‘Oh yes?’
‘She's on home renal dialysis.’
‘Wow, that's pretty specific.’
‘It is. But his file makes clear that the mother has a serious kidney condition.’
‘Why would Baryshnikov's personnel file specify that?’
‘He's filled it in under the “In Case of Emergency” section. Baryshnikov's HR file shows he's been called away to her a few times in the recent past, at very short notice. He's rushed home to see her on several occasions this year. She's clearly not a well woman.’
‘Interesting,’ said Straker. ‘Does the file give a telephone number for Mrs Baryshnikov?’
‘It's emblazoned across that “Emergency” section I mentioned. Here we go: +7 495 142 9873.’
‘Is that landline or mobile?’ asked Straker.
‘Landline,’ answered McMahon. ‘495 is the Moscow exchange.’
Straker slid across behind a computer keyboard, logged on and clicked open the spreadsheet of Quartech telephone data that Karen had previously sent over showing Baryshnikov's communications. Running his finger down the screen: ‘495 142 … 495 142 … 495 142.’ Finally, he said: ‘Got it. No surprise there are hundreds of calls to that number.’
Straker then noticed something else: ‘Wow, that's odd,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The duration of the calls to that number is hugely variable – between twenty and forty minutes, while, weirdly, a large number of others are only a matter of seconds long. Hang on.’
Straker clicked the Sort Data button once again, but, this time, looked to rank the information additionally by date. ‘Well, well – look at that,’ he said. ‘Calls between Baryshnikov and his mother are extensive and chatty – up until the twenty-first of July,’ he declared. ‘From that date on, their duration falls right off. No call since then has lasted more than a matter of seconds.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked McMahon.
‘A call lasting a few seconds must mean that no one's speaking, or the calls are going to voicemail, doesn’t it? Or the caller's hanging up.’
‘Something happened to Mrs Baryshnikov?’ offered Backhouse.
‘On and since the twenty-first of July,’ suggested Straker.
McMahon leaned over to check the column of figures for herself. ‘The mother certainly wasn’t answering her phone from then on.’
‘Were there any proper calls after the twenty-first of July?’
‘Nope. None.’
‘Could that be because of a medical emergency?’
‘Possibly. Hang on – hang on … shit!’
‘Shit what?’
‘When was the Grand Prix – the twenty-third of July, wasn’t it?’
Backhouse nodded.
‘Good God…’ said Straker, ‘…it appears that Mrs Baryshnikov has not been answering her phone since two days before the Moscow Grand Prix.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Straker's face broke into a smile. ‘How inviting is that?’
‘Another of your surprises?’ said McMahon shaking her head knowingly.
Straker asked keenly: ‘Can we call the number for Mrs Baryshnikov, right now, Sandy? And see if there's any reply?’
‘Okay.’
‘But let's do it with an ID withheld number?’
Again McMahon nodded. ‘I’ve got an unidentifiable mobile in my desk. I’ll have it sent up.’
While they were waiting, Straker reached for his phone and called his assistant in London.
‘Karen, how are you getting on with ID’ing the numbers in Baryshnikov's telecom records?’
‘Pretty well, but it's taking time.’
‘Appreciate that. I might be able to make it slightly easier. We can set a narrower search for the team: can you focus on Baryshnikov's calls in the four weeks leading up to the twenty-first of July?’
‘A much smaller task. I’ll pass it on straight away.’
