Free The Factory by Brian Freemantle

too. There was just one main room, a coverlet thrown over the bed to provide a daytime couch and posters of pop stars and better-known political prisoners like Nelson Mandela on the walls. Off the main room was an open door to a kitchen and a closed one which he presumed led to the bathroom. He accepted the offered coffee, sat in the one easy chair and said: ‘According to one report I’ve had Shidak collected guns?’
    Jane nodded. ‘Yes.’
    Fowler looked around the room. ‘Where? There’s not a lot of space.’
    The girl reached beneath the bed and hauled out a large suitcase. ‘Here.’
    â€˜People who collect things usually like them to be displayed,’ said Fowler.
    â€˜He didn’t seem to want to do that,’ she said. ‘He didn’t actually call it his collection. He said it was for protection: because of who and what he’d been in Russia, before he came here.’
    Fowler nodded towards the case. ‘Is it empty now?’
    In answer Alice opened the case. It contained a twelve-bore shotgun and a target pistol. There were also boxes of ammunition.
    â€˜And he took the M-16 and a Colt automatic? With ammunition?’
    â€˜I suppose so,’ said the girl. ‘He always had bullets for them and I can’t find them now.’
    â€˜It’s against the law in England to have guns like that,’ reminded Fowler. ‘They can’t be bought in shops. Where did Shidak get them, as well as ammunition?’
    Alice shrugged. ‘I never knew. He had them before we started living together.’
    â€˜Is this your flat? Or his?’
    â€˜Mine. Before he moved in here he used to live in a room in Fulham.’
    â€˜By himself?’
    â€˜I think so. I never asked questions about his life before we were together, apart from what he chose to tell me about Russia. He never asked about mine.’
    â€˜Did he belong to a gun club: a place where he could practise firing guns?’
    The girl nodded again. ‘Two. One in Harrow, another in Hampstead.’ She got up and rummaged through a drawer, finally straightening holding two membership cards. ‘Here are the addresses,’ she said.
    â€˜Those his things?’ questioned Fowler, indicating the drawer.
    â€˜Some of them.’
    â€˜What about his clothes?’
    Alice pointed to a closet against the far wall. ‘All there.’
    â€˜So he’s hardly walked out and left you, has he? He would have taken his clothes, surely?’
    â€˜That’s what I keep telling myself. I suppose you want to look through the drawer?’
    â€˜If you don’t mind.’
    â€˜There’s nothing there. I’ve looked.’
    While Alice was making fresh coffee Fowler examined the drawer. It held a Russian passport, some assorted bills all of which appeared to have been paid, a theatre programme, a membership card of an organization calling itself the Free Russia Society and a bank book showing a surprisingly large credit balance. Fowler was closing the drawer when he saw a cardboard pack of matches and on impulse opened it. Before Alice returned from the kitchen he slipped it into his pocket.
    â€˜Nothing, was there?’ she said when she came into the room.
    â€˜No,’ agreed Fowler. ‘What about the Russian passport? Did he have a British one?’
    â€˜No,’ said the girl at once. ‘He is still legally Russian, with residency permission here. He applied for British citizenship about three months ago but these things take time.’ She hesitated. ‘He will come back, won’t he? He hasn’t left for ever.’
    â€˜No,’ said Fowler thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think he’s left for ever.’
    â€˜I heard you come to bed last night,’ said Pamela Bell at breakfast. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire neighbourhood heard you, as well.’
    â€˜I didn’t bother with the light coming up the