“You haven’t got any money to invest, though, have you?” Erik said. She was always short of cash; he’d had to lend her a thousand pounds for her rent and deposit.

  “It’s only a matter of time,” Kat said.

  “By the way, Kat,” Amy said, fishing in the striped bag, “a letter came for you. I meant to pass it on.”

  Erik assumed it was a birthday card. He realised he was wrong as soon as he saw the expression on his sister’s face.

  “I’m going to burn it,” Kat announced.

  “What is it, Kat?” Amy said.

  In reply, Kat tore open the envelope and showed them the missive inside.

  Erik’s heart raced. Any aggression he might have felt towards Aliyev was nothing compared with the violence he would visit upon the man who’d written such things to his sister. “You should go to the police,” he urged.

  “That’s what Tim said,” Kat told him. She stared at the ceiling.

  “Tim?” Erik asked.

  “Bridges.” Kat’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been seeing him.”

  Erik raised an eyebrow. He’d always liked Tim, just a few years younger, and very bright. It was a shame for Tim that Marty had insisted he join the business rather than study; he was capable of doing more with his brain. “I’m glad you’re ignoring the perceived sins of his father,” he said.

  His sister frowned. “Tim and I are over. The letters started to arrive once Tim knew my address, so he must have sent them.”

  “There were more letters?” Erik asked. He flung his arms around his sister. “I can’t believe Tim wrote them. He’s a nice guy. You agree, don’t you, Amy? He works with you.”

  Amy nodded. “Honestly, I’m sure he didn’t. That isn’t his writing, anyway.”

  “Who do you think it was, then?” Kat demanded, breaking free from Erik’s hug. “Marty?”

  “His handwriting’s not great, but it’s ten times better than this scribble,” Amy pointed out.

  “Neither of them would send poison pen letters,” Erik said. “It’s an evil and cowardly act. I’ve worked with Marty for two years and I’ve known both of them for much longer. They’re decent men. You should know that too, Kat. You only escaped from Ken Khan’s terrorists in Bazakistan last year because Marty helped you.”

  “He needed me to escape himself,” Kat said hotly.

  “Whatever.” Sometimes, no amount of argument would change his sister’s mind. He was feeling tired, a headache pulsing at his temples. “I’m sure you’re wrong about Tim. He couldn’t have written this disgusting garbage, or he wouldn’t have told you to call the police.”

  “He must have known I wouldn’t,” Kat said.

  “The British police aren’t like the militia in Bazakistan,” Erik said. Again, he’d told her before. Why would she never listen?

  “You haven’t always stayed on the right side of the law in England, Kat,” Amy said, “but nothing bad has happened to you.”

  That was putting it mildly. In her less focused days, Kat had partied hard, funding her champagne lifestyle by marrying illegal immigrants for money. She’d stolen her friends’ identities to do it, and Amy had found herself married to a Bangladeshi waiter she’d never met. Erik thought Amy had been amazingly forgiving, and his sister very lucky. Kat’s lawyers had persuaded police that her crimes had taken place under duress. The villain she’d blamed was dead, so no-one could prove otherwise. Erik occasionally speculated that Kat was more culpable than she’d admitted.

  Then there was the still. He’d had no idea a licence was required. Apparently, his sister had known and had proved she’d applied for one. Once more, she’d avoided trouble by the skin of her teeth.

  To be fair to Kat, her fear of the police was shared by many immigrants from Bazakistan. In his homeland, the police weren’t just agents of the law, they were the law. Anyone with any sense, whether saint or sinner, gave them substantial bribes for the right to be ignored.

  “Maybe there are fingerprints on those letters,” Amy said, “or the police could do some handwriting analysis and find the culprit that way.”

  “No one knows I live here except you, Tim and possibly Marty,” Kat said. “There’s no point calling the police. Anyway, I’ve burned all the others and I’m burning this one too.” Before Erik could stop her, she picked up a cigarette lighter and flicked a flame across the document. “Don’t try to stop me – you’ll get scorched,” she warned, throwing the charred paper into the bin before ashes could fall.

