Nick

 

Mayfair, London, 2025.

 

Nick considers that he has lived through the golden age of racism typified by Danny saying, ‘Sinbad came through.’ He places fifty large on Nick’s walnut desk.

Gupta Singh works on the river, so he’s locally known as Sinbad the sailor. It’s old-school racist. It’s good natured. Gupta is proud of the moniker. He fits in. He pays his debts on time. The fifty large is the interest on a loan that enabled Gupta to buy his third tugboat. Racism today isn’t what it used to be. Nowadays, it’s just plain ugly, and cozy nicknames are a thing of the past.

Nick regards the plain brown envelope. ‘Put it through the club.’ The cash will get washed through the casino and vanish from sight.

Danny nods and drops what will shortly become a bit of a bombshell, ‘Natasha is still a no-show. Third night in a row. Checked her apartment. No sign of either her or the boyfriend. Nada.’

‘Who’s running things?’ Nick asks. Natasha manages the gambling floor.

‘Daryna. No worries there.’

‘Have you checked the hospitals?’

‘Not yet. You had a bargy. Maybe she’s just sulking,’ Danny tells him.

‘A bargy?’

‘You know how she is. You criticized her. In her mind, that’s an argument that needs forgiving.’

‘Christ…’ Nick sighs, ‘she’d been smoking.’

‘Maybe you should have let me handle it.’

‘Definitely, I should have let you handle it.’

‘Anyway, let’s give her the benefit of the doubt. She’ll be back. She loves her job too much.’

Only she doesn’t come back.

 

 

Monica

 

Monica sits at her desk, her attention torn between the team briefing that is just kicking off and the noise of the tempest that hammers at the long row of windows that flank her office.

‘What have we got?’ she asks, once everyone is settled.

‘Dead hooker. Natasha Binski. Ukrainian. Works for Nick Barclay at his club. She was found on the heath. Multiple stab wounds. No DNA residue. Possible rape, but it’s almost impossible to tell with a girl like that,’ Mike Barnard informs her.

He thumbs at his mobile and initiates a series of crime scene images that appear on the room’s computer monitor. The first image is prior to her death. Natasha Brinsky had been astonishingly beautiful. The rest of the images are brutal and debasing.

‘You think Barclay is responsible?’ she asks.

‘Probably not directly. He’s squeaky, but his side-kick, Danny DeSilva is dodgy. We’re thinking Natasha was under performing. We get this sort of thing all the time.’ Barnard is hinting at the fact that Monica is new to the London serious crime scene. In his mind, two years in charge means she’s still in nappies.

She lets it go. ‘What have we got on Barclay?’

A new set of images appear on the monitor. The first, is of a man who looks to be in his fifties. He’s sleek and darkly attractive. His features are lean and could probably be cruel, but they are softened by his hazel-coloured eyes and a mouth that she expects could exhibit both amusement and sensuality.

DS Amanda Hayes says, ‘Nicholas Barclay. Age fifty-six. Ex-army major. Inherited a small fortune from his family and retired early. Moved to London about twenty years ago. Now he owns an apartment in Mayfair close to his casino slash nightclub and a construction company that specialises in refurbishing up-market, London apartments. We have suspected him of racketeering, prostitution, money laundering, money lending and now, possibly conspiracy to murder. Next on the list is Danny DeSilva. Also ex-army, but not officer material. DeSilva has been investigated for illegal arms sales during the Bosnian situation. However, neither of them has done any time. All we have are rumours and wild speculation. Word on the street is that nobody messes with the Barclay firm.’

DeSilva is heavier-looking. He’s clean-shaven, including his head, but he has chocolate-box brown eyes that don’t match his villainous reputation.

There’s a knock at the door and an officer she’s seen floating about the place but doesn’t know the name of, pokes his head into the office, ‘Sorry to bother you, Ma’am, but we’ve just had a phone-in from a Mr. DeSilva, reporting a missing person. I think it’s your body, Natasha Binski.’

‘Thanks, er…’

‘Nigel, Ma’am.’

‘Yeah. Thanks Nigel. Can you post the details.’

‘Should be in your box,’ Nigel smiles politely before closing the door.

Sure enough, there’s a message in her in-box.

‘OK…’ Monica decides, ‘Amanda, head up insight into Ms. Binski. Family, friends, known associates and punters. Let’s get to hear what they have to say about her circumstances. Mike, you’re with me. Let’s go talk to Major Barclay.’

 

 

Nick

 

In practice, the club is Danny’s domain, which is why he should have kept his nose out of Natasha’s smoking habit. His main office is in the building belonging to Barclay Construction. It’s a converted townhouse that has three floors. One for administration and contract management. Another for architecture. And the other - the top floor - all for himself. It’s a ludicrous waste of space, but he appreciates the privacy. Before the club opens for business for the evening, Danny is normally close by. It’s only a few minutes walk to the club.

His secretary, Mary, rings his desk phone, ‘I’ve got two police officers in reception.’

‘Get Danny to bring them up.’

A moment later, Danny knocks and enters. ‘It’s the Ol Bill. Something about Tasha.’

Danny stands aside and the two police officers enter the room. They’ve left their coats in reception, but their undergarments are still damp, and the woman’s shoulder-length hair is bedraggled. However, that does little to detract from her Hispanic good looks. The man is solidly built with greying hair and a matching beard that could do with a trim. He wears his inherent aggression like shoulder epaulets. Nick knows the type well.
He gets up from behind his desk and waves them into the two chairs that reside opposite his own. Danny takes a seat on a soft settee that is pushed up against the wall.

Nick doesn’t bother introducing himself or Danny. The police know who they’re talking to ‘You have some news regarding Natasha,’ he states.

‘DI Monica Ceres. DS Mike Barnard. Can you tell me about your relationship with Natasha?’ Ceres demands.

Nick shrugs, ‘She works at the club.’

‘Bet she does,’ Barnard smirks.

Nick understands the smirk. ‘When I purchased the club, it came with a few stragglers.’

‘You mean hookers,’ says Barnard, flatly.

Nick ignores the comment. ‘Can you tell me what this is about?’

Ceres doesn’t say anything. Instead, she reaches into her briefcase and extracts an A4 folder which she tosses casually on the desk, forcing some of its contents to glide across its slippery surface.

