‘Mmm. I did a little digging. Asked around, as requested.’ She dropped her pen and notebook into the cavernous bag and rummaged for a moment, finally pulling out a packet of mints. She offered him one, shrugging when he declined. ‘There is a family… surname Begovich…they’re hardly new, which is what you wanted to know.’
‘It’s what I half expected.’
‘They’re Serbs. Been here since before Yugoslavia went to hell in a handcart. Got out just in time. Opened a restaurant in Shepherd’s Bush. It’s calledJagoda. Means Strawberry, I am reliably informed.’
‘Sweet. Any good?’
She chomped her mint and raised her eyebrows. ‘You ever eaten Serbian food? Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. The place is obviously for show. Daddy and his darling daughter have bigger fish to fry.’
‘They serve fish?’ It was a feeble joke and he wasn’t surprised when she ignored it.
They reached the ground floor. Tudor pulled back the inner and then outer cage doors of the lift and stood aside to let Deborah step into the foyer. It was as he watched her that his eyes took in the Art Deco design on the wall beyond the reception desk, as if seeing it for the first time. It was made up of geometric shapes, intricate yet bold, its colours and shapes striking, and it was exactly the same pattern as the artwork he had just seen in the improvised shrine upstairs.
‘Are you listening to me?’ DI Chowdhury reclaimed his attention.
‘Sorry?’
‘I was saying, before you go getting ideas about bookingJagoda’s best table, you need to answer me one question. How come one minute you are asking me about East European gangsters, and the very next day my lads clock two of Mr Begovich’s boys watching the very building you are suddenly connected to? The very building where no fewer than six people have just met pretty fucking messy ends? I’d be really interested to hear exactly how you are mixed up in all this Tudor, if you can spare me just a little bit of your valuable time?’
The little bit of time turned out to be over an hour of formal interview at the station. Tudor was surprised to find himself bristling at this sudden switch to official mode. He had been involved in the first incident, fair enough. But he wasn’t even in the building when the latest killing had occurred. He had taken his re-established friendship status with Deborah as a given, and friends didn’t sit each other down either side of a plastic table and record their conversation with a junior detective as chaperone. He knew she was only doing her job. He knew that in her position he’d probably have done the same. In two murders at the samelocation his proximity was one of the few common factors. Added to which, he had been asking about local east European gangs in relation to the attack on himself and Emily. And, as DI Chowdhury had pointed out, unless a couple of the members of one of those gangs had recently developed an interest in Art Deco architecture, it seemed likely they were somehow connected to the violent events at the Aurora, or why else would they be watching the building? Which was the main problem Deborah had. Professional, Detective Inspector Deborah, that was. How could two seemingly motiveless murders within families be connected to a high end criminal operation? And yet, they had to be. Every copper knew there was no such thing as a coincidence. So, while Deborah of old, Debs, the woman with whom Tudor had shared an intense and meaningful affair, while she might have been more concerned for her ex-lover’s welfare (particularly given he had already been attacked), police officer Chowdhury had to keep her focus on doing her job. Tudor knew all that. Still, he didn’t have to like it.
They had gone over and over the whys and the wherefores of his being at the Aurora in the first place. How long had he worked for his current employer? What business had his boss earned his wealth in? Why had they chosen to buy an apartment there? Had Tudorknown any of the residents previous to his charge moving in? Then they had turned to the connection with the Begoviches. Why would such an outfit be interested in Tudor? What would provoke them into following him all the way to Manchester to attack him? Could it be they had some business dealings with Tudor’s boss? He had told her, and the tape recorder, and the junior detective, that he was pretty keen to know the answers to these questions himself. At last they came to a halt. There was nothing he was hiding from them. There was nothing useful he could tell them. DI Chowdhury had done her job and been seen to do it. She ended their interview by warning him off confronting the Begoviches. If anything happened to indicate they truly were targeting him, he was to report it at once.
‘No amateur heroics,’ she told him.
‘You know me, Detective Inspector,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think you’d ever call me an amateur, and I am definitely no hero.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ she said dismissively, noting the time and switching off the recorder.
It was gone ten when Tudor returned to the Aurora. He waved a greeting to Deri on his way up, making a mental note to talk to him later. He was sure the concierge knew more than anyone about the residents, and he could just have some of those elusive answers, butnow was not the time. Letting himself in to the apartment, he found Charlie shouting into his mobile.
‘No way! Mum… oh come on… that’s bollocks… OK, I’m sorry, but you’re over reacting. Honestly, I’m fine here. Tudor’s got the flat fixed with serious locks. Plus he barely lets me out of his sight,’ he added, rolling his eyes and running his hand through his hair. ‘Mum… seriously, chill…’
Tudor went through to the kitchen, flicked the switch on the kettle, leaned back against the island, and waited, arms folded. A minute later Charlie stormed into the room.
‘Fucksake! You have to get my mother off my case!’
‘Have I?’
‘She wants me to go home! Can you believe it? She thinks this place is jinxed or full of mad people or something. She does’t want me here another night.’
‘It’s understandable she’s worried.’
‘So let her be worried. Doesn’t mean I have to give up my home, does it? I mean, what are all my friends going to think if I go running home to mummy? Fucksake,’ he said again, less explosively this time, weary of it all, landing heavily on one of the kitchen bar stools, his face a study of pique and powerless disappointment.
For once, Tudor felt sorry for the boy. He might be over privileged and under appreciative, but he was still a kid, and hadn’t done anything to deserve having his wings so suddenly and severely clipped. Losing face at that age was no small thing. Then again, his mother might have a point. Perhaps the Aurora wasn’t the safe nest for her fledgling she believed she had bought into. And she could hardly use the place as currency in her social circles while two gruesome murders were attached to it. Little wonder she wanted her boy out of there. Tudor thought about how he would no longer have a reason to be at the block so often, which could slow down his attempts to find out who attacked him and why. Deborah had been right about one thing: the Serbs were interested in the Aurora, and they were interested in him. It seemed as if they knew why he was connected to the place, beyond his job, when he himself didn’t. It occurred to him then that if the flat was empty, it might actually give him more freedom to investigate without putting Charlie in harm’s way. In a day of dirt grey clouds, it was a thin but shiny silver lining.
‘You’ll have to do what she wants,’ he said.
‘Can’t you have a word? Tell her how safe I am here. Make her see she’s being ridiculous.’
‘Sorry, mate.’
‘What, you won’t even try? Jesus Christ, I thought you were supposed to be a tough guy. You won’t even stand up to my mother. Fuck having your job.’
The kettle boiled and clicked itself off. Tudor counted to five very slowly. He shifted his position, standing up straight and unfolding his arms.
‘Go and get your stuff together,’ he said calmly. ‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea so you can sort your attitude out and by the time we leave you’ll have the appropriate face on for returning to your loving parents.’ When Charlie opened his mouth as if to argue, Tudor interrupted. ‘Be a good boy and you might even get a biscuit.’ The offer was gently made, but his expression warned against further protest. Charlie scowled and stomped from the room.
