‘Good God,’ exclaimed Pudovkin. ‘What the hell is this going to do to our trial?’
‘Nothing,’ barked Gazdanov nasally. ‘The mayor of Moscow is irrelevant to our case. We have Baryshnikov – who will validate the technical aspects of the car, the race and the crash. Once that testimony is in the minds of the judges and the media, the case will be over. No one will need to look any further than Ptarmigan for responsibility and blame. Be in my office for seven.’
Pudovkin could not believe the other man's attitude, either towards the deaths of Straker and McMahon or his single-minded pursuit of this case.
Pudovkin reported to the prosecutor general's office at the appointed time. He found Gazdanov energized for the day ahead.
‘I’ve just been told the judges will allow Sabatino to stand trial,’ the prosecutor said. ‘We can proceed.’
Pudovkin demonstrated as much enthusiasm as he felt he ought to show, almost having to force himself to pay Gazdanov adequate attention until they left for the Supreme Court.
SIXTY-FIVE
The three Supreme Court judges filed in at nine thirty that morning. Shortly afterwards, the accused – in their chains and wheelchair – were paraded in and locked in the cage. Pudovkin looked at the faces, particularly of Sabatino. She must have been told of the deaths overnight, he thought. She looked desiccated. Her eyes were damp; her cheeks were red, while her head was slumped forward as low as the halo brace would allow.
Pudovkin sensed a very different mood around the Supreme Court that morning. Evocatively, the defence barrister had left an empty chair at the table where Sandy McMahon had sat the day before.
Oscar Brogan was the first to his feet after the judges had sat down. ‘My Lords, I stand before you in mourning following the tragic death last night of my learned colleague, Ms Sandy McMahon. I would ask your Lordships one question: Does the murder of a leading and indispensable member of the defence team not concern your Lordships as to the troubling influences on this case?’
There was a murmur around the courtroom.
The three judges could be seen conferring with each other. After a few minutes the central judge turned towards Brogan: ‘We have had no application or evidence laid before us that links Alexandra McMahon's death with this trial.’
Brogan, at this point, made a show of scoffing.
‘Until any link is proven,’ continued the judge, ‘we can only try what is before us.’
Brogan did not rise to his feet to acknowledge the last point from the senior judge. As a result, it earned him a change in tone from the bench: ‘Furthermore, Mr Brogan, we have reached a ruling on your application in respect of Ms Sabatino's readiness to stand trial. We find in favour of the prosecution. We cite the first assurance offered by the consultant at the hospital – Mr Pyotr Uglov – on the grounds that this came before the accused's lawyer, Ms McMahon, had exerted undue pressure on the trauma consultant. We are led to understand that she threatened to accuse him of professional misconduct.’
Pudovkin looked at the back of the prosecutor general's head; even from behind he could see that Gazdanov was reacting triumphantly to this ruling.
‘Mr Gazdanov,’ continued the senior judge switching his attention to the prosecution barrister, ‘please call your first witness.’
Pudovkin was suddenly distracted. His phone was vibrating in his pocket. Looking down, it didn’t take long for the police colonel to realize the urgency. Discreetly as he could, he rose from the concentric bench and let himself out through the main doors at the back of the courtroom.
Pudovkin rang Police Major Ustinov immediately at the Baryshnikov mansion. The news from there was alarming, to say the least.
Three-quarters of an hour before, at precisely nine o’clock, Major Ustinov had arrived for duty at the Baryshnikov residence. His first port of call – as every day since this operation started – was the police's makeshift command centre. Two of his officers were on duty inside. He asked for an update on the night's events; Major Ustinov was encouraged that all had been quiet. Assuming command, he stood the two officers down and, helping himself to some coffee, settled himself into the control room for the day.
Ten minutes later everything changed.
Ustinov heard something in the distance, a muffled sound – through the trees.
What was that? A blast of some kind – some sort of air horn?
He listened out.
It went off again a few seconds later – and then again … for a third time.
Then it was gone. That was it.
After the incidents from a few nights before, everyone around the Baryshnikov house had become decidedly jumpy. Mrs Baryshnikov was now confined to her apartment. But with her state of health, the police had taken the extra precaution of installing a panic button, which linked her directly to the control room.
So far, she had not had need of it.
At nine fifteen, Ustinov was startled by an ear-piercing screech. Hurriedly, he checked the feed from the security cameras in each room of Mrs Baryshnikov's apartment. When he saw the picture from her bathroom, he leapt to his feet.
There was a figure.
Lying on the floor.
Motionless.
‘Christ,’ he shouted aloud. Grabbing a radio and running for the door as he spoke, he transmitted: ‘Principal down! Principal down! Mrs Baryshnikov's bathroom.’
Police Major Ustinov ran down the corridor to the main hall, swung round the end of the staircase banisters, hurtled up the steps – three at a time – and sprinted down the landing to Mrs Baryshnikov's private rooms.
Fumbling with the key in the lock, he burst in through the door and on towards the bathroom. The moment he was inside, he grimaced at the smell. A powerful waft of urine hit him hard.
Two other policemen, answering the call, charged into the room shortly afterwards. They, too, recoiled at the smell before looking down at the shape of the elderly woman lying on her side on the bathroom floor.
As Ustinov stooped down to look at her face, he saw she was beyond sallow; almost as a reflex he yelped: ‘Oh my God – she's yellow.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked one of the policemen.
‘Well it can’t be good – must be something to do with her piss, given the smell in here.’
‘Her kidneys?’
