Chelsea Mansions
( Brock and Kolla - 11 )
Barry Maitland
Barry Maitland
Chelsea Mansions
ONE
The grey-haired man made his way slowly through the crowd, frowning with concentration, careful not to spill the two plastic flutes of champagne. A band was playing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan on the sunlit lawn ahead, surrounded by hundreds of people sitting on white plastic seats. It took him a moment to make out his friend among them.
‘Here we are,’ he said, handing her a precious drink and sinking with a sigh of relief onto the seat beside her.
‘Dear Emerson.’ She smiled at him, noticing the flush on his face. ‘Was there a huge line?’
‘Not when they saw the prices. These cost more than our flights.’
She patted his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I think you’ve had enough of this, haven’t you?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. We’ll stay as long as you want.’
‘I’ve had a wonderful day, but my feet are getting tired and I’d be happy to wander back.’
He nodded, hiding his relief. He’d seen more than enough blooms to last the rest of his lifetime. A kind of numbness had set in somewhere inside the vast central marquee in front of yet another spectacular cascade of white or pink or purple flowers, and the rising temperature and crowd numbers had made him feel increasingly uncomfortable.
‘You’re not sorry I dragged you over here?’ she asked.
‘You know I’m not. I’ve enjoyed every minute. Though I do think you might have let me book us in at the Hilton.’
She laughed. ‘But our place has so much more character.’
‘Oh, it’s got character, all right-a manager who can’t see, a concierge who can’t speak, and a bellboy who can’t walk.’
‘That’s cruel, Emerson.’
‘But true. And you still haven’t told me why you picked it.’
‘It’s a secret, but I will tell you, when I’m good and ready.’
‘A mystery, eh? Won’t you give me a clue?’
‘It’s a ghost story, but I won’t say any more than that.’
He laughed, then sat up and peered out over the heads of the seated crowd. ‘I thought I saw your admirer again back there. I took a picture, here.’
She peered at the image on his camera, and made out the man in the dark glasses, taller than the people around him, with black hair slicked back. ‘Oh yes, that’s him. He’s rather sinister, isn’t he?’
‘Like a Mexican gangster. Can’t see him now though.’
‘He’s probably gone home to his luxury penthouse, which is what we should be doing. Come on.’
They finished their drinks and got to their feet, feeling stiff now and tired, and threaded their way down the row of chairs and through the trees onto the avenue leading back to the entrance gates, becoming part of a solid stream of people making their way out onto Lower Sloane Street.
‘No sign of a cab,’ he muttered.
‘Doesn’t matter. It isn’t far. Do us good.’
He doubted that. The question was whether they would have enough energy left to climb all those stairs at the hotel when they got back.
They crossed Sloane Square and continued up Sloane Street. There were fewer people on the footpath now and they walked at a steady pace together, her arm in his. Once, he recalled, a couple of decades ago, he had harboured fantasies about doing just this, running off to London or Paris with Nancy, their spouses none the wiser. He had never asked her. Would she have agreed? It was an intriguing question and one that he might put to her, late one evening over a bottle of wine. But now those spouses had passed away, and so had the lustful impulse. Now she was just a very good friend, as agreeable a travelling companion as anyone might wish for.
And as he formed that thought, a massive blow on his right shoulder sent him crashing to the ground. Dazed, head crackling with confusion, he lay on the concrete pavement aware of a harsh squealing noise that filled the air, and then abrupt silence. He tried to push himself upright but his arm and shoulder seemed to have no strength. He heard screams, human ones this time, and the sound of running feet. Someone was bending over him, asking if he was all right.
The first police at the scene were two officers from Chelsea police station in Lucan Place, who arrived at the same time as the ambulance. While one heard a confusing mixture of contradictory accounts from bystanders, staring with hands over their mouths, or talking into their mobile phones, the other spoke to the driver of the number 22 double-decker bus that was pulled into the kerb. White-faced and jerky in his gestures, the driver was in absolutely no doubt about what had happened.
