Sudden Death (3 page)

But this was different. This time Jake had watched life fade out of a man’s eyes.

There was a voice chanting in his head, quiet but insistent:

I saw someone murdered.

Jake logged on to the Internet and entered ‘Andrew Chernoff’ into the search engine. There were thousands of
entries. The first was a profile of Chernoff from his playing days. He’d been a decent midfielder for Oxford United in the mid eighties, part of the team that took them to the old First Division. His stats were solid, averaging eight goals a season.

The profile said that he’d finished his playing days with Wrexham and that he’d retired in 1994, aged thirty-six. That made him fifty-two, much older than he’d looked. Like Jake’s dad, he played in the days before big money made footballers into millionaires. Since quitting the pitch, Chernoff had made a name for himself as a top-flight scout, spotting gifted youngsters.

The second entry was from
The New York Times
and was dated only a week earlier. It was a piece about Chernoff’s appointment to the St Petersburg Tigers. Apparently he was being paid handsomely to be the talent spotter for Igor Popov’s new team, and had been given a blank cheque-book to travel the world in search of the very best players.

Jake’s eyes were drawn further down the article to a subheading – ‘Criminal Allegations’ – where the journalist recounted rumours of wrongdoing within Igor Popov’s oil empire:

Scandal continues to hound Popov, who made his fortune during the deregulation of the energy market following the
Soviet collapse. Accusations of fraud, protectionism and intimidation have long been associated with his business dealings, but the Russian government recently dropped its investigations.

With a fortune currently estimated at $18 billion, Popov is believed to be the seventh richest man in the world.

An image accompanying the article showed a smiling Chernoff standing on a training pitch with a short man in a sharp suit who was captioned as Popov. Jake stared closely at the face. There was no mistaking the rodent-like quality of Popov’s thick dark hair and sharp eyes. It was wrong to judge, but perhaps there was some truth to the allegations . . .

Why would my dad want to work for a man like that?

The article had several links at the bottom, and one was a piece from the business pages: ‘Igor Popov – Gangster or Opportunist?’

Jake clicked through. The article was by an American investigative journalist called Daniel Powell, whose picture accompanied the byline.

Jake’s fingers clutched the mouse tighter.

It was the same man Jake had seen standing outside the Obed restaurant an hour before, taking photographs as
Chernoff’s body was loaded into the back of the ambulance.

Jake swallowed and struggled to understand.
There was no way Powell could have reached the restaurant that quickly, unless . . .

. . . unless he was already following Chernoff.

J
ake woke to the sound of a phone ringing. It took him a moment to realise that he’d fallen asleep across the computer keyboard. The article about Popov was still on screen. The evening came flooding back: Chernoff’s death. His dad’s weird behaviour. He checked the clock; it was nearly midnight. The phone stopped abruptly.

Must have been a wrong number. Who’d ring at this time of night?

Jake’s mouth was dry. He needed water. He got up and tiptoed out to the landing. The stairs were in darkness but he didn’t switch the light on, opting to feel his way down. The sound of a muffled voice came from his dad’s study, next to the kitchen. The study door was ajar. Jake stopped to listen.

‘How quickly can the lab turn it around, Sam?’ his dad asked.

The lab? Who’s he speaking to?

‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘We can’t afford to wait six weeks for the police to bungle their way through a tox analysis.’

Jake pushed the door open a fraction and peered through the crack. His dad was sitting at his desk, the phone to his ear as he pushed something with a pencil. Jake couldn’t see what it was.

‘I just can’t believe Andy’s been murdered.’ A pause. ‘I know, I know, I’m jumping to conclusions.’

His dad swung slightly in the chair and Jake saw what was on the desk. Chernoff’s napkin, still stained with food.

After listening for a moment, his dad looked up towards the ceiling. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’m not ready to take on another job. But someone’s going to pay.’ His dad paused then shook his head before responding. ‘Jake’s only just moved in. I can’t up sticks and ship out – not with everything that’s going on.’ Another pause. ‘You too, Sam. I’ll be waiting.’

His dad hung up. He put the napkin into an envelope, sealed the top, and walked towards his bookcase. Jake fought the urge to scurry back upstairs.

His dad pulled out two books and placed them on the floor. Then two more.

