Pearson turned up in a jacket and jeans and an open-necked shirt, so she thought she’d got the sartorial tone about right. Instead of the police car with driver she had expected, he was in a BMW estate that had seen better days. As he drove them out of the centre of town conversation was somewhat stilted, but by the time they came to the restaurant in an old industrial part of the city they were chatting away companionably.
‘This area will be developed quite soon and all these old factories and cottages will be turned into desirable flats and houses. This is the place to invest your money,’ he told her.
‘Sadly I haven’t got any to invest,’ she replied. ‘I spent more than I have on my flat in Kentish Town.’
‘Nor me,’ he replied with a grin. ‘Policemen don’t get paid enough to become property investors. Never mind. Let’s go in and drown our sorrows.’
The restaurant was in an old two-storey factory building that looked as though it could have been a pottery; a bulbous chimney that might once have served as a kiln poked upwards on one side. It seemed to be the only occupied building on the street. As he parked the car and went and held the door for Liz, Pearson explained that the chef was also the owner of the restaurant. ‘Mike has a short lease on the building until the restoration of the area starts. But he’s hoping to be able to establish a reputation. He has big ambitions and sees himself here as Manchester’s Jamie Oliver when it’s all become trendy and upmarket. But he’s pretty good already, as you’ll see.’
It was clear that the staff in the restaurant knew the Chief Constable well. A smiling woman came straight across as they went in and held out her hand. ‘Good evening, Mr Pearson,’ she said. ‘Welcome back.’ Pearson introduced Liz and she too received a warm handshake. They were shown to a quiet table in a corner of the room and as soon as they’d sat down the barman came across with a glass of white wine for Liz and a half-pint glass of something for Pearson. More smiles and ‘good evenings’ and Pearson said to Liz, ‘I hope that’s all right for you. They’ve seen I’m driving myself so this will be non-alcoholic. It’s not bad actually,’ he said, taking a sip.
When the food had been ordered, with advice from Mike in the kitchen relayed by the waitress, they settled down to talk.
Pearson said, ‘We’re due at Patricov’s place tomorrow at ten. I’ll pick you up at the hotel at nine-thirty if that’s okay.’
‘That’s fine, thank you. Who will be there, do you think?’
‘Patricov obviously, and possibly his wife. Also there’s a character called Karpis – he seems to be a kind of sidekick, possibly a secretary or something – who’s joined Patricov fairly recently.’
Liz said, ‘I checked our files on Patricov last week, but frankly there isn’t much there. He made a lot of money during Yeltsin’s time. When they were setting up a government computer service, he bought one of the divisions, then made a fortune leasing those services back to the government.’
Pearson said dryly, ‘Sounds like a licence to print money.’
‘In his case it was. He was one of the early billionaires, and continued to thrive under Putin at first. Then for some reason he left Russia; we don’t know why. Since then, he’s become a major investor in some high-tech companies, mainly in America.’
Pearson nodded. ‘All that fits in with what we know. But I’ve had one of my staff do a bit of digging – I wanted to know if Patricov might pose any sort of threat to the Putin regime. The chap helping me is doing an Open University degree in politics so he was especially keen on the project.’
‘And?’
‘Patricov has gone to great efforts to keep away from any dissident movements among Russians living in the West. He makes a point of keeping his distance: now he’s moved up here that’s probably easier. To all appearances he’s like any other international businessman, uninvolved in politics, no ideology; just your average multinational plutocrat, with the private jet, younger wife, and multiple residences.’
Liz said, ‘I sense a “but” coming.’
‘That’s where Jenkins – he’s the chap who’s helping me – came into his own. It seems that about a year ago there was a meeting in Surrey of a group of exiled Russian oligarchs. Jenkins went through the internet with a fine-tooth comb, finding a reference here, a reference there. And the picture he managed to put together suggested the oligarchs discussed their security – what they should be doing to protect themselves from Putin’s henchmen if they came after them. Also – this is the interesting bit – ways in which they could try to destabilise the Russian regime. In particular, they resolved to use their influence to persuade Western governments to keep the pressure up by intensifying sanctions.
‘There’s a bit of guesswork here but it looks as though they realised they needed to use lobbyists and went on to hire some of the best. In the States they used a private company, founded by a former senator. Very discreet, and very influential. Lobbyists have to be registered, but since the company was privately held, very little was known about its activities, or its clients.’
‘Okay…’ said Liz uncertainly, not sure where all this was going.
‘But then suddenly the ex-senator decided to cash in his chips. He sold his lobbying firm to a larger company – one that was publicly held. At which point all sorts of things had to be declared to the shareholders, which in a private company could be kept secret. Like the names of their clients, including the oligarchs paying for the anti-Putin lobbying.’
‘Don’t tell me: Patricov’s name was on the list of clients.’
‘Actually, the name was Nina Todyeva.’
‘Who is?’
‘Mrs Patricov. Todyeva was her maiden name.’
‘Golly,’ said Liz appreciatively. ‘Full marks to your Mr Jenkins.’ He sounded in the same league as Peggy Kinsolving, whose expertise at extracting information online was in Liz’s experience second to none. She said, ‘So much for Patricov’s lack of interest in politics.’
‘Exactly. If he goes to such lengths to hide it, then he really must be afraid of the Putin regime.’
‘What about this man Karpis you mentioned?’
‘He worked for one of Patricov’s competitors in the Russian IT business. Then he fell out with his boss, and Patricov wooed him to come here. As far as we know, he doesn’t have any political affiliations – declared or not. My understanding is he joined Patricov for the money, pure and simple. I doubt he has the faintest idea that his boss is bankrolling an anti-Putin campaign.’
‘Do you know all this just from Jenkins’s combing the internet?’
Pearson smiled. ‘Sometimes you get lucky,’ he said. ‘Patricov hired a local head of security when he moved here. A man called Reilly, ex-SAS. He also happened to stand in as my driver for three months when my regular man was ill. Reilly’s a very solid kind of guy, more than willing to help. And our interests align: we don’t want anything to happen to Patricov and neither does he – it’s what he’s paid for.’
‘That’s a lucky break.’ Liz paused, thinking. Then she said, ‘I wonder if Patricov has stuff on Putin that makes him a particular threat.’
Pearson shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible. Hopefully we’ll get a better sense of that tomorrow.’