  If only he wasn’t so fatigued. At the back of Erik’s mind, a seed was taking root, a niggling certainty that someone else knew his sister resided in Leopold Passage and had remarked on it. His head began to throb even more, and the fragile memory was swept away in a gust of pain. “Do you have any paracetamol?” he asked.

  “I’ll get it from my flat,” Amy said, jumping to her feet.

  “Sit down,” Kat said. “Erik needs more vodka. We all do.” She topped up the shot glasses, drained hers in a single swallow, and poured some more.

  To Erik’s surprise, the vodka eased his headache. His memory began to return, nudging the edges of his brain at first, then coalescing into a coherent thought. “You’ll recall the burglary in the cellar,” he said

  “I can hardly forget,” Amy said. “You haven’t been the same since.” She patted his hand.

  “Geoff Smith, the burglar, saw Kat,” Erik said. “He told me she looked familiar.”

  “I don’t know him,” Kat said.

  “It turned out he’d just left prison,” Erik said. “He wasn’t an IT consultant at all. He wasn’t called Geoff Smith either; that was another lie. If he’d seen Kat anywhere, it was while he was inside. You were on the news after your release from captivity in Bazakistan, weren’t you, Kat?”

  “Yes,” Kat said. “I had several interviews.” She shook her head. “I wasn’t paid, worse luck. You think this Geoff Smith’s the culprit? A man I don’t know and who doesn’t know me?”

  “Maybe,” Erik said, shuddering. “He’s an unpleasant character. I’ve no idea how stable he is. He could have become obsessed with you after seeing you on TV. Maybe he’s trying to get back at me by upsetting you.”

  “Wouldn’t he write obscenities to Amy instead?” Kat asked.

  “Who says he’s rational?” Erik said. “If I’m comparing Marty and Tim, two steady individuals, with a ruthless burglar who put me in hospital, I know which of them I’d suspect. You really ought to go to the police.” He put his head in his hands.

  “Please, Kat,” Amy said.

  Wild-eyed, Kat glanced at both Erik and Amy. At last, she said, “Okay. Will you come to the police station with me?”

  “I’m getting my coat,” Erik said.

  Chapter 32.

  KAT

  “I’m glad they persuaded you to stay, Kat.” Richie turned a friendly grin on her as they walked into the night.

  “I was just worried about running into Tim,” she said. “He seems to have got the message.”

  “The Snow Mountain rep?” Richie asked. “I thought you were like this.” He locked index fingers together.

  “Not any more.”

  “You need to settle down one day,” Richie said.

  “One day,” Kat echoed. “Until then, I’d rather make vodka than babies.”

  Richie laughed. “And drink vodka too? You’ll be pleased to know I’m sober. Despite the temptation in front of me, no boozy juice has passed my lips this evening. And here’s my motorbike.” He gestured to the red Honda in the car park behind the casino. “My single vice.”

  It was obviously a well-maintained machine, gleaming in the orange streetlights. “Here,” Richie said. “Use the spare helmet.”

  A man was passing, tall and fair-haired. “Kat,” he said.

  She recognised Tim’s voice immediately. “What do you want?” she asked.

  “She’s not interested.” Richie loomed next to Kat, taller even than Tim. His presence was reassuring.

  “I didn’t write those letters, Kat,” Tim appealed to her.

  Richie could have no idea what Tim meant, but he still waded in. “You’ve got no proof,” he told Tim.

  “Hey, how do we know it wasn’t you?” Tim asked. “Have the police seen you yet?”

  Seeing Richie’s eyes narrow, Kat said, “The letters were posted in London, Tim. Richie’s never been there.”

  Tim fixed his eyes on hers. Kat felt the pull of his attraction. She looked away.

  “Please listen, Kat,” Tim said. “The police believe me. Erik told me to see them. They tested my writing.”

  Erik had no right to contact Tim behind her back. A wave of annoyance swept over her until she saw Tim’s pleading eyes. Her irritation vanished. The urge to fling herself into his arms was almost irresistible.

  “I’m aware these are difficult times for you, Kat,” Tim said. “I just want you to know I’m there for you.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Time to go.” Richie’s words were muffled by his helmet. He revved the engine and motioned to her to sit behind him on the Honda.

