The romanov code, p.19
The Romanov Code, page 19
-63-
I find Maughan’s upstairs bathroom. First, working on the assumption that whatever he slipped me won’t have fully broken down or been absorbed through my digestive tract, I force myself to throw up. It’s a grim process, and I’m not convinced it’ll do any good, but I spend a wretched few minutes with my fingers lodged halfway down my throat. That delightful interlude over, I drink far more cold water than I’ve consumed over the past six months combined. Finally, I splash some onto my face and, out of everything, this last action seems to help the most.
I stride through to the study and make a call, finally getting through to Jeremy Simmonds. He doesn’t sound ecstatic to hear from me. ‘My God, Novak! What the hell have you done this time?’
‘I just killed a priest.’
‘Catholic or Church of England?’
‘I think you’re missing the bigger picture.’
‘Simply trying to establish what the picture is.’
‘C of E.’
‘Oh.’ Simmonds makes a tutting noise, but I can’t discern whether this strikes him as good or bad news. ‘Are you in public? Did anyone see you?’
‘I’m at his vicarage and no one witnessed the’ – I glance down at the bloody corpse – ‘altercation.’
‘Altercation? Right. Is anyone with you now?’
‘Only the dearly departed. The Reverend Thomas Maughan. Currently lying eyeless in Gaza.’
‘You’re in Palestine? Christ! What the—’
‘No!’ I interrupt. ‘Eyeless in Gaza. It’s a quotation.’
‘Yes, I know my Milton, thank you. Eyeless in Gaza, at the mill with slaves / Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke. I didn’t think that would be your cup of Earl Grey.’ He sighs like he’s the one who’s been half-strangled by a homicidal vicar. ‘Right then! Let’s get on with it. What happened?’
I give him a recap of my day so far and, to be fair, he listens attentively, only interrupting with moues of disappointment and disdain. A moment of silence follows my précis.
‘And are you certain he’s dead?’
‘Simmonds, I drove a crucifix into his brain. Trust me, he won’t be taking evensong.’
‘First things first. Remove any trace of your presence at the vicarage. You won’t have time to wipe your prints, but don’t leave anything there that could identify you.’
I roll my eyes. ‘That’s brilliant advice. I’ll take my business card off the mantelpiece. Look, can you actually help me?’
‘Of course!’ He sounds stung. ‘You’re one of our own. I’ll do everything I can to extricate you.’
I’m certainly not one of his own and feel a little queasy that he considers I might be, but this isn’t the time to quarrel about it. I manage a half-hearted, ‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all, not at all. Listen to me carefully, Novak. And, for once, follow my instructions to the letter. Get out of there, now! I can send a team round to take care of the situation, but I can’t intervene if the police arrest you. The Fifth Floor is very clear that we’re not to get involved with the boys in blue unless absolutely necessary.’
‘I’d have thought me not ending up in Wormwood Scrubs qualifies as absolutely necessary.’
Simmonds’ voice hardens. ‘If the police take you in, you’re on your own.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good. So leave now and contact me again on the Apex line when you’re back in London.’
‘Will do.’
‘I’ll ensure you were never there.’
‘Thanks, again, Simmonds.’
‘One last thing, Novak. I mean it when I say get out of there now. Straight away. This instant. It’s far too dangerous to hang around.’
‘Understood.’
‘Do not linger in order to explore, investigate or find out more about Thomas Maughan.’
‘Of course not. I’m leaving as we speak.’
I hang up, walk towards the master bedroom, check my watch and allow myself a quarter of an hour to explore, investigate and find out more about Thomas Maughan.
-64-
Thomas Maughan had evidently spent his last few years living a quiet life as a country vicar. Yet something in this man’s past was so potent that my innocent mentioning of Ekaterina’s name and a reference to the Romanov treasure were enough to reawaken something in him. Something so powerful that it meant he had no compunction about murdering me. So, whatever it was, I need to know about it so I can get some idea of who I’ve killed and what I’m mixed up in.
