Corruption! Read online

  Corruption!

  Elizabeth Ducie

  A Chudleigh Phoenix Publications Book

  Copyright © 2018 Elizabeth Ducie

  Updated February 2019

  Cover design: Berni Stevens

  The right of Elizabeth Ducie to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with other people, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-913020-02-6

  For Werner and the Kiev team;

  we created wonderful memories.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Vladivostok, September 2010

  The stench hit Police Captain Maxim Federov as he walked into the hall. He choked and swallowed hard. It wouldn’t do to contaminate a crime scene with vomit. And what he’d just entered was definitely a crime scene. Even if very little effort would be made to investigate. After all, the death of a couple of junkies was of little importance.

  If there had been any doubt in Federov’s mind about the drug they were dealing with, it was dispelled the minute he walked into the main room. It obviously served as kitchen, diner, lounge—and now, morgue. Spread out on the table in front of him was all the paraphernalia required to make krokodil. A half-empty tub of codeine tablets lay on its side, next to a bottle of paint thinner. A canister of lighter fuel stood next to a top-of-the-range mobile phone, which seemed so out of place in this tiny apartment with damp stains on the peeling wallpaper and paper pasted over the windows as makeshift blinds. The small brown bottle with a dropper top explained the odour of burnt iodine lingering in the air, even over the smell of rotting flesh. Matchboxes were scattered across the floor, their strike pads scarred from vigorous scraping. On the sideboard stood a filthy electric plate, still plugged into the wall socket. On top was a battered metal dish in which stood a small vial of caramel-coloured sludge with two disposable syringes stuck through the rubber cap. Maxim held his hand over the dish, but no heat came from it. The meter must have run out. Thank God for that. Otherwise the place could have burned down, and they would have been dealing with far more than just two dead bodies.

  Federov took a deep breath and turned to examine the two occupants of the room. The girl was about fifteen and stretched out on the velour-covered sofa; she looked almost peaceful. Her bloodless lips curved upwards slightly, as though she was in the middle of a pleasant dream. Her arms were smooth and unmarked. She wore a lime green sleeveless top and denim shorts and where her back curved, a patch of pale unblemished skin showed through. Federov felt an unexpected urge to cover the exposed skin, even though the cold could no longer harm her. A pink and yellow crocheted blanket was pulled across the girl’s legs. He felt no urge to move this. He doubted whether her legs would be either pale or unblemished.

  Federov thought of his own daughter, at home eating her dinner, and choked back a sob. The two girls could have been at the same school; might even have been friends, but their age and gender were all they had in common. At least he hoped that was the case.

  The boy was older. Not a boy, in fact. A full-grown man, he looked to be in his mid-twenties. And whereas the girl appeared to have fallen peacefully asleep, he seemed much more tortured. Seated in the mismatched armchair across the room from the sofa, he had his head thrown back against the cushion and his eyes were wide open. His naked chest was hairless, and a small gold St Christopher hung from a chain around his neck. That didn’t do him much good, thought Federov. One leg of his denim jeans was rolled up above his knee. The skin was stretched, green and scaly. Livid pits spoke of former injection sites. Most shockingly, a syringe protruded from one of the rotting veins. The stench was coming primarily from here.

  “Poor bastards.” The words coming from the doorway to the bedroom took Federov by surprise. He’d expected his companion to be much less sympathetic. Grigori Ustinov was old school Militsya and had little time for the recently-introduced ‘new’ approach to policing. Unambitious, but a good man in the field, he’d been a sergeant for many years by the time Federov became his department head. Responding to the anonymous tip-off, he’d driven without comment and certainly hadn’t asked why his boss had come along. But now, the horror and sympathy on his face reflected what Federov was feeling. Maybe he’d misjudged the older man?

  “Shocking, isn’t it?” he said. “Why would they put themselves through this? Even junkies know krokodil kills in a year or two.”

  “But at a tenth the price of heroin, what else are they going to do?” Ustinov paused and shook his head. “But I think we’ve got a bigger problem than just a couple of dead junkies. Captain, you need to see this.”

  Federov followed him into the bedroom and stopped suddenly.

  “What the hell…?”

  Ustinov nodded.

  “Yes, that what I thought. Looks like someone’s going into wholesale production.”

  The bedroom was half the size of the other room. A double bed was covered with filthy, crumpled sheets. A dark-wood wardrobe stood against one wall, with the door hanging open. There were no clothes on the empty hangers. A matching dressing table occupied the wall space below the cracked, grimy window. And standing on the dressing table was a large cardboard drum, the sort used in chemical factories. The top was open, exposing the contents. Federov reached across and picked up a handful of white tablets. There was a score mark across one side and the number 60 stamped on the other.

  “What do you reckon?” asked Ustinov.

  Federov shrugged.

  “Well, I’m no pharmacist, but judging by what’s going on in this apartment, I’d hazard a guess these are 60mg codeine phosphate tablets. My wife takes them for her arthritis.”