What’s he doing?

Soon there was a messy stack of twenty or so books.
His dad seemed to be inspecting the back of the shelf very carefully. Then a metal door swung open.

A safe! Jake had never known they had one. His dad knelt down and looked to be tying his shoelace. His foot was concealed behind the pile of books. When he straightened up, he was holding a gun.

Jake’s breathing stopped. The gun must have been in an ankle holster. It had been there all night. All through dinner. All through the conversation with the detective.

Why does he have a gun?

Jake remembered his dad’s words.
Another job. Someone’s got to pay.

My dad might be a killer.

Jake swallowed drily. It couldn’t be true. Could it?

The doorbell chimed.

Jake darted from the door and ran up the stairs. He reached the middle step and turned as his dad emerged from the study. He was carrying the envelope.

‘Oh!’ he said. ‘I thought you were in bed, Jake.’

‘I heard the bell,’ Jake replied, taking a few steps back down.

His dad got to the door first. On the step was a man dressed in leathers and wearing a helmet. In the street outside, under the driving rain, was a motorbike with its lights on. His dad
handed the rider the envelope, nodded, and closed the door.

‘Who was that?’ Jake asked.

‘Just a courier,’ his dad said breezily. ‘Player contract, y’know. Lawyers rest for no man. Sleep well, hey.’

A draught blew in from the door, making Jake shiver. His dad seemed like an actor, reading lines. How could he lie so easily? ‘Sure,’ Jake said, trying to control his voice. ‘I’m just going to get a glass of water.’

As he filled his glass in the kitchen, he heard the door to the study click shut.

Could he trust anything his dad said any more?

An hour later, Jake was playing an online boxing game when he heard an engine outside. His first thought was
Police.
They’d probably run checks by now and realised his dad wasn’t telling the truth earlier. Maybe they’d already found evidence linking him with Chernoff’s death. Would they search the house? Find the gun in the safe? Traces of poison? Jake’s mind reeled. He imagined his dad being led away in handcuffs. A part of him thought:
That’s what you deserve.

He went to the window. Outside, a sleek black Mercedes had pulled up. A man climbed out of the driver’s seat and put up an umbrella. He opened the rear door for another man, obviously his boss. Together, they made their way towards
the front door of the apartment. Jake left his bedroom and hopped down the stairs. The bell rang just before he got there. He opened the door immediately.

Jake recognised the man standing in the doorway straightaway. He was short and wiry, wearing a black dinner jacket and bow tie. His face had shifting, suspicious features. The face from the newspaper article.

Igor Popov.

Jake couldn’t tell if it was the chill from outdoors, or something else. The temperature seemed to drop five degrees. Behind Popov, a shaven-headed, black-suited bodyguard the size of a bear was shaking the raindrops off the umbrella.

‘This is Mr Bastin’s residence?’ said Popov in a heavy Russian accent.

‘Who is it, Jake?’ asked his dad. He was at the top of the stairs wearing his dressing gown.

‘Steven!’ said Popov, ignoring Jake and holding out both hands. ‘Steven, I came as soon as I heard. I was at the opera in Covent Garden. I’m so dreadfully sorry about our friend. Andrew was a credit to football.’

With his hand on the banister, his dad descended as quickly as his limp would allow. He eased Jake aside and gestured with a sweeping hand. ‘Please, come in, Mr Popov.’

There was something in his dad’s tone that Jake
hadn’t heard before. He sounded like a servant speaking to his master.

Popov seized Jake’s dad’s elbow in one hand and the other went round his back in a light embrace. When he pulled away, Jake thought he saw a mist in Popov’s eyes. Whether it was genuine or not, he couldn’t tell.

‘Andrew was a good friend,’ his dad said. ‘And in good health. As far as I know.’

Jake stared at his dad. Now Chernoff was a good friend again! And ‘in good health’!

‘Yes, yes,’ said Popov. ‘A tragedy.’ He pointed to Jake. ‘And this must be your son. The likeness is unmistakeable.’ Popov held out his hand to Jake. ‘Igor Popov. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’

Jake stepped up and took the hand. ‘Jake Bastin,’ he said. ‘You’re the man who wants to take my dad to Russia.’

