GRAVE MATTER

SEVENTEEN

Katrin Cajthamlova's Paris studio is on swish Avenue Victor Hugo, a short walk from the Arc de Triomphe, in a building that houses the Icelandic embassy; a thickly-built man in a tightly-fitted suit opened the door with a false smile. He assumed Blanche and I looked at the haute-couture clothing and the impossibly high-heeled stilettos Cajthamlova designs and sold under her KC brand.

"They are press," Cajthamlova said when she spotted Blanche's notebook. She looked at the thickly-built man pleadingly and spoke with a note of panic in her voice. "They are here to talk about Daler Kuzyaev."

The man walked briskly to the door and opened it. "She will say no more to you," he said curtly in French. "She's had problems with the press. It's bad for her business."

I held up a hand in protest. "We are not the press, and we are investigating the death of Daler Kuzyaev, Robbie Chase, Igor Akinfeev and Alexis Zelenyy."

Cajthamlova is well over 6 feet tall, with white-blonde hair, sharp-angled features, and penetrating dark eyes; they looked frightened.

"Are they all dead?" she asks, her lips trembling.

"I'm afraid so," I say.

"It's hard to avoid the assumption that it's dangerous to your health to oppose the Russian government," she says, thoughtfully.

"If you take each case individually," I began, "you could argue that this one's a heart attack or a suicide or whatever. But if you put everything together, you realise that, blimey, we've got a mass murderer, with a modus operandi, killing an awful lot of people. So, my colleague and I have been picking our way through a burgeoning and at times bamboozling list of complex, interlinked questions as to just who would have wanted Daler Kuzyaev dead and how."

I paused for a few moments before continuing. "Miss Cajthamlova, The line has to be drawn at some point, but it is right that I explore all reasonable avenues. If that means asking friends, enemies, and lovers what information they might hold, then so be it. In the wake of the poisonings involving the MI6 double-agent and his daughter, the political and reputational stakes surrounding the proceedings are high."

"You better come up to my apartment," Cajthamlova whispered.

The apartment was high-ceiling, and after gesturing to a couple of chairs, she perched herself on an emerald, green left-hand velvet chaise lounge.

"So, how can I help?" She was trying to disguise her fear with a hint of warmth in her voice. It didn't work.

"How did you meet?" I ask.

"Through a dating agency, he paid for flights, smart hotels in Kiev, Nice and Paris, and meals together over eight months. We changed hotels and used false names, keeping the relationship secret. Our first date was in Kiev in a hotel when he flew out to see me. He made an excellent impression on me as a nice, educated man. The affair lasted about seven months."

"In the early days of your relationship, did he seem nervous or stressed?"

"No, he was in an excellent mood, and in good shape," Katrin answered. "I had dinner with him, and he didn't talk to me about his business, where he worked, what kind of business. He told me he had previously worked in Moscow but now lived in London. He never told me any details or names of the company where he worked."

"He never talked to you about his business problems?"

"He said that he moved because it was an easier life for him in London."

"What did he mean by that?"

"I didn't ask him any extra questions like that because I know that for the moment, a lot of Russians live in London, so it was normal."

"Did he mention why he left Russia?"

She shook her head. "No, he didn't. We just spent two days in Kiev and stayed in two hotels because he wanted to try a different one, but I did not get the impression he was moving so that people might not know where he was."

"How did you keep in touch?" Blanche suddenly asked, this time writing down everything that Katrin Cajthamlova was saying.

"We kept in touch, and he used different names, but he did not express concerns about work or his safety."

"Didn't it occur to you that his behaviour was a bit odd?" Blanche pressed

"It was secret for me too. I think he wanted to have some privacy from me, and I didn't ask him so many questions about that.

He also communicated with me for the first six months of our relationship under the name Sergei."

"Where did you meet up again?" I ask.

"We spent a relaxing three days in Nice, France, where he seemed in a quite good mood."

"Did he remain that way the whole time you were in Nice?"

She shook her head. "He would go off and make phone calls during lunch and dinner, and during one call, he seemed very loud, like he was screaming. He was very nervous when he spoke on the telephone."

"Did you ask him why he was shouting down the phone?"

"When he came back, I said Daler is everything fine? All he said was yes, it's work."

"And that was all he said?" I pressed.

"He never mentioned visiting Switzerland authorities," she added, "although he said he wanted to take me there in December."

"Did you know he spent some time in hospital?"

She nodded, "He did not explain why. Do you know?"

I shook my head, but I was lying.

"There have been some media reports that Daler's death has scuppered a lucrative deal with high-end fashion house after a senior partner broke things off amid fears of links to the Russian Mafia."

"Ridiculous," she snapped, finally showing some emotion.

"Did you notice any physical or psychological changes in Daler between the Paris trips and their earlier trysts?"

"No, I didn't."

"So, you didn't see, for example, that he had lost a significant amount of weight?"

She shook her head.

"When you met up in Paris, how was he?"

"At first, he was fine," she says, "life in Le Bastille is a hotel is a land of marble pillars, spotless mirrors, a walk-in closet, and bathrobes with designs of interwoven letters. The minibar is full of vodka and multiple brands of champagne. The sixth-floor hotel pool is gorgeously warm, with floor-to-ceiling windows with the Eiffel Tower on one side and the Sacré-Cœur Basilica on the other while you swam. But, he had paid for the romance package, which includes a bottle of champagne chilling in our room upon arrival with rose petals scattered on the bed."

