Lavish London mansions. A hand-painted Rolls-Royce. And eight dead friends. For the British fixer Robbie Chase, working for the Russian's President most vocal critic meant stunning perks – but also constant danger. His gruesome death is one of 14 that retired British Agent QUINTUS NOONE has linked to Russia – but the UK police shut down every last case. QUINTUS NOONE'S investigation reveals the full story of a ring of death on British soil that the government has ignored.
View MoreNO ONE ASKED
BY QUINTUS NOONE
The framework of this novel is factual. However, my cast of characters and some of their adventures are all purely imaginary.
Quintus Noone
September 2021
This book is inspired by true events, where names and places
have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.
LIST OF CHARACTERSQuintus Noone…………………………………………. Retired MI5 agent
Blanche Bradbury…………………………………… Home Office Pathologist
Inspector Brooks…………………………………….. Metropolitan Police
Amber Chase………………………………………… Ex-Wife of Robbie Chase
Lewis Barfield………………………………………… Moscow Based Private Detective
General Ozdoyev……………………………………… Russian Deputy Prosecutor
Elmira…………………………………………………. General Ozdoyev’s Escort
Elena Koshka…………………………………………... Ex-Wife of Igor Akinfeev’s
Kayla Zelenyy…………………………………………. Ex-wife of Alexi Zelenyy
Ingrid Kuzyaev………………………………………… Wife of Daler Kuzyaev
Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Burton……………… Inspector Brooks’ Replacement
Casca Ashakova………………………………………… Ex-Girlfriend of Robbie Chase
Katrin Cajthamlova……………………………………. Kuzyaev’s Mistress
Trevor Marshall………………………………………… Former Home Secretary
Michael Falco…………………………………………… Helicopter Pilot
Anna Maria Castello…………………………………… Italian Ambassador to Britain.
Victoria Usheava……………………………………….. Italian/Russian Translator.
Monika Cvurka………………………………………… Dog-walker
Caroline Brett………………………………………….. Dr Brett’s wife
Anjelica Ebbi………………………………………… Translator for Public Health England
Christopher Rice………………………………………. MI6
Sir William Frederick Patterson……………………….. Chairman of JIC.
Madame Charlotte Julien………………………………. French Lawyer
Claude Duvall………………………………………….. Ex-French Policeman
THE FOURTEEN
Robbie Chase…………………………………………Property developer (Suicide)
Igor Akinfeev………………………………………… Russian Businessman (Suicide)
Alexi Zelenyy……………………………………Akinfeev’s business partner (Heart Attack)
Daler Kuzyaev…………………………………………..Financier (Heart Attack)
Dmitry Zhivoglyadov……………………………Owner of Zhivoglyadov Oil (Heart Attack)
Paul Eden………………………………………………... Lawyer (Helicopter Crash)
Freddie Cumber…………………………………………. Lawyer (Heart Attack)
George Charles…………………………………………. Property Agent (Suicide)
Nigel Burch…………………………………………….. Investor (Suicide)
Mariella Novotny……………………………………… Journalist (Stabbed)
Igor Asimovsky………………………………………… Russian Diplomat (Heart Attack)
Dr Kieran Brett…………………………………………. Government radiation scientist.
Paul Betts……………………………………………….. Journalist.
Jimmy Raistrick………………………………………… US Security Consultant.
1
The terrifying scream spoke right to the heart.
It was still cold when the body fell, dropping silently through the Sunday morning light and landed with a dull sound. Impaled through the chest, the spikes of a wrought iron fence dangled under the streetlamps as blood spilt onto the pavement. Overhead, a fourth-floor window stood open.
I was out for my morning constitutional, seeing the same faces, the man walking his reluctant dog and the beautiful, tall young woman going out for a jog. She always wears figure-hugging running gear, and her hair in a ponytail swishes back and forth beneath a white baseball cap, held on by headphones, listening to music.
After forty years of marriage, I find myself a widower, and this has become my daily routine since she died so tragically in a road accident.
Now, lonely and isolated, my morning and evening walk turned out to be my only respite from the drudgery of day-to-day life. Of course, I found it worse during the pandemic, but with the easing of lockdown restrictions, at least, I felt safer, albeit behind a mask, to be able to go out and meet people and re-join the human race.
A light wind stirred the trees in the avenue, and their shadows cast on the pavement. The traffic is periodic, a couple of cars, a moped and the odd cyclist. That's about it.
The music teacher across the road is mowing his grass. He glanced up as I passed and waved as if all was fine in the world. The wife of a plumber two doors down is pruning a hedge, and next door, a landscaping van is parked on the side of the road, Green Thumb Lawn Care.
