Vendetta (37 page)

The two men stood next to each other for a few moments before Mac asked, ‘Shouldn’t you be inside with your two buddies getting a DVD and a Hawaiian pizza?’

‘I told Mr Delaney I was going outside for some air.’ Then he added in a whisper, ‘Have you got a plan?’

Mac wasn’t sure that he had but said, ‘You think I’m going to tell you? Think on . . .’

‘I’ve already explained that I never sent Elena any of these –’ Bolshoi waved the hand that held the cigar – ‘texts. That I was a close associate of her father’s in the army and promised him that I would look after her and her sister if he ever died. Did you know that he died right in front of me during an ambush in Afghanistan?’ He took a deep breath. ‘You were not the only person to love her. I loved her a lot longer than you did, Mr MacDonagh.’

The muscles in Mac’s jaw bunched and pumped.

The older man continued: ‘You need to start thinking with your head and not with your heart. You’re a police officer. You’re familiar with the art of framing someone? I’ve already told you, those texts were planted. I was framed. Someone wanted you to believe it was me. Surely you can see that?’

Perhaps he was right. The wiping of Elena’s phone, except for incriminating texts, had been odd all along and Mac knew it. Something didn’t add up, but he didn’t know what it was.

‘There is someone else with the tattoo,’ Bolshoi whispered.

‘Who?’

‘I can only reveal what I know if you let me help you find Katia—’

‘What makes you think my next move includes her?’ Mac shot out.

‘She’s the only link left. I need to make sure she’s safe.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s the link to the tattoo and . . .’ Bolshoi inhaled deeply ‘And I’m Katia’s father.’

eighty-six

It was a sight Mac had never expected to see – the hardened international criminal looking shame-faced.

Bolshoi averted his eyes but explained, ‘I’m afraid it’s a story of weakness; one I’m not proud of. I slept with Gregory’s wife while I was on leave and he was still at the front. It was one of those moments of comfort, not love.’ He shrugged. ‘It just happened. Neither of the girls knew and Gregory came back on leave so he always thought she was his. But her mother and myself had tests done that proved she’s my daughter. Luckily Elena and Katia look like their mother and look very similar to each other.’

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘No one. All families have secrets, Mr MacDonagh.’

Mac’s mind reeled back to what the pole dancer had said about hearing Elena and another person arguing. Family business, she’d thought when she’d heard the word for ‘father’ in Russian. Maybe Elena had just found out about Katia being Bolshoi’s daughter? But that still didn’t leave a straight trail of explanation for Elena’s murder.

Mac hesitated. Then turned to go, but Bolshoi called after him, ‘Perhaps I can give you a word of warning?’

Mac kept walking.

‘Your superior’s not going to be very happy when he finds you’ve stolen his car.’

Mac stopped. Half turned back. ‘What makes you think I’m taking Phil’s car?’

‘Drive away in that two-bit motorbike you arrived on or in a black Merc? I know which one I’d choose.’

He was right. Mac walked towards the Merc, the Russian following behind him. Mac reached the back of the car as the older man softly called out his name. Mac looked back as Bolshoi reached him. Then he held out a small black card. He leaned into Mac, shoving the card into his pocket as his other hand leaned against the bottom of his T-shirt, as if needing support.

‘I like you, Mac,’ Bolshoi said as he stepped back. ‘I wouldn’t like there to be any unpleasantness between us.’

‘What sort of unpleasantness might there be?’

Bolshoi smiled as he twiddled the cigar, but said nothing. Mac left the dirt of family secrets and Bolshoi behind as he strode away and eased into the car. As soon as he got behind the wheel, he pulled the card from his pocket. Business card.

No writing, just a mobile number.

Mac pushed the card back into his pocket. He hot-wired the car. Set the sat nav. Mission Hill Hospital.

As Mac fired the engine, he didn’t hear Bolshoi finally answer his question.

‘I may have to kill you.’

eighty-seven

1 a.m.

