GRAVE MATTER

FOURTEEN

Blanche is driving her Mercedes.

The suspension is soft; it's like a waterbed on wheels.

"What do we know about Kayla Zelenyy?" Blanche asks.

"Kayla Zelenyy is a Georgian businesswoman and philanthropist and now the widow of Alexi Zelenyy. Last year the Sunday Times estimated her wealth at £650m, making her the 196th wealthiest person in the UK. She is the founder and President of the Zelenyy Foundation that supports education initiatives in Georgia. She has two daughters, Marina and Sasha. The death of her husband will spark one of the biggest estate battles ever. Kayla has extensive business and property interests in Georgia and across the rest of the world."

She raises her forefinger from the steering wheel. "This is the place."

We pull up outside a twelve-foot-high gate attached to a couple of pillars. On either side, a perimeter wall stretched around the estate, topped with broken bottles that sprout from the concrete.

The gate has an intercom box. I press and wait—a voice answers.

"Who is it?"

"I would like to talk to Mrs Zelenyy."

"No."

I glance at Blanche, who shrugs.

"I'm Justin Grave. I must speak to Mrs Zelenyy."

There is a pause. Maybe the gardener is seeking instructions.

The voice comes back: "Who are you with?"

I lean forward and look through the windscreen, and a CCTV camera fixed on a metal dole twenty feet above the gate; maybe someone's watching us.

Blanche leans across me. "I'm a Home Office Pathologist."

"I'm sorry Mrs Zelenyy is unavailable."

"When is the best time to speak to her?" I ask.

"Write a letter."

"I'd prefer to leave a note."

The gate remains firmly closed while I walk around the Merc and stretch. The camera pivots and follows every move. Finally, I hoist myself onto a fallen tree, peering over the wall.

"Can you see the house?" Blanche asks.

"No." I look left and right. "Now, there's an interesting thing."

"What?"

"Motion sensors, and more cameras, complete overkill.

Mrs Zelenyy is very scared."

Boots sound on the gravel. A man appears on the other side of the gate. Dressed like a gardener, he has a dog with him, a massive German with black and tan skin.

"Get away from the wall," he demands.

I swing myself down, and I make eye contact with Blanche.

"Great day," she says.

"Yes, it is," says the man with the dog. But, of course, they both know they're lying.

I moved to Blanche's side of the car. I drop my hand behind my back and hold down the button, and not releasing my finger. The dog is watching me as if deciding which leg to eat first. His handler is also concerned with me and what sort of physical threat I might pose.

I take my finger off the intercom.

A woman's voice answers. "Yes, who is it?"

"Mrs Zelenyy?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, but your gardener said you weren't home.

He was mistaken. My name is Justin Grave. Would it be possible to have a few moments of your time?"

"What is this about?"

"It concerns two of your late husband's friends.

Robbie Chase and Igor Akinfeev."

"What about them?"

"Do you read the newspapers?"

"No. Why? What's happened?"

I glanced at Blanche. She doesn't know.

"I'm afraid they're dead, Mrs Zelenyy."

Silence. Static.

"You should talk to Barklay," she says, her voice straining.

"Are you talking about the gardener or the dog?"

She chuckles slightly.

"You know very well who I mean."

"Barklay is here at the gate. Must be a dab hand with a lawnmower."

I've knocked her off guard. "He doesn't know a Fuchsia from a Rose."

"Me neither," I say. "May we talk to you?

It is crucial."

The gate makes a hollow click and swings open, forcing Barklay to step back. He's not happy.

Blanche slides behind the wheel and drives past him. I raise my hand in a half-salute before spinning wheels in the gravel.

"He doesn't look much like a gardener," Blanche says.

"He's ex-military," I say. "See how he stand. He doesn't show his strengths; he is keeping them under wraps until he needs them."

The roofs and roofline appear through the trees.

Blanche slows over a cattle grate and pulls up in front of the house. The large double door must be six inches thick. One side opens, and Kayla Zelenyy appears. A slender, pretty woman in her late forties, she's dressed in a cashmere cardigan and khaki slacks.

"Thank you for seeing us," I say, introducing Blanche.

She just smiles politely and leads us through a marble foyer to a large sitting room full of oriental rugs and matching furniture. Bookshelves are on either side of an Inglenook fireplace that is set but not lit. Photographs are of three sisters are on the mantelpiece and coffee table, showing the changes and their growth.

"Your daughters?" I ask.

"Granddaughters," she replies.

She motions to the sofas, wanting us to sit down.

"Can I get you something? Tea perhaps."

"Thank you," says Blanche.

As if by magic, a rotund woman in uniform appears at the door.

There must be a hidden bell at Kayla's feet, beneath the rug or tucked down the side of the sofa.

Kayla issues orders, and the maid leaves.

She turns back to face us and takes a seat on the armchair opposite, tucking her hands in her lap. But, again, everything about her demeanour is closed off and defensive.

"Poor Robbie and Igor. Was it some accident?"

"No, we don't believe so."

"What happened?"

"Both murdered," I say.

She blinks. Grief is moist sheen over her pupils. It's as many emotions as she's going to show.

"Robbie Chase threw himself out of a window," Blanche says. "We believe by coercion."

"Coercion?"

"He was thrown out of the window," I explain.