‘After the Sloane Square stop the road ahead was clear. I crossed Cadogan Gate and noticed this bloke up ahead turn and see me coming, then start running, and I thought, you’d better get a move on if you want to catch us at Pont Street, mate.’
‘How fast were you going?’
‘Twenty, twenty-five, no more, God’s my witness.’
‘Go on.’
‘This runner dodged around the people on the footpath, then as I got closer he charged straight into this old couple. I saw one of them, the bloke, go flying, and I thought, you stupid bugger, look what you’ve done. Then…’ The driver hesitated and stared for a moment at the policeman’s chest, as if he could see a film unreeling in front of him there on the black protective vest. ‘Then the runner grabbed the other one, the woman, and lifted her up in his arms, like she was a baby, and spun her around and threw her in front of my bus.’
‘Hang on,’ the officer began, but the driver had buckled and was being sick over his boots.
TWO
‘N ancy Haynes, American tourist, age seventy.’ The constable handed the passport to DI Kathy Kolla. Around them, the lobby of the casualty department was crowded, staff hurrying around members of the public seated in glum ranks.
‘She died at the scene, yes?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Go on.’
‘Um…’ He consulted his notebook. ‘On holiday with a friend, Mr Emerson Merckle, both from the Boston area. The doctor’s looking at him now. He was knocked to the ground in the assault and maybe dislocated his shoulder.’
‘We’re quite sure it was an assault, not an accident?’
‘Talk to the bus driver, he’s here too. He described it vividly.’ The cop repeated the driver’s story. ‘Two other eyewitnesses support his account.’
He showed Kathy a diagram he’d made. ‘This one was walking southward on Sloane Street, towards the scene, twenty yards away, and had a clear view. Seemed reliable. The other was coming out of Grosvenor Court, standing on the steps, and happened to look in that direction. Again a clear view. The other pedestrians, and the people on the bus, were more confused. It all happened very fast.’
‘The assailant?’
‘Tall man, according to the bus driver, maybe six-two or three, well built, IC1 or 2, black hair, dark glasses, dark clothes, black backpack. Could be a body builder-the driver said he picked up Mrs Haynes like she weighed nothing. He kept running, up Sloane Street heading north.’
‘Not a bag-snatch?’
‘No. Her bag fell onto the pavement. He didn’t pick it up.’
The bus driver was sitting hunched in the far corner, a plastic cup of tea on the floor at his feet. Kathy introduced herself and took him through his account once again. She was impressed by his conviction, but she’d heard many convincing but mistaken witness accounts before and so she pressed him. Surely the man might simply have pushed the woman aside, or stumbled against her by mistake? But he was unshakeable, speaking as if he still couldn’t quite believe it had happened. ‘No, no, he
threw her. The bastard picked her up and spun her around and threw her in front of me. I couldn’t do a bloody thing.’ He shook his head.
When the doctors had finished with Emerson Merckle a nurse took Kathy in to see him. His left arm was in a sling, he had a large dressing on his forehead and he looked groggy.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Kathy Kolla from the Metropolitan Police, Mr Merckle. How are you feeling?’
He lifted his eyes to her with a bleak expression, unable to find the words to answer that. ‘The other officer said it was possible that Nancy was deliberately killed. Tell me that isn’t true.’
A retired businessman or professional, Kathy guessed.
‘It sounds improbable, but several witnesses interpreted what happened in that way. We’re doing all we can to find the man who ran into you.’
‘I thought that nothing could shock me any more. How wrong I was.’
‘Can you tell me anything about him?’
‘Not a thing. One minute I was walking along the street, the next I was face down on the sidewalk. I heard the bus braking, but I didn’t see anything of what happened.’
‘Okay. Can you give me some background, about Nancy and your trip over here?’
