my country and you must relax
– and eat.’

‘Eat?’ 
Skelgill gestures loosely to the remnants of the varenyky.

‘This
is appetiser – and aperitif.’  He flicks the rim of his glass with a
nail.  ‘This bar easy find for rendezvous – but I take you to place
where is more interesting – more... cultural.’

Shevchenko
does not elaborate upon the definition of cultural – nor does Skelgill
request such an explanation.  Instead he sinks back into the sofa and for
a second his eyes seem to roll in his head.  Perhaps the half-pint of
horilka is kicking in.  It falls to DS Jones to raise one of the points
they had wished to discuss.

 ‘We
believe we found the necklace that Pavlenko is wearing in the photograph you
sent us – it’s an amber charm – it could be to ward off evil.’

Shevchenko
grins mischievously.

‘We
are big on amber – our Baltic neighbours pick it up on their beaches by
the bucket – and we are big on superstition – in fact we are big on
everything
– peasants, poverty, billionaires, beautiful girls
– horilka.’  He grins and swallows the last of his own drink. 
‘This is the Wild East – if you want a crazy time, you have come to the
right place.’

With a
smirk he slides DS Jones’s glass towards her, and watches as – under
subtle duress – she finishes the drink.  Then he rises and beckons
them to follow with a quick flick of his head that sends a ripple through his
hair.  Skelgill stands up, but too quickly perhaps, for he remains still
for a second, as though his balance has momentarily deserted him.  DS Jones,
though a good glass-and-a-half behind her companions, is nonetheless more
circumspect.  Carefully she gathers her things into her bag, and then
raises it symbolically.

‘Juri
– can we pay the bill?’

He
dismisses her offer with a casual wave of the hand – though he smiles
with some satisfaction at her use of his name.

‘Is
taken care of – come, I have driver nearby – my colleague,
Lieutenant Stransky.’

‘Is
heaven, yes?’

‘Uh?’

When
Skelgill wakes it is in a darkened room and he lies naked upon a stone
slab.  A muscular young man wearing only a leather thong is lathering his
body.

‘You
turn.’

‘What?’

‘Turn.’

‘No
way, pal.’

‘I
– sorry?’

‘Wait
till I see Shevchenko – I’ll swing for him.’  Skelgill adds a further
phrase, an unbecoming descriptor drawn from his Anglo-Saxon lexicon of
stressful situations.

‘No
understand – no speak English.’  This is just as well.

Skelgill
brings his arms from his sides and rests his chin upon his overlapped
hands.  His field of vision is limited to the marbled wall a yard
away.  It streams with drips condensed from the steamy atmosphere. 
Relaxing music is piped from somewhere, and the irregular splash of running
water may be real or otherwise.  Every so often there is the slap of one
of the masseur’s sandals as he adjusts his position.  Skelgill’s
expression hovers between rage and dismay.

That
he gives the impression of having been somehow spirited into this peculiar
predicament without his knowledge would not be entirely accurate, although he
might have a case for feeling somewhat manipulated, press-ganged even, and that
an accidental excess of horilka had significantly impaired his free will. 
As it was, upon leaving the chic bar off Khreschatyk, he had probably consumed
more alcohol units in half an hour than he would in an entire Saturday night’s
drinking session, and – as Shevchenko had intimated – that was just
the aperitif.

Lieutenant
Stransky had been idling in a shadowy mews at the wheel of a newish
ZAZ
that
had already seen its share of action – if its scraped doors and dented
fenders were anything to go by.  Skelgill had paused to finger what
appeared to be a bullet hole in the hood when Shevchenko invited him to ride up
front – an unexpected courtesy that became all the more confusing when he
clambered in.  A tight black leather catsuit and long slick raven hair proved
a quantum leap in the surprise stakes.  Lieutenant Stransky had
acknowledged the bewildered English inspector with a superior smirk of her
glossy scarlet lips, and his startled colleague with a cursory nod via the
rear-view mirror.  She had then wasted no time in pinning them to their
seats with a display of driving that went much of the way to explaining the
state of the coachwork.

