A Double Life, page 35
Gabriela took a long gulp of her drink and set down the glass, nodding to the waitress for another. Without sedation, she wasn’t sure how she could stay sitting there with everything she was hearing.
‘Every piece of information we uncovered during that operation he was handing straight back into the hands of his paymasters: traffickers, arms dealers. That is why the FCO needed to get rid of him. But obviously it would be too embarrassing to expose how much they had let slide. And so it was easier to see him off on a more palatable charge.’
‘Serena,’ Gabriela said, swallowing.
Madeleine nodded. ‘I mean, it was kind of genius. To push him out on the grounds of sexual discrimination … no one who had worked under or around Emsworth would ever be suspicious that it was anything but a legitimate case.’
‘How do you know all this?’
Madeleine looked away.
‘OK, then, why didn’t you tell me at the time?’ Gabriela’s voice was little more than a whisper.
Madeleine laughed. ‘Why didn’t I tell you? You think I should have trusted you?’
Gabriela looked down in shame, wondering how much Madeleine knew.
‘And what’s changed?’
Madeleine regarded her, her eyes narrowing.
‘What’s changed is that now I know you weren’t aware of what your boyfriend was up to – and now that you do know, I need to find out if you have anything useful on Popov and Vasiliev. I need to know if you can help us bring them down. Because if you do that, you won’t get dragged through the mud when this all comes out in court. There is still a chance for you to salvage what is left of your life.’
‘Polina?’ She is struck by the silence resonating through the house as she walks through the front door, pushing it closed behind her with a wariness she cannot name.
‘Layla?’
How long has it been since she phoned from the supermarket? It can’t have been more than half an hour, and yet the house is still, her daughter’s changing bag absent from its usual hook in the hallway.
Moving more swiftly now, her heartbeat quickens as she places her keys on the counter in the kitchen and looks out over the garden. The quiet beauty of it never fails to touch her, and yet the sudden lack of leaves and flowers has transformed it into a space she almost doesn’t recognise.
Perhaps her daughter is asleep in the bedroom and Polina is in the bathroom, she tells herself as she moves back towards the stairs, padding up the striped red runners. She is moving from Layla’s bedroom, which is empty, into the master bedroom, the blinds having been pulled back so that the room is flooded with light, making her squint as she looks around the his and hers bedside tables, the recently acquired Matisse hanging above the headboard.
Moving faster still, she lets her eyes roam the room and in the silence she must reconcile herself to the fact that she doesn’t truly know him at all. She doesn’t know anything about his life, not really, just as he knows nothing about hers. Much as she wants to believe he is unaware of the purpose of the visas his company doles out, she cannot think that he is so naive, so detached from the work to which he dedicates so much of his life. Either he knows, or he chose not to ask.
But what does that matter now? Either way, she understands what she has to do.
Pulling out her phone, she dials Polina’s number but it goes straight to voicemail.
Banging doors as she moves from room to room, she calls out her name. ‘Layla?’ But she is not here.
A sick feeling rises up inside her as she reaches the top of the stairs. Just as she takes her first step, she sees Polina’s silhouette at the door. In her arms is Layla, her face breaking into a smile as she sees her mother.
Gabriela runs down the stairs to her, her whole being shaking with relief as she envelops her daughter in her arms.
Polina laughs, taken aback.
‘Where were you?’ Gabriela says forcefully, looking over her daughter’s shoulder at her.
‘By the river,’ Polina says, her voice more wary now. ‘Layla was restless so I took her for a walk. Is everything all right?’
Closing her eyes, she relaxes her grip on Layla slightly.
‘Sorry. Everything is fine. There was just a change of plan, that’s all. I panicked …’
She gives Polina a reassuring smile and says, ‘If it’s OK with you, I thought I might take Layla out for the day. What do you think, Layla? You and me, shall we go out somewhere nice?’
When Layla smiles, there is a familiar expression, the way her mouth curls up at one side, and she realises it is herself who she is seeing. Layla has always looked so much like her father, the same tight dark curls, the same dark eyes, the prominent brows. If she hadn’t come out of her, Gabriela might have questioned her provenance before this moment, before this flash of her own face in her daughter’s.
‘You want to come with Mummy? OK, let’s do it!’ She turns to Polina, giving her brightest smile. ‘Is there a change of clothes in her bag?’
‘Of course. And a couple of nappies, and her dummy. I know you’re keen for her to give it up, but it offers her comfort when you’re gone, and I really don’t want to take another thing away from her right now.’
She means nothing by it, but this comment makes Gabriela flush. The smile falters on her lips.
And yet, Polina is right, because she knows Layla better than anyone. She has spent more time with Layla in her short time on earth than anyone else. It was Gabriela’s lap she chose for cuddles when all was well, but it was Polina to whom she instinctively turned when the tears rose in her eyes.
‘I’ll go and get packed then,’ she says, moving towards the hall, regretting not having gathered all that she needed before Polina returned.