He shrugged wearily. ‘Nancy and I have known each other for many years. I was her accountant until I retired ten years ago. We both live in Boston, and since we lost our partners we’ve been travelling companions, going for weekend visits to shows in New York, or further afield, a couple of times overseas. This was our first trip to the UK together, although we’ve both been here separately in the past. We decided to have a week in London before going up north. Nancy was interested in her family history, and wanted to visit the place in Scotland where her mother’s great-grandparents came from. That’s where we were going tomorrow.’
For a moment he lost his train of thought, derailed by some memory, before he roused himself with a cough and went on. ‘This was our day to visit the Chelsea Flower Show, which was the main reason for the timing of our visit. Nancy is… was a great gardener. She’d been really looking forward to this. We were at the gates when they opened at eight this morning, and spent the whole day there until we left at around four. We were both pretty tired, but we couldn’t find a cab and decided to walk back to our hotel.’
‘Where is that?’
‘Cunningham Place, the Chelsea Mansions Hotel. Nancy said it has character…’ He stopped, swallowed and snatched a tissue from the box beside him and pressed it to his eyes. After a moment he sucked in a breath and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I, Mr Merckle. I should let you rest.’
‘No, no. I just want to get out of this place.’
‘They’ve said you can go. Shall I take you back to your hotel?’
He nodded. ‘I feel numb, like I just want to go to sleep and wake up and discover it was all a terrible nightmare.’ He looked at her. ‘How could somebody do a thing like that? There’s no reason.’
As they walked to her car, Kathy put a call through to the Chelsea police to check on progress in the hunt for the man. They had nothing new to report.
Cunningham Place was a small square in the area where the three golden postcodes, SW1, SW3 and SW7-of Belgravia, Chelsea and Knightsbridge-converge in inner west London. Despite the impeccable real estate location, Kathy thought it a rather gloomy place, its leafy central gardens overwhelmed by the six- and seven-storey red brick terraces that surrounded it. The grandest of these was Chelsea Mansions, forming one side of the square, its bulk enlivened by Dutch gables, decorative terracotta panels, white balcony trim and an impressive central portico. Most of it appeared to be taken up by private residences, but the end bay, sporting geranium baskets and a large Union Jack from its upper balcony, had an inconspicuous brass plate by its front door announcing Chelsea Mansions Hotel, AA and RAC Approved.
Kathy helped Emerson up the steps and opened the door, to be greeted by a strong smell of fried onions. A large woman was at the front desk, peering at a computer screen through glasses perched on the end of her nose.
‘He-llo,’ she boomed, looking up, then her smile turned to a frown. ‘Emerson? Good heavens, what happened to you? Toby! Emerson’s been hurt.’
A figure hunched at her side turned around and peered up through opaque-looking circular dark glasses. ‘What’s that, Deb?’
‘His arm’s in a sling. And he’s hurt his head.’
‘My dear chap,’ Toby said, rising slowly with the help of a stick and coming around the end of the counter. ‘Have you had an accident?’
‘It’s Nancy,’ Emerson said with some effort. ‘She’s dead.’ He sagged against the counter and looked as if he might crumple to the floor. Kathy stepped forward to support him and another member of staff appeared, Garry the concierge according to his badge. A man of few words apparently, he took in the situation, gathered Emerson up with little effort, pushed open a door marked Guest Lounge, and took him inside to a sofa. The receptionist, Deb, shouted down the hall to someone called Julie to bring a glass of water, and everyone crowded into the room while Garry expertly loosened Emerson’s clothing and put a cushion under his head.
‘And you are?’ Deb turned to Kathy, who explained what had happened as Emerson began to show signs of life, sitting up with a groan and accepting the water that Julie, a plump black woman in a cook’s apron, had brought in. It took several disbelieving questions before they all fell silent and stared in horror at Emerson. Finally Toby, sitting down beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘This is absolutely appalling. My dear fellow, I don’t know what to say. Such a fine woman. And in Sloane Street?’