Nick knows what’s coming. Ceres is trying to rattle him. The file is full of glossy photos of Natasha. She’s naked. Her body covered with leaf-debris, smeared soil, and black blood. There are puncture wounds to her torso and face. Danny gets up from his seat and wanders nonchalantly across to look down at the images. Nick looks up at his face. Only he can fathom what’s going on behind his friend’s soft, brown eyes.

Ceres has rattled them both. But neither of them will ever let her see that.

‘Can you confirm that it’s Natasha Binski?’ Ceres asks, her voice softening now she’s delivered the shock tactic.

Nick ignores her. He’s looking at a photo of the back of Natasha’s head. Natasha’s body has been turned, revealing the nape of her neck which is apparent because she wore her hair shaped at the back.

He says, ‘The puncture wounds have been made with a combat dagger with a non-serrated blade. The wound at the top of her spine was deep enough to penetrate the brain. The other wounds are for your benefit.’

‘Why a combat dagger? That’s very specific,’ she points out.

‘If you look carefully, you can see the bruising made by the dagger’s hand-guard.’

‘Fuck me…’ Barnard laughs, ‘you’ve been watching too much Netflix.’

Nick ignores him again. Danny looks at the photo in Nick’s hand briefly before Nick slides it back across the desk to Ceres.

He says, ‘Natasha was a prostitute. That’s true. However, she was smart and beautiful. I gave her a job managing the tables. She was very good at it. As far as I’m aware, she wasn’t turning tricks.’

Ceres is looking at the photo Nick had sent her way.

Barnard says, ‘How would you know if she was still on the game or not?’

Nick forces himself to regard the man. ‘I don’t. But she worked most night’s. She earned slightly more than a hundred thousand a year, and she had a regular boyfriend. Why bother with the game?’

‘A hundred kay? I’m in the wrong job…’ Barnard scoffs, then adds, ‘who’s the boyfriend?’

Danny tells him, ‘Manuel Sanchez. The girls call him Many Chances on account of the fact that he blew it with Tasha on several occasions before she succumbed to his Spanish charm. I’ve checked around. Word is, he’s attending a family funeral back in Barcelona.’

Ceres regards Nick, a look of curiosity creasing her almond eyes. ‘When did you last see Natasha?’

Danny answers for him, ‘Last Tuesday. She failed to show up for work four nights in a row. I checked around before reporting her missing to you guys.’

Ceres, who hasn’t taken her eyes off Nick’s face, asks, ‘Did you see her Tuesday night?’

‘No. I only visit the club occasionally…’

‘Why not?’ Barnard interrupts.

‘It’s a business, not a hobby,’ Nick replies.

‘So you don’t know what really goes on there,’ Ceres states.

‘Darlin, the boss knows what’s going on everywhere,’ Danny chuckles.

‘Does he know how Natasha would have got home?’ she asks Danny. But she’s still got her eyes fixed on Nick.

He tells her, ‘We use a taxi company. Danny will give you the details.’

‘Your whereabouts last Tuesday?’ she demands.

‘She died Tuesday night?’ Danny asks.

‘Her body was found by a dog walker on Hampstead Heath, Wednesday morning,’ Ceres informs him.

‘Tasha and Manny rent a small house in Hampstead,’ Danny nods.

‘I was at my club in Knightsbridge until around eleven thirty. I walked back to my apartment. It’s not far,’ Nick tells her.

‘Witnesses?’

‘Sure. At the club. I live alone.’

‘But Natasha didn’t leave work until, what? One am?’ Barnard looks like he’s got a point.

He doesn’t. ‘I have a computerised security system in my apartment. I can’t go in or out without it logging my movements which are recorded independently by the security company,’ Nick smiles easily at the man.

‘Mr. DeSilva?’ Ceres asks.

‘I made sure everything was running smoothly here, then I took the rest of the night off. It was my girlfriend’s birthday. Chinese food in Soho. Back home around midnight.’

‘We’ll need to verify all that. Maybe you can both write a brief statement. I bet you know what to include,’ Ceres smiles sweetly.

Ceres is the boss. She’s almost at a dead end. And she knows it. She asks, ‘Do you know of anyone who would do this to her?’

‘No,’ Nick shakes his head slowly.

‘If I may say, Mr. Barclay…’ Barnard interjects, ‘neither of you seem particularly put out by what’s been presented. In my experience, only the most hardened criminals would be as indifferent as you two seem.’

‘Arrest me,’ Nick tells him, softly.

‘It may well come to that,’ the policeman grins at him.

Ceres stops the banter by pointing out, ‘Barclay construction. The Barclay club. Word is, you’re also into laundering and lending. You want to speak to that?’

‘I’ll be happy to, if I ever see you in court.’

‘Please humour me. At your own admission, you’re not interested in the club. I’ve seen the profits generated by Barclay construction. They’re impressive. You see, from our point of view, your business activities look a bit dodgy, to say the least.’

Nick considers her request. It’s reasonable enough, ‘It’s about cashflow…’ he concedes, ‘the return on construction can take months or even years. The up-front investment is big. On the other hand, the club generates cash every single night. My construction company borrows from the club. It’s legal and much cheaper than an overdraft at the bank.’

‘And everything else is just rumour. You’re straight. You’re a saint. And you’ve got nothing to do with money laundering, prostitution, and illegal lending,’ Barnard states, sarcastically.

‘There, you’ve answered your own question. However, I’m probably not a saint. Are you, DS Barnard?’

‘You do understand that we’ll be looking at your books. Let’s hope all the company interactions add up,’ Ceres advises him.

Nick doesn’t bother to reply immediately. He lets the silence hang in the air. Eventually, when it’s not broken by the two police officers, he asks, ‘Will that be all?’

‘For the time being,’ Ceres assures him.

She gathers up the photos and puts them back in her briefcase, and they both get up from their seats and follow Danny back down to reception. Nobody shakes hands.

Danny re-appears a few minutes later, and he slumps back down into the settee. ‘Fuck me…’ he exclaims, ‘what a disaster.’

‘Do we have the details for her next of kin?’

‘Only for Manny. I’ll check, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

Natasha never spoke about a family.

Nick wonders, ‘Who do we know in the force?’

‘Guy called Nigel Smalley. Ceres is his boss.’

‘Make sure he’s on the same page as us.’

