A. Zander - Moscow City

The smell of fresh death hit them when they opened the door. Both detectives had smelt it before, but neither had got used to it. A neighbour had heard strange noises coming from the flat the previous evening, but had waited until the next morning to call the police. One of the uniformed officers that arrived to investigate was bent over, dry retching into the front garden. The other was sitting on the wall with his hands clasped together, trying to stop them from shaking. They were both young. Every copper will see a body eventually. The lucky ones see something natural the first time, but these two weren’t lucky.

DS Cohen and DC Russell stepped into the hall. The carpet was old and worn with elaborate red patterns. A large pile of unopened post had been pushed to the side. Cohen bent down and picked up a few of the letters. Most of it looked like junk and there were a few obscure academic journals. They were on a variety of subjects: physics; maths; politics. Everything was addressed to Simeon Cavendish.

“Looks like he had a few bob,” said Russell. “Anyone who can afford to have a place like this and not even bother to rent it out is probably not struggling.”

The stairs creaked as the two detectives plodded up to the main landing. There was a small kitchen at the top with some dirty plates and forks in the sink. Cohen pushed the lid of the bin and saw some empty Chinese takeaway trays. He picked the packaging out. Beijing Paradise, Warwick Avenue . It was local, close to the tube station. The delivery guy would have been here. They were going to have to talk to him later. Cohen heard Russell poking around in the bedroom and walked through to join him.

“Not much in here,” said Russell. “Bed hasn’t been slept in for ages it looks like. No clothes in the cupboards.”

The door to the lounge was slightly open. Cohen walked up to it and grabbed the handle. The smell got stronger as he pushed the door open and walked inside. The windows were covered with thick curtains, starving the room of any natural light. The three dark shapes at the end of the room could have been anything when Cohen looked towards them. He stood for a few seconds in the dark until Russell walked up behind him and flicked on the light.

“What a fucking mess,” said Russell, striding into the centre of the room.

The three bodies were tied to wooden chairs facing the detectives. There were smatterings of blood on the walls and fireplace. More covered the floor, but it had blended into the red carpet. The small man on the left was dressed in a suit and had been shot in the head and chest. The man in the middle wore jeans with an expensive designer shirt and no tie. His shoes looked Italian. They were made of brown leather and were still shiny. His throat had been slit. A knife had been put into the side of his neck and pulled forward, slicing his windpipe, bleeding him almost dry. Cohen could see their deaths had been quick, but the third man hadn’t been so lucky. The man on the end was older than the other two. He had a strong head of silver hair and wore a tweed jacket with cream chinos. His shoes and socks had been removed and so had his toenails. There was an iron sitting on the floor next to him still plugged into the socket. His shirt had been ripped open and there were two deep burn marks on his chest. The melted flesh had dripped down onto his stomach. Russell walked around the back of the three bodies, taking a closer look. Cohen had never seen him flinch in these type of situations. He seemed to view dead bodies like waxworks. Separating the person from the corpse had never been an issue for Russell.

“How do you think the third one died?” said Cohen.

“I think this might have something to do with it,” said Russell, pointing at the back of the man’s head.

Cohen walked round and saw the knife stuck in his skull. It had been twisted after it was inserted. “Whatever they wanted out of these three, it must have been pretty important.”

“How do you know they wanted something?” said Russell. “Some people just do this shit because they get a kick out of it. I’ve seen it before.”

“Which one do you think is Cavendish?” said Cohen.

“Looks like the man here with the knife in his head was the main attraction,” said Russell. “I imagine the other two would’ve had to sit back and watch the horror show before they got done in.”

A shout came from downstairs. Cohen walked back onto the landing and leant over the bannister. The officer that was sick in the garden was standing just inside the door. “Forensics are here, do you want them to come up?”

“Yeah, send them in,” shouted Cohen. “And get the cordons up. We don’t want the public wandering past the scene all morning.”

Cohen walked back into the lounge. Russell had opened a chocolate bar and was munching away at it as he examined some pictures on the mantelpiece. The men in white suits came into the room and started to examine the scene. Cohen made his way downstairs to the street, leaving Russell to take charge of the situation. He took in a deep lungful of fresh air. He’d seen worse, but the trick with the iron was something new. He tried to imagine the pain of having a scolding iron shoved onto his chest. The knife in the back of the head must have been sweet relief.

Several members of the public had started to hang around the edge of the cordon. One of the uniforms was chatting to them and keeping them from walking towards the house. From the back of the crowd, two men in grey suits approached the officer and flashed some ID. They ducked under the tape and walked over to him.

“DS Cohen?” one of them said.

“That’s right, how can I help you gents?”

“We’re with the Foreign Office. I’m Walker and this is Varndon. We know this is your investigation, but we just need to have a look around.”

“And what interest does the Foreign Office have in our case?”

“We need to have a look around,” said Varndon. “Here’s a number to call if you want to get some confirmation.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that lads. This is a crime scene and no one gets in or out until my people have finished. You’ll have to step back behind the cordon.”

Cohen felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was the station.

“Cohen speaking.”

“Cohen, it’s Lisa. I’ve just had someone very senior ring me to make sure you don’t hassle two suits that are going to turn up at your crime scene. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but don’t get in their way or we’re both in hot water.” Walker and Varndon seemed to know exactly what was being said on the other end of the phone. Cohen put the phone back in his pocket.

“Looks like it’s all yours,” said Cohen, stepping aside.

They walked past him and up the path into the house. Russell came out a few minutes later and walked over to where Cohen was standing. He offered him a cigarette and they both sparked up.

“Who are the new kids then?” said Russell.

“They say they’re from the Foreign Office.”

“From the FCO? What do they want here?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Get back up there and keep an eye on them. I need to speak to the Guvnor.”

The insomnia seemed to have eased a little. There must have been at least two hours sleep since the last time his eyes snapped open. Matt Harper reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. Just as the liquid was about to reach his lips, he smelt the gin and jerked his head back. He put the glass down and looked around for something else to drink. He picked up an open can of coke from the floor and took a swig. It was flat and warm, but he finished it off. He sat up and let the room come more into focus. His throat was dry and his head had a light thud, but other than that, he felt okay.