NO KISS FOR THE DEVIL (Gavin & Palmer 5) (14 page)

‘What’s that?’

‘A welcome
home.’ She pulled a face at the blank looks of her two visitors. ‘All
Russians,’ she explained, ‘wherever they live, eventually want to go home. A
Russian out of his homeland is first of all a man with an aching heart. It
pulls him back, even when he knows that going back is the last thing he should
contemplate. That is why you will notice many Russians have a darkness around
them – a sadness which eats into the soul.’ She flicked the cigarette butt out
of the window with practiced ease. ‘It makes them drink too much and dream of
what they used to know. Because in the end, they wish to take their place where
they were born.’

‘Even the
oligarchs?’

‘Sure.
Especially them. Can you imagine, to have all that money, yet not be able to
buy a ticket home?’ She dusted the front of her skirt and gave her visitors a
measured look, as though judging their powers of understanding. ‘Money in the
west does not equate to happiness in the homeland. You think having big yachts
or a football club or owning a small island is to warm the heart of such a
person? It is playing with money and newspaper headlines only – a sport for
bored men, usually trying to impress beautiful women.’ She smacked a hand against
her chest. ‘But it does nothing to fill up the void in here.’

‘But going
back,’ Riley guessed, ‘would mean losing everything?’

Natalya nodded.
‘For some, yes. But they don’t give up, these men. They are like children going
home from school.’ She smiled and raised a demonstrative finger. ‘What better
way to impress your parents than by taking home a big school prize?’ She peered
at them for a sign of understanding, no doubt as she did with her students in
class. ‘For the right prize, parents would forgive almost anything.’ She
smacked a hand on her thigh. ‘That is the heart of their thinking – a welcome
home.’

‘As well as,’
Palmer put in cynically, ‘guaranteeing you don’t get a visit from a man with a
phial of Polonium.’

Palmer felt Riley’s
eyes on him as a sudden silence descended on the room. Nobody spoke for several
seconds. If Natalya felt insulted because of her background in the KGB, she
gave no sign. But then, as Palmer knew well, the KGB hadn’t been known for
breeding sensitive souls. All the same, he couldn’t help but wonder what
special qualities had permitted a former KGB officer to settle in the UK. Maybe
she had interesting photos of someone in authority.

He was
beginning to worry that they were wasting their time. So far, the conversation showed
signs of moving along a separate and slowly diverging path. If all they were
going to get were her opinions on the melancholy soul-searching of her exiled
countrymen, it wasn’t going to help them find out what they wanted to know.

‘This searching
for approval,’ he said, to jolly things along. ‘Would it make them dangerous?’

‘All such men
are dangerous,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Some worse than others. Those
looking for something they have lost inside, for example. What you have to
decide, Mr Palmer, is which one you are dealing with.’ She blinked and reached
for another cigarette. ‘And that, I cannot tell you for sure. I hear rumours,
but it is not fact. All I will say is, try taking away any of their toys and
you will very quickly find out how dangerous they can be.’ She smiled, amused
by the idea, and lit up in a cloud of smoke.

He decided to
try another tack. ‘Have you ever heard of Richard Varley?’ He carefully avoided
looking at Riley, but was aware of her turning to stare at him. He spelled out
the name.

‘Varley? No.’
Natalya frowned at the tip of her cigarette. ‘I used to know a Varliya, once,
but that was Anna - a girl at school. She was good at music, but died young.
Her parents drank. Everybody drank. Who is he?’ More smoke billowed towards the
window.

‘That’s what
we’re trying to find out. It’s a name we came across.’

‘But is it a
real one?’ the professor replied enigmatically and lifted her eyebrows. ‘Is he
rich? What does he do?’

Palmer waited,
sensing Riley wanted to answer.

‘He’s in publishing,’
she said finally. ‘Business magazines.’

‘Ah. Donald
said something about that. If he is in magazines, he is not Russian.’

‘He sounds
American.’

Natalya
shrugged. ‘Then that is probably what he is. Russians who want to be rich
prefer petroleum, metallurgy or real estate. Not publishing.’

‘I see.’

