“Five hundred! You idiot! Why didn’t you tell them two or one hundred even?”
Trubetskoi sat up. Indigestion coloured his already rosy cheeks. “These men are not morons, as you take me for. Five hundred was a credible figure.”
“Huh!”
Trubetskoi leaned back into the chair.
“So what terms did you agree?”
“I said we’d split the balance of the proceeds down the middle, after the deduction of a hundred for selling expenses. When we’ve got our disposal arrangements in hand I said I’d give them a hundred up front. They quarrelled about this and I’d taken some cash with me, so I’ve already given them fifty in ‘readies’ as they say.”
A large piece of ash fell onto Voronov’s waistcoat and he brushed it away. “Did they suspect anything?”
“My dear Kyril, this is your old Misha. Of course they suspected nothing. I am as smooth as silk.”
“And who do you have in mind for the disposal?”
“I’m not sure. There are a couple of candidates. I’ll check them out and let you know which I think best.”
Voronov grunted. Another chunk of ash grazed his beard before falling to the floor. He bent to open a drawer in the desk and removed a bottle of vodka and two glasses. “So. Here’s to good business.”
The two men stood and clinked glasses. In the distance a siren began to wail.
“How are you getting on with the lady, Kyril?”
Voronov tugged at his beard. “She will succumb to my charms, gradually, Misha. I’ll get what we need soon, don’t you worry.”
*
Merlin was looking for Bridges and wandered down the corridor. Passing the small cubby hole on the right where the tea and biscuits were, he found Robinson and Cole in what appeared to be a deep conversation, hands touching across the small table at which they were seated.
“Anyone seen the sergeant?”
They jumped at his voice and Robinson’s face flushed.
“I’m here, sir.” Bridges appeared from the other end of the corridor and Merlin followed him back to the office.
“Something going on there, Sam?”
“I believe there is, sir.”
“Not very keen on office romances.”
“Me neither, sir.”
“God knows what the A.C. will say.”
Merlin seated himself at the desk.
“Cole asked me if he could be allowed to help Johnson in his looting investigation, sir.”
Merlin pushed a pile of papers to the side of his desk. “Did he now? Well, yes, let him. Might take his mind off the beauteous Claire. Get him to come and see me.”
“Your brother’s been trying to get hold of you.”
“Has he? Thank you, Sergeant.” He pressed a button on his telephone and got a line. Merlin’s younger brother Charlie had been lucky and unlucky. Caught in the worst fighting at Dunkirk, he had been fortunate enough to escape from France with his life. Unluckily, he had left a leg behind. A happy and well-balanced young man before the war, when he had worked at a bank, his injury had left him bitter and resentful. Charlie had spent nearly two months recuperating in hospital, but since the end of July he had been sitting in his wheelchair at home in Fulham, passing on his depression and misery to his family. Beatrice and Paul, his wife and young son, were doing their best to support him, but they were having a bad time of it and Merlin didn’t know what he could do to help.
“Hola, big brother. Como estás?”
“I’m alright, Charlie, how about you?”
“What do you think? Fine I suppose for a one-legged cripple with no future.”
“Come on now. Beatrice was telling me the other day that Martins Bank sent you a nice letter wishing you well in your recovery. She thought they were hinting they’d take you back.”
The line crackled with pent-up frustration. “What does she know. They didn’t spell it out, did they?”
“What can I do for you, Charlie? I’m pretty busy at the moment.”
“It’s alright for you. El Grande Jefe de Scotland Yard. You’ve got a life!”