‘A gun range?’ said Button.
‘Yeah. In a country where ownership of handguns is a criminal offence. Funny that. They say that it’s only used for airguns but I’ve seen some of the targets and the holes are bloody big for pellets.’
‘Have you seen any of the bodyguards with guns?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘To be honest the gun range is well soundproofed so I’ve never heard anything being fired. Just seems a funny thing to have in a private house, that’s all. Dmitry showed me airguns and swore blind that’s all they have, but I’d be very surprised if there weren’t a few firearms in the house. Mind you, there’s a full-size tenpin bowling alley and I’ve never seen that being used either.’
He took her inside and down a wood-panelled hall to a set of double-height doors. He pushed them open to reveal a room the size of a basketball court with a Steinway piano at either end and a scattering of ornate sofas and easy chairs. ‘The piano room,’ said Shepherd.
‘Does he play?’
‘No, but the new Mrs Grechko does apparently. She’s still in France.’
There was a large fireplace in the centre of the room, and over it a gilt mirror with mermaids around the edge. There were two large chandeliers each with hundreds of small bulbs, and half a dozen oil paintings that looked as if they had just come from the National Gallery. ‘Does Mrs Grechko do the interior design?’ asked Button, sitting on one of the sofas and crossing her legs at the ankles.
‘Have you seen the new Mrs Grechko?’ asked Shepherd. ‘She’s a twenty-two-year-old former Miss Ukraine, she doesn’t do much of anything other than spend his money.’
Button looked around the room. ‘Well, whoever did this seemed to be going for the Buckingham Palace look,’ she said.
‘He has a team of people who do nothing else but design his homes, his yacht and his planes. They were discussing how big the chandeliers could be on his new jet before turbulence became a factor.’
‘Chandeliers? On a plane?’
‘One of them is going to be above his Jacuzzi,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m still trying to get to grips with the image of him sitting in a hot tub at thirty thousand feet.’
The doors opened and Grechko strode in. Button didn’t get up and the Russian made no move to greet her, he just walked over to the sofa facing her and sat down. He put his hands on his knees and looked at her expectantly. Shepherd went to stand by the fireplace.
‘I’m sorry about coming to see you at such short notice, but we have come across evidence that suggests that the attack against you was perhaps not political.’
Grechko sneered at Button with undisguised contempt. ‘Are you stupid?’ he said. ‘How can it not be political? Those in power, those bastards in the Kremlin, they hate me because of what I have, of what I have achieved.’ He threw up his hands. ‘This is ridiculous. I will speak to your prime minister, it’s as clear as the nose on your face that you have no idea what is going on. Perhaps you are in the wrong job, Miss Button.’
‘Of course, you are perfectly entitled to call the PM and I have no doubt he will listen to your concerns and then he will probably call the head of MI5 who will talk to my boss who will then call me into his office where I will tell him exactly what I’m telling you, because what I’m telling you is the truth. I’m not going to change that truth simply because it’s not something you want to hear. All I ask is that you listen to me and then we can decide how to move forward. Believe me, Mr Grechko, all I want is to make sure that you come to no harm on British soil.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘Or anywhere else, for that matter.’
Grechko continued to glare at her for several seconds, then he flashed her an insincere smile. ‘I am not an unreasonable man,’ he said. ‘And I am not unaware that I am a guest in your country.’ He waved at the coffee table in front of her, a thick slab of crystal on gold legs. ‘Would you like tea? This is the time of day when you English drink tea, is it not?’
‘I think we English will drink tea at any time of the day,’ she said.
‘Excellent,’ said Grechko. He took a small remote control unit from his pocket and pushed a button. Within seconds the double doors to the room were opened by a butler in a crisp black suit. ‘Tea, for two,’ he said. ‘And those little sandwich things.’
The butler, a grey-haired man in his fifties, nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Anything but Earl Grey,’ said Button.
‘Earl Grey?’ repeated the Russian, frowning.
‘I’ve never liked Earl Grey tea,’ said Button with an apologetic smile.
Grechko pointed at the butler. ‘No Earl Grey tea,’ he said.
‘Absolutely, sir,’ murmured the butler, and quietly closed the doors.
‘He worked for Prince Charles for many years,’ said Grechko. ‘He served the Queen many times. Do you know how much the Royal Family pays its butlers?’
Button shook her head. ‘I don’t. Sorry.’
‘Well, I do. A pittance. They treat their staff like serfs. I pay him five times what they paid him. Five times.’
‘I’m sure he appreciates working for you,’ she said.
The Russian’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to tell whether she was being serious or sarcastic, but then he smiled and chuckled. ‘He does,’ he said. He waved a shovel-like hand at Shepherd, who was still standing by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘And you, Tony, sit, please.’
‘I’m on duty, sir, and I’m supposed to be on my feet at all times,’ said Shepherd.
‘Sit!’ said Grechko. ‘I’m sure that I’m safe in my own home.’
Shepherd nodded and sat down on the sofa next to Button. The Russian steepled his fingers under his chin and stared intently at Button, his brow furrowed. ‘So you have come here to tell me that the attack on me was not political, that someone other than the dogs in the Kremlin is after my blood?’
Button bent forward, maintaining eye contact. ‘The attack on you in London recently was clearly professional. But the assassin missed.’
‘Luckily for me,’ said Grechko with a tight smile.
‘Indeed. And like you we put that down to good fortune. It was a difficult shot, even for a skilled marksman. But we hadn’t realised that Oleg Zakharov was the target for another assassination attempt, earlier this year.’
‘Ah yes, poor Oleg. He was a good friend.’
‘A good friend who died recently, in Monte Carlo.’
‘A cocaine overdose.’ Grechko mimed sniffing the drug. ‘He also had a liking for drugs, I warned him many times to be careful.’ He frowned. ‘You think that it wasn’t an accident?’
‘Cocaine overdoses are somewhat unusual,’ said Button. ‘And if as you said he was a frequent user, the police might not look too closely at the death.’
‘Then if it was murder, it was those bastards in the Kremlin,’ spat Grechko. ‘They are filled with jealousy and hatred for what we have achieved.’ He threw up his massive hands. ‘If it was murder, then the death of Oleg proves that we are all targets.’
‘Targets, yes, I understand that, but not necessarily targets of the Russian state,’ said Button. ‘Mr Grechko, why didn’t you mention to me that someone had tried to kill Mr Zakharov?’
‘It was months ago. And it was in Prague.’
‘It was in Prague, yes. A sniper. He missed and a bodyguard was shot in the leg.’
‘Yes, Oleg told me he was lucky.’
‘I wish that you had told us this earlier.’