  “Call me any time,” Tim shouted, as the bike carried her away.

  Chapter 33.

  MARTY

  The Bazaki city of Kireniat had a splendid Russian Orthodox cathedral, ornately domed and decorated like an artistic child’s fantasy. This was where Marty would have expected the funeral service for a local worthy such as Harry Aliyev. Instead, he found himself whisked in a limousine to a smaller church on the road to the Snow Mountain distillery. Surrounded by Soviet concrete apartment blocks, the whitewashed building was more functional than handsome.

  “You’ll like the interior,” his bodyguard promised. In his thirties and powerfully built, Maxim stuck to Marty like glue. The man was an ethnic Bazaki: stocky, swarthy and almond-eyed. He’d been in the police before branching out into personal security. Marty had found him through his contacts with British expats in Bazakistan. Having been kidnapped before, he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

  Maxim scowled at the beggars clustered around the church door, causing them to scatter. “It doesn’t take long for scum to hear about a funeral party,” he complained, ushering Marty through the arched doorway.

  After the heat and dust outside, the church was pleasantly cool. Marty found himself in a huge oblong space with a beamed ceiling, cream walls crammed with gilt-painted icons of Christ and the saints. The furthest end of the room was occupied by a carved golden partition, twice the height of a man. The effect was more ostentatious even than the shop windows of Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter.

  Candles flickered in gold chandeliers, and around the carved oak coffin sitting on a low table in the centre of the room. It was surrounded by flowers too, from single red roses to extravagant bouquets of white lilies, carnations and love-in-the-mist.

  A choir was singing a plaintive tune, sad notes floating upwards as if pleading to the heavens for mercy. Black-clad mourners were gathered around the coffin. Marty realised it was open, displaying Harry Aliyev’s body. Overcome with emotion, several funeral-goers kissed the dead man’s head. One of them was Marina Aliyeva, wearing a long, jet-coloured dress. Her head was covered in a black veil like those of the other women present. As she stretched to her full height again, Marty caught her eye. He took pleasure in seeing her shock, although it was but a second before her expression changed to one of pure malice.

  Harry was dressed in the suit he’d worn in Birmingham. A cotton shroud covered his lower body and a white headband had been placed on his forehead. His hands were folded across his chest. Golden in the candlelight, a crucifix in his hand, Aliyev’s features were serene. Nothing told of the manner of his demise except for the presence of Inna, sobbing in a corner. Marty admired her for having the courage to attend. He looked around for Harry’s children, but couldn’t make them out in the crowd.

  Marty wondered whether Harry really had so many friends. Maybe the event was viewed as a networking opportunity, or slight acquaintances were putting in an appearance for the feast afterwards. He was still none the wiser when a party of five entered the church: a swaggering middle-aged man and four younger male companions with a purposeful air about them. All wore sharp black suits. The oldest fellow, clearly the leader of the group, nodded to both Marina and Inna, then strode to the coffin to pay his respects.

  “The President’s son,” Maxim whispered.

  Marty remembered rumours about Harry Aliyev’s friends in high places. It was small wonder that, when Harry wanted Sasha Belov’s factory and his wife, he’d been able to take them.

  The choir stopped singing. A gate in the centre of the golden partition now opened, and the congregation inched back from the coffin. Marty looked for a seat, then realised there were none. Colourful Bazaki rugs and cushions were scattered over the parquet floor, especially around the perimeter of the chapel, but still everybody remained on their feet. He stood with Maxim behind the presidential cabal.

  An aged priest in a long white robe, hair and beard flowing, marched out of the central gate. He made the sign of the cross over the deceased, a movement that was copied by the mourners. A deacon slipped out of a door to the side, swinging a censer. Smoke enveloped the coffin and the fragrance of incense tickled Marty’s nostrils. He stifled a sneeze.

  The priest stood at the foot of the coffin. He chanted a blessing and sang Alleluia, to which the choir responded. This done, both priest and deacon returned behind the golden gates.

