Chelsea Mansions bak-11

by Barry Maitland

  You cheeky bastard, she thought. For a moment he seemed rather young and vulnerable. How old was he? Twenty-eight, she remembered from the immigration record. He made her feel older than her years.

  ‘Inspector!’

  She pulled her eyes away and saw Emerson advancing towards her, his hand on the arm of another man.

  ‘I’d like you to meet Nancy’s son, Martin Haynes, who’s flown over from California.’

  They shook hands, and Kathy repeated the phrase that always seemed inadequate: ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you. This all seems very unreal.’

  ‘Martin flew over last night. He didn’t get much sleep,’ Emerson said, by way of explanation.

  Martin went on as if he hadn’t heard him. ‘A service in a strange little church and then a garden party. I’m not sure what Mom would have made of it all.’

  ‘She would certainly have appreciated the flowers,’ Emerson said.

  ‘Any progress with the case?’ Martin asked.

  ‘We’re pursuing a promising lead, and we’ll just have to see where it takes us. I’m confident we’ll find the culprit.’

  ‘Are you?’ Martin stifled a yawn.

  ‘It looks as if the coroner will release Nancy’s body tomorrow. I’ll confirm it as soon as I can.’

  Emerson nodded. ‘The embassy are helping us with arrangements.’

  They parted and Kathy began to make her way out to the street. There was no sign of John Greenslade. On the way back to the tube station she passed Chelsea Mansions and took a quick glance up at the windows at the top of the hotel.

  SEVEN

  S hortly before ten that Sunday night the front door in the central porch of Chelsea Mansions opened and a man emerged. He stood for a moment beneath the light, taking a deep breath of the warm evening air as if relieved to be outside. In his right hand he held a long, unlit cigar, which he gently rolled between his fingers. After a moment he looked carefully up and down the street, then descended the steps and crossed to the gate in the fence around the gardens. He transferred the cigar to his left hand, felt in his trouser pocket for the key with his right, and opened the gate. The darkness closed around him, the streetlights barely penetrating the thick foliage of the gardens as he followed the gravel path to the bench beneath the oak tree in the centre, where he sat down. Searching again in his pockets he found the little guillotine and prepared the cigar, a Cuban Montecristo, which Shaka forbade him to smoke in the house. His lighter flared in the darkness, blinding him as he drew in the first breath of exotic smoke. He sat back with a sigh. In the distance he could hear the murmur of traffic on Sloane Street and Brompton Road, but here in Cunningham Place nothing stirred.

  And yet, there was something, the faint sound of music coming from one of the windows around the square. The tune, broken by the whisper and rustle of the trees, seemed very familiar, but at first he couldn’t place it. What was it again? He strained for the notes until suddenly he had it-Mussorgsky, of course, Pictures at an Exhibition, his father’s favourite, and suddenly he was back in the apartment on Moskovsky Prospekt, his father leaning intently over the gramophone, beating time with an outstretched finger. ‘You hear them, Mikhail? Can you see them in your mind? Two Jews, Samuel and Schmuyle. One is rich and the other is poor. Can you tell which is which?’

  He was so engrossed by this memory that it was a moment before he registered the presence of someone else in the gardens, a dark shadow gliding silently to his side.

  ‘Hello, Mikhail,’ the figure murmured, taking a seat beside him.

  ‘We have things to resolve,’ Mikhail said. ‘Let me tell you how it will be.’ He spoke for several minutes, relishing the moment, punctuating his words with gestures with his cigar, its tip glowing in the darkness. When he finished he waited for a reply.

  There was silence for a long moment, and then the other said, ‘No, Mikhail. This is how it will be.’ He felt an arm embrace him, and he made to pull away, offended by this familiarity. Then he froze as his eye caught the gleam of a blade. With some incredulity he felt its tip press hard against his breast, then a sharp pain as it pierced his fine cashmere sweater and entered his chest, once, twice, three times. The cigar dropped from his fingers and he heard a voice in his head say, ‘Yes, Papa, of course I know which is the rich one.’

  Brock jerked awake with the phone ringing. He was sprawled across the sofa, the table lamp still burning, the second glass-or was it the third?-of medicinal hot whisky toddy half full at his elbow.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ the duty officer responded to his hoarse gurgle.

