Chapter 5 Arkady
Arkady
She is halfway up the stairs when I turn back to my office. My phone is ringing again.
Kosta.
I answer it immediately. “Yeah?”
“He isn’t talking.”
“He, being the arsehole who took a shot at me?”
“You want him?”
“Bring him to me.” I hang up. I had a feeling this was going to be the case. Professionals don’t talk unless they are made to. Kosta is effective. He isn’t me.
Vik fills the doorway, and I look up. “And?”
“The place was clean, videos wiped, and first responders called. They’re there now. Expect a call.”
“Did you get it?”
He holds up the briefcase. “Of course.” He slaps it on the desk. “Pakhan.” He bows his head slightly and steps back.
“Don’t start with that bullshit,” I mutter. “We have bigger issues.”
“Bigger issues than you becoming pakhan?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
I place my fists on the desk and lean forward, staring at the briefcase. “Much bigger. The crown can wait. We’ve got incoming regarding the Alina Belova case. She doesn’t see him, he doesn’t see her. She doesn’t even know he is here. Keep her locked up.”
“Understood.” Vik nods and leaves.
I stare at the briefcase. It can wait.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
“Saranov.”
“Arkady Saranov? This is Detective Inspector Morrison, Metropolitan Police. We need to speak about your father.”
I sit and lean back. “What about him?”
“We found his body earlier.”
I tune out the platitudes, remaining silent like I’m in shock. The truth is, I’m surprised it took this long.
“Where?”
“His residence in Belgravia.”
“What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine. When did you last speak to him?”
The memory of the gunshot echoes in my skull. “Yesterday evening. Around eight.”
“And the nature of that conversation?”
“Family business.” I let silence stretch. They can interpret that however they want.
“We’d like to come over for a formal interview.”
“Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp.”
“Of course,” he says.
I can tell he is pissed off. He wanted me to go there, and he wanted me there today. Tough shit. Saranovs don’t work on other people’s timelines.
“Is there anything else?” I ask.
“Not at this time, Mr Saranov. Our condolences for your loss.” He knows he won’t get fuck all out of me, so why bother trying? If they suspected me, they’d be here arresting me.
I hang up and toss the phone onto the desk.
The police will be a nuisance, but a manageable one.
They’ll ask their questions, tick their boxes, and file their reports.
They won’t find anything useful because there’s nothing to find.
Whoever did this, knew exactly what they were doing.
Then the Saranov contacts inside the Met will take over, and I can forget about them while I work on finding out who made me pakhan without my consent.
I move the briefcase under my desk. I don’t want to look at it. What I need to do is prepare for Kosta’s arrival downstairs.
The basement of my house isn’t a place for polite conversation. It’s soundproofed, windowless, and equipped with everything necessary to extract information from people who’d rather keep their mouths shut.
The neighbours would be horrified to learn that under their multimillion-pound mansions, evil lurked. It makes me smile.
I make my way downstairs and flip on the overhead lights. The concrete walls absorb the harsh fluorescent glare. A single chair sits in the centre, bolted to the floor. Metal restraints gleam like surgical instruments.
Footsteps echo on the stairs. Heavy boots, the shuffle of someone being dragged.
Kosta appears first, his bulk filling the doorway, followed by two of his men hauling a figure between them.
The man’s head lolls forward, dark hair matted with blood.
His clothes are torn, face swollen from whatever Kosta did to soften him up.
“Wake him,” I order after they’ve sat him down and restrained him.
One of Kosta’s men produces a bottle of water and dumps it over the man’s head. He jerks upright, blinking rapidly, trying to focus. When his gaze lands on me, I see recognition flicker across his features.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask, pulling up a metal stool and sitting directly in front of him.
He spits blood onto the concrete floor. “Fuck you.”
“Wrong answer.” I nod to Kosta, who steps forward and drives his fist into the man’s ribs. The crack echoes off the walls. The man doubles over, gasping.