  “So either someone’s got a major problem with pain or—”

  “—or the rumours are true. Someone’s planning a significant upscaling in the production of krokodil!”

  “But surely not in a place like this?”

  “Seems unlikely, doesn’t it? But did you spot that phone on the table next door?”

  “I assumed those kids had been on a thieving spree. But maybe not.”

  “No, I suspect they were supposed to be part of a manufacturing ring; but they got tempted to try out the merchandise themselves.” Federov shook his head. “I guess we will never know. Right, let’s get the forensics team over here.”

  As Maxim Federov left the apartment and the smell of rotting flesh behind, he knew just one thing for certain. Tackling this problem which was sweeping across Russia was going to take more than isolated investigations in different towns and cities. If Ustinov had asked why Federov was out of his nice warm office and wandering around a crime scene, that would have been the answer. He knew they had a battle on their hands, a battle he feared they were going to lose. It had to be fought at a national, or even international level. It needed to be controlled by the Ministry of Internal Affairs. In his head, he began composing a report.

  PART 1

  CHAPTER 1: LONDON, MAY 2010

  It had been a bloody difficult four weeks. They’d known it was coming; there’d been enough warnings in the press and around Westminster, but until the Prime Minister made the announcement and set the date, there was very little they could do to prepare. But then the bell rang, and they were off.

  She’d fought as hard as any of the six hundred plus sitting members of Her Majesty’s Government, while the lucky few whos
e time had come to step down anyway looked on with sympathy. She spent every spare moment, when not in Westminster, pounding the streets of her Devon constituency, knocking on doors, shaking hands, meeting people; even—when she couldn’t get out of it—kissing babies. And in fact, she had it easier than some of her colleagues in the urban constituencies and the stockbroker belt of Middle England. They’d faced the wrath of poor people disillusioned that thirteen years on, nothing of the great dream seemed to be working; and the distaste and approbation of the middle classes who saw too much money being wasted on ‘stupid irrelevancies’ like multi-faith community centres and gay marriage laws. And by the fear of people across the spectrum that ‘the powers that be’ were being too soft on the terrorists. There had been some very nasty moments in some of the hustings and in the press.

  No, Francine Matheson, Parliamentary Under-Secretary in the Department for International Development, had been treated more kindly at the hands of her constituents. They’d been polite. Some had even been supportive and assured her she’d be getting their vote when the country went to the polls on Thursday 8th May. But she knew some of them were lying. And her opponents sensed that too and fought even harder to paint her as a weak candidate, from a weak party, in a time of change. Gradually she saw the tide turn. The number of people who came to her rallies was fewer than in previous elections. People were less eager to stop and chat to her in the street. Doors remained closed when she and her supporters knocked. And across the constituency, around the country lanes and in village shops, the red posters were gradually overtaken by those of orange and blue. Francine Matheson knew she was going to lose. Just like many of her hardworking colleagues were going to lose.

  Part of her was going to really miss it all. She knew she’d have to hold back tears as the announcement was made. But her pride would ensure she did hold them back. She was proud of what she’d achieved in the past thirteen years. She liked to feel, in fact she knew, she’d made a difference to the lives of many people, not necessarily at home, but certainly in countries across the globe where lives were infinitely worse than in the United Kingdom. And she feared for future generations facing reduced support if, as she suspected, and all the media pundits predicted, her government was replaced by one of a different colour with a changed set of priorities, more selfish, more home-based.

  But there was another part of her really looking forward to getting out, to having a rest. Making a complete change in her life. No more late-night meetings or sittings in the House waiting for the division bell to ring. No more splitting her life between the capital and her beloved South West. No more having to consider every word she said in public in case an unwary opinion made it to the front page of a vengeful red top. No more seeing her husband, Richard, just for odd moments during the week and sometimes not at all. She’d be able to see him every day; spend as much time in his company as his busy life as a lawyer would allow. And for the rest of the time when he was in late night meetings or wining and dining clients? Well she was sure there were lots of things she’d be able to do to fill the time. She might become an active gym member, start going to the WI, or join a church choir. The possibilities were endless. She might even consider going into local politics once she’d had a break. Going right back to the beginning and doing something for the local community, rather than people across the world. Who knew? She didn’t have to decide right now. The most important thing was, she was going to get her life back.

  So, as she finished putting on her make-up just before nine, she switched off the television and smiled at herself in the mirror. Just a few more hours to go. The result should be declared around four in the morning and then it would be all over.

  Somewhere in the house, a phone was ringing. She heard its shrill tone cut off after a couple of rings, and knew her agent, Adrian Shorts, had answered it. It was probably another newsroom looking for a quote they could drop into the early edition, or a local radio reporter hoping for a scoop for her news bulletins. Francine knew Adrian would deal with it with his usual aplomb and leave her in peace for these last few minutes.

