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THIRTEEN
Last Updated:
2021-09-24 17:54:0413
My answering machine is flashing. There are two messages.
The first is from Blanche Bradbury:
Hi Quintus, it's Blanche. I'm at the mortuary. Can you meet me there?
Clunk!
Detective Inspector Brooks.
Mr Noone, I need to speak to you. Would you mind giving me a call?
Just after eight, I dress in casual clothes and make my way to the mortuary. Someone followed me.
I didn't know by who, but I just sensed it. Unrecognisable faces in everyday places.
Blanche Bradbury wore a dark-blue jumpsuit beneath a surgical gown and a bright yellow face mask covering her mouth and nose. Without any apparent awareness of how lovely she looked, she moved nimbly around the table, taking measurements, her white tennis shoes protected by green plastic covers.
She crosses to the whiteboard to scribble up the initial statistics, talking all the time above the squeak of her felt pen. "Alexi Zelenyy weighs one-hundred-f
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14Blanche is driving her Mercedes.The suspension is soft; it's like a waterbed on wheels."What do we know about Kayla Zelenyy?" Blanche asks."Kayla Zelenyy is a Georgian businesswoman and philanthropist and now the widow of Alexi Zelenyy. Last year the Sunday Times estimated her wealth at £650m, making her the 196th wealthiest person in the UK. She is the founder and President of the Zelenyy Foundation that supports education initiatives in Georgia. She has two daughters, Marina and Sasha. The death of her husband will spark one of the biggest estate battles ever. Kayla has extensive business and property interests in Georgia and across the rest of the world."She raises her forefinger from the steering wheel. "This is the place."We pull up outside a twelve-foot-high gate attached to a couple of pillars. A perimeter wall stretched around the estate on either side, topped with broken bottles that sprout from the concrete.Th
Last Updated : 2021-09-24NO ONE ASKED FIFTEEN
15We emerge out of the drive and swing right, taking the back road. The Mercedes floats over the dips."Did you see Daler Kuzyaev's face? I thought he was going to have a heart attack.""He's frightened.""No shit, Sherlock? World War III?"Blanche begins listing the security measures, the cameras, motion sensors and alarms. Barklay could have come straight out of the SAS."Blanche, let me explain," I said after she had been talking non-stop for about ten minutes."I wish you would," she said sharply."Daler Kuzyaev is a financier who made his fortune in Moscow. He has been receiving death threats since lifting the lid on a $230 million tax fraud by corrupt Russian government officials last year."Heading back towards North London, I can't get a single question in my head:Who is next?"I need to go back and see Amber Chase," I say, "and I need to have another look around Robbie Chase's apartment again. I'
Last Updated : 2021-09-24NO ONE ASKED SIXTEEN
16Blanche drives me home and offers to cook me something."That's probably not a great idea," I reply, but she's already opened the fridge. I'm embarrassed by the contents. Six bottles of Peroni, grated mature cheddar, parmesan, orange juice, sundried tomatoes and half a dozen eggs."She opens another cupboard and finds a lone onion and some sad-looking potatoes that are starting to sprout."This is going to be a challenge," she laughs."I could get a takeaway," I suggest.Blanche gathers up the meagre supplies and pauses to pull back her hair and loop a band around a ponytail.I open two beers and watch her cooking, and we make small talk about our likes and dislikes, involving politics, food, theatre, cinema, sport, and past relationships. The conversation becomes a little strained."I'm not very good at this," I say. "I've been on my own for a long while.""Me too," she replies, raising her bottle of beer and clinkin
Last Updated : 2021-09-24NO ONE ASKED SEVENTEEN
17Katrin Cajthamlova's Paris studio is on swish Avenue Victor Hugo, a short walk from the Arc de Triomphe, in a building that houses the Icelandic embassy; a thickly-built man in a tightly-fitted suit opened the door with a false smile. He assumed Blanche and I looked at the haute-couture clothing and the impossibly high-heeled stilettos Cajthamlova designs and sold under her KC brand."They are press," Cajthamlova said when she spotted Blanche's notebook. She looked at the thickly-built man pleadingly and spoke with a note of panic in her voice. "They are here to talk about Daler Kuzyaev."The man walked briskly to the door and opened it. "She will say no more to you," he said curtly in French. "She's had problems with the press. It's bad for her business."I held up a hand in protest. "We are not the press, and we are investigating the death of Daler Kuzyaev, Robbie Chase, Igor Akinfeev and Alexis Zelenyy."Cajthamlova is well over 6 feet tall,
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18If, for a contented mind, time is peace, then for a fevered one, it is the opposite. The nearly three hours or so it took us to return to London were close to torture. The more I thought about Paris, the more I wondered what was wrong.We cross-referenced everything Katrin Cajthamlova had told us and what she said to the press and social media. She never told the same story twice. The inconsistencies were acute, but they were there.But why?Was she scared?Or was she playing us?Once we had arrived at St. Pancras, Blanche, we intended to catch the Northern Line train from Kings Cross to Woodside Park and continue with our work over a Chinese Takeaway, but only as we walked from one mainline station to the other did I realise that we had a tail.I thought I had sensed it on the Eurostar, but it took me some time to be sure.We stopped at a paper shop, bought a paper without actually looking at it, tucked it under my arm, and
