Londongrad

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

And then Deborah Curtis was out of the door as if she’d heard a shot. As if, like a dog might, she’d heard something inaudible to anybody else. I followed her.

“I need air,” she said, and put an umbrella up, walking fast. I kept pace with her. The rain had turned to a thin drizzle.

We got to a shopping street, she turned into a cafe, I followed. She gestured at the empty chair next to hers.

“Please,” she said in English, and then ordered tea for herself in Russian from a dumpy waitress, who looked harassed, dyed red hair a mess, face weary. I asked for coffee.

On the table Mrs Curtis placed a picture. In it, Val was wearing a plain white dress with long sleeves, and a little wreath of white flowers on her hair. Grisha, tall, handsome, young, smiling, was in a dark blue suit with a white flower in the lapel, and a red silk tie, and his mother, no glasses, standing straight, looked ten years younger than she did now. Val married. Did Tolya know?

“The food here is nice,” said Mrs Curtis. “In case you’re hungry,” she added in formal English. “You carry a gun, Mr Cohen? You are a policeman?”

Around us in the half-full cafe, almost everyone was speaking Russian.

I drank coffee, she had her tea. Come on, I thought. Tell me what I need to know.

“Please tell me where Grisha is,” I said.

“Why?”

“I’d like to meet him,” I said. “He was Valentina’s husband. I have something for him from her. She put his name on it. From before she died,” I added, the lies pouring out of my mouth easily.

“What kind of things?” she said softly but reluctant now.

“Photographs. Souvenirs.”

“I can take these things for him,” she said. “I must do a few errands,” she added abruptly, fidgeting, unable to sit still.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Call him. He has a cellphone?”

“A mobile? Yes, of course. He doesn’t always answer.”

There were things she couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me. I pushed my phone across the table. She dialed, and looked up. “He doesn’t answer. It says he’s out of range.”

“I think your Grisha is in trouble. I can help him. He will be an obvious suspect in Valentina’s murder. He was her husband, they’ll look at him first. He’s in Russia?”

She avoided the question. I waited. Suddenly she said, “They were distant cousins, you were right, Grisha and this Elena Gagarin. She claimed him as a cousin, and she came round once or twice, and I never knew what she wanted. They were always whispering and making plans on some business deal. I heard them mention Mr Sverdloff. Once my Grisha said Mr Sverdloff, Valentina’s father, got in the way of his business. He cared too much, my Grisha, about money, I would say, Grishinka, darling, this man is your father-in-law.”

“I want to help him,” I said. “Please continue.”

“Other young people came to the house, and afterwards he would talk garbage to me about his feelings of nationalist pride with Mr Putin in charge. He supported it all and I said, Grishinka, darling, you talk like a fascist. And he told me to stop. We never came to blows, of course, he was always respectful.”

“And Val?”

“The more he said these things, the less she came to the house. She went back to America more often and stayed longer.”

“Did he go to New York after that?”

“Yes. He went to convince her to come home with him. She wrote to me a few times to say she was sorry not to see me, and I had asked her to take some books to a distant relation of mine.”

“Olga Dimitriovna?”

Mrs Curtis looked at me. “Yes. You know her?”

I nodded. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you were Valentina’s friend, and you will find my Grisha.”

“Is he missing?”

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t heard from him?”

“Not for a few days. Except as I told you, for a minute this morning I saw him. He kissed me and left.”

“Can you tell me anything else?”

“I think he had a little office up in town where he did his own work. He mentioned this. I asked to see it. He said no. It struck me as odd.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think.”

“Paddington area, I know because he once took me to the train station and then said he’d walk to his office.”

“Was he here with you at the beginning of last week? On July 7?” I said, thinking of the night Val had died.

“No. Yes.” she said. “I don’t remember.”

“If you want to see him, you might want to tell me the truth,” I said. “Last week, was he here in London?”

“He wasn’t here.”