The Oktober Projekt (19 page)

‘Thanks Benny,’ said Nick handing over the book. ‘I won’t tell
a soul,’ he added, putting a protective arm around Benny’s shoulder. ‘And I’d
like two sets of papers for my own use, top quality, passports, IDs, the
works,’ said Nick, ‘I’ll even put on my best serious face for the photographs.’

‘Better step through to the office,’ Benny proposed, rubbing
the book’s cover against his waistcoat before gently placing it on the shelf.

Already the frost had eaten into the day by the time Nick left
Benny’s; crisp and mean it rode on the wind that met Nick round every corner,
blew into his face, got into his skin. Taking three buses when one would have
done, getting off each time before his stop, Nick practised the endless ritual
of evasion, the perpetual myth of security, the old deceit.
 

In Knightsbridge he fell in with the flow of shoppers, breaking
suddenly away to his left or right to amble, to spread out his steps, to enter
by one door and leave by another. All the time waiting for a similar move, the
dropped glance, a rapid change of direction. In Kennington he found a room for
the night above another pub, cash up front, jammed his bag under the single bed
and resumed his quest. For the remainder of the journey he risked a cab,
knowing that watchers of any persuasion prefer the pavement to the road, buses
to cabs. He spent an hour in a café on Roman Road drinking coffee, playing on
the pinball by the window, lazily firing the flippers, more interested on what
moved outside. Then as the afternoon light finally lapsed he tipped the machine
to tilt and left.

• • •

There was little to compare between the
Russian billionaire’s residence in Kensington and the quarters provided for his
staff in Bow. A square concrete stub made up of six flats, it marked where a
wartime bomb had fallen on a parade of shops backing onto the rail lines
twisting out of Liverpool Street station. What more could his staff ask for,
decided Nick, passing a convenience store that sold more booze than food, a
Cantonese take-away and twenty-four hour chemist. Nick gave his name as DI Luke
Heskin into the video entryphone with one of Benny’s masterpieces to back-up
his claim. Natasha smiled, her round plump face bronzed from artificial tan,
her English poor, but she had enough to understand police, taking Nick up into
a communal lounge. Four other staff members sat around, none of them smiling,
and when Natasha explained his status in Russian, they all discovered they had
more pressing matters requiring their attention. Yes, Natasha nodded, Marfa and
Grigori were in, she’d seen them earlier, yes, she’d go and get them and beamed
a broad smile at this chance to leave.

Assorted armchairs were arranged between second-hand scratched
and beaten furniture, a television had been left playing, its sound almost
mute, Russian stations beamed in by satellite. Posters advertising Russian
films and bands Nick had never heard of brightened dull magnolia walls. In the
kitchen Nick could see three microwaves and three upright industrial freezers.
Marfa Dobrya, Galina’s fellow nanny arrived first, followed by Grigori Tesov
who complained in a surly voice to Marfa that he had only just returned from
work. Marfa slight and petite, her blonde hair gathered in a high ponytail,
opted for a wingback chair looking lost between its arms. Dark, broad and tall,
Grigori dropped into an armchair draping one of his legs over its side, his
hooded eyes locked onto the television.

‘I’d like to question you both about Galina Myla,’ Nick began,
taking out a notebook from his pocket.

‘You the guy who should be here Monday?’ Grigori wanted to
know, not taking his eyes from the screen. ‘Because we lost pay.’

‘No,’ Nick explained patiently, detailing how the UK Border
Agency had passed the investigation back to the police, hence his visit today.

Grigori merely snorted stretching for the remote, surfing
through the channels. Not taking her eyes off Nick, Marfa had a narrow smile
pressed on her lips, too scared to complain even if she resented losing her
pay.

‘I’m afraid that Galina’s disappearance is part of a wider
criminal investigation,’ Nick warned them, flicking opening his notebook, ‘It
is a very serious matter.’

‘This a complete waste of time,’ Grigori told Marfa over his
shoulder in Russian, ‘so get rid of the moron.’

Giving the impression that he had no understanding of Russian,
Nick stared blankly from Grigori to Marfa. ‘Who knew Galina well?’ Nick asked
slowly.

‘I was very good friend to Galina,’ Marfa volunteered.

‘Silly bitch,’ Grigori muttered in Russian, then with Nick’s
sharp eyes turned on him he said, ‘Sure, I made friends with her.’
 