Their
harum-scarum journey lasted no more than five minutes, and took them to a
poorly lit, Bohemian district of unevenly cobbled streets and shabby grandeur,
elaborate but crumbling Art Nouveau, a loosely defined ghetto to which the
former Soviet authorities must have turned a blind eye, allowing the true
spirit of Ukrainian hedonism to survive, tolerated just below the totalitarian
radar.  As if symbolically, a pair of burly doormen, stern Khrushchev
lookalikes, had nodded them through a low arch to descend a steep flight of stone
steps into a dark basement of vaulted chambers that throbbed to the underground
beat of the day; a humid dungeon complex thronged with the bodies of hundreds
of revellers, shouting, drinking, swaying, in places dancing.  Shevchenko
had led them to a section most distant from the music source, where bench-style
trestle tables lit by candles wedged into empty vodka bottles were crammed with
informal diners, arguing and toasting and generally in party mood. 
Somehow he had negotiated a co-operative concertinaing of patrons, and Skelgill
had found himself compressed between Lieutenant Stransky and a large Hell’s
Angel type who had greeted him with unintelligible grunts and a thump between
the shoulder blades whilst simultaneously eating and drinking and grinning. 
DS Jones had slipped in directly opposite, tight alongside Shevchenko.

No
sooner had they settled than a waitress in what might have been traditional
dress – most notably a tight sleeveless velvet bodice fastened over a
white cotton blouse embroidered with detailed coloured stitching – had heaved
a litre of horilka into their midst and Shevchenko had quickly done the
honours.  Lieutenant Stransky – who could not have failed to appreciate
she was a few drinks behind her companions, and with scant regard for her
status as designated driver – had raised her glass to Skelgill and downed
its contents in one, obliging him, in the name of chivalry, to reciprocate. 
Shevchenko and DS Jones – he had noted – were closely engrossed, though
such was the ambient cacophony that it forced a certain intimacy.

DS
Jones appeared amused by Shevchenko’s patter – her dark eyes were
glittering in the flickering candlelight.  But Lieutenant Stransky had her
own ideas about where Skelgill’s focus ought to lie.  Her English was at
least as good as her colleague’s, and her guile more subtle – for she was
of an age with Skelgill (he would have guessed mid-thirties, though he had the
good grace to avoid the subject).  She had mischievously asked him why the
British called her country “
the
Ukraine” – to which his on-the-hoof
logic, in defence of his misguided compatriots, had resorted for erroneous
corroboration to “
the
USA” and “
the
UK” – although he had
been forced to admit that “
the
Germany” and “
the
France” were not
common parlance.  She had encouraged him to regale her with his adventures
at work and beyond, though he had skirted around matters of the heart, craftily
evasive beneath the cover of inebriation.  When he had turned the tables
and asked if she were married, she had thrown back her head with abandon and cried,
“Of course!” – then proceeded to press a hot palm upon his thigh and hiss
something into his ear in Ukrainian that amused her greatly.

Some
drinks later – with no sign of food appearing – she had straddled
the bench to face him.  She tilted back her torso and supported her weight
with her hands behind, so that her close-fitting outfit strained against her
figure, feminine curves united by a slender waist beneath his captive gaze. 
Then she had grabbed his arm and stood, and – stepping out of the seat
– pulled him to his feet.  “We dance,” had been her command. 
Skelgill had anxiously looked to DS Jones – but she was preoccupied,
Shevchenko’s fingertips on her wrist as he made some point – and when she
did glance up it was with a contented smile that did not falter as Skelgill was
led away, and she returned her attention to her earnest petitioner.

The
club was nearing capacity, and dance floor at a premium – it was just a
matter of shouldering through the swell until a small pocket opened up – when
(to Skelgill’s relief) there was insufficient space to do much other than
shimmy upon the spot.  Lieutenant Stransky had taken him close to a bank
of speakers – conversation was out of the question – but perhaps
this was her strategy, for a more base form of communication seemed to be her
goal.  Cocooned in heat and dark and noise and anonymity, alcohol-loosened
inhibitions were easily shed, and Skelgill offered scant resistance to the advances
of firm hips, soft lips – and found himself becoming acquainted with the
lithe brunette, who left him in little doubt about how she would like the night
to end.

When
eventually thirst had driven them back to their table, they discovered
Shevchenko and DS Jones to be absent.  Not even DS Jones’s leather jacket
– nor Shevchenko’s sports shell – were folded on the bench.  Skelgill
had experienced some dismay, but pressed with horilka and the continued close
attention of his catsuited companion, his cares had waned and he was subverted
to her will, the passage of time becoming indeterminate.  Incredibly, it
had seemed, at around four a.m. dishes of steaming stew had arrived – can
he dredge from his memory the word
guliash
? – and he had fallen
upon his like a half-starved dog.  By now Skelgill was operating on
autopilot, holding a tenuous thread that connected his physical self to the
joystick of his consciousness.  There had been a ringtone, audible above
the more subdued beat – Lieutenant Stransky had prised a mobile from some
hidden nook – the conversation had seemed strained, a reluctant acceptance
in her tone as she abruptly ended the call.