‘Chapter and verse…’ Danny agrees, ‘what do ya reckon?’

‘I reckon that Natasha wasn’t raped. She was assassinated.’

‘To get at us?’

‘Well, unless she was spying for the Russians, I can’t think of a better alternative.’

‘But why Tasha? Why not you or me?’

That, my friend…’ Nick tells him, ‘is the million-dollar question.’

Monica

 

Danny DeSilva had met them at the reception to Barclay Construction and escorted them in a cramped elevator to Barclay’s office, on the top floor of the building.
As she enters the room, she’s acutely aware that her clothes are damp. Mike Barnard smells like a dog fresh from rolling in a puddle.
Barclay’s office is spacious and carefully decorated. She’d expected it to be crass. Instead, it’s refined. Barclay, himself, is refined. The photo they have of him doesn’t do the man justice. He rises from behind his desk, a careful smile just about warming his dark features, and he waves them into seats opposite his own before sitting back down without having introduced himself. Barclay is as smooth as a coffee mocha. He’s dressed in simple, black trousers and an open-necked white shirt. He wears no jewelry, and his body looks well-toned, as does his facial skin which is also smooth, wrinkled only about his black eyes. The only indication that he might have laughed at something, sometime in his life. However, in every other way, Nicholas Barclay is a closed book.
She wants to get under his skin. She wants to find a crack in the man’s slick veneer. She watches his face carefully as he looks through the photos she’s tossed on his desk, but his features reveal nothing. Either Nick Barclay is a psychopath, devoid of emotion, or he’s seen it all before.

A fact that is borne out as he says, ‘The puncture wounds have been made with a combat dagger with a non-serrated blade. The wound at the top of her spine was deep enough to penetrate the brain. The other wounds are for your benefit.’

‘Why a combat dagger? That’s very specific,’ she points out.

‘If you look carefully, you can see the bruising made by the dagger’s hand-guard.’

As Mike says something derogatory to Barclay, she looks at the photo that he’d passed back to her. He’s right; there is a deep wound just below the base of Natasha’s skull. If it was deep enough, it would have killed her almost instantly. She looks at the other penetration wounds on the body. He’s right again; the wounds were consistent with a smooth-bladed dagger. Forensics hadn’t yet presented a formal report, but she’s ready to believe that Barclay’s final assumption - that the other wounds were merely for effect - would also be found to be correct.

How had Barclay known those things? Answer? He’d either inflicted the wounds himself or, he’d seen plenty of similar injuries in the past. Maybe he’d stabbed a few fellow villains in his time. The point is, he’d spotted something that her team had failed to grasp, and if he was correct, the probability is that Natasha’s murder hadn’t been committed by a sadistic rapist, it had been perpetrated by a professional.

The big question is, who is the ultimate victim in the case? A one-time hooker made good, or her enormously successful, potentially criminal boss.

Back out on the street, their coats wrapped up tightly around them to keep out the rain, Barnard comments, ‘Talk about as cool as cucumbers.’

‘Problem is, he’s right about the wounds,’ she admits.

‘Yeah, I saw it once it was pointed out. What does that tell us about him?’

‘It tells me that we should handle him with care. He’s smart and he’s dangerous. We’ll dig deep, but I doubt if anything incriminating will turn up. Look closely at both their backgrounds. Particularly the army stuff.’

‘Every ex-army guy I’ve ever known was special forces. At least in their dreams. Chances are, he recognised the wounds because he’s inflicted a few of his own.’

‘My thoughts exactly. But if Natasha’s murder wasn’t sexual, then it might have been aimed at Barclay and his organisation. You know how that works. Take down a senior player in the hope there’ll be a kneejerk response and before you know it, we’ve got a turf war on the streets. This could be just the beginning,’ she points out.

‘I hear ya,’ he sighs, tiredly.

 

 

 

 

Danny

 

Nick won’t admit it, but Tasha’s death is a staggering blow. She’d be hard to replace. That girl managed the gambling floor with both an iron fist and a smile that could make the Pope of Rome a punter. She had been more than an employee. She’d been a star. A young woman that Nick had helped lift from the gutter. One who’d repaid that opportunity with her loyalty and irrepressible determination to be the very best that she could be.

She’d be sorely missed.

Danny finds himself in a delicate position. He’ll need to train up or recruit a new floor manager. He’s got to ensure that all the company books are spotlessly in order. But most importantly, he needs to make sure that Nick doesn’t do anything dumb.

Danny is possibly the only man on the planet who knows what Nick Barclay is capable of once an enemy crosses that red line. The one that separates reason from retribution. He has seen what happens once it’s breached. He’d witnessed it in Bosnia as Nick had retaliated to the Srebrenica genocide where more than eight thousand Bosniak Muslim men and boys were separated and systematically executed by the Serbs. It was a time of horror. A period where Major Barclay and Sergeant DeSilva were tasked with hunting down war criminals.

They’d hunted them down all right, but Nick made sure that very few of them ever faced a jury of their peers. It broke Nick Barclay.
When his mother died, his newly found wealth allowed him to leave the army and start afresh in London. Much to his surprise, Danny had been invited along for the ride. And what a ride it had turned out to be. Only now, it was in danger of running off the rails. Because if someone had killed Natasha Binksi to get at Nick, it was a big mistake. It meant that somewhere, some would-be gangster or even worse, somebody with a different kind of axe to grind, was under the impression they could get the drop on Nick Barclay.

If so, it was a misjudgement that one way or another, they would come to regret.

 

 

Nick

 

Special Forces Club - Knightsbridge.

 

The SFC was founded back in the forties to honour members of the SOE (Special Operations Executive). Men and women of the special forces that had served in wartime Europe. Nowadays, it’s full of ex-spooks who laugh raucously and whose bellies are barely constrained by their designer belts and braces.
And yet, Nick still enjoys dining there on occasion. He respects the sense of history, and the food is arguably the best quality and value to be found in similar institutions in the city.
This night, he has dined on lamb and is on his second bottle of red wine. It’s rare for him to allow himself to over-indulge, but he’s sad. Sad and angry.
Although he was reluctant to admit it, he’d had a soft spot for Natasha. She had reported to Danny, but Nick had always been keen to know how she was doing and inspired by the girl’s work-ethic and her guts and determination, as well as her innate beauty. Now, she was just another dead body, probably obscenely exposed by the coroner’s knife, and awaiting incineration. It was unjust. Something to be rectified.