A young man wearing dark glasses, oversized jeans, a Chelsea shirt, and a baseball cap is not far from it. He's loud with a leaf blower, clearing the footpath, and he didn't look at me or be polite and pause as I walk past, with grass clippings and grit covering me like a swarm of angry bees.
I stopped and looked at the young man. Although initially, he paid no attention, he didn't even seem to realise it.
Finally, abrupt silence followed as the young man stopped what he was doing. His dark glasses stare, his mouth opens expressionless. I tried to place him. Maybe I had seen him every morning without really noticing him. That is possible.
"Watch what you're doing."
I asked him.
"Sorry."
He articulated in an indifferent tone, and his hair was long and carrot red.
"Just show some care next time."
A shrug, showing he wasn't that bothered. He didn't give a toss, and to add insult to injury, he even smiled a little.
Before moving on, I gave him an impassive look. But, as the plastic surgeon who had worked his will on me hadn't quite succeeded in matching up the two sides of my face, my impassive expression is noticeably lacking in encouragement.
Before my brain could register the sound like a terrifying scream, I froze, all but my heart remaining statue-like on the pavement. The crescendo of sound had been tremendous, and it stopped the dog walker dead in his tracks. The jogger continued on her merry way, oblivious of what happened while listening to her music.
Within minutes, three police cars parked on the road, along with an ambulance with its blue turret light revolving ominously. People were bustling through the open door of the apartment block, waking the whole street. Neighbours stood on the pavement in dressing gowns and overcoats. I sat there for a moment getting the lay of the land.
Two policemen had turned up. The plain-clothes one asked the questions, while the other one wrote everything down. Although they were efficient, polite, and unsympathetic, they left a distinct impression that I had little to offer as a witness. Moreover, in many of their questions, it seemed to be a faint hovering doubt that what I had told them would not be a reliable source of information.
It didn't bother me. I answered automatically, sometimes between question and answer.
"Explain to me again what you were doing when you heard the scream."
"I was walking past. My thoughts were elsewhere. I was thinking about my wife."
The Inspector casually propped his foot on the tray of the ambulance.
"Where is your wife now, sir?"
"The local cemetery."
There followed a beat of silence, and something invisible passed between us.
"What is your name, sir?"
"Quintus Noone."
The Inspector looked like he had been bitch-slapped. He took out his mobile and punched in a number. I overheard him talking to his superintendent. I don't know what was said to him, but I still have many friends in high places, people who respect what I did for a living.
When the call finished, the Inspector was a chastened man, but before he could articulate anything, one of his team shouted from the scene of the fallen refrigerator.
"I haven't finished with you yet."
He told me before stomping off to find out what the other policeman wanted.
I hobbled away from the ambulance. The tape tightly wrapped around big oak trees and lampposts, blue and white with police lines not cross written in black. It encircled the property, threaded through railings, barring the front entrance covered by a peaked roof.
A large white SOCO van parked in the driveway. Doors yawning. Metal boxes stacked inside.
Nearby, a forensic technician is crouching on the front path taking photographs. She looks like an extra in a science-fiction film dressed in blue plastic overalls, a hood and matching boot covers.
Positioning a plastic evidence tag, she raises the camera to her eye. Shoots.
Stands. When she turns, I recognise her. Dr Blanche Bradbury, a Home Office pathologist from Czechoslovakia, spoke without a hint of an accent.
"Well, look who it isn't."
"Hello, Blanche. How are you?"
"Better now I've seen you. Didn't realise this would involve you?"
"Nor did I until the Inspector spoke to someone on the phone."
"Still got friends in high places, then?"
"Looks that way, Blanche. How much longer only time will tell."
Turning back to the van, she collected a tripod. On the other side of the road, the attractive jogger went past her second circuit and started to turn into Farriers Road but noticed the emergency vehicles and the news vans. She looks up at the news helicopters hovering at about a thousand feet. Heading to Miller's Street instead, she nervously glanced back and around as she picked up her pace.
"I'll catch you later, Blanche."
"I certainly hope so."
She stated, her crystal-blue eyes sparkled.
I approached the perimeter where six uniforms stood guard, blocking off the street. They're making sure no one unauthorised entered the scene but missed my innocuous presence.
Four sizeable white nylon panels are fastened by Velcro straps to PVC frames and form an ominous boxy shelter room enough for the Crime Scene Investigators to work in a while shielding the body from prying eyes.
