Good Bait

22

Paul. Paul Milescu. Were it not for Google, Karen would never have known that Paul was the fourth most popular male name in all of Moldova. How had Clare Milescu put it, harking back to the time she spent in the country working for the UN? A directive urging them to engage with members of the government, one she’d taken all too literally. Paul Milescu had been something important in the Ministry of Justice and, despite being married, he had become popular with her, too.

Now they were separated, going their different ways. Clare still fighting the good fight, following her conscience, working with refugees, while Paul, once in London, had used the co

Explicable enough, in a way; commendable, even — a father’s natural instincts, offering protection to his son, wanting to keep him from trouble. Or was it more? A pre-emptive move to keep the police at arm’s length from himself, his family, his business?

What was his business?

Here Google didn’t really help. Import/export, that and not a great deal more. Importing and exporting what? No details, certainly. Maybe, like Terry Martin, it was sportswear, women’s clothing. And possibly Martin was right, Karen thought, it was all we did in this country any more, import stuff made cheaply elsewhere now that we made hardly anything ourselves — and what we did seemed to be owned by someone else. The Americans, despite their fading economy, had controlling shares in everything from chocolate to Liverpool Football Club; the Russians had a football club of their own and half the expensive properties in London, while just about everything else was being snapped up by the Chinese.

She looked again at the paucity of information on the screen.

A PO box address, phone number, fax, email. Perhaps she should simply pick up the phone, dial the number, ask him outright?

Hey, Paul …

Then again, perhaps not.

She had a friend, Tom Brewer, in the Intelligence Unit of Economic and Specialist Crime — sort of a friend, they’d met on a Home Office course a few years before, shared a few drinks, he’d asked her out, she’d said yes and then said no — she’d give him a bell. No favours to call in, just a hint of what might have been. Brewer newly married she’d heard, two stepsons and a semi-detached in Child’s Hill.

She left a message, didn’t have to wait too long for him to respond.

‘Karen, long time no see.’

‘A small favour, Tom, that’s all.’

He rang back in a couple of hours. ‘Milescu, everything pretty much above board as far as I can see. Co

‘Nothing chancy?’

‘Not that you could lay a finger on. Ever since the country joined the World Bank in ’92, trade has blossomed — from a very low base admittedly — and Milescu’s just ridden the wave along with it. The fact that he’s clearly got co

‘But nothing illegal?’

Brewer laughed. ‘Down to your definition of illegal. But in a way that might be of interest to us, officially, I’d say no, pass.’

‘Thanks, Tom.’

‘Maybe we could meet up for a drink some time? It’s been a while.’

‘Sure, I’d like that. You could bring your wedding photos for me to have a look at.’

He laughed and called her something not very nice.

The next time her mobile went it was Carla, who’d texted her twice already: Ro

‘Carla, I can’t.’

‘Come on, girl. That guitar. “After Hours”. That sound. Sex on six strings.’

‘You know what? I’d love to, but-’

‘But nothing. No excuses, come on, I’ll see you there. Ten thirty, eleven, that’s when it kicks off. Okay?’

‘I don’t know, Carla, I’ll see. Maybe. But no promises, right?’

Ten thirty, eleven: by then, most nights Karen reckoned to be tucked up in bed with a glass of red and a good book.

She glanced at her own reflection in the darkening window. She didn’t believe she’d just told herself that, but she had. Girl, as Carla would say, you’re getting old. Old before your time. She should make the effort to get down there after all: race home, get changed into something suitably funky and cab it to Camden.

Ro

Tempting as it was, she knew she’d do no such thing.

Carla was standing in line, the crowd thickening around her; stop-start of traffic at the lights, exhaust fumes dispersing pale grey into the night air. If the temperature dropped much more it would be freezing hard by the time they emerged the far side of midnight.

She hunched up the collar of her padded coat and shuffled a few short paces forward, even though they were not really moving, the queue simply becoming more compressed. Someone’s elbow poked into her back and she turned, the man’s face an apologetic leer.

‘Sorry, darlin’.’

Sorry, darlin’, who spoke like that any more? Outside of EastEnders, that is? The East End itself, mostly Bangladeshi now as far as she could tell, other than a few smart young Metropolitans busily rebranding it with artists’ studios and architect-designed apartments.

‘Seen him before, have you? Ro

His nose pushed, like a chisel, down from the centre of his face, his teeth, when he smiled, were large and yellow — horse’s teeth.

With a quick, dismissive shake of the head, Carla edged forward. This guy was actually hitting on her. Unbelievable!

Unable to move farther, she squeezed herself towards the wall.

As well she did.

In retrospect, she heard the car approaching fast, faster than was safe; the sudden braking, shouts and screams from those positioned near the kerb, and then the shot. A single gunshot. Loud. Close. No backfire. Little doubt what it was.

Someone ca

There was a long moment in which nobody seemed to speak or move, and the dead man — she supposed he was dead — lay at her feet, one arm stretched out, fingers bent back by the wall, as if trying to tu

The side of his head no longer seemed to be there.

Carla shook. Shuddered. Jumped when a hand gently touched her arm.

‘You’re hurt,’ the young woman said, pointing. ‘Your face. It’s bleeding.’

Carla blinked the blood away from her eyes and brought her fingers gingerly to her cheek. She could hear the sirens, police and ambulance, drawing closer. Knew she should use her mobile, contact Karen: as soon as she stopped shaking, she would.

23

By the time Karen arrived the street was cordoned off from below the crossroads north to the junction with Arlington Road. Uniformed officers, yellow tape, police vehicles in abundance.