“Let’s try again,” I say calmly. “Who sent you after the woman in the nightclub?” I’m not giving him her name. He might not even know it. She seems to think she was hidden from the underworld. Although I doubt it, I’m not ratting her out by being stupid.
Silence except for his laboured breathing.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “You shot at my car. You had syringes full of fentanyl. You were hunting a specific target. This wasn’t random, so don’t insult my intelligence.
” I study his face carefully, cataloguing every micro-expression.
Fear, defiance, calculation. He’s weighing his options, trying to decide if whoever sent him is scarier than what’s sitting in front of him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says finally.
I stand and walk to the wall where Kosta has laid out various tools. I select a pair of pliers and test their grip. The man’s breathing quickens.
“Here’s what I think happened,” I say, turning the pliers over in my hands. “You’ve been following her. Stalking her. You saw your opportunity and decided to go in. Unlucky for you, I was there and saw you coming a mile away.” I tap the pliers on top of his head. “Not very subtle.”
“We don’t get paid enough for subtle,” he rasps.
There it is. The first crack.
I sit back down and rotate the pliers in front of me. “We. So there are more of you.”
His eyes dart away, realising his mistake. I can see him trying to backtrack, but it’s too late. The word is out there, hanging in the air between us.
“How many?” I ask.
He presses his lips together, jaw set in defiance.
I sigh and stand up, walking around him until I’m looming over him. Crouching down, I grip his hand and press the pliers around his little finger.
“Wait!” The man’s voice cracks. “Wait, fuck, just—”
“You’ve got five seconds.”
“Four of us. Maybe five. I don’t know the whole operation, I swear. We took turns to watch her on rota. I don’t know any names. Only the time slots. I had last night. I followed her there.”
“Who is she?” I put some pressure on the pliers, and he jerks hard.
“I don’t know,” he spits out. “I don’t fucking care.”
“So you watched this woman, and you didn’t even bother to look up her name?”
“I don’t give a shit. I care about being paid, not involving myself in shit that doesn’t concern me.”
Great. So we get the one guy who is as curious as a fucking streetlamp. Sounds about right.
Pissed off with that assessment, I clamp down on the finger and close my eyes, revelling in the grunt of pain as I sever the finger.
“Who paid you?” I ask, opening my eyes again.
“I don’t know his name. We called him the Client. Money came through a dead drop. Cash only. No contact except instructions.”
“What were the instructions?”
His breathing is ragged now, pain making his words tumble over each other. “Watch her. Learn her routine. When she was vulnerable, and wouldn’t cause a scene, take her and call it in with further instructions.”
“So, you don’t know the name of the fucker who ordered the abduction, and you don’t know where you were taking her?”
“No, I swear.”
“Shame. You probably need these fingers. Tough shit.” I move the pliers over and remove the next finger.
He screams, probably louder than he’d like. I move the pliers over again and remove the third finger.
By the time I’m done with his hand, he’s sobbing and begging, but he’s given me nothing useful. Just a ghost employer who pays through dead drops and gives instructions through burner phones. Professional setup, which means someone with resources and brains.
Dima looms into view and gestures upstairs with his head. With a frown, I drop the pliers on the ground at my feet and move out, grabbing the damp cloth he hands me on my way out to wipe my hands.
“What is it?” I clip out.
“She’s asking for you.”
I stop dead. He nearly, nearly, slams into the back of me, but somehow stops himself, which is impressive for such a massive man. “And you interrupted me because?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “She is wearing my patience down.”
A smile tugs at my lips. She must be really causing a scene to make Dima lose his rag.
I shove the bloody cloth at him and take the stairs that lead to the ground floor.
My smile widens when I hear a pounding coming from upstairs, which sounds remarkably like she is trying to break the door down.
Probably with the brass elephant ornament from the corner of the room.
I’m going to enjoy making her pay for damaging such an expensive item. It’s time to tame this little wildcat.