Four men sat at a long dining table which was laden with silver baskets full of croissants, decanters of orange juice, silver coffee pots, plates and tiny pots of jam. Three of them, who all looked faintly Neanderthal, though dressed in business suits, stared at him warily. The fourth, Sergey Egorov, was in a wheelchair. He had cropped fair hair, a massive gold medallion visible inside his white shirt which was unbuttoned to his navel, and a large cigar, with a white band, in his hand.
‘Ah, Mr Tooth. Good to see you,’ he said.
Unsmiling, and without acknowledging the greeting, Tooth strode across the floor towards him.
He sat down at one of the empty spaces at the table, looked at each of the three Neanderthals in turn, as if they were small piles of dog shit that he needed to step over, then turned to the man who had hired him, Sergey Egorov, staring him in the eyes as he reached for a coffee pot.
Instantly the butler was at his side, pouring it.
‘What would you like to report to us?’ Egorov said.
‘It’s fucking cold here.’
Egorov laughed loudly. He waved his arms expansively and each of his goons laughed, too. Then all around the table fell silent.
‘Anything else?’
‘Walt Klein’s funeral is tomorrow. A service at Riverside Memorial Chapel, on 76th and Amsterdam, followed by a committal at Green-Wood Cemetery, Brooklyn.’
‘And you will be there? You haven’t found this woman yet?’ Egorov asked. ‘Why not?’
‘I’ve been to every hotel in this city where she might be staying,’ Tooth replied. ‘So far no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Like I told you before, she’s not here any more.’
‘It’s her fiancé’s funeral. You don’t think she’ll be there for appearances?’
‘That’s what I thought at first. But now I don’t think so. Why would she be?’ Tooth replied. ‘Klein’s family despise her. She’s not going to inherit a cent. I think she’s back in England, as I’ve already told you.’ Tooth pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and tapped one out. He put it in his mouth and lit it.
‘It’s a week now,’ Egorov said. ‘Are you trying hard enough?’
Tooth sipped the coffee the butler had poured. Then he looked back at his paymaster. ‘Give me your bank account details.’
‘My bank account details? Why?’
‘I don’t like you.’ Tooth looked at the other three. ‘You can always judge a man by the friends he keeps. You keep shit company.’
All three bodyguards stirred and it took a sharp hand in the air by Egorov to calm them.
‘I’ll repay you the million, no charge for expenses. You don’t want to listen to me? Fine, I’m gone.’
‘OK, OK,’ Egorov said. ‘I’m listening to you.’
Tooth eyed him for some moments. He was also weighing up just what this job meant to him. He needed the money, so he held his temper, as much as he could. ‘What part of she’s not here any more don’t you understand?’
‘Mr Tooth, we need back what this woman has. We need that memory stick. Don’t bother about the cash, it’s counterfeit. And we’d like you to teach that woman a lesson. You understand? One of your lessons. We’d like to see it, too.’ He raised one hand in front of his eyes and with the other made a cranking motion, miming filming.
‘If it’s so important to you, who the hell entrusted that Romanian moron with it?’
‘It is really important,’ Egorov said, ignoring the question and puffing on his cigar. ‘I want you to go to the funeral. If she’s not there, fine, that’s my bad call. Then you go to England. Get the memory stick. And kill the bitch. I’m told you are good at filming the death of your targets. We’d really enjoy seeing that film. Understand what I’m saying?’
Tooth hesitated. He didn’t like dealing with assholes who didn’t listen to him. They were the people who got you caught.
But.
He needed the money. These assholes were good paymasters. If he upset them maybe they’d badmouth him. Maybe business would dry up totally.
He stared back at Egorov as if watching a poker opponent, then said, ‘Your dollar, your call.’
28
Thursday 26 February
It was 5.30 p.m., and pelting with rain outside his window. Roy Grace shuffled together a bunch of papers on the prosecution he was preparing for Dr Edward Crisp’s eventual return to the UK, which he was going to take home and read later this evening. Then he stared at the screensaver on his phone, a picture of Noah and Cleo outside the front of their new home. He was looking forward to getting back in good time to play with Noah before bed, and then enjoy a drink and a meal with Cleo.
There was a knock on his office door.
‘Come in!’
Following Haydn Kelly’s report, he had, the day before, asked Jack Alexander to find out urgently from the US authorities what he could about Jodie Bentley’s movements at Atlanta Airport. Had she or Judith Forshaw travelled anywhere else within the USA, or did their systems show Jodie Bentley leaving the country?
The DC came in, beaming, clutching a wodge of papers on which were rows of names, as well as the blurry, blown-up image of the suspect woman’s face from CCTV footage at Atlanta Airport, and a memory stick, which he put down on the Detective Superintendent’s desk.
Grace indicated a chair in front of him.
‘Sir,’ Jack said, sitting down, ‘I’ve found out that Jodie Bentley appears to have travelled from Washington Dulles to Hartsfield — Jackson Airport at Atlanta using the name Jemma Smith. She then flew out of Atlanta as Jodie Bentley, on a Virgin Airlines flight to Heathrow last Thursday, at 17.35, scheduled to arrive in London at 6.30 a.m. on Friday the 20th. I’ve obtained her address from her credit card details.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Now we get to the interesting bit, sir,’ Alexander said. ‘I’ve checked it out. It’s a rental mailbox address — the same as she used when she booked in to the Park Royale West in New York.’
‘What did you find out about it?’
‘I’ve been to see them and spoke to the manager, who wasn’t too helpful, until I threatened her with a search warrant.’
Grace smiled; he liked this detective’s attitude. He reminded him of himself at that age.
Alexander continued. ‘She said they’ve never met the woman. It was all set up via email about a year ago. A Hotmail account, naturally. I’ve given it to the High Tech Crime Unit to see if they can find out any information — but they’re dubious. Donald Duck could set up an untraceable Hotmail account in a couple of minutes.’
‘How did she pay for this mailing address?’ Grace quizzed him.
‘In cash, apparently. Delivered by a cab.’
‘So she was planning in advance,’ Grace commented, thinking hard. Who the hell is this woman? ‘Who picks up her mail?’
‘The manager says that the staff change all the time, and none of the current employees have any recollection of dealing with her.’
Jodie Bentley, Grace thought. ‘Have you checked the electoral register?’
‘Yes, I have. There’s no one of that name.’
‘Nice work, Jack.’
‘Thank you, sir. Sounds to me like she doesn’t want to be found.’
Grace smiled. ‘You don’t say!’
‘I checked with the Border Control Agency at Heathrow. Her passport was scanned at 7.35 a.m. It would have been flagged if it had been recorded as lost or stolen, or if it had been a poor forgery — apparently forged passports often won’t scan as forgers don’t always get it absolutely right!’
‘Do they retain information from these scans?’