But like similar screens used roadside to prevent the curious, the temporary shelters also signal carnage, and they won't stop helicopters from filming. Despite the local constabulary's best efforts, they won't be able to keep the crime scene out of the news.
I stopped just short of the privacy screens, the sun almost overhead now illuminating what's inside.
Blanche saw me and nodded, but I only had eyes for the body. An old-fashioned spike-, a tipped set of railings ran the length of the apartment block, and the body was impaled on the fence, still dripping blood.
"Has he a name?"
"Robbie Chase."
"How many stories did he fall?" I ask Blanche.
"Looks like a couple. That window there."
There was a noise behind me. One of the uniforms was vomiting on the road. A colleague had an arm around his shoulders, encouraging the flow.
"Let's get him down," Blanche tells her team. "Get the poor bastard into a body bag."
The uniformed constable accompanying the Inspector earlier saw me swaying in the entrance and took quick annoyed strides back to my side.
"You mustn't be in here, sir. It's a crime scene!"
He cried with exasperation, stating clearly that my faintness was my fault.
I nodded dumbly and started to turn away when a voice called out.
"Constable!"
The source of the shout came from the entrance to the flats. It was the Inspector, dressed from head to toe in a white coverall with boot covers. He beckoned me over and held out some coveralls packaged in cellophane.
"Put these on."
He pronounced sharply.
"Why?"
"You're coming with me."
The Inspector waited while I worked the coveralls over my clothes. He then gave me some boot covers, and I pulled them on, standing on one foot at a time. Suiting up is an art, having witnessed seasoned investigators put things backwards or lose their balance on many occasions.
I finished off by pulling on a pair of gloves.
"Ready?"
The Inspector's voice still sounded unfriendly.
"Just out of curiosity."
I verbalised.
"Where are we going?"
"Follow me."
He had no intention of being expansive. He wanted me kept in the dark for as long as possible. I had dealt with these types of police officers on many occasions. Despite supposedly being on the same side, my old job had rarely made me popular with any of the constabularies I'd had the misfortune to work alongside.
35 I had a perfect firing position, with the rifle positioned on a wood and metal stand erected against the broad windowsill. All the equipment had been painted a dull black and laid out on the bed like sinister evening clothes, with the black velvet hood stitched to a shirt, made from the same material. The hood had wide slits for the eyes and mouth, reminding me of pictures I had seen of the executioner of Anne Boleyn. Switching off the attic lights, I took off my coat, put a stick of chewing gum into my mouth and donned the hood. I lay along the bed and got my eye to the rubberised eyepiece of the telescopic sight, and gently lifted the curtain over my shoulders. The grounds of the house were like a well-worn photograph. I scanned it all slowly, moving the 'scope with the rifle, adjusting the precision screws on the base. It was all the same except the headlights of an approaching car in the far distance probed the darkness like two pointing index fingers.
34The Gala glittered with titles, diamonds, champagne, and talent.Later it might curl around the edges into spilt drinks, glassy eyes, raddled make-up, and slurring voices, but the gloss wouldn't entirely disappear.I handed over my invitation and walked along the wide passage where the lights were dimmed low, the music loud, and the air thick with scent.Around the dancing area, there were large circular tables with chairs for ten or twelve around each, most of them already occupied. According to the seating chart in the hall, at table thirty-two, I would find the place reserved for Ian Ure. My false name for the night. Nobody should recognise me with a false beard and glasses, but that didn't prevent a battery of curious eyes swivel my way. Many people raised hello, but none could work out who I was or hide their shock surprise that they didn't know me.A voice behind me said incredulously, "Ian!"I knew the voice and turned around with
33A1 Shooting-Range was just off the Barnet By-Pass. I lay at the five hundred metre firing point at the range. The white peg in the grass beside said 4.4, and the same number was recurrent high up on the distance but above the single six-foot square target that looked no larger than a postage stamp to the human eye and in the May dusk. But my lens, an infrared scope fixed above my rifle, covered the whole canvas. So, I could easily differentiate the pale-blue and beige colours into which the target separated. The six-inch semi-circular bull looked as big as the half-moon that started to show low down in the blackening sky above the A1.My last shot, an inner left – had been shit. I took another glance at the yellow-and-blue wind flags. They were coursing across the range from the east rather more firmly than I had begun my shoot half an hour before. I set two clicks to the right of the wind gauge and navigated the cross wires on the telescopic sight back to the
