Kenny could hardly contain his excitement. In his heavily Ukrainian voice, he asked, “You mean the one that will actually make me a fully qualified member of the Simferopol Boys?”
Fyodor nodded. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean.” He gave a curt nod of his head. Vasili and Vladimir, knowing the signal well, left the room. A long silence filled the space between the two men who remained.
It was broken by Fyodor. “Yes, Anatoli, I think you have proved you understand fully the role that is required of you.”
Kenny Mountford could hardly contain himself. It was the best review he’d had since The Stage had described his Prospero as “luminescently compelling.”
“So what do I have to do? Don’t worry, whatever it is, I’ll do it. I won’t let you down.”
“You have to kill someone,” said Fyodor.
At first Kenny had had difficulty with the amount of vodka drinking that being an aspirant Simferopol Boy involved, but now he could match Vasili and Vladimir shot for shot — and even, on occasion, outdrink them. They tended to meet during the small hours (after a good night’s threatening) in a basement club off Westbourne Grove. It was a dark place, heavy with the fug of cigarettes. Down there in the murk no one observed the smoking ban. And, having seen the size of the barmen, Kenny didn’t envy any Department of Health inspector delegated to enforce it.
He was always the only non-Russian speaker there, though his grasp of the language was improving, thanks to an online course he’d enrolled in. Kenny had a private ambition that, when the three months were up, he would return to Charlie Fenton not only looking like a Ukrainian gangster, but also speaking like one.
That evening they were well into the second bottle of vodka before either Vasili or Vladimir mentioned the task they knew Fyodor had set Kenny. “So,” asked Vladimir, always the more sceptical of the two, “do you reckon you can do it? Or are you going to chicken out?”
“Don’t worry, tovarich, I can do it.” He sounded as confident as ever, but couldn’t deny to himself that the demand made by Fyodor had been a shock. Playing for time, he went on, “The only thing I can’t decide about it is who I should kill. Just someone random I happen to see in the street? Would that be the right thing to do?”
“It would be all right,” replied Vasili, “but it would be rather a waste of a hit.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if you’re going to kill someone, at least make sure it’s someone you already want out of your way.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Anatoli,” said Vladimir impatiently, “kill one of your enemies!”
“Ah.” Kenny Mountford tried to think whether he actually had any enemies. There were people who’d got up his nose over the years — directors who hadn’t recognised his talent, casting directors who had resolutely refused to cast him, actors who’d stolen his laughs — but none of these transgressions did he really think of as killing matters.
His confusion must have communicated itself to Vladimir, because he said, “You must have a sibling who’s infuriated you at some point, someone who’s cheated you of money, a man who’s stolen one of your girlfriends...”
“Yes, I must have, mustn’t I?” Though, for the life of him, Kenny Mountford still couldn’t think of anyone who was a suitable candidate for murder. He also couldn’t completely suppress the unworthy feeling — which he knew would threaten his integrity as an actor in the eyes of someone like Charlie Fenton — that killing people was wrong.
The conversation became becalmed. After a few more shots of vodka, Vladimir announced he was off to get a freebie from one of the Bayswater working girls controlled by the Simferopol Boys. “Got to be some perks in this job,” he said.
But Vasili lingered. He seemed to have sensed Kenny’s unease. “You are worried about the killing?”
“Well...”
“It is common. The first one. Many people find that. After two or three, though...” Vasili downed another shot of vodka. “... it seems a natural thing to do.”
There was a silence. Then Vasili leant forward, lowering his voice as he said, “Maybe I could help you...”
“How?”
“There is a service I provide. It is not free, but it is not expensive... given the going rate.” He let out a short, cynical laugh. “There are plenty of Simferopol Boys who have got their qualifications from me.” Kenny Mountford looked puzzled. “I mean that they have never killed anyone. I have done the killings for them.”
“Ah.” Kenny couldn’t deny he was tempted. He knew that for the full immersion in his character that Charlie Fenton required he should do the killing himself. But he couldn’t help feeling a little squeamish about the idea. And if Vasili was offering him a way round the problem... “How much?” he asked, not realising that, now the danger of his actually having to commit a murder had receded, he’d dropped out of his Ukrainian accent.
Vasili told him. It seemed a demeaningly small sum for the price of a human life, but Kenny knew this was not the moment for sentimentality. And he did still have quite a lot of money left from the sitcom fees. “So how do you select the target? Even more important, how do you make it look as if I’ve actually committed the murder?”
The Ukrainian dismissed the questions with an airy wave of his hand. “You leave such details to me. I have done it before, so I know what I’m doing. So far as Fyodor is concerned, it is definitely you who has committed the murder. So far as the police are concerned, nothing ties the crime to you. All you have to do is to get yourself a watertight alibi for tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow evening?” Kenny was rather shocked by the short notice.
With a shrug, Vasili said, “Once you have decided to do something, there is no point in putting off doing it.”
“I suppose you’re right...”
“Of course I am right.”
“But I’m still not clear about how you select the victim.”
“That, as I say, is not your problem. Usually, I kill one of my client’s enemies. That way, not only does Fyodor recognise there is a motive for the murder, the client also gets rid of someone who’s bugging them. It is a very efficient system — no?”
“But if your client doesn’t have any enemies...”
“Everyone has enemies,” said Vasili firmly. Kenny was about to say that he really didn’t think he did, but thought better of it. “So, Anatoli, have we got a deal?”
“Yes, we’ve got a deal.”
Having checked with Vasili the proposed timescale for the murder and handed over the agreed fee the next morning, Kenny set about arranging his alibi. It couldn’t involve any of the Simferopol Boys, because Fyodor wasn’t meant to know that he had an alibi. So, to keep himself safe from police suspicions, Anatoli Semyonov would have to, for one evening only, return to his old persona of Kenny Mountford.
He decided that a visit to a fringe theatre was the answer. A quick check through Time Out led to a call to an actor friend, who sounded slightly surprised to hear from him, but who agreed to join him in darkest Kilburn for an experimental play about glue-sniffing, whose cast included an actress they both knew. “You’re not going with Lesley-Jane?” asked the friend.
“No.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, Kenny, nothing.”