"Sounds lovely," Blanche said quietly.

"It was," Katrin responded.

"Did you have s*x with him?" Blanche pressed.

"Only once in Paris," she says, not showing any offence to Blanche's direct question. "He was excellent."

A short silence followed.

"Kuzyaev credit card bills suggest that you both dined your way around Paris over your forty-eight hours in the city," I began, after clearing my throat. "He spent hundreds of euros feasting not only at Le Bastille, which has two Michelin-starred restaurants attached to it but also the nearby Four Flavours and Le Carillons, a five-star hotel across the street from the U.S. embassy."

"He spent hundreds of euros when we went shopping, and he bought me a Prada bag and Louis Vuitton shoes," she replies, "but he sat looking at his telephone, and I was upset because he didn't give me enough attention. When we returned to our hotel, he ate two apples, and later we went for dinner at the Buddha Bar. He'd booked three other restaurants that night he took me to the Buddha Bar. The question here was, is this habit of making multiple table bookings merely the whim of an indecisive gastronome. Or is it a diversionary tactic to make life harder for poison-carrying assassins? We never went to any other places, and he always told me where we would be going in advance. When we arrived at the Buddha Bar, he chose a seat where he could see more of the people in the restaurant."

"You told the French police he was watching the entrance a lot, taking great interest in what was going on around him, and not looking after you very much."

"He always had at least two telephones with him."

"You told the French police that Daler appeared very stressed during the meal and kept going outside to take phone calls that seemed to spook him."

"Yes," Katrin confirmed, "but I never personally heard what he said in any of the chats and never inquired into his businesses."

"Do you think he wanted to see what was going on in the restaurant? Watch the people there?" I ask. "Or did you think he was just a bit selfish?"

'He was looking for people around us," she says, "it was a boisterous restaurant, so I didn't have time to speak to him. His mood wasn't very nice. He was on another planet. He didn't want to communicate so much to me, and I was upset."

'Do you think he was worried about people in the restaurant?' I press.

"I think he was a little bit stressed," she replies.

"Did he say why?"

She shakes her head. "I didn't understand the reason why he was stressed, because it was nearly all French people in the restaurants, very old people. I was feeling very relaxed at this time. So, I didn't understand why he was so stressed."

"What did he have to eat at the restaurant?"

"Daler ordered tempura prawns or vegetables but sent the food back after complaining about it."

"What was wrong with it?"

"He said he didn't like the taste. He was very irritated and mad about the quality of the food," the model claimed. "I didn't see anything unusual about the other diners because they sat behind me."

"Where did you go after the meal?"

"We returned to the hotel, and Daler went straight to the bathroom, where I heard him vomit three times."

"How was he after that?"

'He was clean and a little bit red-faced," she replies, "I tried to speak to him and ask how he felt."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he felt better," she says, "But I did not ask him why he was sick because I did not want to make him feel uncomfortable. He had red eyes, red face, and said he was disappointed with the food in this restaurant the next day, he felt better, and they had breakfast where he looked very nice and was in a good mood."

"Why do you think I was nervous during your Paris trip?"

"'I can only guess that maybe he had stress with his kind of business."

"Was there anyone else who you thought was acting a bit strange at the hotel?"

"Who do mean? FSB?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Yes, for starters."

"I did not see any Russian guests in the hotel."

"Did anyone else know that you were in a relationship with Daler?"

"Only two of my friends," she replies, "but many things started to scare me because I didn't know that he was married, he had children, that he had business in Switzerland. So, I was terrified about this person who I knew, and the fact I knew nothing about his life."

"In your statement to the police, you mentioned receiving a phone call a few days after Kuzyaev died by purporting to be hospital staff and telling you he had been in a car accident."

"Yes, that's right, but nobody believed me because they couldn't find any records of the phone number on my mobile phone."

"I would suggest to you," I say, "that British spies, possibly MI6, called you within hours of your lover's death to ascertain her identity."

"Why would they do that?" she asks.

"To see how much, you knew of his involvement in exposing a £150 m money-laundering scheme in Russia."

"MI6 continues to insist it has yet to see any evidence that it is dealing with a killing. Despite, by its admission, several missteps, including losing the entire contents among them details of huge financial transactions worth up to $500 m – from Kuzyaev's computer, a high-powered team of French detectives in Paris is pursuing a formal murder inquiry. However," I went on, "a review will be given by myself of the 14 deaths in Britain including Kuzyaev's linking them to the Russian state or organised crime groups is due to conclude by the end of this month."

"No, but I have received an email from Daler Kuzyaev's address after his death saying I would die soon from Aids."

Blanche and I exchanged glances.

"Could the email have been sent by Mr. Daler Kuzyaev's widow?"

"Maybe I don't know?" she says.

"The coroner back in Britain has tested Mr. Kuzyaev's hair and urine for traces of metal poisons, such as arsenic, or other poisons, like cyanide, and told the press the tests had no proof about poison beings administered to Kuzyaev. He did find Sildenafil, the generic name for Viagra in his system, but it was deemed insignificant."

"Then how did he die?"

"A good question," I say. “So, a list of toxins spoiled fish consumed at the Buddha Bar to an array of exotic plant poisons, including a substance derived from the autumn crocus, could have caused his heart to suddenly cease beating if somehow administered during or immediately after his Parisian tryst with you?"