‘Did she give any reason for leaving?’

Glancing quickly at Grigori, but not without Nick noticing,
Marfa said, ‘Galina made other friends also, some not so good.’

‘Where did she meet these other people?’

Crossing her legs Marfa simply smiled, leaving an empty space
that Grigori was eventually forced to fill.

‘Okay I took her out a few times,’ he said and Marfa muttered
an incredulous ‘a few’ in Russian.

‘You were her boyfriend?’

Grigori, deciding that he wasn’t sure what this encompassed,
feigned bafflement until Nick enlightened him, ‘her lover?’

Going into immediate denial, Grigori switched off the TV and
sat up. ‘Friends, okay, I just wanted a good time, Galina also wanted good
time.’

‘A good time where?’

‘To bars and clubs okay,’ said Grigori, getting a little
animated.

‘And this is why she left, disappeared?’ Nick considered his
own question as though he’d thought of another important point in the case,
making it imperative that he consign it slowly to his notebook.

Shrugging, Grigori wasn’t sure which direction Nick was taking
him. ‘Sure, she wanted good time all the time,’ he admitted, waiting for the
next question.

Instead, Nick turned his attention to Marfa. ‘Was Galina in
trouble of any kind? Did Galina mention any problems? Did she er…become
pregnant perhaps?’

‘It was not that making of problem,’ she answered, shaking her
head vehemently, looking at Grigori. ‘She did drugs, got bad debt.’

Launching a verbal attack in Russian on Marfa, Grigori told her
to keep her stupid mouth shut. Refusing, shaking her head, Marfa snapped back
that she was sick of lying. Nick, giving the appearance of not understanding a
word calmly sat through this exchange appearing totally bemused.
 

‘And do you know by any chance, about Galina’s drug habit?’
Nick asked Grigori when a lull had formed.

Examining his hands as though he might find an excuse or a lie
there, Grigori held them out as though he needed Nick to check them too. ‘Sure,
she became hooked, wild, all she do was party, became one crazy chick, missing
work, staying out all night.’

‘Where did she get her drugs?’

‘We used to go to club in West End, I knew some people from
back home, and she made friends with them, but I warned her, some of them are
not good, got bad reputations. She wouldn’t listen okay, wanted to live her
life twenty-four seven. I stopped going with her, she wasn’t good company no
more and started owing more and more money for her drugs.’

‘How did she pay?’

‘She begged from us all here, asked for loans and then stole
from us,’ Grigori told Nick.

‘Just from here?’

‘No,’ Marfa said, her eyes sad, recounting the breakdown of a
friendship. ‘She took from the family too. She no listen to me, Grigori,
anyone. Family warn her they fire her and send her home.’

 
‘So where did she
get the money from to buy her drugs?’ Nick persisted, not letting go of the
thread.

Sitting back into the chair Marfa looked even smaller, folding
her legs over each other she tried to smile but it lasted a second. ‘She tell
me one of her new friends got her job at different club, helping, bar work you
say….’

‘But you don’t think that was true?’ Nick pushed and Marfa
shared a sorry glance with Grigori.

‘No, I think she was dancing, men pay for her body.’

‘I see,’ said Nick, as though this was the most natural thing
Galina Myla could have done and he came across it every day. ‘Which club?’

‘A private club, okay,’ said Grigori, taking over from a
distressed Marfa. ‘I went once to talk to her, okay, ask her to come back, we
going to help her, but she not interested.’

‘Which club was it?’

‘The Connoisseurs Klub,’ offered Grigori and Nick dutifully
added it to his notebook.

‘Now,’ proposed Nick, wrapping things up, ‘I would like to see
the possessions that Galina left behind.’

‘I fetch them,’ Grigori gallantly offered.

Alone with Marfa, Nick laid out his final question, one that he
had been saving for the very end. ‘What about Galina’s family? Anyone ever
visit?’

Leaning forward, propping her elbows on her knees, Marfa took
her time, taking a deep breath. ‘For sure, I think yes, her mother visited
Galina.’

‘Did she,’ said Nick matter-of-factly, ‘and that would be from
Moscow would it?’

‘Moscow, yes,’ Marfa said, a keenness in her voice from someone
who wishes she was back at home. ‘Galina had home in Golyanovo district, I
never go there, but she tell me all about it. She laugh at people on her floor,
her landing, that is right?’

