Pearson said, ‘The reason I ask is that about nine months ago we learned of a Russian who had purchased an estate in Altrincham. That’s the Millionaires’ Row for footballers in the north – David Beckham and Co. Not perhaps the most tasteful set of mansions, but very large and very expensive.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Patricov. Sergei Patricov.’
‘I’ve heard of him. I thought he lived in Switzerland.’
Pearson seemed impressed. ‘He did. And much as I like my neck of the woods, I can understand that people would wonder why he’d want to switch Geneva for Manchester.’
‘Do you know why he did?’
‘Two reasons – one obvious, one less so. The first is that he’d like to buy Man United. The Glazers own it now, and they’ve never given any sign they want to sell. But I suppose everybody’s got a price, and I think Patricov is hoping they’ll like his. He’s moved nearby to stir up the fans – it would be crucial to have their support. It’s not exactly police business, but we happen to know that he’s funding every dissenting fan club that emerges.’
‘And the second reason?’
‘This is pure speculation.’Pearson looked a little abashed. ‘My speculation, to be honest. We believe that Patricov is actively involved in the anti-Putin movement, and that he’s trying to organise dissidents living outside Russia. That makes him an obvious target for the Russian secret service. I think he believes that the North of England is a safer place to be than Switzerland, or the South of England, even if he hadn’t got his football club ambitions. London is full of émigrés from Russia; in Altrincham he sticks out like a sore thumb. In some ways, that makes it easier for him to protect himself.’
Liz said, ‘Well…yes. That may be true. You could argue that any other Russians showing up would be noticed. Alternatively, you might think as the only Russian living there, that makes him an easy target. If security is his reason for moving North, he must really feel threatened. Have you met him?’
‘No, I haven’t, but I know his head of security. He’s British – ex-SAS. I gather Patricov has all the oligarch’s usual accoutrements – a helipad in the garden, private jet on call at the airport, bullet-proof windows in his Jaguar XK-E, and of course a blonde wife twenty years his junior.’
Liz laughed. ‘What about security?’
‘He has security guards galore. But they aren’t armed – we’ve made it clear they can’t carry weapons and I don’t think they’d dare risk it. What a way to live,’ he added, shaking his head.
‘If Patricov’s careful about who he sees, that will help keep him alive. Litvinenko might still be breathing if he hadn’t taken tea with his killers.’
‘I know. And I was thinking, it might be useful if I went and had a little chat with Mr Patricov.’
‘Good idea. Give him some advice. We don’t want another dead Russian on our hands.’ It was said jokingly but Liz could see that Pearson was weighing something in his mind. After a short pause he added, ‘It would help if I had some back-up when I went to call. He might not pay too much attention to the local policeman. The English equivalent of Inspector Boris Plod from Novgorod.’ He paused as the waiter put down the bill in front of him. ‘I don’t suppose you could send somebody to come with me? Lend a bit of serious weight.’
Liz looked at him, surprised by Pearson’s request. In her experience Chief Constables rarely admitted they might need help. She thought for a moment, wondering if she should send Peggy Kinsolving, or perhaps a protective security specialist. Then she thought again. He was asking for someone with seniority. ‘I could probably come myself if you think it would help,’ she said.
Pearson smiled broadly. ‘That would be splendid, if you could spare the time. It wouldn’t be for a while; Patricov’s away in Switzerland apparently.’
‘There’s just one condition,’ Liz said with mock sternness.
‘What is it?’ He looked worried.
‘That I don’t have to go to a football match while I’m there.’
15
Jasminder was at her desk in one corner of her flat’s living room, writing an article for the magazine, when the phone rang. She thought it might be Laurenz, who was away in Paris on bank business for a couple of days, but it was her friend Emma.
‘Hello, stranger,’ said Emma. ‘Long time no see. Or hear for that matter.’
‘Actually I was about to ring you,’ said Jasminder, telling herself she really had intended to tell Emma about putting her name on the job application form. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks. Though not as busy you, it seems…’
Jasminder replied cautiously, ‘What do you mean?’ As she spoke she drew the curtains across the window with one hand; the streetlight outside had just come on and was casting a rather nasty yellow glow into the room.
‘I’ve had two visitors this evening. But they weren’t interested in me: they wanted to know all about you,’ announced Emma.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. They were very polite. They showed me identification right away – both were from the MOD. They said they carry out background checks on job applicants who will have access to classified material. Apparently you’re one of them. Talk about a dark horse! Honestly, Jasminder, you might have warned me they’d show up.’
‘I’m sorry. I should have done, but I never thought it would come to anything. I had an interview with a head-hunter for a job, but they told me not to tell anyone about it. I put you down as a personal referee, and I should have asked you first. I’m very sorry. I hope it wasn’t too embarrassing.’
‘What kind of a job is it?’ Emma asked. ‘It must be very important, judging by all the stuff they wanted to know about you.’
‘I’m sorry but I can’t tell you anything at the moment. It’s probably not going to amount to anything anyway.’
But Emma wasn’t so easily to put off. ‘You’re the last person I’d expect to work for some hush-hush part of the Government. What’s got into you? I thought you disapproved of all that spooky stuff.’
Jasminder didn’t know how to respond. It was true that on the face of it the job was unlikely to interest her – she was a most improbable candidate for it. She looked across the room at her bookshelves. The books were all about liberty and civil rights, and the abuses of both by government. There was nothing there to suggest that she might one day end up working for the people she had spent so much of her life criticising. Instead of trying to explain she asked, ‘Did they ask you lots of questions?’
‘Tons,’ said Emma dramatically. ‘Where did we meet, how well did I know you – that sort of thing. Then it got more personal.’
‘What did they want to know?’ asked Jasminder, suddenly feeling invaded.
‘I suppose it’s standard stuff, but it still caught me by surprise. They wanted to know all about your boyfriends. Don’t worry,’ added Emma with a laugh, ‘I didn’t tell them about Oscar.’
He had been an ill-advised fling during a holiday Jasminder and Emma had taken to the Greek islands. He lived in London, but had turned out on their return to be a clingy drip rather than the exotic character encountered in the Paxos sunshine. On the wall Jasminder could see the small watercolour of Gaios harbour, all pinks and blues, that she’d bought on that very holiday.
‘Then they wanted to know if you had debts, or drank to excess. So I said no, of course. Did you take recreational drugs? Any petty theft or shoplifting habits? Any “extreme behaviour”? That’s when I was glad they weren’t asking about me! Then they wanted to know your views on civil liberties and whether I thought that made you a revolutionary and likely to be disloyal to the state. Honestly, Jas, it was like the Inquisition. I got a bit cross at that point and told them you had always been perfectly open about your views and they were shared by lots of very loyal citizens, including myself. That shut them up.’