27

What had Ilya been thinking? Julien clutched his phone so tightly, he thought he was going to break it. The irony…when he was going to have to break it because he couldn't let Lors get his hands on it. He lay on the bed in the Battersea apartment and gave a sigh that was half dismay and half amazement at Ilya being in France. He was surprised, but then Ilya constantly surprised him, and he liked that. It was just that he didn't want anything bad to happen to him.

Nor did he want him to say the wrong thing to his parents.

It was too late to call his father. France was an hour ahead. It would have to wait until tomorrow. Then he'd get rid of the phone on the way to Croydon. He'd take another unused burner with him. Maybe two.

The voice recorder had been left in the mailbox downstairs, and it was now attached to his keyring for the flat. It looked realistic, but maybe his keys would be taken from him. He'd just have to convince them not to do that.

When he went to the bathroom to clean his teeth, he found the multi-coloured Lego minifigure in his washbag. Ilya must have put it there. Something else to add to his keyring. After thinking about it, he took off the key to the flat. It was possible Lors might demand its return.

Back in bed, he slid into a daydream of him and Ilya staying in France for a while after all this was done. Unwinding, relaxing, having fun. Except that all depended on so much going right. Or rather, on nothing going wrong.

Lors being convinced that Julien hadn't betrayed him.

Lors not shooting him for even suggesting Abrek was gay.

Assuming Lors hadn't planned to shoot him anyway.

By the time he'd drifted off to sleep, he'd still not decided what to tell his father. Maybe some but not all of what had been going on over the last three years, but then Ilya would be filling in the blanks whether Julien liked it or not. Part of him didn't care, though he knew he should be talking to his parents himself.

The first thing he did when he woke was call his father.

"All??"

"Papa, it's me."

There was a short intake of breath. "Julien! Are you all right? What on earth have you been up to? The police said Chechen gangsters! Mon dieu! I thought it was some sort of joke, but—"

"I will explain, but not now. I need you to do me a favour. Please. A friend of mine, his name is Ilya, will be arriving at Lorient station this morning. I gave him your number so he could call to tell you when he was there. Please take him home with you and keep him with you until you hear from me."

"There are policemen sitting in their car outside our house!"

"I know. It's just a precaution. I'm working with the police, but you can't tell anyone that. Not a neighbour, relative or friend. It's safer that no one knows. But you can trust Ilya with your life. He knows everything. I'll send you a picture of him. After you've taken him home, no one should leave the house until the police tell you it's safe. It's just for a couple of days. It's important, papa."

"Tell me one thing."

"What?"

Oh God, don't ask if I'm in a relationship with Ilya.

"Does this have anything to do with Sébastien?"

Julien sighed. "Yes."

"You have a lot of explaining to do."

"I know. Take care."

"You too."

Julien wondered if he'd stay alive long enough to explain anything.

Before he left Battersea, he destroyed the phone he'd used to speak to Ilya and his father. On the way out of the development, he stopped and kicked the pieces into a drain. He now had three phones in his pocket. One that he used to talk to Lors and two unused burner phones. He doubted Lors would find that suspicious.

He arrived in Croydon just before nine. The satnav had led him to a large scrapyard at the far end of an industrial estate and as Julien approached, the gates were opened and Ramzan beckoned him inside. Julien activated the recorder before he climbed out of the car with his bag.

"Leave car keys,"

Ramzan said and gestured to follow him.

Julien somehow wasn't surprised to find Lors and Keram waiting inside the office, which was a converted shipping container. Keram searched Julien, then his bag. Julien didn't read anything into that. He was always searched. The keyring with the recorder received no more than a glance before it was returned to Julien's pocket.

"Sit,"

Lors said, then waved out Ramzan and Keram. "Why do you need a change of clothes?" His grammar was better when he spoke in French.

"I can't safely drive ten hours there and immediately drive ten hours back. I'll need to rest before I make the return journey. Did you expect me to drive for that length of time?"

He didn't have to try to look incredulous.

"You can stay the night at the warehouse in Lorient. They have beds."

That wasn't happening. "What am I transporting?"

"You don't need to worry about that. The van will be locked."