The hospital was surprisingly busy for such an early hour of the morning. Mac hurried through the front entrance, overtaking a woman wearing a floppy hat. Took the stairs, instead of the lift, to the second floor. Entered the Maggie Lane Children’s Ward. The corridors were painted a mellow yellow; there was an eerie calm that felt more like a school during class time than a medical facility. He approached the solitary nurse at the main desk.

‘I’m looking for Milos Volk,’ he said, keeping his tone soft so as not to unsettle the peace around him.

The nurse stared up at him, her gaze assessing. ‘Visiting hours are over. Also, we’ve been told that no one is allowed to see him.’

Mac shoved his hand into his pocket and let his badge do the talking for him.

The nurse visibly relaxed as she said, ‘He’s in a room down on the corridor to the left.’

‘Which room?’

‘You’ll know which one.’

He knew what she meant as soon as he turned the corner; there was a uniform stationed on a chair outside a room midway down the corridor. Seeing Mac, the policeman stood up. Mac flashed his badge again.

‘I don’t think there’s much point seeing him now, sir, he’s asleep.’

Mac ignored the advice and went into the room. A room that had one wall completely composed of a light, bright painting of floating astronauts in space. The wires coming out of the two astronauts were dead ringers for the tubes attached to a sleeping Milos on the bed. His small body was tucked under a blanket that resembled the pattern and design of one of those precious family quilts that were handed down from grandma to mum to daughter.

Mac approached the bed with a hesitation he didn’t realise he felt. He stopped by the foot of the bed and pulled off the patient medical chart. The notes said there was nothing physically wrong with Milos, but that he was in aftershock from the trauma of the explosion. He’d been prescribed sedatives of some sort. He put the notes back and moved towards Reuben’s son. Stared down at him. His baby skin was pale and worn, his lips just a touch dry. But at least he was alive. Without realising what he was doing, Mac’s hand began to move. He let it settle, with the gentleness of a goodnight kiss, in the boy’s hair. The strands were damp and clinging tightly to skull and skin. Mac’s slim fingers stroked with a calm, slow ease. The hypnotic movement of his hand started to pull his mind back. Back to a time he didn’t want to remember. But he couldn’t stop the caress of his fingers, just like he couldn’t stop the storm of memories that assaulted him . . .

They told him that he could touch him. But Mac’s hands lay as lifeless at his sides as the body of his son on the makeshift bed he looked down on. The emergency room had been a hive of activity and manic noise only a few minutes ago; now it was still. Quiet. Just him and Stevie. He couldn’t cry, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. All he could do was stare at the child he’d called son for the last six years.

‘Imagine he’s sleeping.’

That’s the advice he’d given to a young mum, when he was still a bog-standard detective, before she had to identify her four-year-old daughter who’d been killed by a speeding car. But he knew that Stevie wasn’t sleeping. Stevie never, ever slept on his back. Always on his side, facing the window, knees tucked deep in his tummy. And his breathing. It was hard to hear unless Mac almost touched his ear to his son’s partially opened mouth. Tiny puffs, grabbing oxygen . . . flowing out. Grabbing . . . Flowing.

He leaned forward, arms still rooted down, towards Stevie’s motionless face. Kept going until his ear grazed the top of Stevie’s frozen mouth. Listening. Waiting. For that sweet sound of air being drawn in and out. In and out. In and out.

Silence.

But he still couldn’t touch him . . .

‘Uncle Mac.’

The sound of Milos’s weak voice snapped Mac back into the room. Mac’s hand dropped from the child’s head. The boy tried to speak again but no words came out. His throat convulsed as if he was fighting to catch his breath. So Mac poured some water from the jug on the mobile table into the pink plastic mug covered in polka dots that resembled Smarties.

Milos drank greedily, but Mac eased the cup back slightly and gently instructed, ‘Easy, easy. Small sips.’

The child stared up at him with his big eyes and nodded as he sucked moisture into his body. Finally he slumped exhausted back against the pillow.

Mac placed the cup back and said, ‘How you doing, kid?’

