He was more than a little concerned about how he would pick his way through the many other yachts to the correct channel to the sea. Ten minutes spent twiddling with the radar controls and overlaying the display with a harbour map made it a snap.
As Khostov kept a lookout for other vessels, he wondered about using Yakov's passport. He was around the same height, but Yakov possessed thinner features. Also Yakov's hair was dark and curly, whereas Khostov's was long, straight and grey. The hotel where he stayed in London recommended an up-market salon and made an appointment for him. Before he went in, he memorised Yakov's picture, and instructed the stylist. The result wasn't as good as he had hoped, but at least they dyed his hair the right colour, cut it and introduced some wavy curls.
He caught a glimpse of his face in the glass above the engine controls. Opening the passport again, he compared the picture with his reflection. He might just get away with it if he sucked in his cheeks.
Sean walked over purposely towards the cordon, through a snow drift of papers that stirred in the wind. Tape stretched around the lampposts in a semi-circle and a constable stopped him from going any further. In the centre of the carnage stood the shell of a six story office block, smoke continuing to rise from it. A line of police cars, blue lights flashing, barred other vehicles from the square.
He showed his card. The policeman spoke into his radio and let him through. 'Watch your step sir. There's lots of broken glass.'
During his time in Helmand, Sean was provisionally assigned to a United Nations peace-keeping force. The devastation reminded him of Lashkar Gah — bombed out buildings, rubble everywhere, frightened bystanders. In particular the smell brought back some disturbing memories.
The ambulances had long gone. White suited Scene of Crime Officers inspected the debris. A chief fireman stood talking to a senior police officer, together with a woman in a hi-vis vest. They stopped when he approached.
The police chief regarded him, taking in the two days of stubble, the faded tee-shirt, sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. Sean flashed his ID again and he was introduced to the girl.
'This is Tracy Schofield, the person responsible for the office.' She shook Sean's hand.
The officer wrinkled his nose in distaste, either with him or the lingering smell from the building. Sean couldn’t tell which. 'What can we do to help you?'
'I need some information about how this started.' He directed his attention to the fire chief. 'When did you get the alert?'
'The first call came in at 3:46 in this morning. By the time my crews arrived one of the floors was already gutted.'
'Which?'
'The fourth. That’s where we concentrated our efforts.'
'Has anybody been into the building?'
'Fire fighters went in to check for anyone still alive — once I judged it safe. We didn't find anything, and Miss Schofield here confirmed that no-one was inside when the fire began.'
Tracy indicated her agreement.
'Can you say if it was started deliberately?'
The fire chief and the senior policeman exchanged a glance. 'Initial indications are an accelerant was used.'
'Could you show me the site of the fire?'
'It's too dangerous.'
'More dangerous now than when you went in?'
The chief sighed, and signalled to a fireman. A minute later he returned with a helmet and hi-vis vest.
Together they crunched over the rubble and glass. Sean saw a complete telephone handset lying on its side, looking as though it might still work. They began to climb the fire escape.
'Was anyone else injured or killed in the incident?'
The fire chief looked over his shoulder. 'No.'
'How were the police notified?'
'A taxi driver rang 999 after picking up some night club revellers. His route took him past and he spotted flames and smoke.'
The location was obvious. When they reached the fourth floor, Sean noticed the stairwell was blackened from the heat. Burnt paper floated on top of carpets awash with water. The fireman pointed out the ceiling void where the tiles had melted, revealing the concrete flooring above. Cables hung from the remains.
'Is it possible to tell the source of the fire?'
The man escorted him to a darkened room. A single scorched hardwood desk sat inside.
Back outside, Sean questioned Tracy. 'Whose office did that belong to?'
'Harry Boyd. He’s a senior partner of the firm.'
'I'd like to see him.'
A pained expression crossed her face. 'He's working from home. He's very busy, trying to deal with all this.' She raised her hands, indicating the gutted offices around her.
'It's important I meet him.'
For a moment she hesitated. 'OK, I'll send someone with you. There's an office junior called 'Chris' who can take you.'
'Thank you. Please phone ahead to let him know I'll be coming.' Sean took one last look at the charred ruins. 'Best of luck with this, and thanks for your help.'
Sean glanced at the youth as he drove. 'Tell me about Harry Boyd.'
Chris seemed too distracted to answer immediately. Sean waited a minute before trying a different tack. 'What do you do at the firm, Chris?'
Chris peeped nervously out of the windscreen as they made their way through the streets. 'Collect and deliver the post, mainly.'
'Do you ever deliver post to Mr Boyd?'
'Yep.'
'What's he like?'
'A bit impatient at times. We never had a conversation.'
Sean’s phone buzzed. It was a txt from Natasha.
returning to states today
parents send regards
love nat x
Sean experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach. He and Natasha had planned to visit her parents and relatives after they left Venice.
Chris leaned over and pointed. 'At the end of this street, turn right.'
Boyd's home was on a wide leafy avenue with luxurious houses either side. They pulled up opposite the driveway, and Sean studied the large square town house. 'Stay here. I'll be back in half an hour.'
A middle-aged woman answered the door. Sean introduced himself and discovered the lady was Boyd's wife. She showed him into a drawing room. 'You know he's incredibly busy right now?' she asked in a brittle tone.
'I understand. But I'm sure you both appreciate we must to catch the people who caused the fire.'
She asked Sean to wait a moment and left the room. A minute later she ushered him into the Senior Partner’s office.
Boyd sat behind his desk, speaking loudly on his mobile. He was short, nearly bald and in his late forties or early fifties with a jowled, animated face and an overly loud voice. He appeared not to have noticed Sean.
Sean checked his watch. Thirty seconds had elapsed since he entered the room. He reached over, took Boyd's mobile and clicked it off, then tossed it in the waste bin.
'What the hell do you think you are doing?' Boyd shouted.
'Getting your attention' replied Sean equably. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. 'And now I need some information.'
'You have no idea what pressure I'm under. I've already spoken to the police and made a statement. You're wasting my time.'
'Correction, you're wasting my time. I want a list of all your recent clients, particularly if they are of Russian origin.'
Boyd glared at Sean, and then away. 'Jesus Christ!' he seethed as he pulled the keyboard to him. As he tapped in the query, Sean moved behind to view the screen. Five names were displayed, none of them with the surname Khostov.
'What's the time span?' Sean asked.
'The last fortnight.'
'You don't have many new clients?'
'We're a boutique law firm. Small client list, big ticket matters.'
Sean pointed to the one at the top. 'Tell me about him.'