That’s what the police are for, he reminds himself.

The problem is that their chances of uncovering anything are next to none. Instead, they’ll look to the easiest explanation. Him and his supposed nefarious business. They may have a point, but it’s one that they will find difficult to prosecute.
He puts his meal on his tab, and he leaves a twenty-pound tip for the waiter. Outside, it’s foggy and damp, but the autumnal air is still mild following the late-summer’s heat wave, and he enjoys the five-minute stroll back to his apartment.

The next morning is Saturday. He awakes slightly before seven and starts the day with blended root vegetables in almond milk, sweetened with fresh fruit and some frozen berries. The forecast is for a cooler, dryer day, so he gets into his running gear and goes for a jog. He runs slowly at first to warm up, heading into Hyde Park where he stops and does a few squats and push-ups, allowing himself to see if anyone is paying him any undue attention. Satisfied that he’s not being followed, he heads north up through Marylebone into Regent’s Park. He does a loop through its center before heading back south down towards Cavendish Street where his son, Hugh, lives rent-free in a first floor flat that Nick owns.

Hugh is twenty-five. He attends the University of Westminster where he’s doing a PhD in something called social behaviour and artificial intelligence. Nick suspects that the boy will spend his entire life in academia. He doesn’t care. He indulges his son because he loves him, and he’d sooner see him teaching than dipping his toes into the reality that Nick occupies. However, it’s barely ten am, and Hugh will probably not yet be out of bed.

Nick gets some scrambled eggs and coffee in a café he knows before ringing the doorbell of Hugh’s flat slightly after eleven.

There’s no reply. Normally, he’d call his son, but he’s anxious enough about the death of Natasha that he uses his own key to open the door, and he climbs the flight of stairs that lead up to the flat’s open-plan kitchen and dining area. The place smells of sweet marijuana and stale curry. Standing at the kitchen island, spreading butter in a slice of toast, is a young woman with long blonde hair. She’s naked.

She stops buttering her toast. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ she demands.

‘I might ask the same question,’ he replies.

‘Hugh… there’s some old perv looking at my tits,’ she calls out.

‘Don’t panic, it’s just my old man,’ Hugh calls back from the bedroom.

Hugh appears at the door of the bedroom, dressed in a grey T-shirt and matching boxer shorts. He’s exceedingly tall, and he has his mother’s English pallor.

‘I rang the bell,’ Nick assures him.

‘Yeah, it might be busted. Dunno…’ Hugh replies, ‘Nic, meet Nick. Dad’s a Crime Lord.’

‘What? Like Doctor Who?’ the girl asks.

‘No, Doc Who is a Time Lord. Dad’s more like the Godfather.’

‘Nichola Maxwell. My aunt is currently doing time in an American jail. Maybe you know her?’ she smiles sweetly at Nick before taking her toast and coffee back into the bedroom. She’s completely at ease with her nakedness, but she slams the bedroom door shut behind her with a well-aimed back-footed kick.

‘She seems nice,’ Nick comments, taking a stool at the island.

‘She works at the Uni café. She’s got brains. The moment I saw her, I thought to myself, look at the brains on that.’

‘Don’t they teach sexism at Westminster?’

‘She’s a Maxwell, but not related to the infamous ones…’ Hugh ignores his comment, ‘coffee?’

‘Why not. As long as it’s fresh,’ Nick submits.

‘Can’t get fresher than Nespresso. You should know, you brought me the machine…’ Hugh goes to make the coffee, then adds, ‘Dad, I’m really sorry about Natasha.’

‘You know what happened?’

‘Don’t you read the papers? Haven’t you seen the Facebook video?’

‘No. What video?’

Having got the coffee brewing, Hugh says, ‘Hang on,’ and he returns to his room.

He comes back out to the kitchen a moment later, having shut the bedroom door behind him, and he offers Nick his mobile phone, ‘That one.’ He thumbs at the device and passes it to Nick before going back to the coffee machine.

Nick watches the short video clip. There’s no sound. It depicts a section of partially-wooded heathland. From a distance, a man is seen coming out of the bushes. Before he walks away, the image zooms into his face revealing features that are ragged and foreign. Illegal immigrant-looking foreign. Once he’s left the scene, the camera wobbles its way across the open ground and enters the shrub area from where the man had appeared. It pans down and zooms in on Natasha’s naked, bloodied body.

‘It’s gone viral,’ Hugh points out.

‘There’s something wrong about this,’ Nick replies.

‘I know. It’s fake. According to the news papers, the body was found around seven-thirty in the morning by a dog walker.’

‘So?’

‘So, it’s barely light at that time. The dog walker called the police on his mobile and stayed at the scene until their arrival. That footage was made in better light. It couldn’t have been done before the dog walker appeared on the scene.’

‘It looks real. Could the police stuff have been edited out? The police officers, the checker-tapes and everything?’

‘I guess so. But I’ve looked at it with my AI hat on, and I don’t see evidence of that kind of tampering. Except for the image of Natasha. That’s definitely been shopped. It’s well-done, but it’s fake.’

Nick is confused. The crime scene would have been out of bounds to the general public for days. Maybe even a week.

Hugh sees his confusion and says, ‘If you want my opinion, the film was made prior to her murder. The crime scene photo was probably leaked by someone in the system.’

Nick looks seriously at his son. ‘You do understand the ramifications of that statement, don’t you.’

‘Yeah. If I’m right, the whole thing is a set up. The murderer or murderers filmed the site before the act and somehow lured Natasha to that place. They’d probably scoped it out well in advance. They probably chose it because that guy walked past it at the same time each day. It’s an elaborate plot. Is it aimed at you, Dad? Are we safe?’

‘Why didn’t you come to me with this?’

‘It only appeared online yesterday. I spent all of the afternoon analysing it. I tried you last night and left a message. You should keep your phone switched on.’

Nick retrieves his phone from his pocket. He is forced to turn it on. Sure enough, there’s his son’s missed call and a voice message. ‘Bugger…’ Nick breathes, ‘I was at the club. Strictly no mobiles.’ He’d been so relaxed by the wine that he’d forgotten to turn his phone back on when he’d left.