‘These men you
speak of - these oligarchs - are ambitious. They wish to dominate… to own. They
are what critics would call control freaks. They are also of the earth. The
earth and what is in it gives them the control and the ownership they crave.’
Her hand sliced through the smoke like a cleaver. ‘You have men like this, too,
of course. It’s not unusual. Just unusual for Russians… until recently,
anyway.’

‘What about the
magazine?’ said Riley. She produced the copy Richard Varley had given her and
passed it across.

Natalya took it
and thumbed through it, then turned back to the inside front cover and scoured
the publisher’s details. She hummed a few times, then flicked through again
before passing it back to Riley with a nod.

‘I have seen
this before,’ she said. ‘Is a small publication, but good quality. For where
this comes from - Sokhumi in Georgia - very good.’

‘But?’ There
was a tone in Natalya’s voice which altered the atmosphere in the room.

‘But nothing.
There have been many like this before. They come, they go. This one is around
longer than most. But not very big circulation, I think.’

‘At a guess?’

Natalya
shrugged. ‘Two hundred copies – maybe three. But not more. Is this the magazine
your Richard Varley is running?’

‘Yes.’

Natalya pursed
her lips, her mouth elongating like a duck’s bill. Her next words came as a
surprise. ‘I do not think so,’ she said finally, the statement drawn out but
assured, the tone dry.

‘Sorry?’ Riley
leaned forward.

‘This
publication,’ the professor said, stabbing a finger towards the magazine, ‘is
good. It has a good reputation. But so does Caravan Magazine. You go in
caravans?’ She looked between her two visitors, but they merely stared back.
She shook her head. ‘Never mind. Is cheap way to take a holiday if you don’t
mind rudeness of other drivers and thin walls. But this, this East European
Trade, does not make money for Richard Varley. Or anyone else. Believe me.’ She
patted her chest again. ‘I know about such things.’

‘Maybe he has
other interests,’ Palmer suggested.

‘Almost
certainly.’ Natalya agreed. ‘But you must realise these magazines, they are not
for direct commercial gain. They are for propaganda.’ She stubbed out her
cigarette. ‘Is not to make money.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘They are to
tell others what you want them to know. No more, no less. The west has them,
too. It is nothing new.’ She pursed her lips again and looked longingly at the
cigarette packet.

‘But
propaganda,’ said Riley, ‘is put out by state organisations… like your former
employers.’

‘Of course.’
She nodded vigorously, unaffected by the mention of her previous life. ‘And my
former employers, as you call them - the KGB – were very good at this kind of
thing. In the sixties, they had a single directorate which was bigger in
publishing than many western newspapers.’ She brushed flecks of ash from her
knee. ‘But the KGB is no more, of course.’

‘Yeah, right.’
Palmer spoke mildly, the scepticism evident in his voice. ‘And Vladimir Putin’s
a boy scout.’

Natalya
chuckled appreciatively, a twinkle deep in her eyes. ‘You know the KGB, Mr
Palmer?’

He gave her a
smile in return. ‘I had to know a bit about them once, for a while. I wouldn’t
be overwhelmed if you told me their successors - the FSB - was still doing this
kind of work.’

‘Of course.’
She nodded in agreement, and with what might have been a touch of pride. ‘The
FSB is responsible for internal security, but also propaganda. Misinformation.
It is the way it has always been.’

‘They haven’t
changed, then.’

Her next words
brought a chill into the small, smoke-filled room. ‘Why should they? If
something is not broken, why fix it?’

*********

The afternoon was
fading by the time Palmer turned south off the King’s Road into Beaufort
Street. The choke of exhaust fumes had been washed away on a sharp breeze from
the Thames, replaced by the tinny, sour tang of the river itself a couple of
hundred yards away. Only a few pedestrians were about, leaving him a clear view
of the street all the way down to Battersea Bridge.

There were no
obvious signs of a police presence, no figures lurking in doorways, and he
turned into the block where Helen Bellamy had lived with the easy manner of
someone who belonged.

After leaving
Natalya Fisher, he had told Riley he had things to do, and that he’d see her
later. He knew she hadn’t believed he was going home to a lunchtime nap and a
cup of Earl Grey, but she hadn’t pressed him for an explanation.