And then she hears the door click open and a voice calling her daughter’s name, and when she turns she sees him standing in the doorway, blocking their escape.
Chapter 76
Gabriela
It takes a moment for Gabriela to compose herself, and when she does, she sees that Ivan is looking at her in a way that makes her rearrange herself on the spot.
‘But what are you doing here?’ she asks, recovering herself just enough for the sentence to form.
‘I was about to ask you the same thing …’ He lingers for a moment as if awaiting a reply, and then he says, ‘My flight was cancelled. I’m leaving tomorrow instead.’
‘OK,’ she says, after a moment. ‘My course was postponed. I didn’t see any reason to tell you, as you were supposed to be away.’
‘I see. Well, that’s worked out well then, hasn’t it?’
‘Hasn’t it?’ she says, as he leans in to kiss her, the bristle of his beard scratching her cheek.
‘I’ll cook for all of us. Polina, too,’ she says as evening folds in, having spent the afternoon resisting the urge to stare at him, to scour his face for evidence of what he does and does not know.
She moves into the kitchen and puts on the apron hanging on the back of the door – the one she had made, with a print of Layla and Ivan with Ivan’s mother from their trip to Moscow, the three of them on the sofa in her apartment.
‘Polina,’ Gabriela calls out. ‘You’ll eat with us, won’t you? I need a drink,’ she says, turning to Ivan. ‘Do we have gin?’
‘We seem to have run out,’ he says. ‘What about something else? We have wine or—’
‘I really fancy gin. Do you think you could run out and grab some, while I prepare this?’
He pauses. ‘OK. If you’re sure you can’t have something else.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
Polina walks into the hall and out of nowhere she has a flicker of memory of Madeleine talking. Information from insider informants.
Pushing the voice away, she looks back at Ivan and he shrugs, then pulls on his coat. ‘Anything else?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she says.
Moving back into the kitchen, she waits until she hears the door slam shut and then she pulls out her phone, her fingers struggling to keep up with her mind. Googling Heathrow flights Moscow delays, she closes her eyes briefly, silently praying she has got it wrong, that he hasn’t lied about his flight being cancelled. Because why would he come back and lie about it, unless he knows something?
Following the links to a page entitled Live flight information, she types in Moscow and waits as the results emerge on her screen.
She spots Ivan’s flight within seconds, and next to it, the departure information. GATE CLOSED.
And in that moment, her stomach drops as if a boulder has been stuffed down her throat.
Chapter 77
Isobel
It’s nearly three in the morning before I finally sleep, my head spinning with information overload.
When I wake the next day, around midday, unusually rested but somehow drowsy from the excess of unmedicated sleep, I force myself to brush my teeth and shower, pointedly ignoring the computer that sits drained of life on the kitchen table.
Forcing myself to put on my shoes, I pick up my keys and move down the stairs towards the street and head across the road to the café. Once I have my coffee in hand, I stand in the doorway and look out at the cars, wondering where the hell to go.
Turning left, I ignore the usual path towards the office to my right where the road splits at Camden Town tube station, veering towards the Stables market, weaving through the crappy jewellery and incense stalls, stopping briefly for a crêpe when my stomach tells me it’s time to eat.
It must be around two when I make my way past the Hawley Arms, resisting with every inch of my body the desire to step into the pub. Instead, I sit by the canal and smoke until the packet is empty, watching the ducks pick at the contents of an old plastic bag. After a while I turn back and exit onto the street at the bottom of Kentish Town High Street.
Turning left, I stop at the Owl bookshop and browse the titles before carrying on, passing the refuge, walking without stopping until I reach the Heath.
Jess’s memorial bench stands at the top of Kite Hill. It is less than two weeks since I sat here on the way back from the squat party, and yet already it feels like a lifetime ago.
The trees have begun to shed their leaves and I wish I’d worn a scarf. The light is fading from the sky. I should head home and make food, but I want to stay here a while longer. Drawing my feet up onto the bench, I look to my left and notice a man walking up the hill towards me from the direction of South End Green. For a moment, I shiver. As he moves closer, I notice he is smoking a cigarette and it is almost as though he senses I am going to ask him for one even before I call out. Without saying a word, he walks towards me and offers me the packet. I take one and nod my thanks, reaching into my pocket for a lighter as he moves away again.
Closing my eyes, I inhale, imagining the sun caressing my cheeks, Jess’s laughter as we ran through the grass towards the bandstand, the promise of another long summer.
When I open my eyes sometime later, the sky is dark. In the distance, stationary blue lights throb on one of the streets just off the Heath. From here I can see an ambulance and several police cars. Whatever has happened, it’s not an old lady who has slipped in the bathroom.
For a minute I picture myself following the path from here down to the street I know well, with the tall, wisteria-clad houses. I imagine myself standing at the foot of the front steps with their expensive tiles, and calling out to one of the police officers for information on what has happened.
And then I breathe in; I turn and walk in the other direction.
