ELEVEN

11

The flight home was met at Gatwick at three in the afternoon by Blanche, who, after dropping Amber off to re-join her children, whisked me off to another crime scene.

"What's happened?" I asked as we headed towards Ascot.

"Igor Akinfeev died this morning," she replies, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"Don't tell me, suicide," I say, without feeling.

"Police have been quick to announce that there is nothing suspicious about the death," she says.

"Who found him?"

"Avron Cohen, his bodyguard, returned from running errands early this morning. When he knocked on the bathroom door, there was no reply. The missed calls on the oligarch's mobile, which he rarely left unattended, was another reason for concern. So finally, Cohen, an ex-Mossad agent who had guarded Akinfeev for six years, kicked down the door. Inside, Akinfeev was lying on the bathroom floor on his back. A length of a scarf tied tightly around his throat. Overhead, another