Chapter 4.02
The smile died on Roberta’s lips.
Susan had taken the couch nearest the fire, sitting opposite Rifkind.
He was in a red tartan tie today and a black suit.
Kensington loomed by the fireplace, sporting the same outfit he’d worn when they’d visited the hospital. And like last time, all he was missing were the bolts through his neck . . .
Susan must’ve broken out the good tea set, because they all had delicate china cups and saucers. The matching pot, milk jug, and sugar bowl sat on the coffee table, alongside a plate stacked with chocolate biscuits.
Don’t know what they’d been talking about, but Susan was chuckling away to herself.
And they all turned to smile at Roberta.
Except for Kensington, of course – grim-faced wank that he was.
Genghis scooted across the rug to Susan, yipping and bouncing and wagging. Got his ears rubbed for his trouble.
‘Robbie: look who’s here to see you.’ Fussing away at Genghis. ‘Who’s Mummy’s little man? You are. Yes you are!’
Rifkind stood. ‘How’s the head, Roberta? I must say you’re looking well. Retirement suits you.’
Liar. Especially given how flushed and sweaty she was.
Roberta scowled at Susan. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘I was just telling your lovely wife about the Finnish Ambassador’s penchant for “sauna diplomacy”, and the American official who thought they were all getting naked for an entirely different reason.’
Susan giggled. ‘Oh, Robbie, he’d taken two Viagra!’
Roberta pulled her shoulders back. ‘You came all this way just to tell my wife dirty stories? And there was me thinking Organised Crime and Counter Terrorism had no sense of humour.’
A kind smile. ‘Wonderful as the delightful Susan is, we’re actually here to talk to you, Roberta.’
Shock fucking horror.
‘On or off the record?’
Rifkind bent over to ply Susan with that auld-mannie charm. ‘Susan, my darling, could I possibly bother you for a mashed banana on buttered toast? Sorry to be a nuisance, but I’m supposed to keep an eye on my blood sugar, and I’ve been a bit “headless chicken” today.’ Wincing. ‘I know it’s a pain.’
‘Oh, of course, not at all.’ She popped Genghis back on the rug. ‘We have a partner at the firm who’s type-one. I’ll just be a tick.’ Then bustled off.
‘You’re so kind.’ The smile widened. ‘No hurry, take your time!’ Then, as soon as the door closed, the charming old fart act disappeared – replaced by something far sharper. ‘I understand you met someone interesting yesterday, Roberta.’
Keeping one eye on the lump by the mantelpiece, she thudded onto the couch, taking Susan’s place. ‘I meet lots of people.’
Kensington folded his arms. ‘Don’t play cute; answer the question.’
‘This particular “someone interesting”,’ Rifkind settled back into his seat, ‘would have been at Graeme Anderson’s pied-à-terre. Near Newmachar? I believe you paid a visit, with one Detective Constable Owen Harmsworth.’
She scowled back. ‘How do you know where I’ve been?’
‘Hoy!’ Kensington bared his teeth. ‘Answer the question!’
Two could play the snarling game. Roberta stuck two fingers up for good measure. ‘You think you scare me, Princess? I’ve flushed scarier shites than you.’
He opened his mouth to answer back, but Rifkind got there first:
‘Now, now, Matthew: don’t be rude to Roberta.’ Tutting. ‘In her own home too.’
The big lump glared at her, then sniffed and took a delicate sip from his bone-china cup – little finger extended.
Rifkind sat forward. ‘Let’s just say it’s our job to know where certain pieces are on the chessboard.
How they move; where they go.’ He pursed his lips, as if choosing his next words with care.
‘Now, I know you had a somewhat . . . chequered career at NE Division, but people tell me you actually care about what happens. Right versus wrong. Good versus evil. Justice may be an old-fashioned concept in this post-truth world, but some of us still believe in it.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Which is why I think you’ll do the right thing and help us.’
She snorted. ‘And what’s in it for me?’
That made the old bugger blink. ‘“In it”?’
‘For me.’ Letting that sink in for a couple of breaths. ‘As a sandy-crotched lynchpin of mine once said: “Only a fool would police Aberdeenshire for free.”’
‘I see.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, it’s highly irregular, but what would you want?’
‘A favour.’ Genghis leapt up beside her, burying his pointy head in her lap as she made herself comfortable.
‘I’m guessing you don’t mean Hector The Defector: Anderson’s house-slash-rent-boy with the white-nationalist tattoos.
