Chapter 23
Tina checked both the front and back doors after John left, ensuring they were locked. She hated this new routine that she had been forced to adopt, but until all this mess was sorted out she needed to take extra care.
She looked at the side of her head in the mirror. The swelling had gone down and a yellow and purple bruise was blooming in its place. She acknowledged that it could have been a whole lot worse had Sasha and Pavel not turned up.
Taking the postcard from her pocket, Tina went about making herself comfortable in the living room. She had intended to lie down on her bed, but from the sofa she could watch TV. Not normally one for daytime TV, Tina hoped it would be a welcomed distraction.
It was chilly in the north-facing living room – autumn was definitely upon them. Tina gave a small shudder. She’d borrow John’s sleeping bag to keep her warm. It was folded on the floor at the end of the sofa, near the window. Tina pulled it out. The faint smell of John’s deodorant lingered on the fabric and she lifted it to her nose, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent.
As she gave the sleeping bag a final tug from down the side of the sofa, it pulled John’s briefcase out too. She hadn’t seen it tucked down there. As she went to pick it up, Tina noticed that one of the locks was open. She went to flick it shut, but paused, her thumb hovering over the latch.
Tina placed the briefcase on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. The leather around the edges of the case was worn and the shine had long gone from the handle.
There might be papers relating to the investigation of Pavel inside. Should she look? No, she had no right to go rummaging through his briefcase. But, if she did, she might find answers to questions John wouldn’t answer. She might find out if he knew about Sasha or not.
She was torn between the two men. Loyalty and trust, where did hers lie?
It didn’t matter. She needed to know the truth. Tina flipped the left-hand catch and it sprang open. With trepidation about what she might actually find, Tina lifted the lid. There were two manila files and a brown envelope, plus an assortment of pens, sheets of paper, a small notebook and a mobile-phone charger.
She lifted the first file out. The name-tag caught her attention first. It was dog-eared and partially missing, but unmistakably the end part of her surname was still intact. It was quite bulky and the folder itself showed signs of being manhandled many a time. A coffee-cup stain marked the bottom corner.
Tina’s hands shook as she held the file. The word ‘confidential’ was stamped across the front in red ink. A label with a case number and title ‘Porboski Investigation’ was stuck on the front.
Tina opened the cover. A passport-sized photograph of Pavel was paper-clipped to several sheets of paper. Another pile lay underneath, this time about Sasha. Tina scanned the documents. The front cover was like a summary: date of birth, physical description, where he was born, where he went to school, his address. Then Tina gulped. It was the address of their flat above the deli.
Tina looked at the second page. An account of what Sasha had been doing at what time and on what dates – a log of his daily routine. She riffled through more pages. Some events were highlighted in yellow. There were scribbled notes in the margins. Each page relayed everything Sasha did, every place he went, every person he came into contact with, her own name cropping up time and time again.
The folder slipped on her lap and out slid several black and white photographs. Her heart thundered in her chest. Her stomach churned and she felt the pulse in her neck throb. She reached down and picked up the photographs.
Herself and Sasha walking arm and arm down the street. Taken from a distance through a long lens. They were looking at each other, laughing at a shared joke. They were young, happy and clearly in love.
Another photograph was taken through the deli window. Sasha at the counter serving a customer. Another was of them both locking up the shop for the night. Another of her and Sasha talking to a man in a suit in the doorway of the deli. She didn’t recall the conversation but it had obviously taken place.
And so the photographs went on. There were about twenty of them, taken over a period of time. The last one choked her. She cried. Silently. She rocked back and forth. Memories and pain hurtled towards her, coming back to torment her as they had done five years ago. The picture was of her alone in their flat, curled up on the sofa, surrounded by opened photo albums. She knew exactly when that had been taken: two days after she had heard about Sasha’s death. She had spent three days huddled there – not answering the phone or the door to anyone, alone and in the deepest pit of grief. In the end her dad had forced the lock and her parents had scooped her up and taken her home with them. She hadn’t wanted to go. All she wanted was to be with Sasha. She didn’t know if she would be able to make it alone.