‘I’d guessed that. So? Are we in danger?’

‘I’m looking at it. I’m certain I wasn’t followed here. You and this flat are both incognito. If I were you, I’d make sure it remains that way.’ Nick is referring to the girl in Hugh’s bedroom.

‘Don’t worry, she thinks I’m a Barakov,’ Hugh whispers. Barakov is the family’s former surname, and it’s the one on Hugh’s birth certificate and passport.

‘I can get you some personal security if it makes you more comfortable.’

‘No need. I’ll be careful, and I’ll let you know if anything unusual happens.’

‘Honestly, I don’t see how this is aimed at me. I get what you’re saying, but I’m not in the type of business to attract this kind of attention.’

‘Isn’t that what all gangsters say? I’m in business?’ Hugh sounds like a Russian mobster.

‘Son, you really need to stop calling me that.’

‘Sorry. It’s my way of telling you how much I love you,’ he smirks.

‘Well, a peck on the check will suffice.’

Nick finishes his coffee, and Hugh gives him a kiss on the cheek as he leaves.

 

 

 

Monica

 

Monday morning hell.

Everything is going down at once. In the early hours of the morning, following an anonymous phone-in, a man fitting the description of the one featured on the Facebook post, was arrested on the heath. He’s undocumented and appears to have been sleeping rough. Monica has just finished interviewing him, but he has not uttered a single word. She would dearly love to take another shower because of the man’s ingrained filth and stench, but she knows that the boss will want an immediate update.

She collects her notebook and pen from her desk and walks along the corridor to where Chris Myers resides in an office that he is proud of boasting is always open to everyone.

She taps on the door’s glass window, ‘Guv?’

‘Great. Come in, Mon, I was just about to call for you. Shut the door behind you.’

She shuts the door and takes a seat at the opposite side of his desk.

‘I’ve interviewed the suspect. He’s not saying anything. Won’t even give us his name. Fingerprints have come back empty. My guess is he’s illegal,’ she tells him.

‘Christ…’ Myers breathes, ‘this video is causing havoc. I’ve got the assistant commissioner and the heath’s resident’s committee yelling in one ear, and the press baying in the other. You’re telling me that I’ve nothing to offer them?’

It’s rare for the boss to sound so agitated. ‘Not as yet, I’m afraid,’ she admits.

‘There must have been something on the man’s clothing. Blood, semen. Something to put him at the scene.’

‘His clothing is with forensics. It’s too filthy for us to make an assessment. We’ll have to wait for their report.’

‘What about that Barclay chap? Is he in the clear?’

‘Not yet. Both his and his side-kick’s alibis check out, but we need to consider his involvement in the broader sense. However, he’s a closed book. In my opinion, we won’t get anything out of the man by simply asking away. It needs a more subtle approach.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’d like your permission to see him off-book so I can get a better sense as to his character and motivation.’

‘That could take a while,’ he points out.

‘Off-book, pro-bono.’

‘Sure. Whatever you deem necessary. But tread carefully.’

‘Anything else, Sir?’ she smiles.

‘Just keep me fully in the loop. Real-time.’

‘Will do.’ She gets up from her chair and heads back to her own office, leaving Myers’ door wide open.

On route, she pours herself yet another coffee before settling at her desk and ringing Barclay’s office. She’s slightly surprised when she’s put through to the man without delay. ‘Morning, Inspector,’ he greets her.

‘We’ve made an arrest.’ She hopes to catch him off-guard.

Fat chance of that.

‘Syrian and illegal,’ he informs her.

‘Well…’ she can’t keep from laughing, ‘you already know more than we do. How is that, Mr. Barclay?

‘I’ve seen the video. And I’m worldly enough to recognise a Syrian refugee.’

‘Anything else you can help us with?’ she says, glibly.

‘It’s fake. He’s not your guy.’

‘Doesn’t look fake to me.’

‘Has you team looked carefully at it? With a professional eye?’

‘It’s in hand. What makes you think it’s fake?’ She’s less glib now. Barclay is about to drop another of his bombshells. She’s beginning to see how he operates.

‘Think about the timing. You know she was at the club until one-thirty am. Her body was discovered just after dawn. Think about the light in the video. It’s all fake. Your Syrian won’t say a word. He’s probably been paid-off. He’d probably prefer jail time to being sent back home.’

Shit. The smug bastard is right again. Something about the video didn’t make sense to her, but she’d been too busy to think straight.

Her silence causes Barclay to say, ‘Are you still there, Inspector?’

‘I’m just thinking things through. I’m forced to agree with you. But have you considered the implications if you’re right?’

‘I have. This is a carefully planned operation. It could be aimed at me. However, that could be coincidental.’

‘In what way coincidental?’ she demands.

‘Ukrainian target. Politically sensitive. Illegal Syrian suspect. Even more politically sensitive. You must get the picture.’

‘I do…’ she admits, ‘but that doesn’t necessarily put you out of it.’

‘I know that. You should know that you’ve got a leak.’

‘A leak?’

‘No offense, but are you really a detective? The image of Natasha’s body was photo-shopped. How did they get hold of that image unless someone from your own team leaked it?’

She’s forced to pause before she sighs, ‘Do you want a job, Mr. Barclay?’

‘Not in a million years.’

‘Look, everything is up in the air at the moment. We will get our heads around this, but there are procedural issues that sometimes keep us from thinking on our feet. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘So, I need to ask you some more questions. Can we meet?’

‘Not to sound overly-important, but I’m going to put you back onto Mary. She manages my business diary, and you’ll be able to arrange a time that best suits you.’

‘I was hoping for something less formal.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I need to ask you stuff that’s personal, and I get the feeling that you’ll be more open to that in an environment that is in neither of our offices.’ She makes it sound like she might invite him down to the nick, and she smiles to herself at the pun she’s just managed.

‘If you promise to call me Nick, we could have dinner,’ he suggests.

‘I’d need to clear it with my boss, but I think it would be OK.’

‘Does Wednesday give you time to do that?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘OK, I’ll make a reservation at the Connaught. Do you know where that is?’

‘I do. I’m not that bad a detective.’

For once, he laughs, ‘Eight o’clock at the Helen Darroze restaurant. Don’t wear a uniform.’

‘Roger that. How do I contact you?’

