CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The clock in St Michael’s Church struck the midnight hour as Kirill Dryomov pulled his white van to a halt. His big brother was going soft, becoming English, more of a doe-eyed spaniel than a Russian bear. Not Kirill. His face, as opposed to Spartak’s handsome features, looked like it had been flattened by a shovel, the result of too many fights. If people crossed him, he punched them. Man or woman – it didn’t matter. His brother may not have the stomach to deal with the old stick, but Kirill most certainly did. It was a simple matter of honour, or deep-down resentment grown from a lifetime of playing second balalaika to an older brother who was popular with women and their mother’s clear favourite.
Across the street, the old school boarding house almost glowed in the str