The front
entrance was locked, as he’d expected. He pressed one of the buttons on the
security keypad and waited.

‘Yes?’ A
woman’s voice screeched out of the box, tinny and stressed.

‘Police. Sorry
to bother you.’

‘God, haven’t
you lot finished? Okay.’ The door buzzed and Palmer stepped inside, grateful
for the influence of cop shows and easy assumptions wrongly made.

He walked up
the stairs, waiting for a door to open, for a head to appear. But whoever had
admitted him was clearly uninterested or too busy.

Helen’s flat
was on the second floor. There was no tape across the door, no signs that the
police might have been here other than the woman’s comment and Palmer’s
knowledge of their methods. He waited for his breathing to settle and for the
sounds of the building to become familiar and recognisable. If the police – or
anyone – were keeping an eye on the place, they wouldn’t be far away and Palmer
would know it.

He allowed a
few seconds to tick by, then took out a ‘soft’ key and inserted it in the lock.
He flexed it gently from side to side, feeling the resistance change as the
tumblers moved under the pressure. There was a click and the door opened.

The familiar
smell washed over him. Helen’s perfume, softly fragrant and warm, still hung in
the air. He closed the door and stood still, absorbing the atmosphere.

He suddenly
wished he were somewhere else, far from here. A car horn sounded in the street,
jolting him. He had to move, to get on with this. The police might decide to
come back. He stepped left into the sitting room, and stopped.

The place had
been trashed.

In an instant,
what should have been familiar was gone. What should have been comfortable was
dispersed like smoke. He stepped over a broken picture frame which had been
ground into the carpet. A large, dusty footprint showed across the broken
glass. A man’s shoe.

The photo was
of Mrs Demelzer and Helen, smiling up at him, squinting against the sunlight.
Nearby, a small vase was in fragments on the floor, and books had been pulled
from their shelves, pages opened and scattered like wounded birds. The
television lay on its face, the back ripped off, and several cushions were in
tatters around the room, foam stuffing littering the carpet like brown soap
suds.

The kitchen was
the same. Drawers had been emptied, storage boxes up-ended and even the fridge
and oven left gaping, like mouths opened in shock. He moved quickly through to
the bathroom. The same treatment there, with a snowfall of talcum powder and
pills to add to the disarray. He swallowed, remembering Helen’s pride in her
home. It hadn’t mattered that she had spent more time out of it on jobs than
inside; it was her sanctuary whenever she needed it. Or had been.

He’d
deliberately left the bedroom until last. This had been Helen’s inner sanctum.
But it hadn’t escaped the storm. The bed was ripped, the bedclothes flung across
the floor, the wardrobe opened and gutted, with every piece of Helen’s clothing
tipped out, the shelves laid bare. Drawers lay tumbled upside down, some on the
floor, others on the bed, showing the trail the intruder had created. Even the
carpet had been peeled back.

Palmer noted
the personal effects, the papers, the clothing, the soft and the delicate, the
workaday and utilitarian, all tipped out into the light with no respect, no
thought for the owner.

He felt the
resurgence of a deep, intense anger.

He turned back
to the living room. There was no point in looking further. If there had been
anything to find, a search like this would have uncovered it.

He picked up
the broken photo frame, and fragments of glass fell to the floor, tinkling like
mournful music. The back had already been torn off, revealing the white reverse
side of the photo. It was dated three years ago, in black ink. And a notation.

Christine D and
me.

A slim blue
book caught Palmer’s eye. It was closed and had been placed on the edge of a
coffee table, the positioning out of sync, almost, with the rest of the room.
He picked it up and let it fall open.

It was an
address book, divided alphabetically, two pages per tab. The tabs were made of
coloured plastic. He flicked through it. There weren’t many entries, mostly
phone numbers and a few email addresses. Helen would probably have had more on
her mobile than in here. Some entries had been crossed through in a deliberate,
end-of-an- era style, some altered to reflect new numbers or address details.

His own name
had a line drawn through from left to right. Not heavy, he noted. Not angry.
Simply drawn through. With regret, maybe? He tried not to think about it, and
wondered why the police hadn’t taken the book with them.