Free Moskva by Jack Grimwood Page B

was that he’d been burned alive … Further tests could have proved that. But resources were tight, the department overworked and no one knew who he was anyway.
    ‘That’s the official version,’ Tom had said.
    The
militsiya
major had stared at him, shocked.
    ‘That’s the truth,’ he insisted.
    ‘The Moscow prosecutor cares so little about crime victims that he doesn’t even investigate arson, torture and murder?’
    The major hesitated. ‘That building was used by deviants. Homosexuals,’ he added, in case Tom hadn’t understood his meaning. ‘I talked to the case officer, who objected to the prosecutor’s decision. It was suggested that his department has more pressing priorities.’
    ‘Who would suggest such a thing?’
    ‘The KGB,’ said Dennisov, abandoning all pretence of not listening. The
militsiya
major didn’t agree, but then he didn’t deny it either. He simply finished his vodka, thanked Tom for the flask and cut his evening short.
    ‘Lose me customers,’ Dennisov said, ‘why don’t you.’
    Yelena sighed.
    ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ Anna said.
    ‘Is your entourage downstairs?’
    ‘They let me out of my cage now and then.’
    ‘All alone?’
    ‘Moscow’s one of the safest cities in the world.’
    ‘Provided you’re not Russian. Then I imagine it’s different.’
    ‘Soviet,’ Anna Masterton corrected. ‘Provided you’re not Soviet. Even then it’s safer than London. Far safer than New York.’
    ‘If you believe their crime figures.’
    ‘Do you believe ours?’
    ‘Lady Masterton. What are you doing here?’
    ‘Anna, for God’s sake. I wanted to talk to you.’
    ‘About Alex?’ Tom asked.
    Obviously,
her expression said.
What else?
    ‘You’d better come in then.’
    ‘Hallelujah … It’s smaller than I expected,’ she said, looking around.
    ‘There’s only one of me.’
    ‘So your family aren’t …?’ Something in Tom’s expression killed the rest of her question. In daylight, without full make-up, she looked older, more tired. There were lines beside her mouth, dark rings around her eyes. ‘My jewellery’s gone.’
    ‘Alex?’
    ‘Who else?’
    ‘Your jewellery box was locked?’
    ‘I keep the key in a Wedgwood pot on my dressing table.’ She caught Tom’s glance. ‘Yes, I know. But it’s a bloody embassy, for God’s sake. And what does a girl of fifteen need pearls for?’
    ‘To sell.’ Tom listed the reasons Alex might want money.
    Drugs, drink, an abortion, blackmail, greed, a very long stay, somewhere very far away … Anna wasn’t keen on any of them. He was in the kitchen, putting two slices of black bread into his toaster, turning them round and grilling them again by the time she reached the end of her reasons why he was wrong.
    ‘Have you told Sir Edward?’
    ‘I daren’t.’
    Nothing as strange as other people’s marriages. Nothing as strange as his, come to that. Tom decided to pass on asking why. If Anna wanted to tell him, she would.
    ‘I’m going to eat,’ he said. ‘Then take a shower. You sticking around long enough for that?’ He hadn’t meant it as a challenge but her look told him she took it as one. When he got back, she’d done the washing up.
    ‘In here,’ she called. She was in his living room, flicking through a week-old copy of
Time.
‘Vesta curry?’ she said.
    ‘What’s wrong with it?’
    ‘Even students don’t eat Vesta curry.’
    ‘I don’t like Pot Noodles.’
    ‘My daughter does …’
    ‘Does your husband at least know you’re here?’
    Her gaze sharpened. ‘Have you any idea how that sounds?’
    ‘I’d have thought it was an obvious question.’
    ‘Which,’ she said flatly, ‘says more about you than the question.’
    She’s probably right about that,
Tom thought. ‘Unreconstructed’ was the word his daughter had used. Reaching into her bag, Anna Masterton pulled out a pack of B&H and flipped the lid.
    ‘You don’t mind?’
    Tom gave her the cactus saucer as an