The Half Truth

‘And you accepted that?’ he said.

‘What choice did I have? I didn’t know where or when the funeral would take place. I didn’t speak Russian. There was no one to ask. Pavel wouldn’t tell me. I tried asking his wife, but she refused to take my calls. Under his instructions, no doubt.’ She sat down on the sofa. Her shoulders dropped. ‘All I wanted was to say goodbye. It was hard to accept my husband had died when I had no funeral, nothing solid to help me come to terms with losing him.’

‘Why didn’t you go to Russia with him?’

‘It was a sudden decision. It wasn’t planned. He came home, said his grandfather was unwell and he had to travel to Russia that night.’

‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t go.’

‘I was pregnant. Early stages. I was very ill with morning sickness. Sasha didn’t want me to travel that far and be in a foreign country. He insisted I stay here.’ She twisted a silver band on the ring finger of her right hand. The usual hand for Russians to wear a wedding ring. ‘If I had known it was the last time I would see him, I wouldn’t have agreed to stay.’

‘But you could have been in the car with him.’ John’s reply was gentle. He could see the angst in her whole body language.

‘I’ve thought about that and in those early days it made me wish it even more.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘But once I had my son, I knew I had everything to live for and I have never once revisited those dark thoughts.’

‘Does Sasha’s family know about your son?’

‘I told Pavel, but he wasn’t interested. All he said was that the life insurance would see me right. I wrote to Sasha’s mother. I had an address in Russia for her. Not that she would be able to read it, but I thought maybe someone would translate it for her. It was a long shot, but I thought she had a right to know she was to become a grandmother. I never received a reply. I didn’t have their phone number and, besides, what use would phoning have been? I can’t speak Russian and she can’t speak English.’ She let out a frustrated sigh. ‘I’ve never heard from a single member of that family since Sasha’s death.’

John didn’t know why, call it intuition and years in the force, but he believed her. He was sure she hadn’t spoken or had any contact with any of them since that day.

‘Can I ask one thing?’ said John.

‘Sure.’

‘Did you ever get proof of your husband’s death?’

‘Like a death certificate? Yes, I did actually. Pavel sent it to me, said I would need it for insurance claims. Actually, he sent it to his solicitor here in the UK who translated it and signed it as an authentic copy and translation.’

‘Okay, thank you, Tina,’ he said standing up. ‘Can I leave you my number in case you think of anything or if, indeed, Pavel does get in touch?’

Tina took the card John proffered. ‘I don’t think he will, but if he does …’

John followed her out to the hallway. ‘If I find anything else out about Pavel, I’ll let you know,’ he said. ‘Please don’t worry, though.’ For some unexplained reason, he rested his hand on her arm reassuringly and allowed it to linger, probably longer than it should.

‘Thank you Detective Sergeant,’ she said.

‘John. Call me John, it’s much easier.’ He smiled into her forget-me-not blue eyes and saw nothing but trust.

She trusted him.

The satisfaction that this had been gained sat uncomfortably alongside his betrayal of her five years ago. He was responsible for Sasha leaving. He was responsible for the pain widowhood brought her. Blood had stained his hands then: blood that was washed away with soap and water. The moral stains, however, weren’t so easily removed.

His job sucked at times. John walked down the path feeling a complete and utter shit.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_7b3085c3-4024-5187-a933-566154c5196f)

John threw the manila file onto his desk and sighed. It was no good, he couldn’t make any headway into Sasha Bolotnikov’s death. All lines of enquiries led to dead ends. Sasha Bolotnikov had been killed in a road accident within weeks of returning to Russia. It was a convenient death, if nothing else. John wondered whether it had indeed been an accident.

At the time, John had been incapacitated, recovering from surgery to remove a bullet from his shoulder. He had wanted to come back to work but was overruled by both doctors and his superiors. When he did return to work, Sasha’s death had been investigated and no further questions asked.

He looked up as Martin came and sat at the desk. ‘Any luck?’

Martin shook his head. ‘Nope. The Russians aren’t playing ball. No one is talking. The official line is they can’t release any more information about Sasha’s accident than is already in the public domain and, as for Pavel, they have no idea where he is and have no interest in finding him for us.’

John looked across the office at Adam. ‘Anything with the facial recognition for the Russian or Pavel?’

‘Not yet. We’re going back another week now.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ John tapped his biro between his teeth and turned to Martin. ‘We’ve tried all the official lines, let’s try unofficial.’

‘Anyone in mind?’

‘Baz Fisher.’

John eyed Baz Fisher across the Formica table top of the Rosie Lea Café.

‘Come on, Baz, you must know something,’ he coaxed as he slowly stirred the teaspoon around in the dark-brown liquid.

‘Look, John …’ began Baz Fisher.

Martin cut him off. ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Nightingale to you, Baz. Don’t forget your manners, now. There’s nothing I hate more than disrespect.’ He picked up his plastic teaspoon and snapped it in half between his fingers. ‘It gets me agitated, see.’

John watched Baz Fisher, local ‘fence’, well known for being a mine of information. Through his café business and his rather unfavourable associations with a local gambling syndicate, Baz got to hear a lot of things. Baz flicked a glance in John’s direction before nodding towards Martin. ‘Put ya pet on a lead, will ya.’

‘Come on, Baz.’ John gave a faux reassuring smile. ‘All you have to do is tell us what you know about Pavel Bolotnikov.’

‘I dunno, John,’ he threw Martin a defiant look. ‘These Russians don’t like people poking about in their business. It’s dangerous, like. Know what I mean?’

‘Baz, we can do this two ways,’ said John. ‘We can take you in for questioning, which will no doubt mean word will get out that you’ve been singing or we can do it nice and discreetly here, where no one gets to know.’

Baz eyed John and then Martin. ‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’

‘I’m not asking much’ said John. ‘Just tell me if Pavel Bolotnikov is in the UK and where.’

A bead of sweat traced its way down the side of Baz’s temple. He wiped at it with a paper serviette.

‘You didn’t hear from me. Got that?’ conceded Baz after a few moments.

‘When have we ever heard it from you?’ said John. ‘You know we will look after you.’

Baz cleared his throat, looking around the café once more. John bit down the impatient breath that was threatening to escape,

‘Pavel is not in London any more. I don’t know exactly where he was staying, but I do know he’s gone.’

‘How did he get into London?’

‘Flew.’