The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

for a sign she was there. The BMW was parked on the driveway, but it was in a different position to when he had left it. Anna Sergeyev had used the vehicle, even if she had moved elsewhere. She had said she had funds, enough to live on, and King had told her the chalet was hers for up to two-weeks. That seemed so long ago now, but it had only been just over a week. He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror. He was gaunt and drawn, his eye sockets dark. He had not taken care of himself after Caroline had been taken. He imagined he’d lost a stone or more from not eating properly. He was a big man, but still hadn’t carried enough flesh to take such dramatic weight loss. It was more than that though, weeks of poor sleep had taken its toll too. He looked hollowed out, and his dark close-cropped hair now carried more salt than pepper at the sides.

King stepped out of the car. He checked the flick-knife in his pocket, relaxed a little. A good blade was as good as a small pistol up close. In many cases, he thought he could do more damage with a knife than a small calibre pistol ever would. He hoped he wouldn’t need to put the theory to the test.

The house stood in its own grounds of about half an acre. There was a pool to the rear and the grounds were largely turned to lawn with shrubs and rockeries and a bank of four-foot-high bushes along the rear of the property separating it from farmland in the form of meadows. To the front of the property, a narrow road cut through the fields and a low wire fence with rustic wooden posts served as a barrier but had seen better days. From what King could make out, the grass was now far too long for grazing and would most likely be turned to hay or silage before long. Which meant that this area would not have been looked in on by the landowners for weeks. The house was about as private as it could get.

King hovered around the entrance and checked over the gardens. There were no signs of anyone. As he looked at the house, scanned over the windows, he saw nothing. He slipped over the stone garden wall and walked along the side of the house. He saw the pool, noticed swimwear hanging on the line. He thought about testing them to see if they were wet or dry, but it was early and there was dew on the grass and it would tell him nothing. If they had been used this morning, then they would be wet. If they had been left out all night, he imagined they would be in the same state. He continued but paused after a few steps as his senses caught both smell and sound at once. He could smell the aroma of coffee, hear the faintest clink of china. He knew that there was an alcove with a firepit-come-barbeque in the lee of the building, the perfect place to catch the morning sun. As he rounded the corner, he saw Anna Sergeyev sipping coffee, clad only in the skimpiest of beach wraps. He could see her body, the outline of her nipples against the damp cotton. He averted his eyes as he glimpsed lower, catching everything she had to bare. Anna looked up, stunned for a moment, but visibly relaxed. She did nothing to cover herself, adjust the position she was seated in. King was sure she made a point of it.

“I didn’t think I would see you again,” she said. “My husband’s murderer, my saviour…”

“I needed to talk.”

“Talk, talk, talk,” she said. “And there was I thinking you were a man of action.”

King pulled out a chair and sat down. It changed his view, as well as the dynamic. “I need to ask you some questions about…”

“Helena!” she interrupted. “Always about Helena.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“It was always about her,” she said. “The most popular, the most sought after. I was a whore. I am not ashamed, because I was both popular and good at it, and in turn, that kept me alive. It kept me in better places, with less grimy men. Men who tipped and treated me and after they did what they did, cared enough to call again. If I was not so good at it, then I would have spent my life in a hovel chained to a bed and thrown scraps. Worse than a dog.”

“I’m sorry,” King said awkwardly.

“Don’t be. I met my husband doing such work. He gave me a wonderful daughter, and he was kind to me. He was an evil man, a beast and a killer. He could be cruel. But not with me, nor our daughter. He kept me a prisoner, this is true, but it was an incarceration of luxury and privilege.” Anna sipped some coffee, placed the cup down thoughtfully and looked at King. “Helena was the one every man wanted, my husband included. But she was too spirited to control. She brought many problems to my husband, to the men he worked with.”

“Nikolai? Romanovitch?”

“Oh, you’ve done your homework,” she said sardonically. “And don’t forget Russia’s esteemed leader! Do you know about him?”

King nodded. “I do. Or at least, I have been told.”

“But do you believe it?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, be damned sure. Only in Russia can a murderer and rapist, a former Bratva piece of scum become president. He is seen as a man of the people because he came from a poor background, served in the military for three years, just a foot soldier but he did his service. And then he held roles in construction, was instrumental in large developments and connecting Russia through its road networks. He was behind