Which leaves “Stephanie” – and a fiver says that’s no’ her real name.
Mockney accent thick enough to tarmac drives with?
Speaks . . . Russian – I’m guessing – like a native? ’
Rifkin’s other eyebrow joined the first.
Bingo.
Roberta smiled, stroking Genghis’s scruffy fur – giving Rifkind and Kensington her best Ernst Stavro Blofeld. ‘Which makes me wonder why you and Lurch here have such a stiffy for Graeme Anderson. Hmmm . . .’ Stroke, stroke, stroke.
What was it Tufty said about the explosion?
Right: ‘A wee birdie told me, the detonator on that car bomb was called a “Kremlin Kaboom”.’
Wait a minute . . .
Her eyes narrowed. ‘The little bastards!’
Rifkind applauded, beaming like a proud parent. ‘I have to say how refreshing it is to see a police officer actually put all those disparate pieces together.’
Which should’ve sounded horribly patronising, but he looked so genuinely chuffed it came off as a compliment.
Didn’t do anything to quench the fire growing in the back of Roberta’s head, though. Spreading through her skull in scorching waves. ‘It was them, wasn’t it. Graeme Bloody Anderson bombed his own press conference, so he could pose as a hero and everyone would vote for him!’
Startled by all this, Genghis hopped down to the rug and spun around a few times, growling at his own bum.
She lurched to her feet, fists clenched. ‘The fuckers blew me up!’
Pink flushed through Kensington’s cheeks. ‘Language!’
This time she only gave him the one finger. ‘That’s why the car bomb detonated so far away from Anderson’s house: he didn’t want to damage his bloody paintwork!’
Rifkind tilted his head to one side. ‘Which means . . .?’
‘He’s working with the Russians. And those manky Kremlin wankers put a racist prick in Parliament. And I bet he’s not the first. Probably with more pricks to follow.’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’
Which meant ‘yes’.
Roberta banged her walking stick against the floor, setting Genghis growling. ‘So arrest him!’
Rifkind poured himself a top-up of tea. Adding a splosh of milk, stirring it in with one of Susan’s grandma’s silver spoons.
Taking his time. ‘Some people think foreign interests have their sticky little fingers in every single one of our political parties. Russians, Israelis, Americans, Chinese . . . Even the French. Funnelling money, here – advice and social media campaigns, there. Bot networks. Influencers. Opposition research. And plain, good-old-fashioned blackmail.’ A wink.
‘You’d be surprised what you can achieve with a hidden video camera and two under-age girls in a Moscow hotel room. ’
Kensington sniffed. ‘Allegedly.’
‘And then there’s the sabotage, the arson, the hacking, abductions, assassinations.
Polonium tea and Novichok on door handles.
’ Rifkind shrugged. ‘You see, Roberta, what everyone fails to understand is that we are at war. We’ve been at war for years and years.
Decades. We’re all just too polite to talk about it.
’ A sip of non-radioactive Tetley. ‘And in the interests of the war effort, I’m going to ask you very nicely to leave Graeme Anderson and his little friends to me. ’
What?
‘HE BLEW ME UP!’ Flinging a hand in the direction of Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. ‘I spent a month and a half in hospital! I’ve got a three-inch titanium plate in my fucking skull, because of him!’
Kensington stepped forwards. ‘I said, watch your language!’
This time he got both middle fingers.
His jaw clenched.
Roberta’s fists tightened.
Because if this massive lump of steamed shite thought he was too big to get her boot right up his—
The living-room door swung open, and Susan appeared, carrying a tray with a slice of buttered-and-banana’d toast – cut diagonally, to impress – on a nice serving dish, beside a small orange ramekin and a couple of napkins.
‘Sorry that took so long.’ She handed the tray to Rifkind.
‘There’s sea salt in the pinch pot, in case you don’t like it too sweet. ’
He beamed. ‘Ah, lovely Susan, you are too kind.’ He took the toast and sprinkled it with salt. Bit. Chewed. Eyes closed. ‘Mmmmm . . . Perfection.’
‘Oh, I’m so . . .’ She frowned at Roberta. Then at Kensington. Then at Genghis, standing there with his hackles up. ‘Is everything OK?’
Silence.
Rifkind took another bite. Dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘That rather remains to be seen. Doesn’t it, Roberta?’
More silence.
‘Aye, it does.’