‘Landing, yes, landing is right,’ Nick assured her, as Grigori
brought in a bright purple suitcase with only one wheel.

In the few possessions Galina had left behind Nick found
nothing that might have come from Lubov; just a depressing collection of
clothes, shampoos, family photographs and a diary half completed, artefacts
from a different life.
A profitable exchange we will all benefit from
. As Nick folded his notebook away, he thanked Marfa
and Grigori for their cooperation. Behind him, their sniping and accusations in
Russian flowed freely as Nick offered to let himself out.

• • •

The club occupied a backstreet corner
in Bethnal Green. Its stonework was painted an austere black, orange neon signs
flashed the club’s name and illuminated marquee displays offered adult
entertainment, lap dancing and VIP dances by the best girls in town. Nick
entered a foyer gaudy and square, its décor a montage of nightclub styles. Red
velvet drapes concealed a doorway to the action, guarded by two bouncers with
shorn heads who chose to dress all in black.

‘Twenty-five quid entrance and that’s excluding drinks. VIP
starts at eighty,’ a pale woman in her twenties decreed from behind a padded
red leather reception desk, her hair tawny, her skin glossy from foundation.

‘Is Galina working tonight?’ said Nick, taking in the full
sized posters of the dancers studded around the walls.

The name of Galina brought a flicker of recognition to the
receptionist’s eyes, but she shook her head. ‘You’ll have to take a chance.’

‘Do I get a refund if she’s not working?’

‘Look,’ the receptionist hissed, lowering her voice as a queue
formed behind Nick, ‘make up your mind, you going in or not?’
 

One of the bouncers stared at Nick, that hard man look normal
punters were expected to respect.

‘Keep the five as a tip,’ said Nick handing over a twenty and a
five.

‘Smart ass,’ the receptionist said behind his back, the bouncer
glaring as Nick walked by.

Behind the velvet drapes frayed by passing hands, Nick entered
a bar area and small restaurant where diners, mostly stag parties were eating
overpriced steaks. Naked and semi-naked bodies locked, unlocked and fondled
without much passion, idealised caresses on three giant screens. Dubbed voices,
muffled and hoarse, groaned above the original Dutch on one of the films. Sited
over the Central Line, every time a Tube train passed, the screens trembled. A
raised area was roped off for VIP guests who enjoyed the service of topless
girls and their own private bar. Waving away two hostesses trying to sell him
champagne, their East European accents struggling with their sales patter, Nick
headed up a spiral staircase that vibrated from electronic music pumping out
above.

On a narrow gallery Nick pushed through the crowd, easing
himself into a melee of sound. At one end of the room, a dreadlocked DJ in a
white vest swayed over a deck in one corner, strobes and coloured lights timed
to change on each beat. Low red shaded lights hung perilously close over round
tables, as waitresses threaded nimbly through the packed crowd with trays of
drinks at what could have been a wedding reception.

Except in place of a top table seating bride and groom, there
was a steel cage mounted on a high stage in one corner holding two naked women
smearing each other with body paint and lotion. It beat the hell out of a
floral display thought Nick. In the centre of the tables a larger stage, with a
dancer performing her routine around a pole moving to a different rhythm. By the
stage a door marked PRIVATE, which Nick thought would be a good place to start.
Pushing through the door, he entered a long corridor poorly lit. Halfway down
there was a dancer pinned to the wall by a thin mean figure in his forties,
verbally laying into her.

‘…care, you’re shite,’ he bellowed, bringing back his arm to
strike her.

Grabbing the man’s arm, Nick swung him round. ‘That’s not very
nice.’

‘And who the fuck are you?’

Behind Nick a rush of music as the door opened and closed. ‘Get
rid of this joker Baz if you wouldn’t mind.’

As Nick turned the bouncer from the foyer lurched forward
planting the palm of his hand on Nick’s chest, which was his first mistake.
‘…out,’ he only managed before wincing and dropping to his knees in pain. Still
holding the bouncer’s wrist in a lock, Nick dodged a mistimed flail by the
bouncer’s freehand, which was his second mistake. Nick’s first kick dislocated
the bouncer’s shoulder, his next exploded his nose and lips which the dancer
later told her friends, almost made her sick.