The Half Truth. Sue FortinЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter 3

      Twenty minutes later, Tina burst through the kitchen door to her parents’ home.

      ‘Mum! Dad! Dimitri!’ she called, letting the door slam behind her.

      ‘In the living room,’ came back her mother’s voice from beyond.

      Tina controlled her breathing. The casualness of her mother’s voice was an instant tonic to her panic. Pam met her in the hallway. ‘You all right, love?’

      Tina forced a smile. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just pleased to finish work today and get home.’ She gave her mum a peck on the cheek. ‘Where’s Dimitri?’

      ‘He’s in the greenhouse with your father. They were going to do a bit of gardening, but then the rain started. I think they are sowing seeds in the seed trays now.’

      Tina went to the back door and looked out at the greenhouse. There they were, standing at the bench, carefully drilling small holes and dropping seeds into each one. It was a comforting sight and brought back childhood memories to Tina of her and her dad doing exactly the same. Memories that warmed her as an adult and as a child had made her feel loved and safe. The lump that rose to her throat took her by surprise.

      ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ asked Pam, putting a comforting arm around her daughter’s shoulder.

      Tina nodded, blinking away unwanted tears. ‘Dimitri is so lucky to have such a wonderful granddad. He really is. I just wish …’ She couldn’t finish her sentence.

      Pam squeezed her daughter tightly. ‘You just wish that Sasha was here to give his son these memories instead.’

      ‘Something like that.’ This time she didn’t blink back the tears. Her mum ushered her to the kitchen table and sat her down.

      ‘I hate to see you upset. I know you still miss Sasha.’

      Tina took the sheet of kitchen roll her mother offered and dabbed at her eyes. Black streaks of mascara transferred onto the tissue. ‘I miss him on behalf of Dimitri, if that makes sense.’ She blew her nose and took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Dimitri doesn’t know any different and, in a way, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want him to know the pain of losing his father.’

      ‘It won’t always be like this,’ said Pam. ‘One day there will be someone for Dimitri. And for you.’

      ‘Maybe.’ Tina knew they were on the brink of a familiar conversation. One where her mother would tell her she should get out and meet more people.

      Her latest idea was Tina joining one of those online dating sites. So far Tina was resisting. She had been to a few dinner parties where match-making was definitely on the agenda. The last one had been a dinner party Fay had organised and Tina had accepted the invitation of a second date as a result. However, it hadn’t gone beyond that. Tina had made it as far as a kiss goodnight. It seemed so awkward and unnatural, not only because it wasn’t Sasha, but she was out of practice with the whole intimate kissing thing. The poor bloke must have thought he had eaten something nasty. She had muttered her apologies and practically fled into the waiting taxi.

      ‘Are you staying for tea?’ asked Pam, turning her attention to the oven. She opened the door and the smell of chicken casserole drifted out. Another comforting memory from Tina’s childhood. Another memory to chase away the demons of today.

      ‘How could I resist?’ said Tina. ‘I’ll set the table.’ She stood up, relieved that the earlier disquiet she had felt was slipping away. She was safe. Dimitri was safe. They were loved. All was well in the world.

      John woke the next morning and for a moment couldn’t work out why it felt as if his head was being compressed from all sides. He groaned as he sat up. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he planted his feet on the floor.

      Ah, now he remembered. The celebratory drink last night had been overdone. Still, they had good cause to celebrate.

      The shower refreshed him, the coffee kick started his brain, the toast tamped down the queasiness and the Anadin relieved the pressure in his head. As he picked up his car keys from the sideboard, he noticed the brown envelope Brogan had given him the night before. He scooped it up; something to look over while he had his third coffee of the day at HQ.

      The rest of the team seemed to be suffering slightly from the previous evening’s excesses too. A day of paperwork and no running around catching the bad guys wouldn’t go amiss. John settled at his desk.

      ‘Did you sort it with Maxine?’ he asked as Martin slid into his seat opposite him.

      ‘Yeah, all good,’ said Martin. He nodded at the photos in John’s hand. ‘Anything of interest.’

      John studied the first one. It was a close-up of a man’s shoulders and top half of his torso. The victim’s throat had been cut. John passed it over to Martin.

      ‘It appears he didn’t die from natural causes,’ he said. ‘Slashed throat. Jagged edges to the wound, cut from right to left, I’d say.’

      ‘From someone facing him, as opposed to behind him – assuming they are right-handed,’ said Martin.

      ‘Yep, the jagged skin means the neck was loose as opposed to being taut when someone’s head is pulled from behind.’

      ‘Asleep?’

      ‘Probably. Unless there are other signs of injury, meaning he put up a fight. Probably didn’t know a thing about it.’ John passed over another photograph. ‘Otritsala.’

      Martin shrugged. ‘You what?’

      ‘The eight-pointed stars, tattooed on each collar bone,’ said John. ‘A sign of defiance. Medals that existed before the Russian revolution and used now to signify defiance to the Soviet regime.’

      ‘So this is a Russian?’

      ‘Yep. Prison tattoos mostly.’ John slid another photograph over. ‘Dagger with three drops of blood. That’s typical of a murderer, the drops of blood reflecting the number of killings he’s carried out. Could be that this fella was a hired assassin.’

      ‘He’s got a Swastika too,’ said Martin, looking more closely at the photo.

      ‘Doesn’t mean he’s a right-wing sympathiser or a Nazi. It’s used as a sign of rebellion to authority. Some prisons have had these tattoos forcibly removed from their inmates.’

      ‘And I suppose the SOS on his forearm doesn’t mean Save Our Souls either,’ said Martin.

      ‘Spasite Ot Syda. Save me from judgement. Amongst other things.’ John stopped. The next picture knocked the air from his lungs.

      ‘You all right?’ said Martin.

      John looked slowly up at his colleague. ‘This Russian was part of the Porboski gang.’

      Martin sat up in his seat, his face alert. ‘You sure?’

      ‘See that tattoo on the inside of the upper arm. A dollar sign and that elaborate letter, which looks like a squared-off “n”? The dollar sign means he’s a safe-cracker. That letter in Russian is a “P” and stands for the gang he’s affiliated to.’

      ‘Where did these photos come