The Half Truth. Sue Fortin

Martin.

      ‘No idea, but whatever it is, you know it’s not good.’ John took a moment to compose himself. The usual rush of guilt and anger swept over him. Images of his ex-partner, Neil, fought their way to the front of his mind. Images he usually managed to keep filed away in a drawer marked ‘too close to home to think about’, this time refused to be catalogued and archived so readily.

      John could feel a dark cloud forming around him, waiting to smother him, to suck away the oxygen, leaving him gasping for breath. John’s hand closed in a fist as the mental battle threatened to erupt. He was a good fighter. He could see off the attack. It seemed like minutes, but John knew from past experience it was merely one or two seconds. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. Today’s battle won. John looked down at his clenched fist and unfurled his fingers. The photograph now crumpled and scrunched.

      John eyed his partner of five years across the desk. Martin understood. He had seen this happen before. He knew the reasons. John looked for accusation in the other man’s eyes. There was none, although he felt sure his own screamed with guilt.

      John stood up, gathering the photos together. ‘Where’s Brogan? We need to speak to CID. They seem to have found one of our Most Wanted. Just got to work out which one.’

      CID couldn’t shed much light on the identity of the Russian. He had been found down by the docks in a disused warehouse.

      ‘Looks like he had been camping out. Used one of the old offices. Had a camp bed and camping stove. Nothing in the way of personal belongings,’ said the CID Officer, Carter. ‘Someone had tried to set fire to his stuff. Did a good job, mostly. There were a few charred remains left.’

      ‘Can I have a look at his clothing?’ said John. ‘And have you got a photograph of his face?’

      Carter went off to collect the evidence bag.

      ‘It’s only clothes. The clothes he was wearing.’

      ‘Is it okay to take these out?’ asked John.

      ‘Yeah, go ahead. Forensics have been all over them.’

      John inspected the clothing. ‘All labels have been cut out,’ he said. ‘But this leather jacket is quite distinctive. Have you had any luck identifying its origin?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      The jacket was heavy in John’s hands, a black, padded three-quarter-length garment. Lined with heavy checked fabric – certainly one to keep the Russian winter at bay. John laid it out on the table and poked around in the pockets.

      ‘There’s nothing there,’ said Carter.

      John felt the collar and gave the seam between the collar and lining a closer inspection. ‘Got a knife or pair of scissors?’

      A pair of scissors was obtained and handed to John. He began snipping at the seam of the collar until an opening of about three inches had been achieved. John wriggled his fingers in, feeling from one side to the next.

      ‘Aha! Gotcha.’ he said. He pulled out a small grip-sealed bag, about two by five inches.

      ‘How did we miss that?’ said the CID officer.

      ‘Probably because you weren’t looking for it,’ said John opening the bag. He removed five folded twenty-pound notes and five ten-pound notes, together with three Russian notes of 5,000 roubles each. John did a quick calculation. ‘About the same worth. A little under one fifty pounds.’

      ‘Emergency funds,’ said Martin picking up one of the notes by the corner. ‘Don’t suppose we will get any decent prints off them. Been handled too many times.’

      Carter slid over a box containing several clear-plastic evidence bags. John looked through them. The victim travelled light. Three bags with fabric remnants, a London Tube map – the kind you pick up from any underground station.

      ‘This looks a bit more interesting,’ said John looking at a bag containing the strap from the victim’s holdall with a flight tag still attached. Unfortunately, only a part of the digital flight code was left. ‘Have you checked this out?’

      ‘We think it’s a flight in from Stockholm. There’s only a partial barcode.’

      ‘Have you checked recent flights in?’ asked John.

      ‘Needle in a haystack,’ came the reply, accompanied by a shrug.

      ‘Who found him?’ asked John. ‘Has he been cleared of any involvement?’

      ‘A dock-worker. Had gone in for a crafty shut-eye. He was pretty shook up. Don’t think he had the guts for it.’

      ‘Did you get a photo of the victim?’ asked Martin.

      Carter passed it over. ‘Recognise him?’

      John and Martin both studied the face. A rounded thick-set face. Shaven head. An old scar above his left eye. A gold stud in the right ear. He didn’t look familiar to either of them.

      ‘Mind if we keep this?’ said John.

      ‘Go ahead.’

      ‘Right, what else have we got here?’ said John. He pulled out another bag containing the remains of a photograph.

      ‘Shit.’

      Martin let out a long, low whistle. ‘Is that who I think it is?’

      John took out the photograph, not worrying about holding the edges. Fingerprints were no longer a priority. A cold bead of sweat began its slow descent down his spine, undulating over every vertebrae. ‘Pavel Bolotnikov,’ he said, confirming Martin’s thoughts. ‘And who else was in the photograph?’ Draped over Pavel’s left shoulder was someone’s arm, the owner’s identity burned away.

      ‘What the fuck is that doing in there?’ said Martin.

       Chapter 4

      Back at HQ, John pinned the burnt photograph onto the evidence board. Underneath he pinned photographs of two men and a woman. He pointed to the first photograph and addressed his team.

      ‘Sasha Bolotnikov, wanted for money-laundering. Fled to Russia soon after the Moorgate robbery. Killed in a car crash within weeks of arriving.’ His team listened as he continued his commentary. ‘Pavel Bolotnikov, part of the Porboski gang, involved in the Moorgate robbery where Neil Edwards was killed. Wanted for Neil’s murder.’ He paused as he wrote on the board. ‘He too fled back to Russia afterwards.’ He moved on to the third picture. ‘Tina Bolotnikov. British passport-holder. Married Sasha Bolotnikov. Still in the UK. Living in West Sussex. And this,’ he said pointing to the photograph of the dead Russian, ‘is our unknown. A Russian gang member – Porboski gang, by the look of it, found murdered down at the docks. And this is a baggage tag, possibly from a Stockholm flight.’

      ‘He doesn’t look very Swedish to me,’ said Adam, one of John’s team.

      ‘It’s just a theory at present, but we think he may have caught a connecting flight to Stockholm from Tallinn. That’s Estonia,’ said John. ‘It’s a route favoured in the past by some of the Porboski gang.’

      ‘What’s he doing over here?’ asked one of the team.

      ‘We’re not sure. Obviously a connection to the Bolotnikovs. I want all the flights in from Stockholm over the past week checked for facial recognition against this photo.’ He tapped at the board. ‘Clearly there’s some connection with the Bolotnikovs, but what that is, I’ve no idea. Yet.’

      ‘Wading through CCTV and facial recognition is going to take forever, especially if we don’t know when he came into the UK,’ said Adam.

      ‘Have you got any better suggestions?’ said John. His colleague shrunk back in his seat. ‘We’re