He looked around at them all, shaking their heads in agreement, and Kathy felt as an almost tangible thing the wave of sympathy that flowed to Emerson, and beneath it something else, a sense of collective shame that such a thing should happen to a guest of theirs.
‘We shall do everything we can to help, rely on that,’ Toby, who appeared to be in charge, went on. ‘You must be in total shock.’
‘A cup of tea,’ Julie suggested.
‘No,’ Toby corrected her, ‘brandy. Garry, if you will.’
Garry grunted and left the room for a moment, returning with a brimming glass which he handed carefully to Emerson, who hesitated, then nodded and took a sip. He coughed and mumbled, ‘I think we may have seen him, the man who did it.’
‘What?’
‘It just occurred to me as I was waking up. When we were at the flower show we noticed a man who seemed to be watching us. We joked about it, that he was an admirer, stalking Nancy. Perhaps he was. It just struck me that he looked like the man the bus driver described. Look, I took a picture.’
He pulled the little camera out of his pocket and switched it on, showing the last image to Toby, who studied it and passed it around the circle to Kathy. It certainly did look very like the bus driver’s description.
‘But that would be very strange,’ Deb objected. ‘I mean, you can’t just wander in off the street to the Chelsea Flower Show. You have to book months in advance. We tried to get a ticket for a guest last week and it was impossible. So you’re saying someone planned to go there ages ago, and when he got there picked another visitor at random and followed them out into the street?’
‘Random,’ Julie said, rubbing her hands on her apron. ‘You can’t fathom some people’s minds.’
‘I’d like to get copies made of this picture, Mr Merckle,’ Kathy said, ‘and I’d also like to take a look in Nancy’s room with you, if you feel up to it.’
‘Of course. I’ll finish this later if you don’t mind.’ He gave Toby the brandy and struggled to his feet. They went out into the hall, where Deb handed over the keys to Nancy and Emerson’s rooms, and Kathy and Emerson climbed the stairs, four full flights, to the top of the building. Emerson was gasping for breath by the time they got to Nancy’s room, and sat on the edge of the bed for a while to recover.
‘I told Nancy… we should have stayed�
�� at the Hilton.’
Kathy looked around the room. Homely would have been a kind description, shabby more accurate, the furnishings looking as tired as Emerson, like the relics of a Victorian family’s house sale.
‘Bit rough?’ she said.
‘Oh, splendid view, but those stairs… You didn’t meet the porter. He has an artificial leg. He hauled our bags all the way up. And what is it with the English and plumbing?’ His shoulders sagged.
‘I’m sorry. Would you rather do this another time?’
‘No, no, go ahead. What are you looking for, her drug stash?’
Kathy gave a little smile and opened the wardrobe. ‘So there’s no possibility that Nancy knew this man?’
‘Absolutely not. Oh God, how am I going to tell her family? She has sons in California and Oregon, and a sister in Cape Cod, cousins, grandchildren…’
‘We’ll do everything we can, and of course the American Embassy will want to help you with arrangements.’
‘Oh yes, I suppose so.’
‘There will have to be a post-mortem, and a report to the coroner. I’ll keep you informed.’
There was nothing in the least remarkable about Nancy Haynes’ belongings, their very ordinariness a painful reproach. She had an account with the Citizens Bank in Boston, was reading Anita Shreve’s latest novel, taking blood pressure and antihistamine tablets, and had an address book in which the only UK contact was someone called McKellar in Angus, Scotland.
‘A distant cousin she made contact with. Like I told you, she wanted to check out her family roots. There should be some family photos she brought to show them.’
Kathy found the pouch in the lid of Nancy’s suitcase, containing a wad of pictures of children, family gatherings, studio portraits and some older black and white images of smiling forebears.
‘They’ll blame me, you know.’ Emerson sighed, staring at one of the photos of a family group.
‘Of course not. There was nothing you could do.’
Chelsea Mansions bak-11 Page 1