‘With respect, Mrs Preston, the Canadian embassy has not shared very much information with us. Perhaps you should take your questions to them? They may be more helpful when you ask them?’ The smugness of his smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was clearly enjoying pointing a finger in the other direction.
‘Why was I not informed of your new findings about the driver?’
Kiriyenko sighed. ‘Again, Mrs Preston, when you left Russia last year, we passed on everything we found to the Canadian embassy. If you are not aware of new information, you should take the matter up with them. You came all this way to ask me all these questions when all you could have done was request the information from your own people.’ He opened the file again at the first page and tapped his finger on one sentence. ‘Mr Patrick O’Driscoll has all the information.’
Patrick? That didn’t seem right. Wouldn’t he have told her about the driver? It didn’t seem possible. She looked at the detective whose blank face made her feel suddenly disheartened. She’d so desperately hoped for more information from the police. This was clearly a dead end.
Wordlessly, she started gathering her coat and bag. She would never know why Kiriyenko started leafing through the file’s contents again. Maybe he saw something in her face that caused him to take pity on her, or perhaps he secretly hoped his own wife would also care enough to go to great lengths to find answers if something were to happen to him. Whatever the reason, he suddenly spoke as she stood up.
‘There is one more thing . . .’
She lifted her eyes to him, not expecting much.
‘There was more blood in the car, just a drop or two. It did not belong to your husband or the driver.’
Moscow – A few minutes before midnight
He heard the mobile phone that was hidden in his desk drawer ring. It hadn’t done so for many months, but he’d kept it active nonetheless, switched on at all times, yet hoping that it would prove to be an unnecessary precaution. He pulled open the drawer and looked at the screen: caller unknown. Only a few people knew the number and he was relieved that he was prepared and available at the moment that one of them was calling. He’d thought – hoped – the need to contact him would not arise, but the flashing screen told him otherwise.
‘She’s back.’ No preamble, not that he’d expected any pleasantries from this particular caller.
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘You knew?’
‘Yes.’
A slight pause. ‘This isn’t good.’
‘It’s not necessarily a reason to panic.’
‘What do we do?’
He didn’t answer the question. Or say anything else.
‘No, you can’t be serious! Do you actually think we . . . ?’ The caller didn’t finish the question.
Still he didn’t answer.
‘You’re thinking we shouldn’t do anything?’
He suppressed a sigh. ‘No, we shouldn’t.’ He waited for the predictable reaction.
‘If we don’t do something, this could bring us down.’
‘It won’t come to that.’
‘How can you be so damn sure? We’re not exactly containing the situation by sitting back and doing nothing. What if it gets out of control? Don’t you realise how fucking disastrous this could be?’
‘I won’t let it. Remain calm and leave it to me. Do nothing. And let there be no misunderstanding about what I say this time. We do nothing.’ He hoped the caller was paying attention to his words.
A long pause followed by a heavy sigh. ‘Fine. I don’t agree, but I’ll go along with this for the moment. Let me know if anything changes.’ The call ended abruptly.
He didn’t put the phone back into the drawer. Instead he slipped it into his jacket’s inner pocket. He would have to carry it with him from now on.
6
A s she rounded the last corner before reaching her hotel room, Amelia stopped. From a few metres away, she considered the room’s door. She’d hoped that a long walk would get rid of the increasing
Learning to Kill: Stories