wanted to know about meetings with private customers. Well, I’ve been invited to a drinks soirée this evening,’ I say, wishing he’d given me more notice. There’s a sharp intake of breath followed by a huff that sounds very much like disappointment. So she’s already had enough of being kept informed of everything. Knew she would.
‘Where is it?’ she asks.
‘Err … The Mulberry Grand. In his suite.’ She doesn’t bother to ask who the customer is.
‘Oooh,’ she says, sounding interested now.
‘Yes, he specifically asked for you to come too,’ I say, appealing to her vanity. I can’t afford for her to be awkward about it. This might be my only chance to sell him the Chiavaccis. And at £4,975 each, I need to pull out all the stops.
‘Well, in that case we shall go together,’ she says, sounding excited, while I contemplate how long it will take me to bus it home and grab a suitable outfit.
‘And it’s cocktail dress,’ I quickly tell her.
‘Marvellous, sure I can squeeze in a quick trip out for a new Prada frock this afternoon,’ she says. I hang up, thinking: good luck with that … I know for a fact there aren’t any shops in the whole of Mulberry-On-Sea that stock Prada. This is a quintessential English seaside town, not Beverly Hills, where you can pop to Rodeo Drive whenever you feel like it.
On arrival at the Mulberry Grand we’re met by a Malikov minion and ushered up and into a buttercup-yellow panelled drawing room, bursting with red heart-shaped balloons. The Valentine’s theme is continued through to the main room with cardboard Cupids suspended from the chandeliers and dusty pink rose petals scattered all over the sumptuous red carpet. There must be around fifty people milling around. The women are all dressed in Versace or Gucci and sporting overbleached WAG-style hairdos and lots of gold. And the men all look like extras from a Cold War spy thriller. Stuffed into black tuxedos and knocking back spirits from crystal shot glasses, before reaching for a canapé from the trays carried by milling waitresses.
Batting a balloon away from my face, I scan the room but can’t see Malikov. A waitress thrusts a tray at us and I opt for an orange juice, figuring it is best to keep a clear head. Maxine jabs a bony finger at a large bottle of Stoli Gold, hesitates and then wavers over the Cristall before finally settling on the Zyr. The waitress pours her a generous measure into a frosted shot glass complete with strawberry accompaniment nestling on the side, which Maxine necks in one before tossing the strawberry into her mouth too.
‘Zakuska?’ Another waitress appears in front of us, bearing a tray with a selection of bite-sized pickles and rolled-up fish on miniature slices of black bread. But Maxine bats the girl away before I get a chance to decide what to try and then turns her back to me while she hunts for another vodka waitress. She’s wearing a back-plunging Prada dress that clings to her frame as if she were sewn into it. So she managed to find a stockist then.
‘I thought you’d be wearing the necklace.’ Malikov makes me jump as he booms the words out over my shoulder. Turning to face him, his eyes fix on mine before flickering over towards Maxine’s back. It’s as though he’s telepathically telling me that he intended on her hearing him. Then his mouth curls up at one side until it resembles a nasty sneer. An icy hand clutches at my heart. What the hell is he playing at? I thought it was to be our secret. Maxine turns back to join us.
‘I’m off for a cigarette,’ she says, her face giving nothing away as she sashays off. Maybe she didn’t hear him. And she obviously doesn’t realise Malikov is standing next to us, because if she did then surely the cigarette could have waited. I let out a tiny sigh of relief and wait for Malikov to stop ogling Maxine’s pert bottom.
‘Well, I err, didn’t think it really matched this dress.’
He glances down at my body before bringing his eyes back to mine.
‘My associate is very disappointed.’ So that’s his game. The short-notice invite … he’s annoyed after the message I left for him earlier on, saying that we couldn’t supply the bags without ID verification. ‘I thought we were friends.’ He stares at me. My stomach tightens.
‘Of course,’ I smile. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that we have to have his ID an—’
‘But you said you would ship the goods to Russia. For the sisters.’
‘And I will, just as soon as the paperwork is in place. It’s a legal thing. Perhaps I should talk to him and explain,’ I say, seeing the Chiavacci sale and my chance to appease James floating away right before my eyes.
‘You already are.’ Whaat? What’s he going on about? So there is no associate. The bags were for him all along … but why didn’t he just say? And then I get it. He couldn’t, that’s the whole point. He wants the high-value goods but doesn’t want to be associated with them. No wonder his ‘people’ made all those calls asking about CCTV, on the pretext of protecting Malikov’s security. He didn’t want his ugly mug caught on camera. No wonder he wanted the most expensive items and paid in cash. Dirty cash. It has to be. Probably from the sale of his guns … and God knows what else.
The room sways. I’m in way too deep. His disgusting flirting, planting the necklace. Why the hell didn’t I just return it? I must be going mad not to have realised.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, desperately trying to buy some time to get my head together. He leans in towards me and, with a voice as cold as ice, he whispers,
‘I know all about you.’ My thighs tremble. I remember the gun. For a moment I’m scared I might actually pass out. ‘Why else would I bother with you and your provincial little store when I can buy whatever I want, wherever I want?’
I place my hand on the table to steady myself. Of course, right at the start he said he’d carried out checks. God knows what he found out about me, but he’s obviously targeted me as a weak link – up to her eyes in debt so might just go for it. Ship stuff to Russia. No questions asked. Certainly no requirement for him to be bothered by mere ‘paperwork’. I hate myself. What an utterly stupid fool I am.
‘Perhaps I should tell your boss you accepted the necklace as a gift. Or maybe you stole it when you were in my car. Wanted to treat yourself ahead of Valentine’s Day … because I doubt very much anyone else will be bothering,’ he says, tossing me a nasty up-and-down look. I bite down hard on the inside of my bottom lip.
Malikov surveys me, scanning my face as he waits for my next move, taunting me like a cat with an injured mouse. Then something comes over me – it’s like an animalistic instinct.
‘What do you want?’ My voice trembles, the words barely audible, but I manage to keep my eyes fixed on his. I pray to myself that the jeweller still has the necklace. And then a chilling thought seeps into my head. Something that could ruin me forever … if I get found out. What if he still wants me to ship stuff to Russia? What if there’s drug money too? I’ll be implicated. I could go to prison and end up in some tiny cell no bigger than my bathroom with bunk beds chained to the floor and a geezer bird who stashes mobile phones up her Aunty Mary. Oh yes, I’ve watched the Channel Five documentaries. This is bad. Really really bad. He hesitates briefly before delivering his verdict.
‘Nothing,’ he spits.
‘I’ll return the neck—’ I start, but he cuts me short.
‘What are you talking about?
