from making a single item last for several days. He could, for example, let a medium-sized battery chicken suffice for three meals: roasted first, then curried, and finally cold. Every week he bought a packet of six Porkinson’s sausages (two meals), three fillets of salmon (one of which he would habitually freeze) and a ribeye steak with oven chips for Sunday lunch. He ignored the aisles given over to juices and did not buy food in tins. For something sweet, Taploe allowed himself ice cream, a single packet of Penguins and a punnet of Elsanta strawberries.
It was a Friday evening, the pre-weekend crowd, and thankfully there were precious few children screaming at the hips of single mothers. Week after week Taploe watched them bumping trolleys into shelves and walls, spilling bottles of Sunny Delight in egg-yolk pools on the floor. But he could move with comparative ease tonight, through fruit and veg to wines, and would be home within ten or fifteen minutes, depending on the queue at the tills.
Just before seven thirty his mobile rang.
‘Mr Taploe?’
It was Katy, a low-level researcher less than six months out of college with a degree in media studies from Exeter University. He liked the fact that she sounded nervous on the phone and made a point of calling him ‘Mr Taploe’.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Well, I’ve been looking into Juris Duchev as you instructed, sir, and I’ve been advised by Paul Quinn to contact you directly with some information that I think you might find of interest.’
Taploe was standing beside a bored shelf-stacker. He moved towards the tills.
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve spoken to Interpol, sir, and they suspect that Duchev has been involved in at least two recent incidents still under investigation by the relevant lawenforcement authorities in those areas. The first was in Monaco three years ago, the shooting of a French investment banker with links to the Kukushkin organization. He was shot in his car waiting at traffic lights on the lower of the connecting roads between Monaco and Nice. The second took place in a Moscow suburb back in 1995.’ Katy breathed in quickly. It sounded as though she was searching through notes. ‘Again, that was a motorcyclist with a passenger riding pillion shooting directly into a vehicle. We suspect that if there’s razborka – the Russian term for the settling of a mafia dispute – then Juris Duchev is the individual who would carry it out on the mainland on behalf of the Kukushkin syndicate.’
Taploe didn’t say ‘Thank you’ or ‘Well done’, simply: ‘Is there any record of arrest?’
‘None, sir. Not on the files. And nothing from RIA.’
‘So your point is?’
It was the bully in him, the small man.
‘Well, what we didn’t know, sir, is that Duchev has a UK right of residence. It just came up. At the moment, he can come and go as he pleases.’
Taploe reached the end of Aisle 14 and stopped.
‘I see.’ The news irritated him, though he maintained a level tone of voice. ‘Well, thank you for passing on that information. I’ll come in to see you after the weekend and we can discuss it further.’
‘Very well. Thank you, sir.’
‘And Katy?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I know full well what razborka is. There was no need to enlighten me.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Goodbye.’
As he replaced the phone in his pocket, the back wheel of Taploe’s trolley caught on a sticky ball of waxed paper. He had to bend down to free it and missed a slot in the queue. Duchev, he thought. We let men like that live here, let them enter and leave at will. The British, in the name of decency and fair play, wave their enemies through the gates without so much as a glance. Tends to make my job harder, he mused, pushing towards the tills.
10
From: [email protected]
Subject: Ben drink
Mark sweetheart
Very very busy here. On deadline. Yes, we talked about it last night. Basically he’s still very pissed off, obstinate, the usual thing, but I get the impression it’s not totally a lost cause. I mean how long can he keep going like this?
It’s like he’s making a point not just to his father, but to you, to me, to anybody he comes across. And of course to your mum. You know what B’s like when he makes his mind up.
If you think it’s a good idea then I would give it a try but I’m not sure how much luck you’ll have. I didn’t push it last night. I don’t want him to think I’m turning against him, and I didn’t say anything about you asking me, of course.
We’ve already arranged to meet in the Scarsdale pub at the back of the cinema on Ken High St – the place you came to before we went to the Doves concert. Can you be there by maybe half-past seven? There might be some people from work so be warned.
Lovely to see you the other night. Thanks for the vodka – weird bottle!
lol
Als
x
From: Mark Keen
Subject: Re: Ben drink
That sounds good. I’ll be there at 7.30 at the latest. Don’t mention anything to him about it, OK? I don’t want him to feel like we’re setting a trap or something.
Thanks for this Alice – I appreciate it a lot.
Mark
Mark hit ‘Send’ and wondered if this was a good idea; he doubted whether Alice would be able to keep their arrangement a secret. Sometimes, in fact, he couldn’t even remember why he was doing his father the favour.
11
Taploe waited for Keen in the downstairs seating area of a Baker Street coffee shop. American-owned, the chain was populated by a preppy clientele drinking foam-laden lattes at Internet terminals. Bewildered by the range of drinks on offer, it had taken Taploe more than three minutes to explain to the South African girl working behind the counter that he simply wanted a black coffee, nothing more, nothing less.
‘You want an espresso, then?’
‘No. Just a black coffee. A normal black coffee. In a mug.’
‘Do you want me to make it a double? That’s longer.’
‘No.