Annoyingly, I’m aware Simmonds was correct: I have very little time. If anyone arrives and finds the corpse, I don’t imagine the police will have a great deal of patience for my claims that their much-loved priest tried to smash my skull with a statuette of the Virgin Mary, before attempting to strangle me with his tippet. I’d definitely be detained and it’s more than likely they’d arrest me. It’s also highly probable that, without evidence to clear me, I’d be sent down for the brutal murder of the Reverend Maughan.
I hurry through to his bedroom. It’s a decent size, with religious prints scattered across the walls. Several minutes looking for hinged panels, concealed safes and compartments in the floating shelves yields nothing. I force myself to think about Maughan. Recall my slight irritation that he spoke like the vicar off Dad’s Army. He was an old-fashioned man, so presumably he’d employ an old-fashioned approach to secreting his valuables. I check his mattress. Nothing. Open his double wardrobe. I spot a shoebox, half hidden by winter jumpers. Kneel down. Reach for it. Whenever you find a shoebox in a bloke’s wardrobe, it’s a knocking bet it’ll contain anything other than shoes.
I place it on the bed and remove the lid. It holds a load of old fliers for church events. I toss those aside and find the items that their owner wanted unseen. If I needed more proof that he was a man with secrets and a dangerous past, it’s right here in front of me. It’s an interesting haul and includes four passports. Although all are for the individual I knew as Thomas Maughan, each one offers a different name and spread of personal information. I scan them quickly, noting the various countries of origin. ‘The UK . . . America . . . the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus . . .’
Maybe I’m becoming cynical, but I doubt it’s pure coincidence that he owned a passport for a nation that has no extradition treaty with the UK. I’ve known several people of interest to the British authorities who’ve fled to Kyrenia, slipped into Greek Cyprus and, from there, ghosted through Europe.
The final passport is burgundy and resembles those issued in the UK prior to the summer of 2020. But this one’s dominated by a central insignia featuring a double-headed eagle. It has a line of Cyrillic text along its top border, immediately above the words, ‘Russian Federation’.
I slip all four passports into my inside pocket. The only remaining item is a small blue book. It’s old, battered and ornate. I read the title, Poetical Works and Letters of John Keats. It’s an attractive tome with golden motifs on the front cover and spine, and I’d estimate it was published in the late nineteenth century. That’s not to say this copy is worth a fortune. It’s been bashed about a bit and lacks a dust cover, so I’m guessing it would only fetch a few pounds. I riffle its pages. Nothing drops from them, but I doubt Maughan kept the book in his clandestine stash because he secretly enjoyed dipping into Endymion before calling it a night.
I thrust it into one of my suit’s side pockets and check out the last item in the shoebox. Using my handkerchief as a makeshift glove, I remove it and hold the object to the light.
It’s a PMM. A particularly ugly and nasty little semi-automatic pistol that was designed to replace the Makarov PM, although the fact it’s heavier than a Glock 17, less accurate than a Berretta and packs all the penetrative punch of a water pistol made many shooters reluctant to swap their old Maks for this lump of steel. On the plus side, in terms of durability, the PMM is incredibly reliable and super easy to maintain.
I’ve not held one for several years, but back in the day, it was standard issue for agents working within Russia’s Committee for State Security. Or, as it was more commonly known, the KGB.
I’m pondering this fact as I hear someone shouting.
‘Thomas!’
I freeze.
‘Thomas, are you there?’
I recognise the voice of Martin, the young curate I’d briefly met at the church.
I remain silent. But with more urgency this time, he calls up from the ground floor, ‘Is everything all right, Father?’ He hesitates, then adds, ‘The police are here to see you.’
Another voice calls up from downstairs. This one’s gruffer and belongs to an older man. ‘Come on, Thomas! We need to see you, now! We know you can hear us!’
Given that what’s left of Thomas is a ragged corpse currently sprawled across the middle of his study, the claim seems unlikely. But if there’s anything worse than being caught by the police in the same house as the body of a priest you’ve just stabbed to death, it’s being discovered in the identical scenario whilst carrying a Russian pistol once used by one of the most ruthless organisations in recent world history. So I decide to keep my mouth shut.