"I'd rather know what was in there. Not people, I assume."

"Not to travel in that direction. Idiots want to come to UK, not leave it."

"What does the documentation say I'm carrying?"

"Engineering parts from a business in Croydon."

"Right. Do you want me to take measures to ensure I'm not followed?"

"Why would anyone follow you?"

Julien shrugged. "It's something I always do. Check my mirror. Keep changing direction. Makes me feel safer."

"No one will follow."

Could Julien rely on that?

"You get the van to Lorient without incident. That's your job. Now talk to me about Abrek. What didn't you tell the police?"

Julien took a deep breath. He'd hoped to get Lors to talk more about the contents of the van. "I didn't tell them that my brother told me he loved your son."

He stared into Lors' face. The slight widening of the man's eyes suggested to Julien this was news to him.

"They were both badly injured. Bleeding out. Sébastien asked me to help Abrek. He wanted to hold Abrek's hand. I moved Sébastien closer and when their hands touched, Abrek opened his eyes."

Julien sucked in his cheeks at the memory. "Sébastien died. I did CPR but he'd gone. Abrek said "Brother" to me and I thought he was saying or asking if I was Sébastien's brother. I told him I was, but he said, "Brother again." At that time, I assumed he was confused, but now I wonder…"

"What?"

Lors snapped.

Merde! "Don't shoot me, okay?"

Lors huffed. "Not yet. What do you wonder?"

"Whether Borsha had discovered that Sébastien and Abrek were in a relationship. I had no idea my brother was gay. Nor did—do my parents. I thought they'd be better off not knowing because they'd wonder why he hadn't told them and worry that he'd felt he couldn't. Maybe the better off not knowing applies to you too. I'd never met Abrek. Only one out of Sébastien's many friends knew about him. They'd obviously been keeping their relationship a secret. That wasn't like my brother. He wore his heart on his sleeve, but fear for Abrek would have kept him quiet."

Lors was listening intently but saying nothing.

"I'm aware of how gays are treated in Chechnya. One of your leaders once denied there were any homosexuals in the country. I thought Borsha might have gone to my brother's place to persuade him not to see Abrek anymore. Except I don't think Borsha knows how to persuade other than by using violence. You know how fond he is of his knife. If he attacked Sébastien, perhaps Abrek attempted to stop him. Abrek had defensive wounds on his hands and arms. My brother didn't. That indicates he was probably taken by surprise."

Lors showed no reaction.

"I don't believe they killed each other. I don't believe it was a drug deal gone wrong. No trace of narcotics was found in their systems, no needle tracks, no paraphernalia in the apartment. Sébastien had wanted to be a vet his whole life. He wouldn't have risked that dream for anything. He'd never even smoked a cigarette."

Julien's throat was dry. "Maybe you already knew about Abrek and Sébastien's relationship. Did Borsha? The police were aware of a motorbike leaving the scene several minutes before I arrived. They've never been able to trace it. Supposedly. Unless they were persuaded not to. Borsha has a bike." Oh God. Maybe he should have let Lors draw his own conclusions.

"You think one of my sons killed the other?"

"Not deliberately. I think Abrek was fatally injured while trying to protect Sébastien."

Lors leaned forward with his elbows on the desk and pulled at his upper lip with his finger and thumb.

"I did my best to save them both,"

Julien said. "I know you don't believe me but it's the truth. The only thing I did wrong was not to phone for an ambulance right after I lost the connection with Sébastien. He'd asked me not to. He said ‘no police', that it was dangerous, they'd both be killed." Julien had told the police that. "I had no idea how badly they'd been hurt. The moment I saw them, I called for help."

They both sat in silence, Julien recording Lors saying fuck all but Julien couldn't think of how to get Lors to incriminate himself.

"Did you have a hand in the removal of my medical license? Don't you think I've been punished enough?"

Lors pushed to his feet. "You better get going so you don't miss your slot to cross the Channel."

He tossed him a key. "Drive carefully."

Julien caught the key, then stood up. "Am I going to make it back?"

Lors didn't answer.

"I've done exactly what you've told me to do for the last three years. Nothing that was legal. I've saved the lives of many people who work for you, including Borsha. Patched up others. You trained me to steal and how to break into a safe. I moved to England when you asked me to. I've done enough."