‘On my mobile.’ He gives her the number. It’s the first barrier she’s managed to breach.

Nick

 

He’s just hung up on Inspector Ceres, when Mary calls him again. ‘Nick, there’s a gentleman in reception demanding to see you immediately.’

‘Do we know him?’

‘He claims to be the father of Miss Binski.’

Nick’s heart misses a beat. ‘Is Danny around?’ he asks her.

‘No.’

‘OK, get one of the project guys to escort him up.’ By project guys, he means a burly-looking builder. Mary will get his drift.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock at his door, and Nick gets up from behind his desk to open it. He admits a man who looks to be in his early-sixties. He is stooped at the shoulder as if he bears a great weight. His hair is silver-grey but lank due to a lack of attention. He smells of cheap cigarettes. He’s wearing a beaten-up, black, North Face waterproof jacket.

Nick forces himself to reach out his hand to the man. ‘Nicholas Barclay.’

‘Ivor Binsky. I Natasha’s father,’ the man replies in a heavy Ukrainian accent. He shakes Nick’s hand in a grasp that is feeble.

‘Take a seat. Have you been offered tea or coffee?’ Nick enquires.

‘No.’ Ivor eases himself into one of the guest’s chairs.

‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ Nick goes around the desk to his own chair.

‘No.’

‘No offense, Mr. Binski, but do you have some form of ID?’

‘Why you want?’

‘I need to know exactly to whom I’m talking.’

‘I Natasha’s father.’

‘In which case, I’m going to refer you to the police officer that is investigating her murder.’

‘You owe me money.’

Nick doesn’t bother to reply. He’d expected the demand. He reclines back into his chair and studies the face of the man sitting opposite him. There’s nothing soft about his features. They are as cold and as hard as a frozen Ukrainian landscape. Nick has seen the same story written in the eyes of many such men and women.

Eventually, he says, ‘Natasha’s will is in probate while her death is under investigation. I’m sure that, if you are mentioned in it, you will be informed.’

‘She dead on your watch. You look after girls. You take money from girls. You pay when you fail to take good care of girls.’

‘Natasha was an employee. Not what you think.’

‘I think you pay me money, or you see club on fire,’ Binski hisses, showing the first glimmer of hate and anger.

Nick doesn’t rise to the threat. Instead, he asks, ‘When did you last speak with Natasha?’

‘Not in years. Busy killing fucking Orcs.’ Ukrainians refer to Russian soldiers as Orcs.

Nick considers the older man sitting opposite him. Binski is clearly weary of the world. If he’s telling truth, he probably hasn’t had an easy life. It’s easy to see how he could have become estranged from his daughter. He asks, ‘Did Natasha have any brothers? Sisters?’

‘Brother. Alex. Dead. My wife, dead. My shit hole apartment in Kiev, all gone. I get small pension and lung cancer. Now, you give me ten thousand.’

‘How did you learn about Natasha’s death? It was a very recent event,’ Nick points out.

‘Friend of friend tells me.’

It makes sense. If Natasha sent her father money occasionally, it would have probably been arranged through a mutual acquaintance. Safer that way. He says, ‘You show me you’re here legally, and I’ll give you six.’

‘I show passport, you give eight.’

‘Seven.’ It’s pocket money, but he must handle this man carefully.

Binski nods and unzips his jacket. The zip doesn’t run smoothly, but he eventually manages to reach inside and obtain his passport. He throws it across the desk at Nick, and it comes to rest neatly before him. Nick picks it up and flicks to the ID page. It’s got less than a year before it expires. The image of Binski is only just recognisable, but the document looks and feels real.

‘Seven,’ Binski repeats.

‘Ivor, where are you staying? When did you last eat something?’

‘Not your fucking business.’

Nick nods slowly before saying, ‘I’m going to arrange for the money. Stay here for just a short time.’

Binksi looks at him in a calculating manner. He nods abruptly and says, ‘Don’t fuck me. You fuck me, I got knife. I very good with knife.’

Nick ignores the threat again. He picks up the phone and connects with Mary, ‘Mary, I need to pop around to the bank. Mr. Binski is going to stay in my office. Bring him some coffee and maybe some biscuits?’ He looks at Ivor, and the man reluctantly nods his head.

Nick leaves the office, taking his jacket with him. However, he has no intention of popping around to the bank. Instead, he finds an empty office on the ground floor, and he rings Danny’s mobile phone.

‘Boss?’ Danny answers promptly.

‘Where are you, Danny?’

‘I’m at the club, going over the recordings of Tuesday night. I’ve also been to Maybee’s. I’ve found something that doesn’t fit.’

‘Can you get back to the office?’

‘Sure. Give me half an hour. What’s up?’

‘I’ve got Natasha’s father in the office...’

‘For real?’ Danny interrupts.

‘Looks like it. The old man is in trouble. Just been demobbed. Broken. Lost pretty much everything.’

‘How much does he want?’ Danny laughs.

‘Not much. Not for now. Get seven large from the cashier. Also, ask around and see if we can get him somewhere temporary to sleep.’

‘You’re getting too soft in your old age.’

‘If we just give him cash, he’ll be back for more. You know that game.’

‘I’ll be there pronto.’ Danny hangs up.

Nick looks up as Mary passes by the door, bearing a tray of refreshments. ‘Mary…’ he calls to her, ‘I’ll takes those up.’

Minutes later, he’s back in the office. Binski looks like he hasn’t moved from the chair. In fact, the old man looks like he’s asleep. Or dead.

Maybe the smell of coffee arouses him. He opens his eyes as Nick places the tray on the desk. ‘That’s not my money,’ he snarls.

‘The money is on its way from the club. It will be faster. Relax. Have some coffee and a Digestive biscuit. In England, we dunk them in our tea.’

‘I dunk you in tea if money not here soon.’

Nick is growing tired of the threats.

Sensing that he might be pushing his luck, the old man adds, ‘Tell me about Natasha.’

‘You’re right, when I brought the club, Natasha and a number of girls were turning tricks…’

‘Turning tricks?’ Binski interrupts.

‘Prostitutes. But Natasha was special. I gave her a job managing the gambling floor. She was very good at it. Very smart. Very beautiful.’

‘She get that from mother.’

‘Not from you?’ Nick raises his eyebrows in mock surprise, and for the first time, Binski allows a smile to touch his thin lips.

