The Half Truth. Sue Fortin

blood that was washed away with soap and water. The moral stains, however, weren’t so easily removed.

      His job sucked at times. John walked down the path feeling a complete and utter shit.

       Chapter 8

      John threw the manila file onto his desk and sighed. It was no good, he couldn’t make any headway into Sasha Bolotnikov’s death. All lines of enquiries led to dead ends. Sasha Bolotnikov had been killed in a road accident within weeks of returning to Russia. It was a convenient death, if nothing else. John wondered whether it had indeed been an accident.

      At the time, John had been incapacitated, recovering from surgery to remove a bullet from his shoulder. He had wanted to come back to work but was overruled by both doctors and his superiors. When he did return to work, Sasha’s death had been investigated and no further questions asked.

      He looked up as Martin came and sat at the desk. ‘Any luck?’

      Martin shook his head. ‘Nope. The Russians aren’t playing ball. No one is talking. The official line is they can’t release any more information about Sasha’s accident than is already in the public domain and, as for Pavel, they have no idea where he is and have no interest in finding him for us.’

      John looked across the office at Adam. ‘Anything with the facial recognition for the Russian or Pavel?’

      ‘Not yet. We’re going back another week now.’

      ‘Okay, thanks.’ John tapped his biro between his teeth and turned to Martin. ‘We’ve tried all the official lines, let’s try unofficial.’

      ‘Anyone in mind?’

      ‘Baz Fisher.’

      John eyed Baz Fisher across the Formica table top of the Rosie Lea Café.

      ‘Come on, Baz, you must know something,’ he coaxed as he slowly stirred the teaspoon around in the dark-brown liquid.

      ‘Look, John …’ began Baz Fisher.

      Martin cut him off. ‘That’s Detective Sergeant Nightingale to you, Baz. Don’t forget your manners, now. There’s nothing I hate more than disrespect.’ He picked up his plastic teaspoon and snapped it in half between his fingers. ‘It gets me agitated, see.’

      John watched Baz Fisher, local ‘fence’, well known for being a mine of information. Through his café business and his rather unfavourable associations with a local gambling syndicate, Baz got to hear a lot of things. Baz flicked a glance in John’s direction before nodding towards Martin. ‘Put ya pet on a lead, will ya.’

      ‘Come on, Baz.’ John gave a faux reassuring smile. ‘All you have to do is tell us what you know about Pavel Bolotnikov.’

      ‘I dunno, John,’ he threw Martin a defiant look. ‘These Russians don’t like people poking about in their business. It’s dangerous, like. Know what I mean?’

      ‘Baz, we can do this two ways,’ said John. ‘We can take you in for questioning, which will no doubt mean word will get out that you’ve been singing or we can do it nice and discreetly here, where no one gets to know.’

      Baz eyed John and then Martin. ‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’

      ‘I’m not asking much’ said John. ‘Just tell me if Pavel Bolotnikov is in the UK and where.’

      A bead of sweat traced its way down the side of Baz’s temple. He wiped at it with a paper serviette.

      ‘You didn’t hear from me. Got that?’ conceded Baz after a few moments.

      ‘When have we ever heard it from you?’ said John. ‘You know we will look after you.’

      Baz cleared his throat, looking around the café once more. John bit down the impatient breath that was threatening to escape,

      ‘Pavel is not in London any more. I don’t know exactly where he was staying, but I do know he’s gone.’

      ‘How did he get into London?’

      ‘Flew.’

      ‘From where and when?’

      ‘Two weeks ago yesterday. I don’t know where from. I’m not his travel agent.’

      ‘And where is he now?’

      ‘Like I said, I don’t know.’ Baz wiped at the newly formed sweat on his forehead. ‘Come on, John, give us a break. I’ve said too much already.’

      John exchanged a look with Martin before both men looked back at their informant. After a few moments’ silence, John prompted him. ‘Tell us where he is now and we’re done.’

      Baz went to protest, but must have thought better of it. He cursed quietly. ‘I swear, John, this is all I know.’ He leaned in and spoke in a hushed voice. ‘Word has it, Pavel’s gone to the seaside.’

      ‘Seeing as the UK is an island, that gives a lot of scope as to where he could be,’ snapped Martin.

      ‘Okay, okay.’ Baz held up his hands. ‘West Sussex.’

      ‘A lot of coastline in West Sussex,’ replied John.

      ‘Littlehampton. He’s gone to Littlehampton.’ Baz let out a sigh. ‘Now that’s got to be worth something.’ He pointed towards the pocket that housed John’s wallet.

      John obliged and drew out a crisp twenty-pound note. He placed it slowly on the table before repeating the process with another one.

      As Baz went to scoop the notes up, John laid his hand flat over them. ‘Was he alone?’

      Baz shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ He looked at John and then Martin. ‘And that’s straight up, I’m not his secretary.’ He looked at the notes.

      John lifted his hand and watched as Baz greedily shoved his earnings into his trouser pocket. ‘If that’s all, gentlemen, I’ll be on my way.’

      As Baz went to leave, John stuck out his hand and caught the man’s arm. ‘Keep your ear to the ground and let me know if you hear anything. Anything at all. Got it?’

      ‘Yeah, course,’ muttered Baz before scurrying into the back of the café.

      ‘You reckon he knows anything else?’ queried Martin.

      John shook his head. ‘Don’t think so.’ He took a slurp of his tea before pushing it away. ‘Jesus, that’s disgusting. Come on.’ He stood up. ‘We can pin the facial recognition down to a date now. I want to see if Pavel came in alone or not.’

      ‘Do you know something I don’t?’ asked Martin following John out of the café.

      ‘Just a hunch. I want to see the CCTV first, though.’

      John and Martin arrived back at the office to find Adam looking rather pleased with himself.

      ‘I take it that’s your good-news face,’ said John.

      ‘We’ve got a match for the dead Russian,’ said Adam, tapping at the keys on his computer. The victim’s face appeared on the screen next to his personal details. Adam gave a summary. ‘Ivan Gromov. Porboski gang member. Lives in Russia. Was a regular visitor to the UK up until about five years ago. Not known to us. Has used various different aliases.’ He scrolled down the screen for more information.

      ‘Came into the UK via Stockholm ten days ago. Connecting flight from Tallinn,’ said John.

      Adam looked at his boss. ‘You beat me to it.’

      ‘Good stuff,’ said John, conscious of not spoiling his junior colleague’s moment. ‘Can you look for Pavel Bolotnikov now? We’re pretty sure he came into the country prior to Gromov. My guess is Gromov was