"And I've paid you well, so that you could support your parents."

"You did, but I don't want to do this anymore. It's not my world."

"What is your world? Not medicine. Not now."

"Are you going to tell Borsha to kill me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you still don't forgive me for Abrek's death and because now I know too much."

"Keep your mouth shut and we'll have no problems. Get out of here."

Julien exhaled when he walked out of the office. At least he wasn't going to get shot… Not yet, anyway. Ramzan stood by a white van.

"Box on floor on passenger side has what you need to drive in France,"

Ramzan said. "Stickers already on headlights. And sticker on back of vehicle. No need for you to be stopped if you don't speed."

"Okay."

A few minutes later, Julien had switched off the recording device, directed the satnav to use the A22 to reach the M25, the second of the routes suggested, then he'd driven away.

He didn't know how much of that conversation was useful. If he'd pushed too hard about what the van contained, Lors would have been suspicious. Julien assumed the police had followed him to Croydon, or maybe they'd just watched him arrive, and would be following him now. Would any of Lors' people be following too? There was no point worrying about any aspect of this other than the part he was involved with. Whether Lors now wondered about Borsha's role in Abrek's death or whether he already knew, Julien had done what he could.

He drove carefully, not aware of anyone following. He agreed with the police that it was likely there was a tracker on the vehicle. Lors was probably monitoring his progress right at that moment.

The traffic was heavy and he made slow progress to Caterham. There was no indication that he was to continue past the layby and as he pulled in, he spotted the vehicle with its ramp down, ready for him to drive into. Moments later, the van was secured inside the lorry.

DCI West came forward with his hand out. Julien shook it.

"Let's sit down before we set off."

Julien joined him at a row of bucket seats that backed onto the cab.

"Any problems?"

West asked.

"No."

"You weren't followed, by the way. Well, only by us indirectly. Your route was tracked on CCTV. Let me have the recorder and I'll transfer the data."

Julien handed it over. "He spoke in French."

The lorry set off and while West was busy, Julien watched a group of white-suited technicians working on the van. They hadn't attempted to open the back yet, but were using scanner to check the sides and underneath the vehicle.

"Here you go."

West handed back the recorder.

"I asked him what I was transporting but I couldn't press him. He handed me the key himself. Maybe that's something."

"Have you googled the destination in Lorient?"

"When I set the satnav. It's a factory on an industrial estate."

"The French police might have more information when you stop in Caen."

One of the technicians came back to them. "We're not going to have this done by the first services. It'll have to be Maidstone."

West nodded and the guy went back to the van.

"That gives us longer to talk. What feeling did you get about Lors' reaction to what you told him about his sons?"

"I don't know for sure. His eyes widened slightly but he didn't give anything away."

"If you had to come down on one side or the other?"

Julien thought about it. "I don't think he knew, but I don't think he was shocked."

By the time Julien was driving the van out of Maidstone services, they were aware of exactly what was in the vehicle. Sixty handguns and forty fully automatic rifles broken down into parts and spread across dozens of packages. There were also detonator caps, but thankfully no actual explosives. West had been gleeful and Julien felt sick. He'd driven other vehicles to France for Lors, and ones from other European countries. Guilt ate at him.

Ilya stared up at Lorient Station. It looked like the hull of a big ship with a huge porch cantilevering out from the roof. A really impressive piece of architecture and engineering.

After he'd called Julien's father, he'd gone to stand outside in the spot where private vehicles were allowed to pick up and set down, and now he found himself nervously shuffling his feet. How would Julien's father know who he was out of all those waiting? Though he could always phone him.

About twenty minutes later, a silver Peugeot pulled up next to him and the passenger window went down.

"Ilya?"

a man asked.

"Oui."

Ilya climbed in and put his rucksack at his feet.

The man looked like an older version of Julien, with a lined face, his hair silvery-grey though cut in the same short style, same blue eyes.

Ilya held out his hand and said in French, "Thank you for coming to get me."

"No problem. I'm Robert."

The reply came in English.

He set off and Ilya fastened his seat belt. "I can speak a little French."