32By the time I returned to London, my unquenchable thirst for revenge knew no limits. The first few weeks were nothing but funerals. I even managed to attend the funeral of Pierre Clavell; Madame Charlotte Julien's absence did not go unnoticed, but what the congregation didn't know was that the day after the explosion, she passed away peacefully in her sleep.Another link in the chain, broken.Blanche's funeral was a sad affair, with her twins, the mirror image of their mother, stood solemnly in the front row, heads bowed, while the heavy rain battered the roof of the church. The burial took place in Highgate Cemetery, with the priest barely making himself heard above the shower.Everybody remained silent as the coffin was lowered into the ground by the pallbearers, and the twin daughters took it in turns to throw their handful of dirt onto the wooden lid. Usually, that moment echoed around the graveyard, but the rain drowned out even this poignant gest
31Oh my God, what the fuck do I do now?I naively looked around me to locate her missing limbs and put them back where they belonged. Only then did I see the other casualties. Those who had not only lost limbs but their lives. Like Pierre Duvall, whose head had separated from the rest of his body. Customers, tourists, and people passing by had all been caught up in Katrin Cajthamlova's collateral damage.A fireman says something in my ear in French, and when I tell him that I am English and my French is limited, he immediately talks to me in embarrassingly good English.He holds my shoulders as he guides me away from Blanche. "Come on, Monsieur. Let's get you out of here.Are you in any pain?"My tongue felt huge in my mouth, choking me. "No," I rasped before pointing at Blanche. "My friend." I am unable to say anything further."Don't worry, Monsieur," he said to me, "we'll do our best to look after her."He helped me to my f
30I am on my second beer when Blanche gets to the restaurant. I am watching the pizza chef spin a disc of dough in the air and draping it over his knuckles before relaunching it.The waiters are young.Two of them are watching Blanche, commenting to each other. They're trying to fathom our relationship. What is a beautiful, slender, blonde woman doing with me who is a great deal younger?She is either my mail order bride or my mistress, they are guessing.The café is nearly empty.Nobody eats this early in Paris. An older man with a dog sits near the front door.He slips his hand beneath the table with morsels of food."She could be anywhere by now," I say with reluctance. "She played us like a violin, and I didn't see it. I am getting too old for this cloak and dagger shit. I should retire."Blanche becomes angry. "She has fuelled a lot more people than just you. She is very good at her job, but you are better."
29Blanche has scarcely said a word since our flight left Heathrow. Her silences can be so eloquent.I told her that she didn't have to come. "I'm sure you've got enough on work-wise.""I have," she replied, "but how am I going to keep you out of trouble if I don't go with you." The faintest of smiles wrinkles the corners of her eyes.It's incredible how little I know about her. She has children – twins – but doesn't talk about them. Her mother is in a retirement home. Her stepfather is dead. I don't know about her birth father as she's never mentioned it before.Blanche is the most self-sufficient woman I have ever met. She doesn't appear for human contact or needs anyone. You can those survival shows on TV where people are separated into competing tribes and try to win immunity. Blanche would be a tribe of one, all on her own, and would come out on top every time.Paris. It makes me think of finance, diplomacy, commerce, fashio
28I try not to react."Can you explain?" Patterson asks."No.""Not even a vague notion."My mind was racing through the possibilities, but I couldn't think of any."Do you know this woman?""I met her in Moscow when I went there with Amber Chase. Her name is Elmira. She was General Ozdoyev's, the Russian Deputy Prosecutor's escort for the night. She tried to take Mrs Chase's handbag, but Mrs Chase slapped her around the face to stop her."Numbness rather than shock seeps through me. I felt like someone had walked up and hit me in the back of the head with a piece of wood, with the noise still ringing in my ears."Why weren't they found sooner?""The five MI6 operatives went off the grid five days ago. General Ozdoyev's girlfriend went missing the day after. Felixstowe has nearly four thousand lorries passing through every day.If Customs searched everyone, there'd be ships queued back to Rotterdam."
27The traffic meanders at an agonisingly slow pace, shuffling and pausing. I can only see the back of the driver's head. He has a soldier's haircut and wrap-around sunglasses, looking ridiculous as he is wearing them at night."Where are you taking me?""To see someone important.""Who?""You'll find out when we get there.""And where is there, by the way?""There is where we are going.""There must be some mistake.""You are Quintus Andrew Noone. You are sixty-three years of age. You worked for MI5 for nearly forty years. You are the youngest of five children, with one brother and three sisters.Your brother passed away suddenly seven years ago. You went to Littlegrove School in East Barnet and then Challoner School for Boys in Woodside Park. You lived in East Barnet, to begin with, followed by Whetstone for fourteen years and then moved to Suffolk. You graduated from Homerton College, Cambridge, with a degree i
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