Good Bait (DCI Karen Shields #1)(36)

22


Paul. Paul Milescu. Were it not for Google, Karen would never have known that Paul was the fourth most popular male name in all of Moldova. How had Clare Milescu put it, harking back to the time she spent in the country working for the UN? A directive urging them to engage with members of the government, one she’d taken all too literally. Paul Milescu had been something important in the Ministry of Justice and, despite being married, he had become popular with her, too.

Now they were separated, going their different ways. Clare still fighting the good fight, following her conscience, working with refugees, while Paul, once in London, had used the connections he’d built up and gone into business. Nothing wrong with that. Except now it seemed he’d tried using those connections to bring pressure to bear on Karen’s investigation; pressure enough to get a detective chief superintendent out trawling the streets of north London at night like something out of Len Deighton or John le Carré.

Explicable enough, in a way; commendable, even – a father’s natural instincts, offering protection to his son, wanting to keep him from trouble. Or was it more? A pre-emptive move to keep the police at arm’s length from himself, his family, his business?

What was his business?

Here Google didn’t really help. Import/export, that and not a great deal more. Importing and exporting what? No details, certainly. Maybe, like Terry Martin, it was sportswear, women’s clothing. And possibly Martin was right, Karen thought, it was all we did in this country any more, import stuff made cheaply elsewhere now that we made hardly anything ourselves – and what we did seemed to be owned by someone else. The Americans, despite their fading economy, had controlling shares in everything from chocolate to Liverpool Football Club; the Russians had a football club of their own and half the expensive properties in London, while just about everything else was being snapped up by the Chinese.

She looked again at the paucity of information on the screen.

A PO box address, phone number, fax, email. Perhaps she should simply pick up the phone, dial the number, ask him outright?

Hey, Paul …

Then again, perhaps not.

She had a friend, Tom Brewer, in the Intelligence Unit of Economic and Specialist Crime – sort of a friend, they’d met on a Home Office course a few years before, shared a few drinks, he’d asked her out, she’d said yes and then said no – she’d give him a bell. No favours to call in, just a hint of what might have been. Brewer newly married she’d heard, two stepsons and a semi-detached in Child’s Hill.

She left a message, didn’t have to wait too long for him to respond.

‘Karen, long time no see.’

‘A small favour, Tom, that’s all.’

He rang back in a couple of hours. ‘Milescu, everything pretty much above board as far as I can see. Connections with a couple of firms exporting bauxite and aluminium; partners in Russia and Romania. Some export trade seems to be tied up somehow with Italy; exactly how isn’t too clear. Then there’s a quite profitable import business in chemicals linked to the Ukraine.’

‘Nothing chancy?’

‘Not that you could lay a finger on. Ever since the country joined the World Bank in ’92, trade has blossomed – from a very low base admittedly – and Milescu’s just ridden the wave along with it. The fact that he’s clearly got connections close to the heart of government probably hasn’t done him any harm. Contracts put out to tender, he’s going to be near the head of the queue more often than not.’

‘But nothing illegal?’

Brewer laughed. ‘Down to your definition of illegal. But in a way that might be of interest to us, officially, I’d say no, pass.’

‘Thanks, Tom.’

‘Maybe we could meet up for a drink some time? It’s been a while.’

‘Sure, I’d like that. You could bring your wedding photos for me to have a look at.’

He laughed and called her something not very nice.

The next time her mobile went it was Carla, who’d texted her twice already: Ronny Jordan at the Jazz Café, she had to be there.

‘Carla, I can’t.’

‘Come on, girl. That guitar. “After Hours”. That sound. Sex on six strings.’

‘You know what? I’d love to, but–’

‘But nothing. No excuses, come on, I’ll see you there. Ten thirty, eleven, that’s when it kicks off. Okay?’

‘I don’t know, Carla, I’ll see. Maybe. But no promises, right?’

Ten thirty, eleven: by then, most nights Karen reckoned to be tucked up in bed with a glass of red and a good book.

She glanced at her own reflection in the darkening window. She didn’t believe she’d just told herself that, but she had. Girl, as Carla would say, you’re getting old. Old before your time. She should make the effort to get down there after all: race home, get changed into something suitably funky and cab it to Camden.

Ronny Jordan: ‘The Jackal’; ‘A Brighter Day’.

Tempting as it was, she knew she’d do no such thing.

Carla was standing in line, the crowd thickening around her; stop-start of traffic at the lights, exhaust fumes dispersing pale grey into the night air. If the temperature dropped much more it would be freezing hard by the time they emerged the far side of midnight.