Kayla shakes her head fiercely as if trying to clear the information from her ears.

"The police believe that Igor Akinfeev hung himself."

"But you don't believe that?"

"The first paramedic on the scene said that it was odd that Akinfeev's face was quite a deep purple when victims of hanging are usually pale. I discovered a fresh wound on the back of Akinfeev's head, a fractured rib, and the presence of unidentified fingerprints on the shower rail."

"Who would do such a thing?" asks Kayla, even more, less sure of the world.

"The same people who killed your husband," I say.

Before Kayla can react, the maid returns with a tray filled with a teapot and cups that appear too delicate to hold boiling water. Kayla pours, almost willing her hands to be steady.

"Do you have milk or sugar?"

"Milk."

"Straight from the pot," Blanche says.

Kayla stirs anti-clockwise, without the teaspoon touch the sides of her cup. Her thoughts seem to drift away for a moment before returning to the room.

"My husband died of natural causes. Our family doctor told me that it was a severe heart attack."

"Brought on by from a 2mg-oral dose of sodium fluoroacetate, which is sufficient to be lethal."

"What? What is this sodium fluoroacetate?"

"It induces a heart attack without hardly leaving a trace.

I ran some blood tests, and I found significant increases in aspartate transaminase, creatinine, and blood urea nitrogen. I also discovered reduced levels of both cardiac and systemic glutathione found to be related to the functional status of, and structural abnormalities in, both symptomatic and asymptomatic heart disease."

A car sounds outside – tyres on gravel. Moments later, the front door slams open, and hurried footsteps cross the foyer. Daler Kuzyaev makes the sort of entrance that befits a man his size, bursting into the room, hell-bent on hitting someone.

Kuzyaev was a financier who was exposed to a vast financial crime by Russian government officials. At first, Kuzyaev had been one of the perpetrators, laundering stolen funds into Swiss bank accounts owned by his mafia-linked government clients. Still, when a lawyer named Fyodor Kudryashov died following weeks of torture after reporting the fraud, the financier turned against his paymasters. He fled to Britain and blew the whistle handing evidence to MI5 and becoming a prized asset for my old department investigating the flow of illicit money out of Russia. As a result, Kuzyaev received a stream of threats and learned he was on a Russian mafia hit list.

"Who the f**k are you?" he bellows. "Why are you hounding Mrs Zelenyy?"

With big hands and a thick neck, balding, his head is shaped like a hard hat and glistens with sweat.

I am on my feet. Blanche takes longer to find hers.

"It's all right, Daler," says Kayla. "Something awful has happened to Robbie Chase and Igor Akinfeev."

Daler Kuzyaev isn't satisfied. "Who sent you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Who sent you here? These men have nothing to do with Kayla or me."

He knows about Robbie Chase and Igor Akinfeev. So why didn't he warn Mrs Zelenyy?

"Calm down, Daler," Kayla says.

"Just be quiet, Kayla," he barks. "Leave this to me."

Barklay has followed him into the room, moving behind our backs. There is something in his right, tucked inside his jacket.

I turn to face him. "We don't want to upset anyone.

We want to know about the connection between Robbie Chase, Igor Akinfeev and Alexi Zelenyy."

Daler Kuzyaev scoffs. "Don't play games with me!

They sent you, didn't they?"

I look at Blanche. "I don't understand. We're helping the police investigate the deaths of Mr Zelenyy, Mr Chase and Mr Akinfeev."

Kuzyaev switches his attention to Blanche. "You're a police officer?"

"Home Office Pathologist."

He turned back towards me. "And you?"

"My name is Justin Grave."

His eyes narrowed.

"I know who you are, which means that none of this is f*****g official."

"We just want to speak to Mrs Zelenyy."

He claps his hands together and laughs mockingly. "Well, that just takes the biscuits!"

I felt myself growing annoyed. "Maybe you should do like Mrs Zelenyy suggests and calm down, Mr Kuzyaev."

"Are you trying to intimidate me?"

"No, sir, we're just trying to get some answers."

"What's Mrs Zelenyy got to do with it?"

"In the last few days, three close friends have all died in mysterious circumstances."

"I thought Chase and Akinfeev committed suicide?"

"No. Murdered!" I said firmly.

"But Zelenyy died of a heart attack."

I shook my head. "He was administered poison to make it look like a heart attack."

Kuzyaev gapes at me incredulously. A fever of uncertainty has replaced the manic glimmer in his gaze.

"Please leave now," Kuzyaev says, "only today your has prime minister directed a successful government bid to withhold documents on national security grounds, and the home secretary has also declared that their deaths are not suspicious."

Suddenly the room isn't big enough to hide the awkwardness of the moment. The air has become cloying and harsh. Blanche looks at me, unable to respond.

"We had no idea," I tell them. I don't know what else to say.

Kuzyaev isn't interested in apologies or explanations.

"Please leave," Kuzyaev repeats.

Barklay emphasises the demand by holding open the door.

"We're very sorry to have trouble you," I say.

Nobody responds.

Barklay escorts us outside and stans sentry at the door, still with his right hand inside his oilskin jacket. Kuzyaev appears beside him.

Blanche has started the Merc. My door is open, but I turn back.

"Mr Kuzyaev, who did you think sent us?"

"Goodbye," he says.

"Is someone threatening you?"

"Drive carefully."