There’s a moment of silence, but now the second voice bellows, ‘This is a police matter, Thomas! And we’re coming upstairs!’
-65-
I pull the magazine from the PMM’s grip and check it’s loaded with its complete complement of 12 Makarov-made bullets. The full dozen is there. I slam the mag back and make sure that the safety, on the top left of the piece, is switched to on, then wedge the pistol in the back of my suit trousers.
Martin shouts, ‘We’re in the sitting room, but we’re coming up, Father!’
I hurry to the door and open it a couple of inches. ‘Hello!’ I shout to the visitors below. ‘Don’t bother coming up! I’ll be right down.’
No one could confuse my voice for Maughan’s and I immediately hear low chatter.
‘That you, Father?’
There’s clearly a third person downstairs because the question comes from a different voice.
I dash to the wardrobe. Close it. Rushing back to the door, I reply, ‘You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid!’
I jog down the stairs. The sitting room is beneath the study, so at the bottom of the steps I turn sharp right, meaning I can see the trio immediately.
There’s the curate, Martin. Slight. Smiley. Barely out of his teens. I can see his duffel coat on a chair next to the patio doors. I can’t help but like the guy.
The other couple of men are bigger and therefore bigger potential problems. Two uniformed policemen. On the left, a PC. Mid-twenties and below medium height, but he’s got a heavyweight’s physique that I wouldn’t want to go three rounds with. He’s not wearing his helmet, so I can see he sports a buzz cut, giving his features a drawn, military look.
The other copper is a sergeant. Mid-thirties. Tall. Not as muscular as his colleague, but he looks like he can handle himself.
I swiftly assess all three individuals. Martin I could batter whilst making a pot of tea and still fancy myself to serve up a pretty decent brew. The sergeant? Yeah. I could take him, and probably his hulk of a sidekick. But facing them both at once, especially with the Mickey Finn that Maughan slipped me still swishing around in my system? Possible. But problematic. It’s not an avenue I’m keen to explore and I’m hoping I can defuse the situation using persuasion not pugilism.
‘Good to see you again, Martin!’
I wasn’t even introduced to him earlier, but I’m hoping my implied camaraderie with the curate is noted by the policemen.
Martin offers me a nervous grin. ‘Hello,’ he says.
I breeze into the sitting room. It’s large and, unlike the study and master bedroom, it’s furnished in a resolutely modern style. Immediately behind the three men, there’s a long, snow-white sofa and, to my right, a light beige travertine dining table, easily large enough to accommodate thirteen diners popping round for a late supper. The three men clearly entered by a pair of patio doors, which I can see remain ajar across the room and slightly to my left.
The younger copper gets us underway. ‘Could I ask what you’re doing here, sir?’
‘I wasn’t aware we were living in a police state, constable. This is my friend’s home. He invited me over. Can I ask what you’re doing here?’
‘Mrs Shawcroft, that’s Reverend Maughan’s housekeeper—’
‘I know who she is!’ I interject waspishly.
‘She entered the premises via those doors’ – he gestures towards the patio – ‘to collect her handbag. She thought she heard a scuffle coming from the room above.’
‘A scuffle?’
The sergeant asks, ‘How did you get those marks on your face?’
‘I had a bit of work done. It’s residual swelling. I can get you a doctor’s note if it would help.’
‘And the curate here . . .’ The sergeant nods to Martin. ‘He thought the vicar was perturbed when he spoke to you outside the church.’
‘Perturbed? Good word.’
‘Care to explain that, sir?’
‘Sure! It means agitated. Disturbed. Disconcerted.’
‘Not the word!’ The sergeant is riled but tries to remain calm. ‘I mean, why was Reverend Maughan so perturbed to see you?’
I decide to gamble. I’m holding a weak hand, so may as well go all in. ‘Thomas doesn’t like his flock seeing us together. It’s a very conservative parish.’
That hangs. The PC mouths, ‘Oh . . .’ and takes a step back.
