He certainly wasn’t in the mood for bumping off his girlfriend’s best friend – anyway, not before he had a foothold in his flourishing business interest. The rest he would pick up for free, or rather, after a few well-placed inducements.
Vdovin rose heavily from his chair. Stolin pushed a button under his desk. Two girls appeared in the doorway: Adriana, changed into a short black tube dress, and a skinny brunette with flushed cheeks and heavily made-up eyes. They stood there waiting his instructions.
‘Look after the general, make sure he has whatever he wants,’ Konstantin said, addressing the two of them. He was still procuring girls for him, he thought, years later.
‘I’ll be back to you shortly on the other matter… the meeting.’
Bazhukov entered the moment the general left.
‘We may have a problem, boss.’
‘Sit.’ Konstantin pointed at the chair the general had just vacated.
‘There’s a man, claims to be Viktoriya Nikolaevna’s father. One of our men overheard him bragging in a bar. He’s a drunk, hangs around there a lot, and doesn’t seem to work. Has a nice apartment, though, off Makarova, across on Vasilyevsky Island, by all accounts.’
‘And?’
‘Says he has the goods on a mafia boss.’
‘Have you seen him?’
‘No.’
Konstantin shook his head, wondering if indeed it was Viktoriya’s father and what it was he could have on him. What teenage misdemeanour that could be so terrible? He laughed dismissively. His recollection of her father was at best vague. But it was odd, if he was who he claimed to be, that Viktoriya had not mentioned him. He remembered the neatly stitched cut she had turned up with that morning at school. She had told the class that she had caught her face on an open cupboard door, but he had guessed there was an alternate explanation.
‘And he hasn’t said anything specific?’ Konstantin prompted.
‘No. He hangs out with the guy that used to work for you years ago – they are drinking partners. I fired him a year or two back.’
‘What was his name,’ Konstantin asked, suddenly alarmed.
‘Just trying to remember… Lev, that was his name… Lev.’
Chapter 23
LENINGRAD
Viktoriya turned the key in the lock and tentatively gave the door a push. It swung inward into the small hallway. Apprehensive, she stood there steeling the courage to go in.
‘Father,’ she called. There was no response. Her father had telephoned her making one of his usual demands for more money and then not turned up at the café, their usual meeting place. At first she had put it down to his general unreliability; perhaps he had been lying drunk somewhere or had forgotten. But that was two days ago, and she had not heard from him. The woman at the café had not seen him either. If he was ill or in hospital she was sure he would have managed to make a call or had someone do it for him. It was unlike him to drop off the radar quite as he had.
From where she stood on the threshold of the tiny hallway, everything had the appearance of normality. She had only once visited her father’s apartment, and that was the day he moved in; for the most part she had succeeded in keeping her distance.
The door to the living room was closed. Instinctively she sniffed the air – musty, but no obvious smell of rotting food or worse. Bracing herself, fighting the desire to turn and run, she stepped into the hallway and closed the front door quietly behind her. Warily, she opened the living room door. Mayhem confronted her: table and chairs turned over, the sofa and armchair slashed, books strewn across the floor. In the bathroom the panel under the bath had been torn out and the drugs cupboard emptied into the bath. She walked into the bedroom. The bed had been shoved off its base and clothes from a small wooden chest of drawers thrown all about the room. There was no sign of her father. She looked out of the window, trying to gather her thoughts.
Five floors below, cars and bicycles hugged the embankment, an endless stream of traffic making its way homeward. She wondered what had befallen him. Had he got himself into more debt? But then he would have come to her as he was planning to do. Or was this some random burglar chancing his luck at one of the better apartments in town? Her thoughts were interrupted by the click of the front door and someone being shoved roughly into the living room. Quickly, she slid back the mirrored wardrobe door and squatted down inside, leaving it a quarter open. Outside, she could hear whoever it was moving around the apartment. She caught the exasperated sigh of a man. He entered the bedroom breathing heavily. She imagined him looking around the room, at the chaos. At any moment she expected to be discovered, for him to slide open the wardrobe door.
‘So where is it?’ a voice said. ‘Your twenty-four hours is up.’
‘You’ve made a mess of my place. My daughter won’t be best pleased.’ It was her father’s voice, slurred from alcohol.
‘Wasn’t us, it was your mate, Lev; he couldn’t help us either. But he won’t be bothering anyone anymore.’
Viktoriya’s blood ran cold.
‘Where’s the passport,’ asked another familiar voice she could not place.
‘I don’t know. I sold it,’ her father said belligerently.
‘You’ve got five minutes,’ sneered the second man.
Viktoriya knew she would only have seconds before she was discovered. She slid back the wardrobe door and pulled up the sash window a few more inches. Below, perhaps only three feet down, stood a wide ornate plinth stretching right and left to the building’s edge. It looked solid enough. She had no time to weigh up her situation; it just seemed a lot more dangerous inside than out. Easing herself over the windowsill, Viktoriya dropped onto the stone shelf and shuffled sideways away from the window. As long as they didn’t look out, she thought to herself. Heart racing, she edged along the stone ledge towards the neighbouring apartment, leaning in against the wall, her hands flat against the stone, her feet gingerly trying to find a secure purchase. Two feet from the next apartment window, her right foot slipped on loose plaster. Struggling to find her balance, she lunged for the wooden frame and grabbed it. She took two deep breaths, trying not to panic, and looked back at the window she had exited, half expecting a head to appear and spot her. She needed to get off this cliff face and call for help. Edging her way level with the window, with the sill at waist height, Viktoriya looked in on an empty kitchen. There was no way of knowing whether the occupant was in, but staying out here, five floors up, about to be discovered, was not an option either. The window was firmly shut and locked from the inside. Carefully, she tugged off her short leather jacket and placed it against the window. When the next car horn sounded, she drove the jacket through the glass with her elbow. The glass shattered inward. Expecting someone to come rushing in at any moment, she quickly released the inside latch and pulled up the sash window. Fortunately, it gave easily. She slipped in and landed on the kitchen floor feet first and stood stock-still, expecting the door to burst open at any second. She tried to picture the layout of the apartment. If it was the same as her father’s it would give onto a small hall off which the bedroom and living room extended. Carefully opening the kitchen door, she peered out. The flicker and booming sound of a television reached her from the living room. She edged out into the hall and peered through the crack of the door jamb. An old lady with a rug over her legs sat in an old leather armchair staring at a TV screen, a smile on her face. Relieved, Viktoriya opened the apartment door. The corridor was empty. She stepped out, closed the door and rang the bell. There was a pause. She wondered whether the old lady would actually hear it with the TV turned up so loud, but the next second it opened.