‘She married? Kids?’

‘No kids. She lived with a Spanish guy. I think she was happy.’

‘She dead.’

‘Yes.’

‘You know who did it?’

‘Not yet. But we’re looking.’

‘You look. You find. You tell me.’

‘What about your home?’

‘No home. I good cook. Buy clothes. Get job. Live in London. You tell me who did Natasha. I sort it.’

It’s a long thirty minutes before Danny comes to the office.

‘Ivor, this is Danny. He’s got your money.’

Binski rises from the chair, but the two men do not shake hands. Binski says, ‘You give money. I go.’

Danny chuckles in response.

Binski reaches around to the back of his trousers. Danny takes an abrupt step forward and, using the palm of his hand, his strikes the old man firmly in the centre of his chest. Binski coughs in alarm and falls back into the chair while Danny follows through the blow, moving swiftly and smoothly behind the old man, grabbing a handful of lank forehead hair, pulling Binski’s head back, exposing his fragile throat, and pushing his own blade against the unshaven skin of his larynx.

Binski is utterly at his mercy.

Softly, Nick says, ‘First lesion of warfare, Ivor. Never under-estimate your enemy. You should know that.’

‘Fucking Orc,’ Binski manages to gasp.

‘Relax. In a moment, Danny will release you. You’ll get your money, but it will be on our terms. You control nothing here. I’m not even going to take away your knife. Nod if you understand me.’

Danny loosens his grip on the man’s forehead, and Binski nods his agreement. And then Danny lets him go completely, allowing him to slump forward, and Binski goes into a coughing fit. For a moment, Nick thinks Ivor is about to be sick. However, the old man manages to regain his breath and his composure. Nick slides a box of tissues he keeps on his desk across to him, and he takes several and wipes at his mouth. The old man looks at the tissues before stuffing them into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Maybe the cancer thing is real.

‘Ivor, look at me,’ Nick advises him, softly.

Binski turns himself and the disturbed chair back towards the desk, and he reclines back into it. ‘Tak,’ he agrees.

‘It would be the easiest and probably smartest thing to make you disappear. You see that?’

‘Tak.’

‘Here’s what’s going to happen. Danny has found you somewhere temporary to stay. I pay the rent. He’ll give you five hundred a week for every week you stay. You can leave whenever you want, and he’ll give you the rest. No questions asked. If that’s what you choose, we’re all good. Unless I ever see you again. Understand?’

‘Why not give me money now?’

‘Don’t you want to know what happened to your daughter?’ Nick counters.

Ivor nods but says nothing.

‘If you make yourself useful, I can maybe find you work and papers.’

‘I good cook.’

Danny says, ‘We could do with some help at the club.’

‘I cook,’ Ivor nods with a little more enthusiasm.

‘You work. No drugs. No drinking at work. You keep the seven and we pay you for the hours you work.’

Ivor looks at him suspiciously. It probably sounds too good to be true.

Nick asks Danny, ‘You found him a room?’

‘Better than that. Daryna has a single she wants to rent…’ to Ivor, he says, ‘it’s small, but it’s got its own bog.’

‘Dog? Don’t need dog,’ Ivor replies, mystified.

‘Didn’t you know? All flats come with pets in the UK,’ Danny grins at him.

Nick explains, ‘Daryna’s a good girl. One of your own. Danny means that the flat is small, but it has it’s own bathroom.’

‘Why you do this?’ Binski is suddenly angry again. He smells a rat.

Nick can’t blame the man. He’s probably been living amongst rats of one kind or another.

‘You were right. Natasha was one of our girls. She was family. That gives you an in,’ he tells him.

‘You get me papers?’

Nick doesn’t bother to reply to that.

Instead, he commands Danny, ‘Give Ivor five hundred now to buy some fresh clothes. Then show him the ropes.’ When he looks back at Binski, the old man’s eyes are watery. He’s close to tears.

It says something about the man that he has any more to shed.

‘Come on, Ivor. You’re with me,’ Danny helps him out of his seat and guides him to the door.

However, before they leave, he turns back to Nick, saying, ‘By the by, O’Brian has just checked in. Under the circumstances, you still want to proceed?’

‘Just as long as they change the décor,’ Nick agrees.

‘Scheduled for the end of next week…’ Danny assures him, ‘PS, I sent you an email about the taxi. It’s interesting reading.’

‘I’ll get right on it,’ Nick promises.

 

 

Tad O’Brian

 

O’Brian’s Irish heritage gives him a connection to the UK. That’s why the boss chose him for the job. He likes London, but not the weather, and certainly not the girls who are mostly drab and think they are better than their American counterparts. Tad did two tours in Asia. He prefers Korian girls. The younger and skinner the better. Still, London has plenty to offer in the way of entertainment. He won’t be bored.
His hotel room is luxurious but in need of redecorating. It smells musty, and it’s kept warm by old-fashioned, water-fed radiators, for Christ’s sake. The place needs dragging into the twenty-first century.
The whole country needs modernising. Starting with their attitude to immigration.
Unlike the US, where illegals historically found work in the service industries, the Brits seem to tolerate the scum inhabiting every shop doorway and, especially nowadays, any bit of green space that’s available. Hardly any of them work. Nearly all of them are on the take.
Tad’s job in London, and thereby by extension, the rest of Europe, is to help them see that the new US policies in place are part of the solution. If you’re illegal, you get sent packing.
Of course, the European’s are too fucking soft to do anything so bold. However, the average Joe on the streets of cities like London, Paris, and Berlin are of a completely different mind set. Upstanding, white, Christian public opinion is swinging dramatically to the right. And it’s helped along by public media. Five years ago, hardly anybody witnessed, firsthand, the brutality of murder from the press. It was censored and scrubbed. Today, all you need is a Facebook page to watch it unfold in almost real-time. Shootings, stabbings. You name it, it’s all available for viewing and sharing.
The killing of the Ukrainian girl in one of London’s most respectful, residential areas, is a great example. The tabloids have almost left the story behind, but online media is still full of conspiracies and mostly, one-sided opinion - she was a simple, hard-working, beautiful white girl, savagely raped and murdered by an illegal immigrant.

If you’re black, if you’re poor, if you’re an immigrant from a hostile country, you are an existential threat to the Christian values of the civilized, western world.