He spoke the words neutrally, but the smile on Popov’s face slipped to half-mast for a second, then returned with a flash of white teeth. He looked past to Jake’s dad.

‘So Andrew told you of my offer before . . .’ he paused. He looked at Jake again. ‘Jake, I have a great respect for your dad. He was a phenomenal player, and he’s a real statesman for the game –’

‘Jake,’ said his dad. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Popov alone.’

Jake was about to argue, but Popov spoke first.

‘There’s no need to send the boy away, Steven. How will he become a young man if he is always sent away when the men talk business? Let him stay, why not?’

Jake’s dad pressed his lips together in a smile. ‘As you wish, Mr Popov.’ He gestured to the study. ‘This way, please.’

The books were back on the shelf, but Jake couldn’t forget what he’d seen earlier that night.

The bodyguard followed them into the room, then stood by the door. Jake couldn’t help feeling that they were being caged in.

‘Mr Popov,’ his dad said. ‘Let me get straight to the point. I’m not sure that I can accept your generous offer –’

Popov held up both palms and Jake’s dad stopped speaking. ‘Is it the money, Steven? If so, I can –’

‘It’s not the money,’ his dad said. ‘It’s a personal matter. You see, my son and I have only just begun living together. Perhaps Andrew didn’t tell you. Until recently Jake has lived with my ex-wife, or been at an international boarding school, but now I feel he needs a period of
stability
.’

He’s using me
, thought Jake.
He’s scared and he’s making excuses.

‘And now,’ continued his dad, ‘now Andrew’s dead, well, I really think . . .’

Popov smiled widely, but there was no joy in his eyes. ‘Of course, of course. You feel you must put your family first. But think what we could achieve together.’ He let the words hang for a moment, before lowering his voice to a theatrical whisper. ‘I have an admission to make, Steven. I was going to tell you this later, but now seems like a good time.’

‘Yes?’ Jake’s dad asked.

‘I have made a new signing. It’s not announced to the press yet, because the deal is highly sensitive. Would you like to know who it is?’

Despite himself, Jake leant forward. The gleam in Popov’s eye promised something really special, but surely no top player would go to a new, untried team. No matter what the money was.

His dad nodded slowly.

‘Well,’ said Popov, ‘you know the rest of the team already, but I thought we were still missing a little something up front. Another striker. So I bought the best . . .’ Popov paused, obviously relishing the moment. ‘Devon Taylor.’

‘Wha–?’ interrupted Jake. ‘How? Taylor’s on a contract with Barcelona for another three years.’ The transfer a year before had been huge news, the biggest ever signing.

Popov waved his hand and smiled at Jake. ‘Contracts? They’re not so important. The crucial thing is to have the right
team.’ Popov paused, then looked meaningfully at Jake’s dad. ‘And the right manager.’

His dad had kept his composure through Jake’s outburst. ‘Taylor is quite a coup,’ he said. ‘He’s a brilliant young talent.’

‘And of course we have the new stadium, funded by my American friend Christian Truman and his company, Truman Oil. State of the art technology, a capacity of eighty thousand. Leisure facilities that rival –’

‘I’ve seen the plans, Mr Popov,’ said Jake’s dad. ‘It’s very impressive. But I have other concerns to factor in. Like my son.’

‘And I respect them, Steven,’ said Popov. ‘Your son would of course be more than welcome to join you in St Petersburg. Wouldn’t you like that, young man?’

‘My son has a life here,’ Jake’s dad said quickly.

Typical
, Jake thought.
Don’t let me speak for myself.

Jake noticed that the vein running down the centre of Popov’s forehead was a little pronounced; blue under the Russian’s pale skin.

‘I think you have been – how do you say –
perturbed
by your friend’s death, so I will leave you to your grief. Don’t give me your answer about the coaching position now.’ Popov took out a silver case from his jacket and opened it. He placed
a card on the bookshelf beside the door. ‘This is my private number. Sleep on it.’

Popov nodded to the bodyguard, who opened the study door with one of his massive fists. The meeting was clearly over.

At the front door, Popov waited while his attendant opened the umbrella, then stepped underneath. The rain spattered off the top.

‘I look forward to speaking with you again, Steven.’

Jake’s dad smiled. ‘I don’t think I’m going to change my mind, but thank you for coming over.’