Milos rapidly blinked. ‘I’m not well.’

Mac sat on the side of the bed. ‘You’re doing good, kid. You’ll be buzzing about like a Spitfire before you know it.’

‘I’ll be all right when my dad comes.’

Mac felt the words oozing in his stomach. He took the boy’s small hand and squeezed it.

Milos swallowed. ‘Is it the day?’

‘What day?’

‘The day Daddy doesn’t come back? He said that there might be a day when he has to go away, just like his dad did with him. He told me to be brave, to hold my head tall . . . No, up high, my head up high and no crying.’ But there were already tears gathered in the bottom of his eyes. ‘Uncle Mac, could you ring him up to find out if it’s the day?’

What a shitty world it was when parents had to prepare their children for their death. Mac thought through the past day. Of course, it made sense that he’d been thinking only of himself, and that he’d forgotten there were other victims in the fallout from the day’s events. He stared deep into the boy’s eyes, which stared back up at him, tears sucked back. He was an adult, which meant he must have the answers, because that’s what adults were for.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Mac finally said. ‘I’ve got to go and see someone else. What about if I do that and then come back and talk to you a bit later?’

‘Is someone else not well?’

‘That’s right.’

‘OK then.’

Mac hesitated. Then leaned down and planted a light kiss on the boy’s cheek. Whispered, ‘Don’t worry, son; everything’s going to be all right. I’ll make sure. I promise.’

Easy breath in, easy breath out. In . . . Out. Mac realised that Milos had fallen asleep. He pushed his head back as he gazed down at the child and knew that he owed it to him to tell him that it was
that
day; his daddy wasn’t coming back. Mac eased to his feet and made his way to the door. Gently closed it behind him.

His fellow cop was back on his feet.

Mac asked him, ‘Do you know which ward DI Rio Wray is on?’

eighty-eight

Another ward, another room. Mac found an impatient Rio sitting in a wheelchair.

‘I might have guessed you’d turn up,’ Rio threw at him. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

He didn’t realise she was holding anything until she slung her mobile on the bed in disgust, the bandages on her lower arm pulling tight.

‘Tough,’ Mac answered. Moving towards her. ‘I need your help.’

She stared back at him, eyes blazing. ‘I’ve just spoken to Jamie Martin’s father so, whatever you want, I’m not in the mood.’ Her voice hit a dead, weary note at the end. She wheeled the chair away from Mac, presenting him with her back.

He didn’t need to see her face to witness what she was feeling. Loss, frustration, helpless grief. But he didn’t leave her alone, he couldn’t. She was the only one who might have the answers he needed about Katia. So he pulled up the spare chair in the room and plonked it in front of her. As soon as he sat down she tried to wheel away again, but he clamped his hands round the arms of the wheelchair.

He spoke evenly and quietly. ‘I know this isn’t the best time in the world but I need answers.’

Rio punched out a tiny, fun-free laugh. ‘That’s just what Mr Martin said – he wants answers. Why wasn’t his son being protected—?’

‘Look,’ he cut in sternly. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Danger, and yeah sometimes death, comes with the job. It’s not written in our job descriptions, but we all know it’s there, big and bold, right at the top of page one.’ He pulled his hands from the chair. ‘I know the last thing you want to do is go back over it in your head, but I’ve got to ask some questions about what went down in that house.’

She tilted her head to the side, her knowing brown eyes roaming over his face with the heat of a laser. ‘I thought Phil would’ve tucked you up for the night in your bedroom and locked the door.’

‘Phil?’ His gaze dug into her. She didn’t look away. ‘Are you and Delaney involved—’

‘In a Serious Crime Unit tango?’ she interrupted boldly. ‘Yeah. He’s a big boy and I’m a big girl.’

Mac raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s old enough—’

‘To know where to put it.’

Mac matched her eye-for-eye as he switched the conversation back on track. ‘The one thing I know about you, Rio, is you hate unsolved cases. And this case is still wide open. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Tell me what I need to know and maybe I can close the file on this one for you.’