But the sergeant doesn’t appear convinced. ‘Martin says he’s never met you before today.’
‘Well, maybe he swiped left. Sergeant, are you going to stop harassing me, or am I going to have to lodge a complaint with your chief constable, citing your blatant homophobia?’ Annoyingly, I can’t remember the CC’s first name. Shame, I’d liked to have used it to suggest a friendship. I recall it’s a cool name, but can’t bring it to mind. ‘It’s the twenty-first century and your particular brand of prejudice has no place in—’
Something catches my eye. Something bright and near and so rapid that I can’t process what it is. Was. But it breaks my train of thought, forcing me to pretend I’m too upset and appalled to even finish the sentence.
The PC says, ‘It’s nothing like that, sir.’
The sergeant smiles. He’s a wily old devil. ‘You’re welcome to make a complaint as you see fit. I hope you don’t feel I’ve disparaged you.’
‘Well . . .’
‘Or the Reverend Maughan.’
‘To be frank, you did come across as being—’
The distraction again. This time, half prepared for it, I can make out what it is. A red droplet, falling from the ceiling. I try to remain focused on Martin and the policemen, but two feet behind them, the blood of Thomas Maughan is leaking through the study floor and dropping from the ceiling of this room.
The sergeant notices I’m distracted. This throws him and he furrows his brow. ‘As being rather what? Are you all right, sir?’
‘I don’t wish to appear rude, but your presence here, and you interrogating me . . .’
I spot a third red droplet fall from the ceiling. And I see the snow-white sofa now has three crimson spatter marks nucleated across its middle section. If any of the three men turn around, they can’t fail to notice the fresh blood.
-66-
‘. . . It’s all very distressing,’ I conclude. ‘That’s all.’
‘I’m sorry for that! You’re just spending a pleasant Sunday afternoon with Thomas?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well,’ says the sergeant, ‘I’ll call him down so we can assure Mrs Shawcroft he’s OK, and we’ll be on our way.’
If I lead the men upstairs, they’ll find the corpse of their vicar on the study floor. But if they leave, they’ll see the fresh blood marks.
The curate appears genuinely concerned. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
A fourth bead of blood drips onto the sofa, immediately behind the trio.
‘What could possibly be wrong?’ I ask Martin with a smile that even I find unconvincing.
The sergeant angles his head towards the ceiling and bellows, ‘Thomas! It’s Smithy! Police business, I’m afraid! Could you pop down for a minute? I just need a quick word with you!’
The room suddenly feels unbearably hot. I remove my suit jacket, hook it on my right index finger and, in an attempt to appear nonchalant, sling it over my shoulder.
The sergeant shouts, ‘Thomas! Need to see you – now!’
I smile. ‘You’ll need to shout louder than that, Smithy. He’s not in.’
‘I thought he invited you over.’
‘He did. Martin can confirm that.’
The curate nods.
The sergeant says, ‘You said you were spending the afternoon together.’
‘And so we are.’
Now he makes a meal out of looking perplexed. ‘But he’s not actually here?’
‘He’s nipped into town for a bottle of wine.’
Bugger! The moment the words leave my mouth, I recall Maughan mentioning his wine cellar.
Martin looks suspicious and blurts out, ‘He’s got dozens of bottles downstairs.’
The older copper nods in a this-is-making-me-uber-sceptical kind of way. ‘Thomas always stocks a very fine cellar, so why on earth should he—’
‘All right!’ I yell. Another deep breath and I rake my fingers through my hair, deciding on which fabrication – several have already occurred to me – I’m going to regale them with. ‘You’re really going to make me say this? OK. I met Thomas at a pub in Soho. I was at the bar and asked if they had a bottle of Château Bélair-Monange. The barman told me he didn’t, but he offered me a very good Merlot. So I said . . .’ I shrug to indicate I’d accepted. ‘Then Tommy asked for the same wine I’d just bought. The guy behind the bar said the one he’d just handed me was the last bottle. I was waiting for a friend and I’m not ashamed to tell you, I said to Tommy, why not join me so we could both enjoy the Merlot?’
