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“Is what necessary?”

“The involvement of the police, I mean, at this stage.”

“Lynn, I understand your concerns, and under normal circumstances, I am averse to involving the police in school matters, but the teacher who found this bag is married to a local officer.”

“And?”

“And I managed to convince her to let me talk to you first, but I’m afraid we will have to report this as soon as our meeting is over.”

“I understand.”

“Maria is waiting for you in reception. She’s been suspended indefinitely. I’m sorry Lynn. I know this could be inconvenient for you.”

Bailey shook his hand and walked back out into the empty corridor. She felt dizzy and steadied herself on a nearby windowsill. The secretaries glanced up at her as she walked back past their office and then descended into whispers once she had gone. She quickened her stride and turned the corner towards the reception. Her daughter was sat, hunched over and deflated on a bench next to the school trophy cabinet. She walked over and sat down next to her, putting her arm round her as she started to cry.

“I don’t know where they came from mum. I swear.”

“I know. Shush now.”

“It all happened so fast. Am I going to jail?”

“Not while I’m around.”

They stood up and walked out of the school’s large front doors. A group of girls played tennis in the distance, the teacher’s shrill whistle just about audible as they walked back to the car.

“Is that your phone mum?”

Bailey picked her mobile out of her pocket and put it to her ear. “Hello. Deputy Commissioner Bailey.” She waited for the person on the other end to speak, but there was nothing. “Hello?”

“Some things can’t be brushed under the carpet Lynn.” The man’s accent was neutral and he spoke to her like he knew her.

“Who is this?”

“Is Maria with you?

Bailey stopped walking. “Who the hell is this?”

“Someone that wants to save your reputation.”

- Chapter 23 -

Blurred Lines

Garrett’s hand slipped off the gearstick as he slammed his foot on the clutch and tried to jam it into a higher gear. The car’s ancient engine screamed as he turned into a side street and set off up a steep incline. As he reached the top, the Range Rover appeared at the bottom and effortlessly ate up the ground. He took a right, swerving round two pedestrians. The car appeared at the crest of the hill and turned after him, gaining until it was just a few metres behind.

It crept closer and he felt a nudge on his back bumper. “Jesus.”

He sped up again and took a left turn. He kept his foot down as the road was replaced by an uneven mud surface. He could taste his escape when a loud crack came from the underside of the car and he felt himself slowing down.

“No, please, no.”

He pumped the accelerator, but his heart sank as he realized there was no response. The car rolled to a complete stop and he clambered out of the vehicle. As he stepped out onto the ground, his foot sank into the mud up to the top of his ankle. He wrestled it free at the same time as keeping an eye on the Range Rover. He took a few more steps, but the mud got thicker and he struggled to move.

“Bad choice of car,” said Nikolaev as the black Range Rover rolled up alongside him. Garrett stood still and said nothing. The back window rolled down and a man with a balaclava pointed a pistol towards his face.

“Why are you running English?” said Nikolaev. “You have something to hide?”

“Probably not as much as you people,” said Garrett.

“I know who you are,” said Nikolaev. “You’re the mother fucker that wrote that book about Chechnya. I served in Chechnya and you know what I think? I think you don’t know shit.”

Garrett puffed his chest out as much as he could. “Do you know how bad it will look for you when I write a story saying you pointed a gun at a British reporter?”

“You think you can intimidate me?!” shouted Nikolaev, his face reddening and the veins in his neck protruding. “You think having a pen means you’re invincible? Look where you are. There’s nothing here to protect you. We’ll end you like we ended that traitor Katusev.”

Garrett said nothing and Nikolaev sensed the fear in his face.

“The bodyguard did a nice job for us. Shame he had to go too.”

“I’ve got no argument with you,” said Garrett.

“That’s what you think. What were you doing with the Vitsins?”

“I’m a reporter. I was working on a story. That’s my job.”

“So that’s the way it’s going to be with you? Well, I’ve got a better story for your newspaper. It involves you, dying, face down in the mud in Kazakhstan. Do you think they’d like a story like that?”

Nikolaev looked at his men and laughed. Garrett said nothing.

“Do you think they would?” he repeated, as the smile dripped from his face.

A bullet hit Garrett’s windpipe and a red stream squirted into one of the muddy puddles. The blood poured over his fingers and he dropped to his knees, coughing and spluttering.

“I think they would,” said Nikolaev. “I think they would….”

* * *

The mechanized shutters of the Sofia restaurant rose upwards and folded away into the shop front. A waitress milled around inside, setting the tables ready for the lunchtime trade. Russell wiped the sweat from his clammy hands on his trouser leg. Cohen took in the faces of the rest of his team. They were watching him, trying to control the adrenaline, waiting for the signal.

“The man we want to speak to is dangerous,” said Cohen. “He’s killed civilians and he’s killed police. It doesn’t make any difference to him.”

He looked around for their reactions, testing whether the nerves were holding. “But he’s also a close associate of our missing murder suspects, so we need to locate him and we need him to cooperate. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

The van burst into life. The eight coppers jumped out of the back and ran towards the door. Cohen and Russell fell in behind them. The front door was locked so they wasted no time sticking a boot on it. The waitress screamed in Bulgarian as they piled into the dining area, smashing glasses and knocking over chairs.

“Where’s Draganov?” shouted Russell. “Where the fuck is he?”

The waitress carried on screaming as the officers spread out and checked the side rooms. Cohen and Russell followed two of the team upstairs. They kicked in the first bedroom door. Two groggy, semi-naked women, lifted their heads, only partly registering what was going on. Drug paraphernalia littered the floor and used condoms were stuffed in a bucket in the corner. The second door opened and a spindly man in black jogging bottoms and no shirt stood in the doorway.

“What the fuck are you pigs doing to my restaurant?”

Russell steamed forward and pushed him back into the bedroom. The man cracked his head on the bedframe and let out a small grunt as he fell onto his side and held his head in his hands. Cohen signalled to the uniforms to leave and walked in behind Russell, closing the bedroom door.

“We’d like a chat Dimitar,” said Cohen.

“You can’t do this,” said Draganov, rubbing his head furiously where he struck the bed. “I’ve got rights.”

Russell grabbed his hair and rained a flurry of heavy punches down on the side of his head. “You’ve got fuck all today son. Now answer the man’s questions.”

“I don’t know anything, I’m just a restaurant owner!”

Cohen sat down in an armchair. “Where are Leonid Ashansky and Yuri Gershov?”