4
It's almost six by the time we reach Amber Chase's house. Blanche came with me as support and as my driver. I don't drive, never have done and never will do.
Three cars parked in the driveway. Visitors. That makes it more difficult. Finally, the front door opened by a woman in her early twenties, red-eyed from crying. A young man, bearded and shaggy-haired, joins her, putting his arms around her waist.
"I'm looking for Mrs Amber Chase," I say.
"That's my mum," says the young woman. "I'm Louisa, and this is Jamie."
"We phone ahead earlier," Blanche says, "I am the Home Office pathologist, and this is Quintus Noone."
The young couple stares at me, not knowing how to react.
"Can we speak to your mother?" I ask.
She led us to a sitting room where an older woman stood by the fireplace as though posing for a photograph. She has delicate features, and short brunette hair swept back behind her ears. I notice the family photographs on the mantelpiece—Louisa as a child, teenager, and married. An earlier wedding photograph shows Robbie Chase in his dress uniform and Amber wearing a white wedding dress split up her thigh.
Seats are offered and chosen. Mrs Chase perches on the edge of an armchair, barely making a crease in the cushion.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," I say as I sit opposite.
"Thank you," she whispers. "They're saying Robbie committed suicide."
"Does that surprise you?" I ask.
"It shocks me."
"Your husband had attempted suicide before and ended up in the Priory mental hospital."
Mrs Chase waves the information aside dismissively. "The suicide attempt had been a sham concocted by Robbie to buy himself time with his angry creditors. Psychiatric records showed that he voluntarily visited the Priory. He had taken too many tranquillisers and had superficially cut and bandaged his wrists, something the doctors discovered he did so people would think he was suicidal."
"You and Robbie were estranged," observes Blanche.
"We were living separately."
"Divorcing?"
Mrs Chase looks offended by the suggestion.
"When did you last see him?"
"About a month ago," she replies, "It was sad to see that he had become such a haunted figure – drinking heavily, doing far too much cocaine, and getting himself mixed up with dodgy people. Then, two weeks ago, he called the police at 3 am and disclosed to officers that he believed gangsters and the Russian Mafia would assassinate him. He hadn't slept in three days and had not eaten or had anything to drink all day except for a scotch egg due to fear of poisoning. He asked for armed protection and told me that he had requested help from MI5, and MI6 informed the record shows. But, instead, the police referred him for psychiatric tests, stating that there was no information to corroborate his allegations of his life being in danger."
"What did you think about these allegations?"
"The police eventually arrested Robbie and at the police station, and doctors determined he was distrustful, with a fierce flavour and had a multifaceted delusional faith system. So, they committed him under the Mental Health Act and moved him to St Andrew's Hospital. The doctors noted that Robbie appeared sweaty, suspicious, and restless, attempting to kiss other patients and expose himself. He even accused nurses of being in the league of the FSB and tried to kick down the ward doors to escape."
"Is that correct? You were going through divorce proceedings at the time?" Blanche asks.
"Robbie had been due to attend a divorce hearing with me the next day, and he would face jail if he failed to disclose documentary evidence of his losses. Instead, doctors at St Andrew's Hospital wrote to the judge that he was mentally unfit to comply with the court order. I was furious, asking the judge to imprison Robbie for his disobedience, but the judge delayed the hearing."
"How did that make you feel?"
"Cheated," she responds with venom, "I'm trying to protect my daughters and give them something of a future. The next day, doctors noted a "significant improvement."
"How convenient," I say.
"Precisely," Mrs Chase nods. "The next morning, he was exhibiting no psychotic features, though he still maintained, calmly, now, that his fears were justified. He called our youngest daughter, Louisa and warned that someone was following him, that something would happen, and that we all had to be in a safe place. Robbie's fears for his safety led to his commitment. Louisa told me that he admitted to her, his mental health admissions were his way of fleeing to safety when he found himself in imminent danger."
"Did he provide a satisfactory explanation for the sudden disappearance of his fortune?"
Mrs Chase laughed without humour. "After seven years, 65 divorce hearings, and three months in prison for contempt, he had still failed to provide a satisfactory explanation for the sudden disappearance of his fortune. The High Court judge was forced to make his final ruling blind and decided that Robbie still had £45 million hidden from this court and ordered me half of that and several million more to cover my legal costs. The judge acknowledged that I would have difficulties in enforcing my order but told Robbie the debt would exist for all time."
"What did you do after that?"
"For several months at the start of the year, I was determined to find his assets. So, I deployed a team of surveillance operatives to tail him on foot and in vans, tracking his every move."
She paused for a few seconds.
"They caught him on film doing deals in an array of exclusive West End bars and restaurants, visiting London's finest five-star hotels, and partying at a nightclub with his new girlfriend, the model, Casca Ashakova. Then, one February day, my surveillance team followed him to a meeting at the five-star Dorchester Hotel, a favourite haunt. Robbie went to an upstairs room and came down later, shaking and looking deathly pale. He had been dangled out of a window at the Dorchester by heavies working for the Russian Mafia."
"What did he do?" I ask.
"He high-tailed it back to his flat, only to be photographed re-emerging with arms full of bags, suits, and shirts. He then decamped to the nearby Majestic Hotel, a tired two-star establishment far out of keeping with his eye-watering expensive tastes. He checked in with cash, the private eye said, and used an alias."
"What did your surveillance team do?"
"They followed him to the second hotel, where they eavesdropped on his room. In one phone call taped by the surveillance team, Robbie discussed handing over the paperwork to an individual in Russia and told an unknown caller that a Russian businessman Igor Akinfeev was keeping his head down."
"What did he do then?"
"He called Shelley sounding very erratic and very scared and warning her to get herself, her sister, and me somewhere safe."
