Free Willing Flesh by Adam Creed Page A

‘You here about the girl?’
    ‘Not my girl,’ says Tchancov.
    ‘Are you something to do with this, Tchancov?’
    He shakes his head. ‘Why would I be?’
    ‘You should pray you’re not.’
    ‘That’s not so friendly, my friend.’
    Markary stands up and as he advances, Tchancov uncrosses his legs and glances up into the camera, makes the faintest smile. Markary grabs him by the lapels and shouts, ‘I find out this is anything to do with you, you Russian prick, God help me.’ Tchancov spreads his arms wide, as if to advertise the fact that he is being sinned against. Markary obscures the Russian, appears to whisper something in his ear.
    Then Markary doubles down, letting go of Tchancov and reaching for his nethers. A strangled curse emerges from the speaker and Tchancov stands, still holding Markary by the balls and whispering something back into the Turk’s ear, Markary’s Crombie unfurling to the ground.
    The Russian walks to the door and pounds it twice. When Jombaugh opens it, Tchancov goes into a blindspot from the camera and says to the sergeant, ‘I think this was not wise. This man’, he jabs towards Markary, pausing for effect, ‘can identify his tart.’ He steps back out and looks up into camera. ‘You have no measure of me, Inspector.’
    With Markary slumped back in his chair, gulping for air, Staffe steps quickly out of the observation room and hurries along the corridor, intercepts Tchancov as he reaches Jombaugh’s desk in reception.
    ‘I didn’t know you and Taki had an association.’
    Tchancov narrows his Gulag eyes and brushes his suit smooth. ‘Be careful not to judge appearances.’
    ‘Where is Elena from?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ says Tchancov.
    ‘She worked for you when she first came over. With Bobo?’
    ‘Elena isn’t what you think. She isn’t what I think.’ He laughs.
    ‘And what do you think?’
    ‘I think she’s a very clever girl.’
    Staffe says, ‘Her mother should be told. Don’t you think?’
     
    ‘Families can be strange. It is a shame.’
    ‘It’s a shame when families drive each other away, when people are forced out of their country.’
    Tchancov frowns, but before he can reply, a door opens heavily down the corridor and a uniformed sergeant leads out Bobo Bogdanovich.
    ‘Surely, Bobo knows where Elena is from,’ says Staffe. ‘But for some reason, he won’t say. Why do you think that is, Mister Tchancov?’
    ‘Are you charging him?’
    ‘Would it be your business if we were?’ Staffe turns to Bobo, eyes bloodshot as beetroot.
    The sergeant ushers Staffe and whispers, ‘Not a sausage.’
    Staffe approaches Bobo, smells the pungent breath of sorrow from his mucous mouth, and whispers, ‘Elena’s mother should be told. This is just a case of being a decent human being.’
    Bobo looks towards Tchancov and shakes his head, slow. You can practically hear his heart sigh.
    Staffe snaps, ‘I will need to know where each of you was between four and six o’clock on the seventh of December. Sergeant, take the statements, get them typed up and hold them until they’re both signed.’
    Tchancov reaches into his jacket and produces a receipt for lunch at the Fat Duck. It is timed at 5.15 p.m. ‘As you will know, Inspector, this is an hour from the City – minimum. I have three companions plus the staff. And we shared a digestif with the proprietor afterwards.’
    Almost too good to be true, thinks Staffe, returning to the holding room, where Markary stares into infinity.
    ‘I really don’t know where to start, Taki. I had no idea you and Vassily were so intimate.’ He picks up Markary’s Crombie from the floor, dusts down the shoulders. He sees a hair on the lapel, holds it between the pads of forefinger and thumb. He drapes the coat across Markary’s lap and takes a piece of paper from his pocket. Folds it over and again, with Taki Markary’s hair trapped inside it.
    Markary runs a finger along the perfect stitching of his coat, says, most