  No, he wasn’t all right. He’d been feeling rough all day and was beginning to wonder if it might be swine flu-he’d neglected to have his shot, despite Suzanne’s urging. He sat up, trying to clear his head. The place looked a mess, papers, books, CD cases, shoes, cushions all over the place. He looked around hopelessly for a pen and paper. At times like this he told himself that he needed more of Suzanne’s disciplined presence in his life.

  ‘Chelsea, sir. Cunningham Place. Fatality.’

  ‘Yes, yes, so what?’

  ‘You know about it?’

  ‘’Course I bloody know about it. Nancy Haynes. What is this?’

  ‘Not Nancy Haynes, sir. Mikhail Moszynski. Fatal stabbing. Called in forty minutes ago. Kensington and Chelsea BOCU are asking for you.’

  ‘Oh… right.’ A calm descended on him and he found a pen next to the whisky glass. ‘Get a car out here to pick me up, will you? Tell me again.’

  Before he got to his feet to take a shower, Brock speed-dialled Kathy’s mobile. It took a while for her to answer-she was in a cinema with her friend Nicole, she explained, a late-night screening of Pedro Almodovar’s latest. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

  The patrol car dropped Brock by the entrance to the gardens in Cunningham Place and he was immediately struck by the scene, the bright glow among the trees in the centre of the garden, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, windows in the surrounding buildings lit up with figures staring down at the activity, and the throb of a helicopter moving slowly overhead. He gave his name and walked in along a route defined by tapes towards the spot where lights and screens were being set up. At the centre of the activity the figure of a man sat slumped on the bench. At first glance he looked like an actor on a bright stage, pausing in the middle of his performance, but then the dark stain across his chest and left leg brought the reality home.

  A detective Brock recognised from the borough command came to his side and they shook hands. ‘Hello again,’ the man said. ‘So this is Mikhail Moszynski.’

  The way he said it made Brock glance at him. ‘Should I know him?’

  ‘Russian, he married Shaka Gibbons a couple of years ago. You know, the model?’

  Brock didn’t know.

  ‘Resident of Chelsea Mansions,’ the detective went on, indicating the building through the trees. ‘He owns most of the building. Stepped outside at about nine fifty to smoke a cigar here in the gardens. Apparently Shaka won’t have smoking in the house. At ten thirty his bodyguard came out with a torch to check on him and found the body.’

  ‘He had a bodyguard?’

  ‘Name of Wayne Everett, calls himself Mr Moszynski’s security agent and driver, on contract from…’ He held his notes up to the light. ‘Shere Security. His boss arrived soon after us. They’re both inside the house now with Shaka. Everett says he only felt for a pulse then stepped away. Looks like three puncture wounds to the chest. No immediate sign of the weapon, but I reckon we’ll have to wait till daylight to search the gardens properly.’

  Brock grunted his agreement. His head still felt full of cotton wool. ‘That’s where the American woman, Nancy Haynes, was staying, of course, in the hotel at the end of the block.’

  ‘Yes. As soon as I realised that I thought I’d better get you in straight away. There hasn’t been a single homicide in this borough in the three years I’ve been stationed here and
now we’ve got two from the same building.’

  They made their way towards the gates, discussing the steps that had been taken so far, when Brock saw Kathy coming through the checkpoint. He introduced her to the CID man and then sneezed.

  ‘You all right?’ she asked, but he dismissed it with a wave of his hand and the detective told her quickly what had happened.

  ‘Shaka Gibbons?’ she said. ‘She’s his wife? This’ll be huge. We’d better get the Press Bureau on to this right away.’

  As if in confirmation, the uniformed constable stationed at the victim’s front door told them that Ms Gibbons’ manager had just arrived and been admitted at Ms Gibbons’ insistence. As Brock and Kathy passed him to go inside, the constable tugged down his protective vest and straightened his tie, as if expecting the cameras at any second.

