Dead Man's Footsteps

‘Thought you maybe gone to help.’ He pointed at the television screen. ‘They needing volunteers,’ he said. ‘They needingpeople help dig bodies out. I thought maybe you gone to do that.’
    ‘Maybe,’ Ronnie said. ‘Maybe I will do that.’
    He hauled himself on to the bar stool next to his friend and waited for him to finish his call, which sounded like some kind of business deal, then slapped him on the back. ‘Hey, Boris, how you doing?’
    Ronnie received a resounding thump in return, which felt like it had dislodged several of his fillings.
    ‘My friend! How you doing? You found the place last night? It was OK?’
    ‘It was fine.’ Ronnie leaned down and scratched a particularly itchy bite on his ankle. ‘Terrific. Thank you.’
    ‘Good. For my friend from Canada, nothing is too much trouble.’
    Without any prompt, the barman produced a shot glass and Boris immediately filled it to the brim.
    Holding it daintily between his finger and thumb, Ronnie raised it to the level of his lips. ‘ Carpe diem! ’ he said.
    The vodka went down well. It had a lemon flavour, which he found instantly addictive. The second one went down even better.
    The Russian waved an admonishing hand in front of Ronnie’s face, then he raised his glass, staring Ronnie in the eye, the rubble in his mouth formed into a smile. ‘Remember yesterday, what I tell you, my friend?’
    ‘What was that?’
    ‘When you toast in Russia, you drink entire glass. All way down. Like this!’ Boris drained the glass.
    Two hours later, after exchanging more and more outrageous stories about their backgrounds, Ronnie was reeling,barely able to remain on the bar stool. Boris seemed to have fingers in a range of dubious activities, which included importing fake designer-brand perfumes and colognes, fixing green cards for Russian immigrants, and acting as some kind of middleman for Russian hookers who wanted to work in America. Not a pimp, he assured Ronnie. No, no, absolutely, one hundred per cent not a pimp.
    Then suddenly he put an arm around Ronnie and said, ‘I know, my friend, you are in trouble. I help you! There is nothing I can’t help you with!’
    Ronnie saw to his horror that Boris was refilling the glasses yet again. The television screen was going in and out of focus. Could he trust this guy? He was going to have to trust someone and, at least to his addled brain at this moment, Boris did not seem like a bloke to make moral judgements.
    ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I need another favour.’
    The Russian didn’t take his eyes from the television screen, where Mayor Giuliani was talking.
    ‘For my Canadian friend, any favour. What I can do?’
    Ronnie removed his baseball cap and leaned closer, lowering his voice to a whisper.
    ‘Do you know anyone who could create a new passport – and a visa?’
    The Russian gave him a stern look. ‘What you think this place is? An embassy? This just a bar, man. OK?’
    Ronnie was shaken by the man’s vehemence, but then the Russian gave him a broad grin.
    ‘Passport and visa. Of course. Don’t you worry. Whatever you want, I fix for you. You want passport, visa, no problem. I got a friend can fix this. He can fix you anything. So long you got money?’
    ‘How much money?’
    ‘Depends how difficult the visa. I give you his name. Me, I don’t want nothing, OK?’
    ‘You’re very kind.’
    The Russian then raised his glass. ‘ Carpe diem! ’
    ‘ Carpe diem! ’ Ronnie replied.
    The rest of the afternoon became a complete blur.

69
OCTOBER 2007
    Abby peered numbly through the windscreen of the grey rental Ford Focus. She hadn’t thought it possible for the nightmare to worsen, but now it had.
    There was a broad stretch of clear blue sky over them as they headed up the A27 Brighton bypass, with Patcham to their right and rolling open downland countryside to their left. Freedom, she thought, still a prisoner, although her bonds had been removed and she was now in jeans, a pullover and fleece jacket and trainers. The grass looked lush and green from all the recent heavy rain, and if it hadn’t been for the whirr of the car’s heater fan blowing in welcome warm air, it could have been summer outside with that sky. But inside her heart, it was darkest winter.
    To have got that recording, she realized, he must have bugged her mother’s phone.
    Seated beside her, Ricky drove in angry silence, careful to keep within the speed limit, not taking any risks of getting stopped. It was