Cold in Hand

Thirty-nine

Outside, the wind was whistling tunelessly around street corners, whipping up last night's debris and throwing it into the faces of passersby. Karen sat in her office, Mike Ramsden and Anil Khan standing at either side of her chair, all three of them looking at the computer screen on Karen's desk. The South Yorkshire Force had just put out a description of someone they wanted to interview in connection with the murder of Kelvin Pearce. No name, but it fitted what they now knew of Ivan Lazic to a T.

"Get in touch with Euan Guest, Anil," Karen said. "He's the SIO up there. Tell him we think we know his suspect's identity. Fill him in as best you can. And while you're on to him, find out if anything more's come through on the gun that killed Pearce."

"This Lazic," Ramsden asked when Khan had gone. "He's what? Czech? Russian?"

"Serbian, apparently."

"Tough bastards, the Serbs."

Karen raised an eyebrow. "You'd know, I suppose."

"Saw this programme the other night, the History Channel. Fall of Berlin."

"Your trouble, Mike, one of many, too much television."

"What else'm I going to do, two in the morning?" Karen didn't want to go there.

"If the Zoukas crew are using Lazic as an enforcer, as looks likely," Ramsden said, perching on the edge of Karen's desk, "keeping Viktor Zoukas's sorry arse out of jail, it's got to be a good bet his finger was on the trigger when Kellogg was gunned down."

Karen swung round in her chair, rose swiftly to her feet, and pushed open the door to the Incident Room. Michaelson was just on the way back to his desk from the coffee machine.

"Frank-"

"Yes, boss?"

"The sauna Viktor Zoukas used to manage, somewhere in the city centre."

"Hockley. Closed down for a time and then reopened. Fresh coat of paint, same business."

"Get yourself down there, ask about an Ivan Lazic. Mike'll fill you in."

"Right, boss."

If it turned out Lazic was in Nottingham at the time of Lynn Kellogg's death, the odds on Ramsden's wager would be shortened considerably.

Michaelson had never been into a sauna before; at least, not the kind that were more generally found on seedier streets and offered sensual and relaxing full-body massage, though he knew of several colleagues who were not above paying unofficial visits and availing themselves of the occasional freebie. Neither had he been in the sex shop that occupied the ground floor of the building, offering sex toys and marital aids, adult videos and DVDs, saucy T-shirts and, as the poster put it, dildos to fit every purse. But then, as his sometime girlfriend had pointed out when he'd expressed distaste at the prominence of 35p-a- minute chat lines on which young women promised to help you unzip and unload, in some situations he could be a prude of the first magnitude-especially when he was in training for a big race. Conservation of bodily fluids, as he had tried to explain.

How much this had to with her breaking off their relationship, he had never been sure.

He pressed the bell and, walking in, climbed the stairs.

Neither of the two young women sitting on a dilapidated settee in the first room paid him more than scant attention. To the left, seated behind an L-shaped counter, an older woman with a head of brittle curls and the reddest lipstick Michaelson could recall seeing outside of a billboard advertisement treated him to a professional smile.

A word from her and the couple on the settee livened themselves up and showed interest: one, darker skinned, had longish hair held back with a broad red band; her companion was petite and blonde and showed ragged teeth when she smiled. They were both wearing slightly grubby button-through tunics with, as best as Michaelson could judge, little else underneath. Without wishing it, he could feel himself becoming aroused.

Turning quickly back to the counter, he took out his warrant card.

"I'm Sally," the lipsticked woman said. "Can I help?"

"It's just a few questions," Michaelson said.

The young women sat back down and resumed thumbing through old copies of Grazia and Hello!

Sally lit a cigarette and offered one to Michaelson, who shook his head.

"Ivan, yes," she said in answer to his question. "He comes up once in a while. From London. Ever since Viktor… you know. Hangs around for a day or so. Checking I'm not fiddling the books." She shivered involuntarily. "Nasty bastard. I don't like him. Gives me the creeps."

"He's not here now? Nottingham, I mean?"

"Not as far as I know. No, haven't seen him in a while, tell the truth. Good couple of weeks it must be."

"You remember when? I mean, when exactly?"

Sally gave it some thought. "No, but two weeks is about right. That was when Amira arrived." She gestured towards one of the women on the settee. "Brought her up with him in the car. Two weeks, can't be more. I tell you what, around the time that policewoman was shot, that's when. All over the news, weren't it?"

"You're positive that's when he was here?" Michaelson asked.

"Yes, pretty much." Sally flicked ash from the end of her cigarette. "You ever catch anyone for that?"

"Not yet."

Sally leaned back in her chair. "She was in here, you know. The night that Nina was killed. Sat talking to her, just like I am to you now. Terrible, something happening like that. Young, weren't she?"

Michaelson placed his card on the counter. "If you do see him-Lazic-if he comes back, I'd like you to phone me."

Sally glanced down at the card. "All right," she said.

Michaelson told himself not to look over towards the settee on his way out and almost succeeded.

"He'll be back," Sally said with a grin and pushed his card down into the top of her bra.

As soon as Karen heard that Lazic had probably been in the city at the time of Lynn Kellogg's murder, she phoned Euan Guest in Doncaster to pass on the news. Guest sounded somewhat hassled, a rough throaty voice that lost some of its impatience when he heard what Karen had to offer.

"I was talking to Rachel Vine earlier," Guest said. "Notts CPS. She told me there was another witness."

"Andreea Florescu. She was in London. No one's seen hide nor hair of her for a couple of weeks now."

"Not good."

"No."

"We'll keep in touch, yes?"

"Absolutely."

It was no more than an hour after her conversation with Guest that Karen's phone rang again. Not Doncaster this time, but Leyton. News she'd anticipated, but didn't want to hear.