  The order of service was similar to requiem masses Marty had attended in England. The key differences were the apparent lack of participation of the congregation and the periodic invisibility of the priest. He surfaced at intervals like a ringmaster, only to vanish through the gates again a few minutes later. Meanwhile, he and the choir sang to each other in a kind of ping-pong. Marty supposed that this, together with the strain of standing throughout the ceremony, contributed a mystical atmosphere symbolic of the separation between heaven and earth. He looked longingly at the cushions and carpets, yet the throng continued to stand. The urge to fidget was irresistible. Discreetly he shifted his weight from one foot to the other as the priest delivered his homily.

  The Arystan Aliyev described in the speech was not a man Marty recognised. A devoted husband and father, a pillar of the community and the soul of kindness to his employees, took shape. Marty suspected the cleric had never met Harry, who was far too interested in earthly pleasures to chase spiritual perfection.

  To Marty’s relief, the sycophantic sermon brought the ceremony to an end. The choir sang as the congregation queued to kiss Harry’s cross and headband.

  Marty turned entreating eyes to Maxim.

  The bodyguard nodded. “It is the custom,” he said, adding drily, “There will be vodka later.”

  Marty steeled himself, making the sign of the cross and letting his lips brush the headband. A shudder ran through him, as he remembered Sasha Belov, whom he would once have called his best friend. He was surer than ever that Harry had orchestrated Sasha’s imprisonment and his death by firing squad in order to seize the factory. Sasha’s corpse had almost certainly been thrown into a pauper’s grave. Forcing himself to gaze into Harry’s face, Marty saw no guilt, only peace. Candlelight lent him an angelic halo. Suddenly nauseous, Marty stood in front of the choir, light-headed and virtually choking on incense.

  The priest waited until the mourners had finished before reading a prayer of absolution written on a white card, placing it in Harry’s hand. Aliyev would meet his maker in a state of grace, the proof of his forgiveness clutched to his heart.

  Intoning a solemn melody, the cleric nodded to a group of half a dozen men nearby. They stepped forward to place the lid on the coffin, picking it up in one fluid movement, as if choreographed. As the coffin was carried from the church, Marty identified Anatoly Aliyev among the pall-bearers.

  Anatoly nodded to him. He was a tall, dark, saturnine-looking man, his blue eyes watchful.

  Marty’s limousine was waiting outside. He squinted at the chauffeur. It looked to be the same man, but Marty was nevertheless relieved when Maxim insisted on checking the driver’s ID card.

  Marty noted the coffin, laden with flowers, being loaded into a hearse. The cortège had left by the time Maxim was satisfied with his security precautions. They drove past the vodka distillery, out of Kireniat and then back into its fringes, looping through countryside. The hedgerows were lush, as the shoots of spring transformed into summer flowers. Marty spotted darria bushes, cannabis, foxgloves and Herb Robert. There were bound to be other weeds with medicinal properties known only to the old wives of Bazakistan. It was surely couldn’t be long before Big Pharma took an interest.

  Just inside the city boundaries, the car drove down an avenue of fir trees, halting in front of an impressive cemetery. Pale marble angels, crosses and even a small mausoleum were laid out across a well-tended lawn. The funeral party were gathered behind the priest and his deacon, who led the way across the springy turf to a newly dug plot. The coffin-bearers followed, then the choir, still singing God’s praises. Marty trailed at the rear of the group. The sun beat down on his bald head.

  Strands of Marina’s blonde hair escaped from her veil and glimmered in the sunshine. She looked strikingly beautiful and completely unmoved, staring into the distance as the wooden box was lowered into its tomb. The deacon swung his censer to and fro, sending tendrils of its acrid perfume into the hushed air. With a final hymn from the choir and prayer from the priest, the remaining contents of the censer were emptied into the grave.

  The priest picked up a handful of soil, and flung it on top of the coffin. Many of the congregation followed suit. Marina didn’t. Marty, too, hung back.

  Anatoly Aliyev finally made a beeline for him, offering a handshake. “I’m Tolya Aliyev,” he said. “Thanks for coming.” His grip and voice were firm, but his eyes still appeared wary.

 

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