“It would be all right,” replied Vasili, “but it would be rather a waste of a hit.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if you’re going to kill someone, at least make sure it’s someone you already want out of your way.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Anatoli,” said Vladimir impatiently, “kill one of your enemies!”
“Ah.” Kenny Mountford tried to think whether he actually had any enemies. There were people who’d got up his nose over the years – directors who hadn’t recognized his talent, casting directors who had resolutely refused to cast him, actors who’d stolen his laughs – but none of these transgressions did he really think of as killing matters.
His confusion must have communicated itself to Vladimir, because he said, “You must have a sibling who’s infuriated you at some point, someone’s who’s cheated you of money, a man who’s stolen one of your girlfriends…”
“Yes, I must have, mustn’t I?” Though, for the life of him, Kenny Mountford still couldn’t think of anyone who was a suitable candidate for murder. He also couldn’t completely suppress the unworthy feeling – which he knew would threaten his integrity as an actor in the eyes of someone like Charlie Fenton – that killing people was wrong.
The conversation became becalmed. After a few more shots of vodka, Vladimir announced he was off to get a freebie from one of the Bayswater working girls controlled by the Semfiropol Boys. “Got to be some perks in this job,” he said.
But Vasili lingered. He seemed to have sensed Kenny’s unease. “You are worried about the killing?”
“Well…”
“It is common. The first one. Many people find that. After two or three, though…” Vasili downed another shot of vodka “…it seems a natural thing to do. It might even seem a natural thing for an actor to do…”
Kenny was shocked. “You know I’m an actor?” Vasili smiled. “Do Fyodor and Vladimir know too?” Vasili shook his head. “Only me.” Kenny Mountford felt a flood of relief.
There was a silence. Then Vasili leaned forward, lowering his voice as he said, “Maybe I could help you…”
“How?”
“There is a service I provide. It is not free, but it is not expensive… given the going rate.” He let out a short cynical laugh. “There are plenty of Semfiropol Boys who have got their qualifications from me.” Kenny Mountford looked puzzled. “I mean that they have never killed anyone. I have done the killings for them.”
“Ah.” Kenny couldn’t deny he was tempted. He knew that, for the full immersion in his character that Charlie Fenton required, he should do the killing himself. But he couldn’t help feeling a little squeamish about the idea. And if Vasili was offering him a way round the problem… “How much?” he asked, not realizing that, now the danger of his actually having to commit a murder had receded, he’d dropped out of his Ukrainian accent.
Vasili told him. It seemed a demeaningly small sum for the price of a human life, but Kenny knew this was not the moment for sentimentality. And he did still have quite a lot of money left from the sitcom fees. “So how do you select the target? Even more important, how do you make it look as if I’ve actually committed the murder?”
The Ukrainian dismissed the questions with an airy wave of his hand. “You leave such details to me. I have done it before, so I know what I’m doing. So far as Fyodor is concerned, it is definitely you who has committed the murder. So far as the police are concerned, nothing ties the crime to you. All you have to do is to get yourself a watertight alibi for tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow evening?” Kenny was rather shocked by the short notice.
With a shrug, Vasili said, “Once you have decided to do something, there is no point in putting off doing it.”
“I suppose you’re right…”
“Of course I am right.”
“But I’m still not clear about how you select the victim.”
“That, as I say, is not your problem. Usually, I kill one of my client’s enemies. That way, not only does Fyodor recognize there is a motive for the murder, the client also gets rid of someone who’s bugging them. It is a very efficient system – no?’
“But if your client doesn’t have any enemies…”
“Everyone has enemies,” said Vasili firmly. Kenny was about to say that he really didn’t think he did, but thought better of it. “So, Anatoli, have we got a deal?”
“Yes, we’ve got a deal.”
Having checked with Vasili the proposed timescale for the murder and handed over the agreed fee the next morning, Kenny set about arranging his alibi. It couldn’t involve any of the Semfiropol Boys, because Fyodor wasn’t meant to know that he had an alibi. So, to keep himself safe from police suspicions, Anatoli Semyonov would have to, for one evening only, return to his old persona of Kenny Mountford.
He decided that a visit to a fringe theatre was the answer. A quick check through Time Out led to a call to an actor friend, who sounded slightly surprised to hear from him, but who agreed to join him in darkest Kilburn for an experimental play about glue-sniffing, whose cast included an actress they both knew. “You’re not going with Lesley-Jane?” asked the friend.
“No.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, Kenny, nothing.”
Normally he would have asked for an explanation of his friend’s remark, but Kenny was preoccupied by his plans for the evening. Even if the audience were small, as audiences for fringe theatre frequently are, he would still have people to vouch for where he was at the moment Vasili committed his murder for him. Kenny Mountford felt a glow of satisfaction at the efficiency of the arrangements he had made.
The serenity of his mood was shattered in the afternoon by a call from Fyodor. “Anatoli, I want you to keep an eye on Vasili. I’m not sure he’s playing straight with me.”
“How do you mean?” asked Kenny nervously.
“I’ve heard rumours he’s doing work on the side, not just jobs I give him for the Semfiropol Boys.”
“What kind of work?”
“Contract killing. If you can bring me any proof that’s what he’s been doing, Anatoli, I will see to it that he is eliminated. And you will be richly rewarded.”
“Oh,” said Kenny.
He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get through to Vasili’s mobile, but it was permanently switched off. By the time he met his friend at the fringe theatre in Kilburn, Kenny Mountford was in an extremely twitchy state. There was no pretending that his situation wasn’t serious. If Fyodor found out that he had actually paid Vasili to do his qualifying murder for him, Kenny didn’t think it’d be long before there was a contract out on his own life. But he couldn’t let anyone at the theatre see how anxious he was, so all his acting skills were called for as he sat through the interminably tedious and badly acted play about glue-sniffing and then, over drinks in the bar, told the actress who’d been in it how marvellous, absolutely marvellous, her performance had been.
His friend had his car with him and offered to drop Kenny off. As they were driving along they heard the Radio 4 Midnight News. The distinguished theatre director Charlie Fenton had been shot dead in Notting Hill at ten o’clock that evening.
“Good God,” said his friend. “If you hadn’t actually been with me, I’d have had you down as Number One Suspect for that murder, Kenny.”
“Why?”
But his friend wouldn’t say more.
Had Kenny Mountford not completely cut himself off from the English press and media, he would have known about the affair between Charlie Fenton and Lesley-Jane Walden. Their photos had been plastered all over the tabloids for weeks. He might also have pieced together that the director had never had any interest in him, only in Lesley-Jane – hence the request when they first met for their mutual landline, rather than Kenny’s mobile number. How convenient for Charlie had been the actor’s willingness to go undercover and leave the field wide open to his rival.