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19Using her mobile phone at an internet café we found near Kings Cross, Blanche studiously researched Mariella Novotny, the reporter of the article in the newspaper. Fortunately, Novotny people are rare, with only a total of six of them having Facebook pages. Only one of those was a Mariella Novotny, who appeared to live in London, which was promising. Blanche went through Mariella's page, looking at all her posted photographs and noting down the names of those who had made any comments about them. Then, she read through her profile and made a list of those people she was following. But was this the right Mariella Novotny? According to Blanche, the clincher was tucked away in her likes. Way down at the bottom was the declaration of
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20Two detectives have turned up. One of them is Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Burton, and Inspector Brooks accompanies her; neither of them appears happy.A paramedic flushes out my eyes with distilled water while I sit on the back ramp of the ambulance, head tilted, while she tapes cotton wool over my left eye."You should see an eye specialist," she says. "It takes a week before the full damage is clear.""Permanent damage?""See the specialist."Behind her, fire hoses snake across the gleaming road and firefighters in reflective vests are mopping up.My left thigh corked; my knuckles scraped and raw. There are questions. Answers.The name Mariella Novotny is fresh in their minds after the article."Explain to me how come you ended up breaking into the house.""I came out of the pub and thought I saw a burglary in process.""Why didn't you call the police?" Burton asks."I don't have a mobile p
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21The most extraordinary faculty our minds possess is the ability to break apart and compartmentalise. It's how we juggle multiple demands and how we cope with pain and trauma. After my wife died, I saw a string of therapists and grief counsellors and psychologists. One of them suggested I take my memories, lock them in a chest using heavy chains and padlocks, and drop the trunk into the deepest part of the ocean, beneath millions of tons of water.I tried it for a while, but it didn't work. The memories are still with me. They are like wolves hunting me through the forest. I have hacked a clearing from the undergrowth and built a fire to keep them at bay, but I have to keep collecting wood, or the fire will burn down, and the wolves will creep closer.The newspaper arrived, and the headlines were full of the explosion—the cause given as a gas leak leading to journalist Mariella Novotny's untimely death. Other victims include a retired gay couple, a thirt
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NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-FIVE
35 I had a perfect firing position, with the rifle positioned on a wood and metal stand erected against the broad windowsill. All the equipment had been painted a dull black and laid out on the bed like sinister evening clothes, with the black velvet hood stitched to a shirt, made from the same material. The hood had wide slits for the eyes and mouth, reminding me of pictures I had seen of the executioner of Anne Boleyn. Switching off the attic lights, I took off my coat, put a stick of chewing gum into my mouth and donned the hood. I lay along the bed and got my eye to the rubberised eyepiece of the telescopic sight, and gently lifted the curtain over my shoulders. The grounds of the house were like a well-worn photograph. I scanned it all slowly, moving the 'scope with the rifle, adjusting the precision screws on the base. It was all the same except the headlights of an approaching car in the far distance probed the darkness like two pointing index fingers.
NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-FOUR
34The Gala glittered with titles, diamonds, champagne, and talent.Later it might curl around the edges into spilt drinks, glassy eyes, raddled make-up, and slurring voices, but the gloss wouldn't entirely disappear.I handed over my invitation and walked along the wide passage where the lights were dimmed low, the music loud, and the air thick with scent.Around the dancing area, there were large circular tables with chairs for ten or twelve around each, most of them already occupied. According to the seating chart in the hall, at table thirty-two, I would find the place reserved for Ian Ure. My false name for the night. Nobody should recognise me with a false beard and glasses, but that didn't prevent a battery of curious eyes swivel my way. Many people raised hello, but none could work out who I was or hide their shock surprise that they didn't know me.A voice behind me said incredulously, "Ian!"I knew the voice and turned around with
NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-THREE
33A1 Shooting-Range was just off the Barnet By-Pass. I lay at the five hundred metre firing point at the range. The white peg in the grass beside said 4.4, and the same number was recurrent high up on the distance but above the single six-foot square target that looked no larger than a postage stamp to the human eye and in the May dusk. But my lens, an infrared scope fixed above my rifle, covered the whole canvas. So, I could easily differentiate the pale-blue and beige colours into which the target separated. The six-inch semi-circular bull looked as big as the half-moon that started to show low down in the blackening sky above the A1.My last shot, an inner left – had been shit. I took another glance at the yellow-and-blue wind flags. They were coursing across the range from the east rather more firmly than I had begun my shoot half an hour before. I set two clicks to the right of the wind gauge and navigated the cross wires on the telescopic sight back to the
NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-TWO
32By the time I returned to London, my unquenchable thirst for revenge knew no limits. The first few weeks were nothing but funerals. I even managed to attend the funeral of Pierre Clavell; Madame Charlotte Julien's absence did not go unnoticed, but what the congregation didn't know was that the day after the explosion, she passed away peacefully in her sleep.Another link in the chain, broken.Blanche's funeral was a sad affair, with her twins, the mirror image of their mother, stood solemnly in the front row, heads bowed, while the heavy rain battered the roof of the church. The burial took place in Highgate Cemetery, with the priest barely making himself heard above the shower.Everybody remained silent as the coffin was lowered into the ground by the pallbearers, and the twin daughters took it in turns to throw their handful of dirt onto the wooden lid. Usually, that moment echoed around the graveyard, but the rain drowned out even this poignant gest
NO ONE ASKED THIRTY-ONE
31Oh my God, what the fuck do I do now?I naively looked around me to locate her missing limbs and put them back where they belonged. Only then did I see the other casualties. Those who had not only lost limbs but their lives. Like Pierre Duvall, whose head had separated from the rest of his body. Customers, tourists, and people passing by had all been caught up in Katrin Cajthamlova's collateral damage.A fireman says something in my ear in French, and when I tell him that I am English and my French is limited, he immediately talks to me in embarrassingly good English.He holds my shoulders as he guides me away from Blanche. "Come on, Monsieur. Let's get you out of here.Are you in any pain?"My tongue felt huge in my mouth, choking me. "No," I rasped before pointing at Blanche. "My friend." I am unable to say anything further."Don't worry, Monsieur," he said to me, "we'll do our best to look after her."He helped me to my f
NO ONE ASKED THIRTY
30I am on my second beer when Blanche gets to the restaurant. I am watching the pizza chef spin a disc of dough in the air and draping it over his knuckles before relaunching it.The waiters are young.Two of them are watching Blanche, commenting to each other. They're trying to fathom our relationship. What is a beautiful, slender, blonde woman doing with me who is a great deal younger?She is either my mail order bride or my mistress, they are guessing.The café is nearly empty.Nobody eats this early in Paris. An older man with a dog sits near the front door.He slips his hand beneath the table with morsels of food."She could be anywhere by now," I say with reluctance. "She played us like a violin, and I didn't see it. I am getting too old for this cloak and dagger shit. I should retire."Blanche becomes angry. "She has fuelled a lot more people than just you. She is very good at her job, but you are better."
NO ONE ASKED TWENTY-NINE
29Blanche has scarcely said a word since our flight left Heathrow. Her silences can be so eloquent.I told her that she didn't have to come. "I'm sure you've got enough on work-wise.""I have," she replied, "but how am I going to keep you out of trouble if I don't go with you." The faintest of smiles wrinkles the corners of her eyes.It's incredible how little I know about her. She has children – twins – but doesn't talk about them. Her mother is in a retirement home. Her stepfather is dead. I don't know about her birth father as she's never mentioned it before.Blanche is the most self-sufficient woman I have ever met. She doesn't appear for human contact or needs anyone. You can those survival shows on TV where people are separated into competing tribes and try to win immunity. Blanche would be a tribe of one, all on her own, and would come out on top every time.Paris. It makes me think of finance, diplomacy, commerce, fashio
NO ONE ASKED TWENTY-EIGHT
28I try not to react."Can you explain?" Patterson asks."No.""Not even a vague notion."My mind was racing through the possibilities, but I couldn't think of any."Do you know this woman?""I met her in Moscow when I went there with Amber Chase. Her name is Elmira. She was General Ozdoyev's, the Russian Deputy Prosecutor's escort for the night. She tried to take Mrs Chase's handbag, but Mrs Chase slapped her around the face to stop her."Numbness rather than shock seeps through me. I felt like someone had walked up and hit me in the back of the head with a piece of wood, with the noise still ringing in my ears."Why weren't they found sooner?""The five MI6 operatives went off the grid five days ago. General Ozdoyev's girlfriend went missing the day after. Felixstowe has nearly four thousand lorries passing through every day.If Customs searched everyone, there'd be ships queued back to Rotterdam."
NO ONE ASKED TWENTY-SEVEN
27The traffic meanders at an agonisingly slow pace, shuffling and pausing. I can only see the back of the driver's head. He has a soldier's haircut and wrap-around sunglasses, looking ridiculous as he is wearing them at night."Where are you taking me?""To see someone important.""Who?""You'll find out when we get there.""And where is there, by the way?""There is where we are going.""There must be some mistake.""You are Quintus Andrew Noone. You are sixty-three years of age. You worked for MI5 for nearly forty years. You are the youngest of five children, with one brother and three sisters.Your brother passed away suddenly seven years ago. You went to Littlegrove School in East Barnet and then Challoner School for Boys in Woodside Park. You lived in East Barnet, to begin with, followed by Whetstone for fourteen years and then moved to Suffolk. You graduated from Homerton College, Cambridge, with a degree i