And
his next recollection, if it is to be trusted, was in the back of a car (
her
car?) – with DS Jones beside him, limp and compliant, her hair damp with
exertion – a rumbling roller coaster ride through streets empty but for
the blur of taxi tail-lights and kiosk neon.  And then the hotel lobby
– and a cajoling conversation – Shevchenko’s voice, persuasive,
perverse in its insistence – something about Russia? – here it is most
famous in all of Kiev – no need to sleep – it is so much better
– an essential experience – look, it is open, after five a.m.
– there, it is organised – go now – sleep later – adieu!

And
thus in some state of vague awareness – he could not vouch for DS Jones
– they had been conducted to the subterranean sauna complex for which the
hotel was renowned – its Russian
banya
– a sequence of treatments
alternating temperature, pleasure and pain that would prove – in
Skelgill’s case, and aided by his unplanned ‘power-nap’ – a remarkable
antidote to the intoxicating effects of horilka (if not the associated hangover).

Alert,
trapped prostrate in a small darkened chamber with a scantily clad young man,
if Skelgill revisits in his disturbed mind the sequence of events that has
brought him here he may recall it began with a reception by a stout female, uniformed
and impassive, who spoke no English but had supplied them with towels and
peculiar felt hats, and abandoned them with some obscure gesticulation in a
waiting area beside a plunge pool and a bank of communal lockers.  DS
Jones had remarked that she thought they had been told to get completely
undressed, a suggestion that Skelgill had consigned to an unprintable fate
lacking sunshine.  Shortly, two watchful males had silently materialised
– evidently employees, surly cavemen in standard issue pelt miniskirts –
they had conferred slyly in a corner before the elder had directed them with
grunts into a fantastically hot sauna, and indicated that they should don the hats,
and – yes – remove their undergarments (which they had retained as
proxy swimwear).  He had then disappeared, leaving them to sweat, in due
course complying on the hat front, but not as regards their modesty.

After
a short time the younger man had returned (minus the miniskirt, now stripped
down for action to the thong beneath) and signalled to Skelgill that he should
follow him.  Unenthusiastically parting from his colleague, Skelgill had
stumbled to a steam room, where he had been soundly thrashed with switches of
birch soaked in a mentholated concoction, before being led out to a marble
bench on which he was ordered to lie so as to be doused with ice – at
this juncture screaming out with shock something about the secret police. 
Next he was sternly commanded to take off his boxer shorts, before being hauled
into a freezing cold shower – and then led into the contrasting steamy
warmth of the chamber in which he currently reposes.  The treatment here
is a prolonged full-body lathering with rich soapy bubbles at the hands of the
masseur – a situation from which Skelgill would ordinarily have bolted like
a colt with a firecracker tied to its tail.  However, at the time not
knowing what to expect, and subdued by the lingering effects of the horilka and
the softening-up KGB-style, he had complied and lain face down on the
slab.  In his efforts to distract his thoughts from what was occurring
– but perhaps lulled by this very process – he had swiftly
succumbed to slumber.

He
draws the line, however, at turning over.  And his masseur’s request has
come as more than just a literal wake-up call.  As Skelgill stares helplessly
at the damp marbling that tricks his eyes in and out of focus, he must now be
pondering the fate of DS Jones, one stage behind him in the sequence,
presumably at the mercy of the rapacious senior masseur – who, on
reflection, had determined the staff-client pairings.  Meanwhile, evidently
marking the conclusion of this soapy step – its unhappy premature ending brought
about by Skelgill’s obstinacy – his own attendant begins to rinse him
with warm water from a hand-held shower hose.  The man clears his throat,
preparatory to delivering a rehearsed line in stilted English.

‘Next
for full-body honey-wrap cling-film.’

*

As DS
Jones approaches the waiting Skelgill, crossing the foyer from the elevators to
the casual seating area beside the windows, there is a fascinating exchange of
glances, one that an onlooker would not find easy to characterise.  On
either side there could be flashes of reproach, jealousy, embarrassment and
guilt.

Skelgill,
seated, glances habitually at his wristwatch.

‘No
sign of Shevchenko – it’s twenty past eight – we don’t want to miss
this meet.’

DS
Jones hovers uncertainly a couple of yards short; she wears a fresh white vest
top with narrow shoulder straps, and there is a flush upon her chest and throat
and cheeks that might be a residual effect from the banya.

‘I
need to explain something, Guv.’

‘Aye?’

‘When
I went out – with Juri – for such a long time – why he won’t
be meeting us this morning –’

She
seems unsure of how to broach the subject that drives her desire for confession;
Skelgill looks away and stares at the unsightly apartment block that rises up
beyond the hotel parking lot like a cliff of dull grey limestone, cracked and
crumbling and streaked by the stains of half a hundred faulty cisterns.