They both turned down the waiter’s offer of dessert, and Liz found herself stifling a yawn. Pearson laughed. ‘You’ve had a long drive today. We’d better skip coffee,’ he said. ‘I’ll run you back to the hotel. But first I must just say thanks to Mike. It was a pretty good meal, I think.’
‘It was delicious. I’d like to say thanks too.’
As they were getting up from the table Mike appeared in his chef’s hat and striped apron. After much handshaking and the injunction to Liz that she must come again next time she was in Manchester, they managed to escape.
Back in her room at the hotel Liz thought what a pleasant evening it had been. She liked Richard Pearson; she could relax with him and she’d like to get to know him better, but it was hard to see how they could ever see much of each other when they were living two hundred miles apart.
26
Kevin Burgess had been keeping his head down since discovering Karpis with his employer’s wife in the changing rooms. He hadn’t mentioned what he’d seen to his boss, Reilly, nor did he tell him about the trespassing boy in case it led to questions about how the kid had got in and how Kevin had discovered him in the changing rooms as well.
There had been no other incidents since then. As spring began to take hold and the daffodils opened in the garden, the big wooden table and a few chairs were brought out of the gardeners’ shed; on fine days the tea break took place outside under a twisted old apple tree, its buds just showing the first signs of bursting open. There were still plenty of days, however, when rain and a solid wind forced everyone back into the shed, and this was one of them. Kevin had found a place by the stove and was standing sipping his tea, his clothes gently steaming in the warmth, when the mobile in his pocket sprang into life.
Reilly was calling from his office in the big house. ‘Kevin, I need to see you in my office, straightaway. Where are you now?’
‘Just on tea break, Mr Reilly. I’ll come now.’ Taking a final gulp, Kevin plonked his mug on the table and hurried out into the rain. Reilly’s office was at the back of the house and the way in was through the kitchen. Kevin wiped his feet carefully on the mat, nodded through the passage window at the cook, a heavy-set Polish woman who had never been heard to speak a word of English, and went through a pair of swing doors into Reilly’s office, a small square room, formerly the butler’s pantry. It felt warm and cosy to Kevin, coming in from the damp garden.
Reilly looked up from his scrutiny of the security team’s duty rosters. ‘Oh, God. I hadn’t noticed it was raining. Hang your coat up over there. Bloody spring. The sun was shining when I got here. Have a seat.’
Kevin found Reilly rather daunting. He was always friendly enough and he wasn’t a big man, but there was an air of suppressed energy about him – like a spring that might uncoil at any moment. Kevin was envious. He felt sure that Reilly could incapacitate an enemy in seconds, and what’s more, probably had, on many occasions.
Reilly said, ‘I see you’re on your own this morning.’
‘That’s right, boss.’
‘We’re expecting a visitation. The Chief Constable, in fact.’
Burgess raised an eyebrow, and Reilly smiled. ‘He’s not coming to arrest anyone, Kev. It’s a courtesy call, but I expect he’ll want to check our security set-up while he’s here. Someone from the Home Office is coming with him, but you don’t have to worry about them.’
‘Okay. Is there anything special you want me to do?’
‘Not really. But make a recce outside before they arrive, just to be sure everything’s in working order. We don’t want to look silly because we’ve got a duff camera or an unlocked gate.’
Kevin nodded. ‘Okay, boss. Will do. What time are they coming?’
‘About eleven.’
He went first to check the outbuildings, making sure they were locked, then he called into the control room to see that the CCTV cameras dotted around the grounds were all showing a clear picture, and after that walked down to inspect the outer perimeter. He had just rattled the gate in the back wall, glad to find it locked, when he heard someone approaching along the path. It was Karpis, wearing his black leather jacket. He seemed startled to find Kevin there.
Karpis was a tall man, with an aggressive manner. Kevin found him quite intimidating.
‘What are you doing?’ the Russian demanded now.
‘Just checking the gate, sir.’
‘You’re meant to be guarding the house,’ said Karpis suspiciously.
‘Yes, sir. But Mr Reilly asked me to check the grounds as well because Mr Patricov has visitors coming.’
‘Oh. I haven’t been told. What sort of visitors?’
Why didn’t he know? Kevin wondered. He said nervously, ‘I was told it’s the police.’
‘Christ,’ said Karpis wearily. ‘Another local bobby.’ He pronounced it ‘booby’. ‘The last one who came here was a fool.’
Burgess didn’t reply to this. He said instead, ‘And someone’s coming from the Home Office too.’
‘What? Why didn’t you say so?’
Perplexed, Kevin was going to explain that he had only just learned about it, but Karpis was already striding back towards the house.
Kevin was surprised that Karpis hadn’t known of the impending visit. He was in charge of the household even more than Patricov, due to the owner’s many absences; it was hard to believe anything of importance could take place without Karpis’s approval or knowledge. And if Patricov hadn’t told him, then wouldn’t Mrs Patricov have done so? Kevin remembered the voices he had heard in the changing room.
He finished checking the perimeter of the grounds, then walked slowly back towards the house. He’d nip into the camera-monitor room for a minute, he decided, and warm his hands, then stand outside conspicuously on the terrace for the duration of the police visit.
He had just passed the tennis courts and was angling towards the kitchen door when he heard the sound of gravel being disturbed on the apron by the garages. Looking up, he saw one of the Mercedes with Karpis at the wheel, speeding towards the front gates. Where the hell is he going? Kevin wondered, surprised he wasn’t waiting for the policeman to arrive. Karpis wasn’t scared of the police; that much was clear from the dismissive way he’d spoken. So what was the problem? Why would someone from the Home Office send him scurrying off like a scared rat? Kevin shrugged. Maybe the Russian had passport problems.
27
Liz had met Russian oligarchs before and been to their houses. She thought she knew what to expect, as she told Richard Pearson as they were driven to Altrincham. A vastly expensive and probably famous painting by an Impressionist hanging above a hideous pink velvet sofa; eighteenth-century French furniture with curly gold arms and legs; heavy brocade curtains with lots of gold braid and tassels; not to mention a kitchen full of gleaming fridges stuffed with caviar bulging from Lalique bowls the size of a Labrador’s head, and enough foie gras to fill a dustbin bag.
Pearson laughed. ‘I think you’ve had a bad experience. Sergei Patricov is supposed to be quite sophisticated.’
‘Let’s see,’ said Liz. ‘I bet I’m right – though I’ll admit to a bit of exaggeration.’
But Patricov turned out to be very different. He might have a private jet and a willowy blonde wife (neither was in evidence), but the man himself was dressed like an English country gentleman – a real one, not one off the pages of a lifestyle magazine – in a slightly saggy tweed jacket, Viyella shirt, and polished brown brogues. His living room was tasteful rather than grandiose – the paintings on the wall were good watercolours but not recognisable, the furniture was solid antique brown, and the Persian rugs pleasingly worn.