It matters. Britain and the rest of Europe were once great. America was even greater. But the European social justice suckers are in danger of ostracising the people who saved their fucking necks from the Nazis. They’ve forgotten their debt.

O’Brian’s job is to help remind them of it. One way or another.

 

 

Monica

 

Monica lives with her husband in Islington. If she leaves for work early enough, it’s less than half an hour’s tube commute to the office. Although sometimes, it can be hellish.

Her husband, Mateo (Matt) Herrera, comes from Chilean stock. Herrera means blacksmith. Men who can be hard and cruel. At first, Mateo had been charming and funny, but her dedication to the job quickly put an end to that. She’s ashamed to admit it, but she only puts up with him because he owns the apartment which he inherited from his father who had owned a small jewelers in the borough. Monica is the product of a Columbian father and an English mother. She never changed her surname to Herrera. Ceres was the Roman goddess of agriculture. Her father had been a farmer before emigrating to the UK and so, in her mind, it was better to nurture than to beat the crap out of innocent lumps of metal.

Her parents died in a pile-up on the M4 on her fortieth birthday. They were coming in from Reading to celebrate with her in a cheap restaurant in the city. See a show. Spend the night in an affordable hotel. Instead, they burned to death beneath the back of a flat-back truck that had stopped abruptly on the hard shoulder during one the motorway’s “Smart” phases.
Nothing smart about that. They were simple, working-class folk. Their entire estate amounted to less than twenty thousand, after tax. Monica had used most of it as a deposit on a new car.

She’s locked herself in the bathroom so that Matt doesn’t see her nakedness. He used to be occasionally demanding of her. It was never a particularly pleasant experience. She hides her body from him as much as possible to avoid unwanted attention. It’s a tactic that has worked. Matt hasn’t bothered her for months,
She’s now forty-six. She reads too many romance novels. At night, she fantasises about meeting her prince charming, but having been exposed to so much human filth, she doubts that will ever happen. She’s hoping to take early retirement at fifty-five. If she makes it that long. She keeps herself in good shape. Not having babies has helped, as has being a third-Dan in Aikido. She’s got great tits. She’s got smooth, golden skin from her father’s genes. She could lose maybe ten pounds, but she knows she’s voluptuous. God knows, the boys at work remind her of it all the time.
She lifts her white dress up to her neck. It will have to do. It’s all she’s really got. She prefers jeans and jumpers. She’s anxious about tomorrow’s dinner-date with Nick Barclay. The restaurant he’s invited her to is Michelin-rated. She tells herself its just business, but it’s not every day she gets to eat in such a classy joint. She wants to at least look the part.

She knows it’s going to be an issue with Matt. Best get it over and done with.

She puts the dress back in it’s plastic, zip-up cover, climbs into her over-sized dressing gown, and leaves the bathroom for the sanctuary of her bedroom where she changes into her jeans and jumper. Fortunately, the flat has two bedrooms. She pretends that she needs one all to herself so as not to disturb Matt with her often unsocial and untimely comings and goings.

Matt is sitting on a sofa in the lounge, drinking from a can of beer and watching MasterChef on the TV. Next to him, he’s neglected to turn off his mobile, the screen of which depicts a well-known dating app. Another reason she’s loath to let him make love to her is the notion that he’s sleeping with other women.

‘I’m going to be home very late tomorrow night,’ she advises him.

‘So?’

‘So, I’ll be dolled-up. It’s not social. It’s business.’ Matt may sleep with whoever he chooses, but his Latino genes are still prone to jealousy.

‘Don’t wake me up. I’ve got an early start,’ he tells her. He still runs his father’s old jewelry store. Thursday mornings, he goes to a local market for stock. Matt doesn’t make much. Most of their cashflow is from her income. It’s part of the deal.

‘I’m off to bed,’ she sighs.

‘You better not be fucking with me,’ he warns.

‘Or what?’ She smiles sweetly. Monica could bust his balls any time she wanted, and they both know it.

‘Or I might get myself a new flat-mate,’ he winks at her.

‘The only flat mate you’ll ever get is a run over hedgehog,’ she winks back at him.

‘You’re so funny.’

‘Better than being so sad.’ She turns away before things get too ugly, happy to have got the final word without it turning into a shouting match that might disturb the neighbours.

 

Excerpts

Nick – a character defining moment as he recalls a Serbian atrocity.

‘I became unhinged…’ he admits with a slow nod of his head, ‘I had orders to identify war criminals and document their acts, but who was a criminal? Who was a simple soldier following orders? On one occasion, on Danny’s advice, we followed two excavators that had been transported to a remote location. We recorded them digging a long, deep ditch for a mass grave. We waited until three truck-loads of prisoners were brought to the site. Men and boys. Fathers and their sons. All of them already so physically and mentally abused that they simply had no fight left in them. They knew what was about to happen to them. They saw their graves. They saw the excavators. But the fight had been tortured out of them.’

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Monica breathes, softly.

‘Yes I do…’ he tells her, ‘they lined them up along the edge of the ditch. There were just under a hundred prisoners and only twenty armed guards. Nobody tried to flee. They shot the men and the older boys once in the back. It may or may not have killed them, but it propelled them into the ditch. The younger children, they didn’t even waste a bullet on. They used the butts of their rifles to strike the backs of the heads, forcing them into the ditch with the rest of their families. Then the excavators covered the entire mess with the dirt they’d removed and spent at least an hour after the soldiers had left the scene, flattening the grave, sealing the dead and dying, the fathers, the sons, and their brothers in the ground.’

(Nick’s son) Hugh, ‘If I’m correct, the US has committed an act of war against us. A propaganda attack on an enormous scale. Much of it generated by AI, establishing massive follower networks, feed algorithms, and sharing mechanisms flooding society with low-quality but appealing content. What we’re witnessing is the stripping naked of the human character, and our flaws are being exploited by those who seek to influence our opinions in a way that is turning out to be surprising vile and ugly.’

(Separate quote) ‘The driver, as you put it, is purely one of disinformation. Its goal is to divide public opinion and polarize government. And it’s successful, look at the recent events surrounding the murder of Natasha Binski and the Holland Park massacre. The people of Britain, it’s police force, and its government have seldom been so destabilized. One does not normally see such dissent in countries like Russia and China.’