Willing Flesh by Adam Creed Read Free Book Online Page A

such menaces,’ says the man, in a clipped Eastern brogue. He turns to the hot-panted girl. ‘Bring the gold Bison.’
    ‘Mr Tchancov?’ says Pulford.
    ‘Vassily. Now,’ he places a hand on the small of Staffe’s back, ‘Elena, you say?’
     
    ‘She is with one of yours. Bobo Bogdanovich,’ says Staffe.
    The girl brings the vodka and three glasses. Tchancov tips her £ 10 and she strokes his arm, whispers something in his ear that makes him smile.
    ‘Bobo does a little work for me.’
    ‘And Elena?’
    Tchancov shrugs.
    ‘You have any dealings with Taki Markary?’
    Tchancov smiles, blinks rapidly as he pours the vodka, as if his ice-cool bravado might have a thin surface. ‘We’re different kettles of fish, him and me.’
    ‘You’ve crossed swords.’
    He hands Staffe and Pulford a glass each. ‘I don’t believe in weapons, Inspector.’
    ‘Bobo is very upset.’
    ‘What has she done now?’
    Staffe sips the vodka. It is ice cold and has herbal hints of the prairie. He watches Tchancov drink his in one, and notices an emerald ring on the little finger of his right hand.
    ‘The ring. Your intaglio – it’s from the Urals.’
    Tchancov nods and his smile tightens. ‘She was a bright girl. Ambitious.’
    ‘Was? What was her name? Her surname.’
    ‘All I can tell you is, she loves her work, Inspector. No matter what you hear from anyone, I know this for a fact. And that’s a risky business.’
    Staffe mulls what he knows about Tchancov, from the couple of hours’ research back at the station: that he has a house on the Bishops Avenue, a yacht in the western Med; hunting lodges in Belarus. He left Russia with a modest fortune from pyramid-selling bearer certificates in his cousin’s computer business. Vassily was moved on when his uncle, Ludo, ran for governor. ‘You take your share of risks, Vassily.’
    Tchancov laughs, takes hold of Staffe’s glass with his right hand. ‘I like you.’
    Pulford’s phone beeps and he studies the screen. Both men look at him, frozen for a moment. ‘We have to go, sir.’
    Tchancov leans in, alcohol fresh on his breath. ‘You were right about my ring. Very clever. But you’re looking in the wrong place. Take my word for it, or find out for yourself. But don’t come round my place fucking things up. I know my rights.’
    ‘And Elena? You knew her.’
    ‘You can go now,’ says Tchancov. ‘I have things to do.’
    ‘I’ll go as I please and I’ll come as I please, Mr Tchancov.’
    ‘We shall see.’ Tchancov turns his back, goes back into his office; presumably, a warm place.
     
    Seven

    Flecks of snow float between the buildings on Cloth Fair. Staffe mounts the kerb outside the Hand and Shears, where Josie is waiting for them. He looks across to St Bart’s church with its flint, patchwork stone and its dark, garden cloister.
    Inside the Hand, the chatter is low and gentle. Josie is in the back snug, its walls panelled in dark wood. Staffe nods at Dick behind the bar: big-bellied in a Jermyn Street shirt and links.
    This isn’t a police pub and although the regulars know Staffe is a copper, no mention is ever made. ‘Have you settled things at Livery Buildings?’ says Staffe to Josie.
    She nods, finishing off a tomato juice. ‘I’ve had a chat with the caretaker, a bloke called Miles. I said I was a friend, and he said he hasn’t seen her for a couple of days and nobody’s been round for her.’
    ‘We’ll go over as soon as we’re done with Pennington. What’s agitating him?’
    ‘He just said to get hold of you and quick. He said “fucker”, actually, sir. And Rimmer was with him.’ She looks at Pulford, smiles thinly.
     
    It seems, to Staffe, that Pulford and Josie might be sharing a private joke. Not the only thing they have shared, he reckons. ‘“Fucker”, you say.’
    ‘What did you make of our friend Bobo?’ asks Josie. ‘Is he a sweetie?’
    ‘Hardly,’ says Pulford. ‘But he’s the boyfriend all right. I wouldn’t