seen a man being attacked in a street just off Rosslyn Hill, not far away. As luck would have it, the minicab had been fitted with both a dashcam and a rear-view camera, which together had captured a good part of the assault. Stanco Rupec could be seen running, then tripping over something. He held up his hands as he fell backwards. Even though there was no sound on the recording, it was clear he was screaming and begging for his life as Duran caught up with him. The blows rained down without even a momentary pause as the taxi drove past and accelerated away. Duran, himself, was clearly identifiable as the man wielding the crow bar and he was arrested and charged with murder.
Eve had been the senior investigating officer on the case. It was unclear why Duran had risked so much to attack Rupec out on the street, in plain view. Why he had done it himself, rather than leave the job to one of his many associates, was also a mystery. She had watched the video footage several times and had been struck by the degree of violence. The repeated blows were far more than would have been necessary to kill Rupec. It looked like an act of rage. Yet the emotion and lack of self-control were wholly inconsistent with everything that was known about Duran. He had never got his hands dirty before, certainly never been caught with blood on them. It had to be something very personal. But despite repeated questioning, no matter what interview tactics were thrown at him, he remained extraordinarily calm and inscrutable, steadfastly refusing to comment on his motivation. She could still vividly remember the hours spent either watching from a distance or locked away with him in a series of windowless, stiflingly hot interview rooms. The closeness and intensity of the experience had been characterized by the overpowering smell of the Paco Rabanne cologne, which he habitually wore. One of her mother’s classier boyfriends used to drench himself in it, but the smell was now indelibly associated in her mind with Duran.
Nor could she forget the sight of him later at his trial, at the Old Bailey, where he had sat almost motionless and upright in the dock for hours, his face an impenetrable mask. He was over fifty, but his natural hair colour was still black and his sallow skin almost unlined. He had taken to shaving his head shortly before Rupec’s murder and the five o’clock shadow of hair, with its pronounced widow’s peak, covered his scalp like a dark cap. Most defendants adopted some sort of a pose, whether defiant, shell-shocked, sorrowful, scared, or simply bored. Duran’s eyes never left her as she gave evidence, but no flicker of emotion crossed his face at any point. It was as though he were just an observer, listening to somebody else’s trial. She would have given a lot to know what was going through his mind, what he really felt and, in particular, what had driven him to kill Stanco Rupec.
‘John Duran’s still safely behind bars at Bellevue,’ she said. ‘Hopefully for the next twenty years or so.’
‘Mr Duran is still at Bellevue …’
‘Why’s he texting me?’
The fact that, locked away in a category ‘A’ high security prison, he had access to a mobile phone was not much of a surprise. There had been much in the media about drones being used to deliver all manner of contraband over prison walls, including drugs, phones and weapons, in some cases, directly to a prisoner’s cell. Even without the help of new technology, old-fashioned corruption of prison staff could still buy you most things, particularly when you were as rich and powerful as Duran.
‘He wants you to know that he doesn’t bear you any ill will. He’s been following recent events and is aware of your situation …’
‘It’s got nothing to do with him.’
‘Mr Duran has some information that might be of interest to you.’
‘I don’t need anything from him.’
‘He has evidence that you were set up. You can do what you like with it, but you’d be wise to listen to what he’s got to say.’
She stared at him. ‘What’s the price of this information?’
‘Mr Duran doesn’t want any money.’
‘But he wants something.’
‘He just hopes that in return, you may be able to do him a favour.’
‘A favour? For John Duran? I might as well kiss my career goodbye, or what’s left of it.’
‘It’s nothing illegal. You have my word.’
‘And that’s worth something, is it?’
‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Miss West. You have the disciplinary hearing coming up. From what I hear, you’re likely to be sacked, or at best forced to resign. Don’t you at least want to find out who sent you and your dead lover to that house in Wood Green?’
His bluntness didn’t shock her, even though it wasn’t pleasant hearing it from him. In the days following the shooting, she had more or less accepted that the likely outcome would be that she would have to leave the Met. Whatever she felt about being thrown out, there was little she could do about it. But maybe if she could prove she was set up, they might take a more lenient line. If nothing else, she needed to find out for herself and make sure that whoever had done it was made to pay. Given Duran’s connections in the Eastern European criminal world and what Kershaw had said about the Ukrainians in the flat at Park Grove and the broader Eastern European connection, it was easily possible that Duran might know, or could find out, something about what had happened. Why he wanted to help her, after she had been instrumental in putting him away, was another question. But it didn’t matter for the moment. She needed to find out more.
‘What sort of favour are you talking about?’ she asked, still watching Peters closely.
His expression gave nothing away. ‘You should speak to Mr Duran directly. He can tell you a lot more than I can.’
‘Speak to him? What, at Bellevue?’
‘Yes. If you’d like to go ahead, I’ll sort out the visiting order straight away. Visiting hours are from two until four. The car can collect you tomorrow at midday, if that’s convenient.’
FIVE
Duran’s driver dropped Eve outside Bellevue Prison, near Reading, just after one p.m. the following day. Built in the 1990s, surrounded by a series of high, faceless perimeter walls, it was a brutal, modern building, which stood out uncomfortably in the otherwise semi-rural landscape. She checked in at the visitor centre, which was next to the entrance, leaving her bag and personal belongings in a locker, then made her way to the main building, where she joined the shuffling, fidgeting queue of other visitors. The majority were women, either on their own or with children, the odd suited lawyer or other official visitor sticking out like a sore thumb in their sober work clothes amongst the colourful, noisy melee. The process was very slow and thorough and it was well over half an hour before she was shown into a small, brightly lit interview room. It was divided down the middle by a low wall and a glass partition, with a table and chairs on either side. She was pleased not to be in the main visitors’ hall down the corridor. She had no desire to be seen by anybody visiting Duran.
She had just sat down when the door on the opposite side of the room opened and Duran entered, followed by a prison guard. His appearance shocked her. When she had last seen him at the Old Bailey, he had been a tall, very striking-looking man, but she barely recognized him. His face was gaunt, with deep shadows under his eyes, and his skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge. He had lost a lot of weight and his shirt hung from his broad shoulders, his trousers also very loose. Instead of the brisk, forward thrusting walk she remembered, he stooped, moving slowly and uncertainly, almost shuffling, like an old man. For someone
