Adrian Magson - Execution

Votrukhin fanned his face with one of the photos and nodded. ‘I get it. Use the rabble to find her. But which ones?’

‘All of them. But concentrate on illegals from the east; them we can talk to.’ Illegals had more to lose, and far more to gain by earning any kind of reward. And those from the east had a much stronger network of their own kind to use and mobilise. In addition, if Votrukhin and Serkhov had to lean on anyone, the last thing an illegal would do was complain to the police for fear of compromising their position.

‘What about the Englishman?’ Votrukhin asked. ‘Did he come good?’

‘Yes, he did.’ Gorelkin opened out a map of London. It had a series of coloured dots on it. The furthest south was a short distance from King’s College. There were six more, all in a line leading towards central London, all black. The last black dot was at Waterloo Station.

‘These black dots represent firm sightings of Jardine,’ Gorelkin explained. ‘They end at Waterloo Station, but there’s an imperfect shot of a figure across the river near Charing Cross Station which could be her.’

‘The blue ones,’ said Serkhov, ‘are they possibles only?’

‘Yes. Either the image was poor or it was too far to tell for certain. There would have been others bearing a similarity to Jardine, of course, but the blue ones are in line with where she might have gone, so we don’t discount those.’

He placed one hand on the paper, forming a curve with his thumb and forefinger. The curve embraced the area of Battersea in the south right up to Waterloo Station and the Embankment in the north, including where the river bent eastwards towards the area of Southwark and London Bridge. ‘Start here by the river and work your way across to the north and west. She is in that area somewhere. Maybe north of the river by now, maybe not. Use those you can trust to spread the photos.’

‘What does Paulton think?’ Votrukhin ventured a question. ‘He’s the expert. Does he have an opinion he’d like to share with us?’

‘Only that Victoria is probably a good area for anyone to hide. Lots of tourists, lots of movement, cheap hotels and faces nobody remembers.’

‘It’s still a hell of an area.’ Votrukhin picked up the map and folded it, nodding at Serkhov to bring the box of photos. He might not like what they had to do, but refusing Gorelkin’s orders was not an option.

Gorelkin smiled and checked his watch. ‘You’re correct, lieutenant; it’s a big area. It’s now eight o’clock. Do it right and you should have this part of London covered by nightfall.’ He stood up, straightening his jacket. ‘Find her, deal with her. . and you might just be forgiven for letting her go in the first place.’

Harry and Rik had had the same idea, although they were working with a better head and shoulders shot of Clare, from JPEGs supplied by Ballatyne. They were at least three years old but clearer than any CCTV shot. They also had the advantage of being less likely to arouse suspicion among those they approached that she had been filmed by a security camera, and was therefore on the run from the authorities.

Harry had abandoned any idea of checking the neighbourhood where Clare had once lived, on the simple grounds that she wasn’t the nostalgic sort and wouldn’t bother returning there.

They reached Victoria Station and began to ask around, having decided to split up and work their way south towards the river. It was dog work, requiring them to go into the darkest corners they could find, but necessary if they wanted to reach the most obvious people — the ones Clare might have met in the past few days. They approached street hostels, rough sleeper communities, figures huddled in sleeping bags and beneath layers of cardboard; they checked doorways and empty premises, squats and renovation sites, spoke to traffic wardens and sweepers, rail workers and cafe owners. The response became numbingly similar, mostly in the negative. But equally depressing were the possible sightings too vague or too long ago to follow up easily, from individuals trying to help, yet offering a tantalising hint that Clare was out there somewhere.

By midday, they had exhausted their supply of photos, and were forced to take Rik’s memory stick into a printer to get more produced.

‘She might have moved further out,’ Rik suggested, as they sat and drank coffee, waiting for the photos. ‘Or north of here. There are plenty of squats beyond Park Lane, fancy big places waiting to be renovated.’

Harry knew he was right. But they couldn’t afford to spread the search too thin. They were already overstretched as it was. Clare could be anywhere in the city, he knew that; but it was simply his instinct that placed her somewhere within reach.

He took out his mobile and composed a text. This one wasn’t for Ballatyne.

We can help you. Ring me. He paused, wondering what he could use as an identifier. To Clare, on the run and hurting, this text could easily be a trap to lure her out of hiding. Then he had it. He added, Pink Compact. So not your colour. He dialled the number of Fortiani’s mobile and pressed Send.

‘Have you seen this woman?’ Serkhov shoved the photo under the nose of a man sitting in the doorway of a day hostel a hundred yards south of Victoria Station. The doors were locked and the alcove reeked of urine. Serkhov tried not to throw up at the rank body odour coming off him.

‘Say what, pal?’ The eyes were slate grey and unfocussed, his greasy skin a network of veins and ingrained dirt. The neck of a bottle stuck out from his coat pocket.

Serkhov swore silently and gave up. He’d seen drunks like this too many times to be surprised. Back in Moscow they were a feature of the landscape, high on illicit vodka or samogon , and the cheap chacha as it was known in Georgia, all liable to be dangerously toxic. He placed the heel of his hand on the man’s forehead and slammed his head back against the door. He wished instantly that he could wash his hands and turned away in disgust.

Across the street, Votrukhin watched and shook his head. He placed a mint on his tongue, allowing the sharp flavour to spread around his mouth. Given time, he’d have used more subtle methods and picked their targets more carefully, chatting first to gain their confidence, maybe even buying them a drink or two. But time was something he didn’t have, and subtlety an art Serkhov had never possessed.

They had already handed out dozens of photos in the area, and secured the dubious promises of several illegals to hand out more and spread the word about the missing woman to the north and east. For the most part, that meant waiting to see what came back. But in the meantime, doing something was better than nothing, and might keep Gorelkin off their backs.

He turned and walked along the street, Serkhov following a parallel path on the other side. A street sweeper in a bright orange tabard was scooping up some litter. He stopped alongside him, holding out the still of Jardine taken from the CCTV footage.

‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Have you seen this girl? She’s thought to be in the area. She discharged herself from hospital and could be in danger.’

The man squinted at the photo for a second, then shook his head. ‘No, pal, I haven’t seen her. Like I told the other bloke, there’s a thousand look just like her walk past here every day. Sorry.’

Votrukhin thanked him and was about to walk away when he stopped. ‘The other man? Big with a shaved head?’ If it matched, it would be Serkhov, but he hadn’t been working this area until now — and then only across the street.

‘No. Young guy, spiky hair. Looked like a charity worker but he wasn’t.’