“I’m DS Cohen. I’m here to see Mr Lau.”
The man behind the counter examined the badge as the customers pretended not to listen. “Yes, Mr Lau, one second.” Russell came walking into the shop as the man behind the counter disappeared into the back.
“It’d be rude not to order something while we’re here,” said Russell.
“Here’s a menu. Knock yourself out.”
The man appeared from the back and beckoned them to come through. They ducked under the counter and walked back into the kitchen. Russell’s mouth watered as a delivery man packed up a freshly-made Peking Duck and disappeared out of the door.
“Mr Lau is in here,” said the man, motioning to a social area where several staff were sitting around chatting in Mandarin. All but one man stood up and left as Cohen and Russell walked into the room.
“Alfred Lau?” said Cohen.
“Yes, please sit down.”
“I’m DS Cohen and this is DC Russell. We’re sorry that you had to cut your holiday short, but it really was imperative that we speak with you.”
Lau shook his head a little. “Oh sure, sure, it’s okay, I am happy to help police.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. Now, we understand you made a delivery to this flat recently.” Cohen showed Lau a piece of paper with Cavendish’s address.
“Yes, I remember. A nice English man. Very polite. He gave me good tip.”
“Did anything seem unusual when the man answered the door?”
“No, no, just as normal. Normal delivery.”
“What did they have?” said Russell.
“I think just some special fried rice, sweet and sour pork Hong Kong style and satay chicken sticks.”
“You’ve got a good memory,” said Russell.
Lau laughed. “Yes, like a photo camera.”
“Was there anyone in the street maybe when you delivered the food?”
Lau sat back and thought. “There was a man. He was in a car, just not far from the place. I remember because he looked at me when I was unpacking order.”
Cohen leant forward. “Do you think you can describe the man?”
“Yeah sure. I remember, he looked like Albanian or something.”
“Excuse us, for a second Mr Lau.”
Russell followed Cohen back out into the kitchen. “We need to get a sketch artist down here. I don’t want to let him disappear off again if we can help it.”
“I know one that lives in St John’s Wood,” said Russell, pulling his mobile from his pocket. “Let me get on the blower.” Cohen sat back down with Lau as Russell made the call.
“Do you think that memory of yours works for faces too?”
“Sure, sure, I am good with faces, no problem.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Russell walked back in the room. “He’ll be here in half an hour Sarge. We may as well eat I reckon.”
Cohen gave Lau £20 and he brought them an assortment of piping hot Chinese food as they waited in the small room. Once they’d finished the meal, a pot of Chinese tea was set down on the table and Russell poured three servings into some ornately decorated cups. As Cohen took his first sip, the man from behind the counter walked in and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Your friend is here now.” The long-haired sketch artist walked in and cleared a space among the discarded food containers.
“Shall we get straight to it?” he said
“Go ahead,” said Cohen.
Lau’s memory kicked into gear like a video recording. The sketch artist struggled to keep up as he blurted out the description, regularly turning to a small Chinese-English dictionary he kept in his trouser pocket. The artist added the finishing touches as Lau made sure he had extracted everything he could from the mental image of the man in the car.
“Okay,” said the artist. “Here’s your man.” He flipped his sketch board round and showed Cohen and Russell the face.
“Looks like a wrong ‘un,” said Russell. “But they always do on those things, don’t they Sarge?” Cohen said nothing and just stared at the picture. “Don’t they Sarge? Sarge? Are you okay?”
Cohen took the picture from the artist. “I know who that is.”
“What? Who?”
“His name’s Yuri Gershov. He’s muscle for a guy called Leonid Ashansky.”
“Jesus, Ashansky? You mean the Prince?”
“Yeah.”
“Isn’t he sitting in Belmarsh prison?”
“That’s exactly where he is. Time we paid His Royal Highness and his little helper a visit.”
Pavel ignored the homeless man lying motionless a few metres away from the entrance to the flat. A strong smell of urine filled the corridor and he held his sleeve to his nose as he stepped carefully around him. Why do people let them in, he thought, as he hurried inside and closed the door behind him. The man stirred as the door slammed. He looked up to make sure no one was around and whispered quietly into a microphone stitched to the inside of his sleeve. “One of them is here.”
Nikolaev and his team got out the car and walked into the building. As they exited the lift, the watcher pointed to the flat and disappeared down the stairs. One of the agents took out a master key and opened the door. Nikolaev walked in and looked around. The door to his right opened and Pavel faced the four men with a puzzled look on his face. The confusion turned to fear as they advanced on him and pushed him back onto his bed.
Nikolaev cast an eye around the room and onto the effeminate foreigner sitting on the bed in front of him.
“You are a gay?” he said, eliciting sniggers from his men.
“No. What do you want?”
“Oh, you speak Russian? That’s good. But you speak Russian like a gay. This is not how Russian is meant to be spoken.”
Pavel lowered his head and hunched his shoulders. “Please, don’t hurt me. What do you want?”
Nikolaev picked up Pavel’s passport from a bedside table. “Paul Murray. Teacher at the Westminster School of English, Pushkinskaya. Tell me, do you like working at this school?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to stay in Russia?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me where is Ryan Evans?”
Pavel looked around the faces in the room. They were all scowling at him while they waited for an answer. “He said he was going to Kazakhstan.”
Nikolaev placed the passport back on the table. “Almaty?”
“Yes, that’s what he said.”
“Which is his room?”
Pavel showed them to the end of the corridor and opened Harper’s bedroom door. The men fanned out and rifled through the cupboards and drawers, but found nothing except clothes and a few teaching materials. Nikolaev picked up a tattered copy of Heart of a Dog from Harper’s pillow and flicked through the pages.
“Mr Literature,” he said, chucking the book to one of his agents.
Pavel looked at the stack of other titles next to Harper’s bed. There was more Bulgakov and several works of Turgenev. There was also Crime and Punishment.
“There is one other thing you might be interested in,” said Pavel.
Nikolaev stepped towards him. “Really? And what’s that?”
“I’ll show you.” Pavel took Nikolaev and one of the agents out of the flat and across the children’s playground to the garbage area.
“I saw him cut up one of his sim cards and chuck it in here the other day. It seemed very suspicious to me.”
Nikolaev smiled at the willingness of the foreigner in front of him to throw his colleague under the bus. “So what are you waiting for?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Find it.”
“What do you…” Pavel let out a small yelp as Nikolaev’s agent grabbed him under his arms and dumped him in the big metal bin. Pavel looked down at the bags of rotting food and old clothes.