Robert Parker - Snow Storm

The nurses weren’t much better. He’d thought he could at least while away some time by giving them some of his diamond chat, but real life, it seemed, was not like a carry-on film, even if one of the nurses was a dead ringer for Kenneth Williams.

They’d been celebrating their arses off the previous afternoon. They’d all agreed to head to The Alexander Graham Bell to get some cheap Wetherspoons booze. He’d thrown up on arrival. He could remember that but everything else was a bit hazy. He remembered getting confused talking to a girl who said she was from Irvine but who he thought had said she was from Girvan, or was it the other way round?

That was about the time the short chavy guy had started on Alistair. Had he done the gallant thing and stood in between them and the girl from Irvine? Was that why he was here? It seemed likely the more he thought about it, on the off chance she’d thought him chivalrous and wanted to take him home.

Everything had escalated quickly after that. Punches were thrown and then the fat guy appeared, like some kind of Tasmanian devil, just whirling around, a ball of chaos catching everything in his path. He thought that was what had happened. He’d got sucked in by the gravity of that ball and now he was busy trying not to throw up or see everything in duplicate. Kenneth Williams had told him it would all be fine, before dishing out a breakfast that would have had most people checking out early possibly literally and metaphorically, regardless of their symptoms.

When the suited and booted guy stood before him his task was much easier than expected. He introduced himself as Giles Herriot-Watt and at first Simon thought he must be taking the piss.

Jones put in a call to the Met. There was something inherently hard core sounding in the act, so much so that she had to resist telling anyone who would listen that was what she was about to do. It just sounded cool; like she was dealing with the big hitters, rather than simply making a call to London.

Williams hadn’t been reported missing but his last known address had been in London. His record was surprisingly blank for a man supposedly involved in the drug game. Campbell’s theory was starting to look almost as thin as his hair, though she still found it curious that it all fitted together so well; the timing and the execution method as well as the seemingly tit for tat nature of Karpov’s demise following so soon. At least the fact that he was last known at his parents address in Dulwich meant that she wouldn’t have to break the bad news. That wasn’t conducive to a restful night’s sleep in her albeit limited experience.

She got a call back from a DS Carter, who said he’d dispatched someone to tell the parents, who didn’t seem to think he’d been missing. As far as they’d been aware he was a civil servant and just worked a lot.

Social media wasn’t being overly helpful either. He didn’t leave much of a footprint. No Linkedin profile, Facebook account, Twitter, Myspace or even Bebo, not that seemed to be for her Leon Williams anyway. There was an accountant, a key account manager (salesman), CEO (wannabe entrepreneur) and a film director (who for some reason appeared to be temporarily working as a data entry clerk these past five years.) Myspace revealed a musician, but one that was a bit too pasty faced and a bit too folky to be her Leon Williams.

She could find no details on yell.com either. It seemed she was dealing with a ghost.

“ It all seems a bit spookish,” DS Carter said, having recounted the same information from their end.

“ Surely you mean spooky.” Jones said.

“ Do I?” he asked.

Burke had almost given up. He was reaching the end of his rope on this one. The chances of Andreyevich falling on his knees and confessing to everything for the sake of any kind of deal ranged between slim and fuck all. Edwards had his eye on the bigger picture and that was only fair he supposed. If the guy wanted to head to a bigger hunting ground then he deserved a shot at it, if only for having the nerve to keep going in the face of what if he was honest looked like a case that was dead in the water.

There was no way Andreyevich was giving anything up, on principle as much as anything. He could not be seen to be cooperating with authority, by his own conscience as much as anyone else. Whether through brainwashing or otherwise it was likely he’d fully embraced those principles in full. There was nothing half-arsed about him. He knew that now for sure. He’d needed something to convince him of the Lithuanian’s commitment to his chosen order, to silence the doubting voices in his own head and had gone to speak to him in the cells, have a heart to heart so to speak. The older man was not, it seemed up for playing ball.

He had begun to wonder if Andreyevich in fact spoke any English other than the phase “no comment” but confirmed the opposite to be true when John McKay suggested as much in his own broad tones. The snarl from Andreyevich, the look of utter distaste and their ignorance of not only his own culture but his level of knowledge of others was barely suppressed.

He’d brought the guy a coffee, even gone to Starbucks to get it as a peace offering. Maybe they could discuss things in a civilised way, like two grown men while Edwards was at this point ensconced in Burke’s office, where he continued to camp out with his two underlings and their various laptops. The place was starting to look like an anti tardis; full of gadgets sixties sci-fi writers could scarcely have imagined.

He thought maybe he could extract something from Andreyevich, even if it was only something more than Edwards had. Had to be better than the square root of fuck all.

As it turned out, Mr Andreyevich was still not receptive to conversation. His eyebrows did most if not all of the talking, both being raised as if to say nice try pal when Burke handed over the bucket of overpriced sugar syrup and milk, having guessed he was not a double decaf soya latte man. Looking at him, he was more a double chin mocha. He made several attempts at conversation all the while looking at The Times on his phone in a “we’re here for as long as it takes” type of gesture he was fairly certain only worked in films.

“They say it’s to snow again.” That’s it get him talking about the weather. It’s not as if people who do talk to you can even be bothered with that Burke thought. “Of course, you’d be used to that I guess. I take it you get plenty of the white stuff out there in Vilnius? Probably deal with it more effectively than we do here too. The media do pretty well out of it though. They do pretty well out of all the different types of white stuff it would seem. My colleague, Detective Inspector Edwards, the one with the latest haircut and the taste for skiwear, you remember him, he’s the one who likes to talk a lot.”

Another movement of the eyebrows.

“Well he’s of the opinion, Victor, can I call you Victor? What the hell, I can call you Victor. We’re in a jail cell together. I suspect you’re next cell mate may be even more friendly than that. See what happens when you don’t answer? I just keep talking, anyway I’m sure you’re no stranger to being jail gay.”

Andreyevich looked at him pitifully.

“As of course your friend Oleg was. His tattoos gave that much away and I’d be willing to guess his boyfriend will give a whole lot more away when he comes in Victor.”

Victor stood up quickly, too quickly, given the fact he was holding a cup of hot coffee Burke had made extra hot by microwaving until it bubbled. The syrupy liquid doused his sleeve sticking it to his arm and he let out a yelp like a wounded animal. He tore of his shirt to reveal his own life story in pretty prison pictures and Burke paid attention, looking for specifics and finding what he needed.