At home, the tidiness of the flat momentarily confounds me. Moving across to the kitchen counter, I deposit a bag of supplies on it, pulling out a loaf of bread and some cheese and then turning on the kettle. Watching the flow of pedestrians on the street through the window, I wait for it to boil before moving to the sofa, sitting cross-legged, eating a sandwich, flinching as the mug of tea burns my lips.
For a minute, I flick through the channels on the TV, but there is nothing on and so, moving back to the table, I pick up my computer and lift the lid, wondering what sort of film I will choose to watch. The laptop is still dead and so I plug it in to charge, trying to ignore the voice in my head telling me it’s long past time for a drink.
Seizing the distraction of the computer when the screen lights up, I lift the lid and the photograph from my previous search stares back from the page.
Not now, I tell myself. Watch a film, for God’s sake. Just for one night, chill the fuck out.
But there is something about the image of the three people in the photograph that will not let me go and as I read the caption again, I move back towards the sofa, dragging the laptop charger with me, the sound of the television disappearing into the background as I begin to type notes.
James McCann is an associate at McCann Legal and Partner, off Queen Square in London. McCann trained as a solicitor before joining the firm in 2004.
In the official headshot accompanying his biography on the law firm’s website, it is hard to determine the colour of his eyes, which meet the camera’s lens with a self-assurance that is less debatable.
As I trawl through the pages on Google, as well as the usual social media sites, trying to throw up any more information about this man, the only trace I find of him is on LinkedIn, which simply states a repetition of the brief line on his firm’s website, as his job description. No background on his education. No former employers.
The frustration throbs at the front of my head. I could kill for a drink. Pinching the top of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, I close my eyes. How could it be that a lawyer at an apparently top-class firm, judging from its presentation, could be so invisible? Or rather, why? Most lawyers were like peacocks, desperate to be looked at. It wasn’t like he was a prosecution barrister, who might fear retribution from aggrieved clients.
From the little I have gauged about McCann, he is the signatory for PKI Ltd. From the lack of visible presence online, and the fact that, according to its listing on Companies House, it is owned by another company, there is every reason to believe this is little more than a shell. Flicking back to the only other image of McCann I can find, at the party, as if something in his face might give him away, my attention turns to the other man in the photo.
When I copy and paste his name into Google, the information is more forthcoming. Clicking on a newspaper obituary from the previous month, I read:
The late David Witherall, who died this week after being hit by a car in his home city of London, was the heir to the FTSE 100 company TradeSmart, owned by his father, Clive Witherall. He leaves behind a wife and two children.
There is a photo accompanying the article. A young family, on a beach somewhere, their faces turned to the sun. They are crouched down, each of the parents with an arm over one of the girls.
Something about the picture has an almost hypnotic effect, and as I stare at it, my headache eases. After a moment I look away and highlight the second name from the caption: Irena Vasiliev.
Running my eyes briefly again over the article I’ve previously read, denouncing Vasiliev as a money launderer and supporter of violent regimes in Africa, a thought strikes me and I move the cursor back up to my search history.
Highlighting the name of the company TradeSmart, I open a new window and search for Companies House.
And there it is. As the page opens up before me, I sit forward, adrenaline pumping.
‘Shit.’
My fingers are shaking as I pick up the phone and dial the office.
‘Ben,’ I say, as soon as he answers. ‘I’ve got a story. It’s to do with the murder on the Heath …’
Chapter 78
Gabriela
‘Are you OK?’ Ivan asks when he arrives back at the house a few minutes later, with a bottle of gin. ‘You look nervous.’
‘Me? I’m fine,’ she says, working hard to still her trembling fingers, spotting the pestle and mortar still in view on the counter.
‘Probably just need a drink.’
She lets him pour, while she stirs the beef bourguignon she has defrosted, a hunk of icy flesh thawing in the pan. While he does so, she watches him, imagining, and then trying to block out, the thoughts that must be scurrying around his head. Why didn’t he go to Moscow? Does he know what she is planning?
No, she tells herself, not letting her mind go there. There is no way he could know. Besides, he is not a threat, not directly. There is no evidence to suggest that he is violent, or anything other than the middleman: morally reprehensible, perhaps, but not necessarily dangerous. Not to her, not to their daughter. She has a mental flash of Masha’s face in the photo on Ivan’s mother’s wall and closes her eyes.
‘Can I help?’ Ivan asks, and she jumps.
‘God, you gave me a shock! No, it’s all under control. How about another G and T?’
‘You drank the last one quickly. Good job I’m not counting,’ he replies as he takes the glass she has discreetly emptied into the sink and pours out another double measure for each of them.
‘Drink up,’ she says, watching him down another glass before encouraging him to refill. ‘Otherwise I’ll be drunk on my own.’
He raises his eyebrows and moves into the other room to answer a phone call as she serves up the food, glancing behind her as she reaches into her pocket for the powder she crushed from the sleeping pills in her pocket while Ivan was at the shop buying gin, pouring half into Ivan’s bowl and the other half into Polina’s before stirring quickly with a spoon and carrying them through to the living room.
