The fat man hadn’t moved from the armchair, but every time a car went past its headlights threw his shadow on the walls then sucked it out of existence, a passenger on a demonic carousel. It made Reece want to draw the curtains, but he was mesmerised by the moment. And if he moved the man might pounce. He looked capable of it, for all his size, the way a monitor lizard might seize a passing goat.
‘Who’s Andy?’ the man asked at last.
‘My partner.’
‘And he’s dead.’
‘He was killed.’
‘How?’
‘They said it was a heart attack. But—’
‘They?’
‘He was in Moscow. But there was nothing wrong with his heart.’
‘Your friend died of a heart attack in Moscow, and you think Vladimir Putin did it.’
‘Because of the book Andy was writing.’
‘Was he one of you?’
‘In what way?’
‘Jesus, so much for tact. What’s the PC term for diddyman?’
‘I have achondroplasia. A genetic disorder.’ Reece felt a familiar flash of anger. ‘Do you want me to spell it for you?’
‘Fuck no, we’ll be here all night.’ There was a glint as the man’s bottle appeared again. He took a swallow, then said, ‘So you were a matching pair.’
‘His condition was rarer than mine. But the outcome was the same. He was a person of restricted growth, yes.’
‘You’d think he’d have been better at keeping his head down.’
‘Is this all a joke to you?’
‘So far. What was he doing in Moscow? Research?’
‘Yes. And … Well, he used to live there. His parents still do.’
‘So he was Russian.’
‘Yes. Andrey.’
‘A Russian citizen who died in Russia. Were you there?’
‘… No.’
‘Did you see his death certificate?’
‘No, but—’
‘Any police investigation?’
‘No.’
‘His parents kick up a fuss?’
‘No, they think he—’
‘Where’s his body now?’
‘He was cremated.’
‘Were you there?’
‘… No.’
‘So, to sum up. Something happened a long way away which you didn’t see and nobody else is suspicious about. What do you think we should do? Organise a telethon?’
‘Putin had him murdered.’
‘So what? We all know the man has blood on his hands. Let’s face it, he has blood on his elbows. But he couldn’t give a flying fuck for world opinion, and anything he gets up to inside his own borders is the state equivalent of behind closed doors. Besides.’ He took another slug from his bottle. ‘I realise the loss of your friend must have left a tiny little hole in your life. But dying in Russia doesn’t automatically mean he was murdered by its president. And if you were an expert cardiac diagnostician, I doubt you’d be living in this shithole. Aren’t you lot supposed to be house-proud?’
‘You think all gay men are neat-freaks?’
‘I meant dwarfs, to be honest. Or is it gnomes are the tidy ones? I get you mixed up.’
‘Now you’re just trying to be offensive.’
‘There’s effort involved, yes. And it wouldn’t kill you to show some appreciation. I’ve had a long day.’ He looked at the bottle in his hand. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘… Thanks.’
‘Well fetch me one while you’re at it. This is good stuff. I’ll save the rest for later.’ He tucked it away in his pocket.
Reece mentally played back what he’d just heard, then did so again to be sure … He could itemise the contents of his fridge from here, and already knew all he had was beer: bottled Beck’s. He got down off the tea chest, went into the kitchen, and came back carrying a pair.
‘This the best on offer? Bloody hell.’ But he unscrewed the cap anyway, and tossed it into a corner.
Reece said, ‘Andy had done a lot of research. And he had a contact. In the GRU. That’s—’
‘Yeah, let’s pretend I know what the GRU is.’
‘This man, he told Andy about the special squad they have there. An assassination department.’
He sat back on the tea chest, and opened his own bottle.
The man said, ‘If that was Andy’s breaking news, what was his idea of a scoop? The charge of the Light Brigade?’
‘They use two-person teams, posing as married couples. And one of them was killed not long ago, on Russian soil. In the city of Kazan. As revenge for the Novichok attacks.’
‘That’s the rumour, yes. And it’s even reached Brewer Street.’ He hoisted the bottle to his lips, and swallowed half its contents in a single gulp. ‘So it’s unlikely that it’s worth murdering for.’
But Reece wasn’t finished. ‘He told Andrey, the contact did, that Rasnokov’s declared war on the British Secret Service. On Putin’s orders. That they’d identified a similar department here in the UK, some kind of assassination squad, and they plan to wipe them out one by one. On British soil. That’s what Andy was writing about.’
‘In his book,’ the man said flatly.
‘He was planning on selling this bit to a newspaper.’
‘But he died of a heart attack first.’
‘He didn’t have a heart condition.’
‘Nobody does. Until they do.’ Impressively, if that’s the word, the man’s beer was already gone. He lobbed the empty after its cap and belched hugely. ‘And he told you this how long before he died?’
‘The day before. Ten days ago. We spoke on the phone.’
The man said, ‘Lots of people write books. Sell stories to newspapers. They don’t all get murdered. Not half enough of them, frankly.’