  Wayne Everett, the bodyguard, was waiting in the hall inside, looking grim, his bulk overshadowed by an enormous chandelier suspended from the high ceiling overhead. Another man was behind him, one foot on the bottom step of a grand staircase at the far end of the hall, murmuring into a phone. He now wheeled around and strode in front of Everett to face the detectives. He was Peter Shere, he explained, handing them business cards, head of Shere Security and responsible for all aspects of Mr Moszynski’s safety and that of his family while in the UK.

  ‘Clearly there’s been a shocking breach,’ he said angrily, and Kathy saw Everett behind him lower his shaved head a little further. ‘My immediate concern is to ensure the ongoing security of the family. Later we’ll be carrying out a post-incident review. In the meantime, it goes without saying that we’ll give you our fullest cooperation.’

  Brock pulled a wad of tissues out of his coat pocket and noisily blew his nose. ‘Do you have any reason to be concerned about the rest of the family?’

  ‘No, but we had no immediate concerns about Mr Moszynski either. He has a daughter, Alisa, living near Esher. I’ve sent one of our cars to bring her, her baby daughter and Mr Moszynski’s mother, who’s been visiting them, back here. Alisa’s husband Vadim is in Moscow at present. He’s been informed and is flying back immediately.’

  Kathy was taking notes. ‘Is that the whole family in the UK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Brock said, ‘Let’s hear what Mr Everett has to say.’

  Shere waved his employee forward.

  ‘I came on duty here at seven this evening,’ Everett said, voice subdued. ‘There’s always one of us here with Mr Moszynski twenty-four/seven, working twelve-hour shifts. I’ve been on this assignment for six months now without incident. I made myself known to him, established who was at home and carried out our regular security inspection of the whole house. Mr Moszynski was having dinner with two guests in the dining room, and said that he would be remaining in for the night and wouldn’t need to be disturbed again. After I’d completed my rounds I went down to the basement kitchen where Mrs Truscott, the housekeeper, gave me a cold supper. I had no alcohol with the meal or at any other time in the past twenty-four hours and I request a blood test to confirm that.’

  Brock grunted impatiently. ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘At ten twenty-five Mrs Truscott returned from upstairs where she’d been checking to see if the dinner party needed anything. She informed me that Mr Moszynski wasn’t there, and had apparently gone outside to the square to smoke a cigar. This was strictly against the protocol we’d agreed with Mr Moszynski, and I immediately took a torch and went out to check on him. The gate to the central gardens was open and I could smell his cigar as I went in. I found him sitting collapsed on the bench in the middle of the gardens. That was at ten thirty-two. I made out extensive bloodstains on his clothes and checked his throat for a pulse. There were no signs of life, and I immediately rang triple nine and our home base. I also rang Mrs Truscott and told her to lock the front door and inform the other guests. I then waited with Mr Moszynski’s body until the police arrived.’

  He took in a deep breath. ‘I should add that Mr Moszynski has done this twice before, to my knowledge, despite our objections. He told me he’s very partial to a cigar after dinner, but Mrs Moszynski won’t allow it in the house or the rear courtyard. Ordinarily I would have been aware of someone opening the front door from the security system, which should have alerted me.’ He showed them a security monitor, like a large mobile phone, attached to his belt. ‘But this didn’t happen. I assume that Mr Moszynski disarmed it before leaving. He told me he didn’t like me fussing over him when he went out for a cigar.’

  ‘I can confirm that,’ his boss said. ‘I had words with Mr Moszynski about it, but he was pretty relaxed about security.’

  ‘What about the murder of the American lady at the end of the block?’ Kathy said. ‘Didn’t that concern him?’

  Wayne Everett frowned at her. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. Why should it?’

  ‘He knew her though, didn’t he?’

  Everett exchanged a glance with his boss. ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘He went to Mrs Haynes’ memorial service this morning,’ Kathy insisted. ‘Your colleague was with him. Did he talk to you about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who’s been here in the house this evening?’ Brock said.

  Everett listed them: the cook who’d prepared evening meals for the household had left at nine p.m.; the housekeeper, Mrs Truscott; Mr Moszynski’s wife, Ms Gibbons, who had eaten alone in her suite; Ms Gibbons’ business manager, who’d arrived within the past half hour at Ms Gibbons’ request; and Mr Moszynski’s two guests-his business partner Mr Freddie Clarke and Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane.