  But seconds later, she heard rapid steps along the hall. There was a light knock and then the handle turned as he pushed the door open. Francine only had to look at his face and the whole shebang—the election, the waiting for the count, the inevitable defeat, her plans for the future—all of it faded away as she realised something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed.

  “Francine, that was the police.” He stepped forward and put a hand on her arm. “There’s been an accident, on the M5, just this side of Bristol. Richard’s car went out of control and crashed into a lorry. I’m afraid he’s seriously injured!”

  She never did make it to the count. By the time the returning officer stood up to announce that her West Country constituency, along with that of many others across the country, had turned from red to blue, she was sitting in the hospital, drinking yet another cup of foul-tasting coffee from the vending machine, while a team of surgeons tried to save her husband’s life. And by the time her erstwhile boss was graciously accepting defeat and falling on his sword, it was all over. In London, the smooth young man from the other side of the Chamber made the customary car ride to Buckingham Palace to receive Her Majesty’s approval to form the next government. While in Bristol, Francine Matheson was shaking the hands of all the medical team, numbly accepting their condolences and assuring them she knew they’d done everything they could to save his life.

  On the morning of Friday 9th May 2010, Francine Matheson faced a new life, as she’d expected to. But she hadn’t expected to be facing it alone.

  CHAPTER 2: SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  The sun beat down on Francine’s back even as she ploughed through the cool water. She loved coming down to the pool at this time. It was barely 9am and although the temperature was already soaring, most of the other hotel guests were still lying in bed or enjoying breakfast on the terrace. The pool area was empty, and she was able to do her usual fifty lengths uninterrupted. Later, every lounger would be filled with sun-worshippers, many burned to a leathery tan by too much exposure to the sun. At that time, she would probably retire to her room where she would lie on the secluded balcony reading until dinner time.

  She’d been on the tiny Caribbean island of Martinique for ten days already and she’d barely left the hotel complex. She wasn’t inclined to go sightseeing. She wasn’t here for that. She’d come to find peace and quiet, far away from London, far away from her friends and former colleagues. Far away, in fact, from any reminder she would be spending her first Christmas out of politics alone.

  When she finished her swim, she climbed out of the pool and strolled across to the lounger where she’d left her robe and towel. An ever-attentive waiter appeared at her elbow and she ordered a jug of iced water. Then, having smothered herself in sun cream, she lay back and closed her eyes. She was always careful about how long she spent out of the shade, but she was secretly quite proud of the tan she was slowly developing. She’d never be the same colour as some of her fellow guests—and nor would she want to be—but she was happy to lose the stark whiteness of a Northern European in winter.

  “Une tasse du thé, s’il vous plait, et un jus d’orange.” The words, spoken in a male voice that was slightly accented, not pure French, woke her from her light doze. Glancing at her watch, she could see she’d not been sleeping too long; there were still five minutes to go before her allotted time was up and she had to move under an umbrella. She looked across at the man who’d spoken. He was sitting on the edge of the lounger further down the line from her.

  He looked to be in his mid-forties. Even seated, Francine could see he was tall, but there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh on his smooth, lightly tanned body, a tan more reminiscent of outdoor pursuits than dedicated sun-worshipping. He sported the faint stubble and matching moustache of a holidaymaker released from routine. But his sun-bleached hair was closely shaved. He reminded Francine of a young Omar Sharif, alt
hough not so dark.

  He turned towards her, possibly feeling her scrutiny, and smiled. “Good morning. Nice to see I’m not the only early bird. But I’m sorry if I disturbed your nap.” As she’d thought from hearing him speak French, he did indeed have an accent. It was Eastern European, maybe Russian. But it was so slight, only someone with an ear trained to pick up hints of nationality would have spotted it. Someone like Francine in fact. She shook her head and smiled back at him.

  “You didn’t disturb me. I was about to move anyway. I’ll leave the pool to you.”

  The next morning, he was back again, and once more they exchanged a few words as Francine was leaving. And again, on the third day. But the follow morning, he beat her to it. When she arrived, he was already powering through the water with a strong crawl. Francine hung around on her lounger for a few moments, reluctant to enter the pool at the same time as this elegant stranger. But then her sensible, politician’s head kicked in.

  For goodness sake, she thought, the pool’s huge. It’s big enough for numerous families to frolic in the midday sun. It’s certainly big enough for two lone swimmers to occupy at the same time without invading each other’s space.

  She slid into the water and concentrated on her own swimming. At some point, he left the pool and headed for the loungers. This time he took one just two up the row from hers and when she climbed out and reclaimed her seat, there was a glass of orange juice sitting waiting for her, with condensation running down the outside of the glass and ice bobbing across the surface. “I thought you might appreciate a drink after all that exercise,” he said with a smile. She thanked him and raised the glass to her lips, uncertain how to proceed. She was so out of practice in this sort of thing—whatever this sort of thing might turn out to be. After a few moments, he cleared his throat, and held out his hand, stretching across the intervening lounger. “I’m Anatoly, Anatoly Vladimirovich Dimitriov, but my friends call me Anton.”