"Are you better at English?"

"Yes."

"My wife's English. We can speak English. Are you Russian? Ukrainian?"

"Half-Russian, half-English. How did you know it was me?"

"Julien sent a photo."

"Oh."

Ilya hadn't realised Julien had taken one. He opened his mouth to say hopefully it was one where he was wearing clothes, then closed it again. Phew.

"Do you live far away?"

Much safer comment.

"A few miles to the west. Near the coast. Is Julien in danger?"

Oh God. How do I answer that?

"Your hesitation tells me he is. Don't tell his mother."

It began to rain and Ilya turned his head to the window. He hadn't thought this through. Not properly. He'd wanted to be near Julien but what the hell was he supposed to say to his parents? Julien had told him to be careful but what did that mean? It was highly unlikely that Julien had announced he was now in a relationship with a guy. Ilya definitely needed to keep quiet about that.

They drove out of the rain into sunshine before Ilya broke the silence. "Do you work?"

"I'm a history teacher. Part-time."

"What about your wife?"

"She used to be a teacher too. Music."

"What's her name?"

"Katherine. Did Julien tell you about her?"

"Tell me what?"

"She has multiple sclerosis. Some days are better than others."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"What about your parents?"

"My mother died when I was three. My stepmother works hard at spending my father's money. My father has business interests in oil, chemicals, timber and agriculture. Not all of which are above board."

"And you?"

"I was a teacher as well. I used to work at a jewellery school in St Petersburg, showing people how to work with enamel and silver. I taught people from Tiffany's, Bvlgari, Cartier…"

Robert glanced at him. "How did you get into that?"

"I've made my own pieces of jewellery since I was twelve. Metalwork was part of a design and technology club at school in England and I loved it. I made rings for boys to give to their girlfriends. Necklaces for members of staff. I even sold some items to a local shop. After doing A Levels, I applied for a place at the International Jewellery School in St Petersburg, and later I was asked to teach there."

He'd been the youngest teacher Dimitri had ever employed.

"How did you meet Julien?"

Now he needed to be careful. "I was living in St Petersburg and I'd intended to come to the UK for my stepsister's wedding which was to be held at the family home, but my father had me brought back a month early. Forcibly. Obviously, I wasn't happy about that. I‘d planned to make a run for it while the wedding was in full swing, but I saw Julien there and asked him for a lift."

The bare bones.

"Your father forced you to leave Russia?"

"Yes."

"Why on earth would he do that?"

Here we go. Could he just twist the lid of the jar a little and not all the way without the contents escaping? He'd try. "Because I'm gay and he didn't want me to be gay and he thought he could make me not gay."

That was a lot of gay in one sentence. Robert didn't appear to be freaked out so that was a plus.

"How did he think he could do that?"

"By whatever means necessary. He employed a guy to…use various methods of persuasion. A tracker was inserted in my arm and I had to cut it out before I ran. Julien gave me a lift to London but he didn't realise what a mess I'd made of my arm. When he saw the wound was infected, he took me to hospital. He saved my life. And now I want to help him."

"By doing what?"

"That's the problem. I'm not sure how much help I can be, and Julien told me to be careful what I said. I don't know how much I should tell you. I think maybe you'd better wait to hear it from him."

"You'll see what my wife has to say about that."

Robert indicated to turn right, drove past a silver car with two men in it and on into the drive of a two-storey granite-built property. He pulled the car into the garage.

"Was that the police?"

Ilya asked.

"Yes."

Robert unlocked the door of the house and ushered him in.

Straightaway, Ilya could see how lovely it was. Old and traditional on the outside, modernised on the inside but with a lot of exposed stonework and beams. The floor looked wooden but Ilya thought it might be some sort of vinyl. He put his rucksack down in the hall and followed Robert through to a kitchen with modern appliances and granite worktops. He could see the sea in the distance through a bank of glass windows.

"Katherine. This is Ilya."

Ilya went up to a woman with long dark hair pulled into a neat chignon. She was sitting in a wheelchair. He held out his hand and she grasped it with both of hers.

"What is my son up to? Don't lie to me."

Oh shit.

"Told you."

Robert laughed.