  ‘Hadden-Vane?’ Brock stared at him, then at Kathy.

  ‘Yes, he was at the memorial service this morning too. Sir Nigel now, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Everett said. ‘He’s the local Member of Parliament.’

  They went to speak to the wife first, in her suite on the first floor. As they mounted the stairs Brock felt oddly disoriented. From the outside the building appeared to be the series of townhouses that it once had been, with individual front doors, but inside the scale expanded, as if he’d drunk from Alice’s magic bottle. They must have ripped out its guts, he realised, to build a palace inside the shell.

  Shaka Gibbons was sitting on an antique chaise longue while a man leaned forward at the other end, whispering urgently into her ear. ‘Sitting’ didn’t really do justice to the elegant way she had arranged herself across the velvet fabric. Brock realised that he had seen photographs of her before, attending film and theatre first nights, the races at Ascot. Now, in the flesh, he saw what a compelling presence she had: the sculpted African features, the pale caramel complexion, the attenuated limbs and fingers. And the East End cockney accent, softly spoken, which somehow gave the rest an edge, like a shot of rough brandy in a cup of exquisitely smooth coffee.

  She pulled herself upright and the man at her side drew back. There was a smudge of mascara on her cheek and her eyes were liquidy. ‘This is my manager, Derek. Sit down, please,’ she murmured, and they sat.

  ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Forcing Mikhail out into the street to ’ave a cigar. What a bitch. That’s what people will say. But it wasn’t really like that. I ’ave asthma, you see, and the smoke fucks me up. But he could ’ave gone to his study, or the billiard room. They ’ave separate air-conditioning, he insisted on that. That’s where he usually goes after dinner. But it was a warm night, and he liked the gardens, the space, the trees. He could imagine he was back in St Petersburg, or wherever. And he probably wanted to get away from those two parasites.’

  ‘Parasites?’ Brock cleared his throat. He felt suddenly very hot.

  ‘Nigel and Freddie.’ She looked suspiciously at Brock. ‘You aren’t going down with something are you? You ’aven’t got the flu or something?’

  Derek sprang abruptly to his feet and whisked a small aerosol can from his pocket and sprayed the air between Brock and Shaka. Then he took another container from his other pocke
t and approached Brock.

  ‘Just for the hands,’ he said.

  Brock looked at him as if he were mad.

  ‘The hands? Please?’

  Kathy held out her palms and Derek sprayed them, then turned back to Brock, who reluctantly followed suit.

  ‘Are you aware of any threats made against your husband, Mrs Moszynski?’ he said.

  ‘No. Of course people were jealous of him.’ She shrugged. ‘Freddie would know more about that.’ She was speaking more rapidly now, as if anxious to finish the interview.

  ‘What about in Russia?’ Kathy said. ‘Did he have enemies there?’

  ‘The same, envy. He hated going back, the way people looked at him, because he was rich. Vadim takes care of things over there now.’

  ‘His son-in-law.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But he didn’t mention any threatening letters, phone calls?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘What about Nancy Haynes?’

  Shaka looked blank.

  ‘The American tourist who was staying at the hotel next door. Who was murdered last Thursday.’

  Shaka looked at her manager. ‘Did I know about that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Shaka.’

  ‘Your husband didn’t mention it?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He went to her memorial service in the little church across the square this morning.’

  ‘Did he? I thought he’d gone to the cathedral. He usually does on Sunday mornings.’ She turned again to Derek. ‘It is Sunday, isn’t it?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Not any more, darling.’ Then he added, to Kathy, ‘That’s the Russian Orthodox Cathedral up the road in Knightsbridge. Very devout, Mr Moszynski.’

  They were interrupted by noises from outside the room, the wailing protest of a woman’s voice. The sound came closer and Shaka gave a groan.

  ‘Sounds like Mr Moszynski’s mother,’ Derek whispered to Brock.

  A small grey-haired woman burst into the room, her arms outstretched. Shaka got to her feet and reached down to embrace her mother-in-law. They kissed on both cheeks without much sign of warmth and the older woman swung round on Brock and hurled a stream of angry Russian.