Alek Popov - Mission London

The hatred of the people of Twickenham for their richer neighbours from Richmond was well known, but this time it had gone beyond all reasonable limits.

“I categorically deny any such insinuations!” Dale’s voice trembled in indignation. “I personally oversee the feeding of the birds and can assure you that we never give them anything that is beyond its sell-by date. I have the documentation to prove it!”

“Susan Tipper, Richmond Press.” A short-haired, ash-blonde woman, in a stylish beige jacket, stood up. “Mr Rutherford, is it possible that the ducks may have suddenly migrated owing to worsening ecological conditions?”

“I strongly doubt it,” replied Dale coldly. “I believe that I know the character of these ducks better than anyone. And I can assure you that they felt entirely at home in their habitat.”

“Detective Coleway, what is the police’s take on the incident?” the new question came in a flash.

Nat Coleway’s thick brows furrowed, and he said tiredly, “I think we’re dealing with a robbery.”

He did not like long speeches, and the attention surrounding the incident was also annoying him. He did not feel remotely as though he had found the winning lottery ticket.

“How many ducks are missing?”

The detective blinked helplessly. Dale rushed to his aid, “Forty-five.”

The hall filled with a judgemental and hushed muttering, that sounded like breaking ice. Then an enraged voice was raised, “How is it possible for so many ducks to be stolen at once without Security so much as noticing?!”

Glares focused on Ray Solo, who had stayed wisely silent up until this point. His wide face blushed deeply. He smiled awkwardly and spread his hands. At that moment Nat Coleway intervened, “As far as we can tell, the ducks were drugged beforehand. That probably took place after the Park’s closure. The hit-men stayed hidden in the bushes of the Botanical Gardens near to the Pen-ponds. Then they gathered up the birds and made off under the cover of darkness.”

This new revelation dropped like a bomb. The journalists hurried to take notes. Nat looked over the auditorium with the bitter realisation that he’d lost control. He had drawn his conclusions from the fact that they had discovered some ears of wheat that had been dipped in Lidocaine, near to the ponds. He had to save those spicy details, however, in the interest of the investigation.

“What, in your opinion, might be the motive for such an abominable act?” cried an old lady, whose hat looked suspiciously duck-shaped.

Nat Coleway coughed into his fist, and said without feeling, “To eat them.”

“To eat them?!!” Her mouth dropped open in horror before she could cover it with her hand.

The assembly stared, sickened, as though the mere thought of such a thing was an outrageous attack on society’s mores. The figure of the Inspector suddenly darkened; it was no longer reliable, but guilty of the crudeness of spirit and secretive malevolence of the lower classes. If hecan think of such a thing,he could dosuch a thing. This frightful thought afflicted the most delicate amongst them. Then a youthful voice tore through the grey veil of despair like the carillon of church bells, “Do you think, sir, that these monsters will be caught quickly?”

The voice belonged to the young scout, Todd Robins. The presence of his youthful French teacher, with an arse like a horse, intoxicated him and made him want to shine with courage and nobility.

“Yes,” replied the Inspector laconically.

He felt that the public wanted more, but suddenly felt totally empty himself. As though he had spent the last penny from his purse. He had no more.

Ray Solo sat silently, his head bowed.

“They won’t get away with this so easily,” called out Dale Rutherford unexpectedly. “We’ve a small surprise in store for them too, which they won’t like at all.”

Nat Coleway reacted instantly: he grabbed Dale by the elbow and hissed in his ear, “Are you trying to ruin everything?!”

“What do you mean Mr Rutherford?” Kenneth Bowl of the Twickenham Star instantly jumped in.

Dale pulled himself together by force of will alone, and said, “All in good time.”

The cook had had a bad day. When he had finished his culinary duties, he was effectively free and could mess about as much as he liked. Which obviously annoyed the Ambassador. Varadin ordered him to paint the bathroom and the toilet at the residence. The cook was deeply displeased by this unusual task, but had little say in the matter. From time to time he found some excuse to go to the Embassy to check on the freezer. The battered old chest rumbled deeply in the depths of the kitchen, its lone red eye flickering. Having verified that all was well, the cook would then lock up the kitchen and return to his brush. He tried to phone Chavdar in the evening, but got no answer. And his mobile was switched off. The evil bastard’s hiding! He knew that when things slow down, they often head for disaster. The whole business with those ducks had looked dodgy to him from the very start, which was why he had wanted his share up front. They had duped him. Now he had a load of ducks but not a single penny in his pocket. His salary had run out two days previously. They were living off the remains of the last reception and the small savings that Norka managed to squirrel away.

Chavdar Tolomanov called the following day, in the afternoon. It was evident from his voice that he was not doing so of his own volition, but because some extreme circumstance forced him to. He was against the wall. He sounded frightened. “We have to meet up straight away!” he said quickly.

“What’s up?” asked Kosta, all his awful premonitions crowding round.

“I’ll explain, come over! I’m in the bar of the Consort, you know where it is, right?”

He knew. The Consort hotel was directly opposite the Embassy. It was owned by a Serb, for whom Chavdar had worked for ages, until they had eventually become friends. The hotel looked no different from the other well-maintained facades on that side of the street. It was equally unremarkable on the inside, although well kept; it was patronised by middle-of-the-road tourists, and Balkan citizens who foundthemselves in London fora varietyof reasons. It was reputed to be a nest of spies, and the diplomats avoided it as a rule. But that was not the case for the staff. In the Consort one could find work on the sly, trade in various small items, and on the whole it was a priceless source of supplementary income.

“Your health, Simich!” Kosta waved to the barman, who was mixing some cocktail behind the enormous bar.

“Good day,” Simich nodded.

He was a strong, blue-eyed, horse-faced Serb. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, with a black bowtie and played with his cocktail-shaker as though it were a hand-grenade. It was rumoured that Simich was wanted for crimes he had committed in Bosnia, but that did not stop the cook from providing him with cheap cigarettes from the Embassy. Simich always paid cash. Chavdar was sat at a small tablenearthewindow.Thebarwashalf-empty. Thecookapproached like a black thundercloud. His hands were spotted with paint.

“Have you got the cash?” he asked.

“Sit down,” Chavdar nodded.

The cook sat down unwillingly, the question still in his eyes. The actor looked worried and pale. He looked around and said in a low voice, “They nailed Batushka!”

“What?!” the cook’s eyes popped out of their sockets.

“They nailed him,” Chavdar repeated.

“How do you know?”

“Here, look at this!” Chavdar pulled out a paper and opened it before the cook’s eyes.

“Hmmm,” he mumbled; the headlines meant nothing to him. Chavdar pointed to a picture in the top right-hand corner, and read the following text, ‘Crime Wave strikes the West after Fall of Berlin Wall. Yesterday, at 6.30 pm, whilst leaving the Vodka restaurant, Azis Nikolayevich Asadurov, a citizen of the former USSR, was shot. Asadurov owed money to the Russian mafia, and had been hiding in the UK, according to police sources.’