Moscow Blue. Philip Kurland
up a few notches on seeing her standing in front of him? He guessed she was about five seven or eight, with a full figure. The hair was now less severe; no longer pulled back tightly in a bun, but cascading loosely onto her shoulders. It was difficult not to smile at her happy Slavic face, but he couldn’t help noticing her beautiful pale-blue eyes perched above pools of crimson Russian blusher.
‘Hi, Lina. I’m so pleased you decided to join us at JC Metals. Please sit down.’
From the look in her eyes he could tell she knew she had a body that would turn on the lowest testosterone-count male, and he sensed she was definitely interested in him.
She sat neatly on the edge of a chair in front of his desk, and, despite the temptation, Crocker avoided looking at her legs. When he found the final version he had been working on, he said, ‘Lina, I’d like you to send a fax to New York for the attention of Gerry Weinberg, to read as follows:
‘Dear Gerry,
‘I need your help on a potential project. Please arrange to come to London for a meeting as soon as possible. It is not convenient at this time to write more fully, but I would appreciate your brother Mark accompanying you. I have something of great interest and need to discuss it, preferably with both of you.
‘Please advise your ETA and I shall arrange hotel, etc.
‘Regards, etc.
‘Mark it “Private and Confidential” and let me see it before it goes, would you, please?’
He sat watching her writing the last few words in some form of shorthand, mouthing the words as she wrote. Watching her was far from a chore. Eventually she looked up.
‘Yes, Mr Lee, I’ll bring it to you as soon as it’s ready.’ She uncrossed her legs delicately and stood, still keeping her eyes on Crocker’s in case there was anything else.
‘Okay, Lina,’ he said. Those eyes had hooked him at their first meeting. He watched her leave the room and it was as she closed the door that he realised he was in a better mood.
It wasn’t long before there was a polite tap on the door. She was back.
‘Sorry to trouble you, Mr Lee, but was that “ETA”?’
‘Yup, I should have explained, “estimated time of arrival”. Okay?’
When she returned, Crocker took the sheet of paper from her and read it. He was impressed. ‘That’s excellent. Thanks.’ He signed.
‘Say,’ he added, seemingly as an afterthought as she reached the doorway, ‘I understand you live in the centre of town.’
‘That’s right. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought maybe you would know of some good jazz clubs in town? Music and good food?’
‘Why of course, Mr Lee. I know of lots.’
‘Would you write down a few addresses for me?’
‘I don’t know the exact addresses but I could take you if you would like.’
‘Yeah? Are you sure you wouldn’t mind one evening?’
‘Of course not, Mr Lee. It would be my pleasure. By the way, I like music too. You must let me know when.’
It was Lina who broke eye contact first.
10
Moscow
Holding a folder with both hands, Inspector Burov stood at the side of his desk with all the trappings of a busy working office around him. The room was small and brown, with papers strewn across the desk, coloured folders balanced precariously on the edge of shelves and a full ashtray half buried under an open box-file. The inspector had long, unkempt hair, stood around five ten, and was excessively slim. He looked more like an academic than a cop with his over-large tweed sports jacket. His un-manicured ginger goatee was barely visible against his red and grey check shirt. Half an almost dead Yava hung from his lips.
‘The river is often used to dispose of problem corpses,’ explained the inspector. ‘With the help of the fish, it helps with decomposition, and after only a few days interferes a lot with identification. Fortunately for the police at least, your brother was wearing underpants bought in New York and his shirt had his monogram, I think you call it, on it. You’ll excuse my English, but I’m still attending night school. Fortunately there aren’t many American visitors with the initials P.A.C.’
Crocker nodded but remained silent, recalling the fad his brother had for putting initials on shirts and handkerchiefs.
‘Other than that, Mr Crocker,’ the inspector continued, ‘there’s nothing more of interest to tell you. There were no traces of the perpetrators near the crime scene, but then we would not have expected to find any. Witnesses, if any, would be too frightened to come forward, and anyway, this would have been done in the very early hours of the morning when most law-abiding citizens were asleep.’
‘And that’s all you can tell me?’
‘Yes, unfortunately, except that this type of execution is usually carried out by organised crime. They just want answers. They don’t need reasons. Any excuse would do. The case is still open, but in all honesty, Mr Crocker, the chances of finding those who did it are nil.’
‘So that’s where the police butt out?’
‘I’m afraid so. But tell me: why did you mention “Kolyunov” in your call?’
‘I thought you would be more interested in seeing me if you recognised the name of the victim. I was questioned about him at the airport when I arrived a few days ago and wondered what you knew of his murder. I’d never heard of him.’
‘You must have realised by now that the police don’t think you are involved in this matter, so why are you still interested in Kolyunov?’
Crocker was prepared for this question. ‘For two reasons, really. The first was to ask whether you felt the two cases, Kolyunov’s and my brother’s, are connected, and the second because the airport police who questioned me said my name was on a list carried by the dead man. Now wouldn’t that make you want to know why he died and what the connection was? I know it keeps me awake. If someone wanted him out of the way, maybe I’m on his list as well. That’s my reasoning.’
That’s very understandable, Mr Crocker,’ said Burov, searching for a vacant spot in the ashtray. ‘But to answer your first point, we have no evidence that links the two murders. And as far as the Kolyunov case is concerned, it’s a fact that we’ve nothing to go on at the moment, but the file is still very much open and the chances are that it will remain open for some time, perhaps for ever. But he was an important figure here in Moscow. We are short staffed, of course. Aren’t we all these days?’ He rolled his eyes towards heaven. ‘However, it is police business and I don’t want you interfering in our enquiries. But as you have come all this way, let me see …’ He pushed his hands deep into his sports jacket pockets as he collected his thoughts. ‘Unfortunately, once again there’s not much I can tell you, although it was my case.’ He walked over to the window and stared at children playing outside. He lit a cigarette then ran his fingers through his hair, taking a few wisps from off his face.
‘He’d been dead for some hours when he was found. Cyanide poisoning. Injected. There are many seemingly motiveless killings in Moscow these days, perhaps like your brother’s. But I’m sure this was carried out by professionals for a reason, and for money. Retribution perhaps. Who knows? There’s lots of old scores to be settled in Russian politics.’
He paused, brow furrowed, deep in thought. Then his gaze snapped back to Crocker with disconcerting directness. ‘Usually there was something criminal going on in the victim’s life. One can never tell.’
His expression became pensive as he fingered his ginger goatee beard. ‘Did they say you were a suspect, these airport police?’
‘Not