"What did you do?"
"That was when a man approached, out of the blue, with a message from Moscow. The Russian government wants me to visit them."
5The Aeroflot jet touched down in Moscow on a bitter morning with thick snow lying on the ground. The customs men waved Amber Chase and me through as if uninterested, though they seemed to be taking apart a man of much my age on the next bench. No protest, no anger, nor, I could see, any apprehension.As we went on my way, one of the officers picked up a pair of underpants and carefully felt his way around the waistband.I was thinking purposefully of taxis, but it transpired that we had a reception committee. A girl wearing a knee-length black coat and a black knitted hat approached us tentatively and said, "Mrs Chase? Mr Noone?"She saw from our reaction that she had the right couple. She said, "My name is Julieann. We have a car to take you to your hotel."She turned towards a slightly older woman standing a pace or two away."This is my colleague, Miranda.""How kind of you to take so much trouble," Amber said politely. "How did
6Miranda waited, hovering in the dining room, and stepped forward as I appeared. She wore a blue wool suit with rows of bronze-coloured beads and would have fitted un-remarkably into the London business scene. Her hair was clean and well-shaped, and she had the poise of one accustomed to organising."You can sit here," she said, indicating a stretch of tables beside a long row of windows. "Mrs Chase will be joining you shortly.""Thank you.""Now," she said, "tomorrow….""Tomorrow," I said pleasantly, "I thought Mrs Chase and I would walk around Red Square before we meet with deputy prosecutor general Ozdoyev.""But we can add you on one of the guided tours," she said persuasively. "There is a special two-hour tour of the Kremlin, with a visit to the armoury.""We'd rather not," I said, "this is difficult enough for Mrs Chase as it is."She looked annoyed, but after another fruitless try, she told me that our lunch was
7After breakfast, the receptionist summoned us, where two prominent men stood with impassive faces, flat uniformed caps, and long grey coats.One of them handed Amber a stuck-down envelope addressed to her. Inside there was a brief hand-written note, saying simply. "Please, accompany my officers," and below that, "Deputy Prosecutor General Ozdoyev."During our progress through the foyer, there were several frightened glances. The bulk and intent of our two escorts were unmistakable. No one wanted to be involved in our situation.They had arrived in a large black official car with a uniformed driver. They gestured to us to sit together in the back, and I gave Amber a reassuring squeeze of her hand as the vehicle set off and made unerringly for Dzerzhinsky Square.The long façade of the Lubyanka loomed one side, looking like a friendly insurance-company building if one didn't know better. Finally, however, the car swept past its large sides a
8Unsurprisingly, Ozdoyev did not offer a lift, and after collecting our coats, shuddered out into the saturated air. As darkness fell, it seemed to be colder than ever, and Amber linked her arm in mine and moved closer to me so that we could share our little body warmth.There were even fewer cars than usual to mow one down and not another pedestrian in sight, let alone a policeman."Did I do the right thing?" Amber asked in due course."Of course, you did," I answer. "The Russian's want that hard drive as much as you want to know the whereabouts of your ex-husband's money."The Majestic Hotel lay in the distance down the hill, with its canopy stretching out over the street. I turned up my coat collar, wondering why most of the centre of the top was an intentional hole rectangular hole, like a skylight without glass, open to every drop of rain or snow which care to fall. As a shelter for people arriving and departing, the canopy was a non-starter.
9My room looked calm and sane to reassure me that tourists were safe to roam the city's main streets.It could happen in London, I thought. It could happen in New York and Paris, and Rome. What was so different about Moscow?I threw my coat and room key onto the bed, poured a large reviver from the duty-free whisky, and sank onto the sofa to drink it.The attack had been, perhaps, an abduction attempt. Without glasses, I could have been a pushover. They could have got us in the car. And the drive? To what destination?Did Amber expect me to stick to the task until I was dead? Probably not, I thought, but then I don't think Amber underestimated the whole situation.More than anything, I could be lucky again. But, failing that, I had better be careful. My heart gradually steadied, breath quietened to normal.I drank the whisky and felt better.After a while, I put down my glass and picked up the box containing a pay-as-you-go mo
10A limousine collected us about seven o'clock that evening, and we sped down the Komsomolsky Prospect, and I looked two or more three-times out of the window. A black car followed us faithfully, but we were on the main road where that would happen anyway.We arrived outside a restaurant ten minutes late because more snow falling clogged the public transport and taxis almost to a standstill. There was a short queue outside shivering, but the chauffeur led us past the row and opened the firmly shut door.The place was packed, and somewhere there was some music. Led to the one empty table, a bottle of vodka materialised within five seconds."Of the two decent restaurants in Moscow," a voice said behind us, "I like this the better."We turned to find Ozdoyev, standing there accompanied by a tall, slim, and beautiful young woman, wearing a deep-blue velvet jumpsuit and high-heels which made her taller than me, and I am over six-foot."This is m
11The 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
12Elena Koshka did not believe that her ex-husband Igor Akinfeev committed suicide. However, when Akinfeev and his wife Elena divorced five years ago, he was ordered to pay her up to £200 million, making it the costliest marriage split in British legal history.She lives in Kensington, west London, in a penthouse overlooking Hyde Park on the first floor of a Georgian row that has probably featured in every BBC period drama since television began. I half expect to see horse-drawn carriages outside, and women are parading in hats.Elena isn't wearing a hat. Instead, her short blonde hair is off in her face with a headband and clad in black spandex shorts, a white sports bra, and a light blue T-shirt with a looping neckline.A gym membership card dangles from a bulky set of keys that must help burn calories simply by being lugged around."Excuse me, Miss Koshka. Do you have a moment?""Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying.""It