Free Willing Flesh by Adam Creed

same for her, hoping Becx can look out for herself.
     
    Nine

    Staffe slams the Peugeot’s door and the engine ticks in the morning dark as it cools.
    ‘Where are we?’ asks Josie, bleary-eyed and sipping from her Thermos mug of coffee.
    ‘This is the humble abode of Taki Markary.’ Staffe presses Markary’s videocom. Quickly, the Turk’s voice emerges from the shiny grille. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
    Staffe looks into the camera. ‘I would like you to come with me, to identify the body of Elena Danya.’
    ‘This is ridiculous.’
    ‘You were her landlord.’
    ‘You can’t just turn up here.’
    ‘And the father of her unborn child. If only …’
    The videocom shuts down and the camera clicks off. Staffe smiles at Josie. ‘I think he’s coming.’ Staffe rubs his hands together. Josie is pale as snow and staring into space, possibly fearing for her inspector.
    *
    Vassily Tchancov is in holding room two with Jombaugh who has been regaling the Russian with tales of his father’s war, serving in the RAF having escaped a prisoner-of-war camp in Finland.
    Staffe leaves Markary with Josie in holding room one and taps on room two, enters, holding a baked cheesecake. Tchancov has responded with an account of his great-uncles from the Ukraine who were saved by the English; they would have been court-martialled as deserters had they returned home to their families. Now, they toast England and Churchill. As Staffe serves up the cheesecake, Jombaugh reminds Tchancov the Ukraine was once part of the kingdom of Poland.
    ‘But I am Russian,’ Tchancov says, pushing out his sparrow chest. ‘And I have served my country in the first Chechen war.’
    Jombaugh says, feigning sadness, ‘I am the lost generation. Never to serve. Born too late.’
    Tchancov talks about the treacherous Chechens and Staffe watches Jom bite his tongue, knowing what he does of how Vassily Tchancov made his money – using his cousin’s business to create false bearer certificates. He made a fortune, but it became impossible for him to be allowed to stay. Even in Russia, it seems, slates have to be wiped. Between the lines, Vassily is exiled permanently, war hero or not, and with debts to honour.
    Jombaugh stands, makes to leave. Tchancov offers his hand and Jombaugh takes it, saying something their fathers and uncles would have understood.
    Once Jombaugh is gone, Tchancov says, ‘Nice fellow. Pity about the uniform.’
    ‘We’re a necessary evil,’ says Staffe, sitting down. ‘Shame on those who make us necessary.’
    ‘Send them to Stalin,’ laughs Tchancov. ‘Now, when are we going to see this body? I have businesses to run.’
    ‘We’ll go across soon.’ Staffe’s phone vibrates and he reads the text, from Josie, says, ‘I have to leave you for a few minutes. Is there anything you want?’
    ‘Some more cheesecake, perhaps?’ Tchancov presents his words as if he hasn’t a care in the world, but Staffe sees in the flit of his eyes that all is not well. Vassily cannot afford for his London life to bubble over into a wider domain, to appear on radars in Moscow.
    Staffe makes his way to the observation room, a glorified cubby-hole with a television monitor and a desk. He leans forward, watches Vassily Tchancov. A hiss of white noise comes through the speaker.
    The door opens and Josie squeezes in next to Staffe. She says, ‘Markary’s being taken in.’
    Vassily Tchancov recrosses his legs, picks at his fingernails. Jombaugh comes into the holding room, followed by another man, immaculately dressed with a Crombie draped on his shoulders. Jombaugh sweeps an arm in the direction of the unoccupied seat. As Markary sits down, Tchancov double-takes. Markary clocks his cohabitant and his mouth drops open. Jombaugh leaves them to it.
    The two men regard each other, say nothing.
    ‘Christ, it’s like, who’s the first to blink,’ says Josie.
    Tchancov leans back in his chair and Markary wrings his hands, eventually says,