On the journey up, Vale had called. ‘Waring-Jones has approved the tap on Osip’s personal phone, as well as the land line for the firm. They’re being monitored this end.’
Purkiss had considered breaking in to the office before anyone arrived there, but he decided against it. It was unlikely that they’d find anything of interest, even if they knew what they were looking for.
The Land Rover was parked across the street from the industrial estate, with a clear view of the car park in front. Asher’s car was also in sight, fifty yards away along the street.
At a few minutes before seven o’clock, cars began to pull into the forecourt of the estate. Purkiss watched the occupants as they got out. Vale had sent him a picture of Pyotr Osip, AKA Peter Otto. Osip was in his late fifties, a little jowly, with white hair. None of the first arrivals resembled him; most of them seemed to be clerical staff.
At seven forty-five, a black BMW eased through the gates. The man who got out of the driver’s side was portlier than the one in the photo, but otherwise matched.
Purkiss called Asher. ‘You see him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s go.’
Purkiss had debated leaving Kendrick in the car, but decided that his presence might help unsettle Osip. He saw Kendrick go round to the back of the Land Rover and open the boot.
‘Take your pick.’
Purkiss looked. In a compartment beneath the floor of the boot, a small arsenal gleamed. Three handguns, a Heckler & Koch rifle, and a range of magazine clips.
Purkiss selected a SIG Sauer P226, a pistol he was familiar with, checked the slide, and pushed it into his jacket pocket. He doubted he’d need to use it on this occasion. Purkiss’s intention was to frighten Osip, and then see if the phone tap yielded anything afterwards. Then again, he hadn’t been expecting the shoot-out at Donovan’s house either.
They headed towards the front door of the office building, drawing glances from the staff members still congregating in the car park. Inside, a stark lobby was overseen by a receptionist who appeared to be settling in at her station, and not at all prepared for visitors.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, her accent broad Merseyside. ‘We don’t open till eight —’
‘Mr Otto,’ said Purkiss. ‘We need to speak to him.’
‘He’s not —’
‘Yes, he is here. We saw him arrive.’
The woman looked genuinely frightened. Kendrick leered at her.
‘He’ll want to see us, love.’ His parody of her accent was grotesque. ‘Just tell us where his office is, and we’ll piss off out of your way.’
‘Along here.’ Asher pointed down a corridor. At the end, a plaque on a closed door read: Peter Otto, Managing Director.
Purkiss heard the receptionist speaking frantically on her phone behind them. He didn’t wait, just opened the door and strode in.
Otto had risen from his desk, the receiver in his hand. His eyes roved over the four of them, appraising swiftly, calculating. There was no fear in his expression.
Asher closed the door behind them and jammed a chair under the handle.
Purkiss said, ‘Pyotr Osip. Former KGB, and FSB. Now that you understand how much I know about you, don’t make any attempt to summon security. Hear me out.’
Osip said nothing. He watched Purkiss.
‘You’ve been in communication with Henry Donovan, of HorizonTech. Donovan is implicated in activities which pose a threat to national security. I need you to start talking. If you do so, now, it’ll be easier for you. If you refuse, we’ll get the information the hard way.’
Osip said, his voice low and steady, and only slightly accented: ‘I have never heard of Henry Donovan, or HorizonTech. Your intelligence is incorrect.’
Purkiss turned away slightly, his only signal to Kendrick a glance.
Kendrick moved fast, lurching across the desk and grabbing Osip by the hair and slamming his head down onto the table top. He put his face close to the other man’s.
‘I was all for roughing you up first, before we got to the questions,’ he hissed. ‘Except my namby-pamby friend here is too much of a fair player to allow that. Looks like he should have listened to me.’
Osip braced his hands on the edge of the desk but didn’t try to twist away. His voice still steady, the product of years of training, he murmured: ‘I will give you whatever co-operation you require. But I repeat: I have never heard of the man, or the company, you mention.’
Kendrick jerked his head up and banged it against the desk again. Out of sight of Osip, Purkiss raised a cautionary finger.
He said, ‘Why is it, then, that we found Donovan made seven calls to your office number in the last six days?’
Osip’s visible eye swam, unfocused, and Purkiss wondered if Kendrick had hit him too hard. His voice shook a little for the first time.
‘People telephone my company all the time. I have customers all over the country, current and prospective.’ He grimaced. ‘I would be happy to show you my company records, if you wish. Including logs of all the calls received, over whatever time period you require.’
Was it a bluff? Purkiss wondered. He gave another signal to Kendrick, who hauled Osip upright and dumped him back onto his chair. The man looked dazed, but on the right side of consciousness.
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘The call logs.’
Osip’s mouth worked, as if he was testing whether or not his teeth were intact. He picked up the phone and said, ‘I am not to be disturbed.’
He reached for the keyboard of his desktop computer. Asher and Saburova and Purkiss moved behind him to look over his shoulder. Kendrick remained on the other side of the desk, glaring down at the Russian.
‘You are SIS?’ said Osip.
‘Never mind,’ Purkiss said.
The Russian rolled his chair back a little. ‘Here. All the calls taken in the last seven days.’
Purkiss took out the phone Saburova had found on Donovan. He brought up the call log.
The times on the screen matched those on Donovan’s phone, as did the number.
‘As I said,’ Purkiss murmured. ‘Care to explain this?’
Osip glanced round at him, wincing as he did so. ‘May I speak with my receptionist? She might recall who telephoned.’
‘Yes.’
He picked up the phone again. Asked if the woman remembered seven calls from the same number.
Asher leaned in and pressed the speakerphone button.
The woman’s voice emerged in mid-sentence: ‘ — just dead air. No voice at all. I assumed it was a heavy breather. The calls stopped yesterday.’
Osip looked at Purkiss again.
Purkiss said, ‘It means nothing. Your receptionist is lying, just as you’ve instructed her.’
He looked at Asher. ‘Bring her in.’
The woman cringed as Asher pushed her through the door and barricaded it again. Her eyes were wide, her makeup cracked. The tremor in her hands was unforced.
‘Gemma,’ Osip said. ‘Would you please repeat to these people what you told me on the phone just now?’
She could barely get her words out through the stuttering. But the story was the same: seven calls, all yielding silence at the other end. None since yesterday.
Purkiss believed her.
He met Saburova’s eyes, then Asher’s.
‘You’re staying in here,’ he said to her. To Osip: ‘I need details of your company’s schedules. What kind of freight you’re hauling, where it’s coming from, where it’s going to. The names of your customers.’
‘It is a lot of data.’ Osip rolled back to the computer. ‘But if it is what you want… I have nothing to hide.’
Purkiss watched the lists and figures scroll down the screen. He felt as though he was fishing in the ocean, trying to catch one particular specimen he’d never seen before with a stick and a piece of string.