Chelsea Mansions bak-11

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Sorry.’ Another woman, aged about thirty, had come into the room with a baby held against her chest. ‘My grandmother is upset. Baba!’ she said sharply to the older woman, and then followed with some Russian. The old woman sank into a chair, put her face in her hands and began to sob.

  Brock and Kathy went back downstairs, where Everett showed them into what he described as the library. Two men were sitting in leather armchairs on each side of a marble fireplace. They got to their feet and Nigel Hadden-Vane took a step forward. Brock saw a flicker of recognition cross his face as he introduced Kathy and himself. On their last encounter they had been adversaries by proxy, through the agency of other players, but the underlying agenda had been between Brock and the veteran criminal Spider Roach, whose part Hadden-Vane had taken. Whether he had done so in order to score points against parliamentary rivals, or for more sinister reasons, had never been resolved.

  Now Hadden-Vane seemed subdued and cautious, eyeing Brock from time to time as Kathy put the questions. He explained that he had attended the memorial service for Nancy Haynes that morning in his capacity as MP for the borough. Mr Moszynski, who was well known to him, had also attended and invited him back afterwards for some lunch. As a member of the Parliamentary Business and Enterprise Committee, Sir Nigel had recently returned from an official visit to Russia to promote UK-Russian trade, and he and Mr Moszynski had many things to discuss. Later they were joined by Mr Moszynski’s financial adviser, Mr Clarke.

  ‘Freddie,’ Clarke interrupted, putting out his hand, then offering Kathy his business card, with an address in Mayfair. Head shaved, with a gingery goatee beard and moustache, he looked far too young to be anybody’s financial adviser.

  The meeting had turned into a social occasion, Hadden-Vane continued. Mr Moszynski was well known for his generous hospitality and the three men had remained together for supper, after which their host had left to smoke a cigar outside. He had given no indication of a threat against his life.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Freddie Clarke agreed. ‘This is just, well, unbelievable.’

  ‘Did he know Mrs Haynes?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘No, no.’ Hadden-Vane shook his head. He was speaking carefully, as if to control a slight slur in his voice. Brock had noticed the glass and decanter of brandy on the small table by his armchair and guessed he was slightly drunk. ‘He attended her memorial service this morning to show his support, as a neighbour. He was extremely aware of his status as a guest in this country, and took it upon himself to behave as a model resident, supporting charities, local schools and the like.’

  Brock and Kathy continued questioning both men for some time, without getting any clearer idea of why Moszynski might have been attacked. Clarke sketched the international scale of his business dealings, but insisted that they were impeccably conducted and had attracted no personal or criminal antagonism.

  ‘What about the Russians?’ Kathy asked.

  Hadden-Vane gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘There’s too much hysterical nonsense made of all that. Every time some Russian expat has a turn it’s a plot by the Kremlin and the FSB. Believe me, they’re as embarrassed by those sorts of rumours and allegations as we are.’

  ‘Mr Moszynski didn’t exactly have a turn,’ Kathy said.

  Hadden-Vane’s eyes narrowed and a flush spread across his face. ‘No, and I should have thought it pretty obvious that the reason lies a good deal closer to home. There is clearly a psychopathic maniac on the loose in this borough, and the sooner the police focus on that fact the better.’

  Brock saw Kathy stiffen at the contempt in the MP’s voice. ‘Two random victims from the same building?’

  ‘And why not?’ Hadden-Vane shot back, his voice raised now and angry. ‘The papers reported where Mrs Haynes was living. Why wouldn’t he come back to haunt the place? Maybe he hates foreigners; maybe he hates Chelsea, maybe he hates the police. I don’t know, but it’s your job to find out, and put a fucking stop to it.’

  Behind him, Clarke looked down at his feet with a little smirk on his face.

  There were press and TV cameras outside when they opened the front door, throwing a dazzling light in their faces. The night air was filled with a hubbub of shouted questions. The crowd parted reluctantly as they pushed through to the gate across the street and the relative calm of the crime scene.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kathy said. ‘I almost lost it with Hadden-Vane.’

  ‘You did fine,’ Brock said.

  ‘I wanted to hit him.’

  ‘That I would have liked to see… oh.’ A wave of nausea and dizziness suddenly overwhelmed him and he stopped and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Dizzy.’ There was a bench nearby in the shadows, and he stumbled towards it and slumped down. ‘Hot,’ he muttered. ‘Is it me or is it very hot?’

  The local CID man came towards them. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘My boss isn’t well,’ Kathy said, sitting down beside Brock. He felt her cool hand on his brow and heard her intake of breath. ‘I think I’d better get him to a doctor.’

  ‘No…’ Brock objected, but he found it suddenly hard to frame the words.

  ‘We’ve got one here.’ The detective strode away and returned a minute later with a figure shrouded in a blue paper crime scene suit. He was the local forensic physician, who’d just completed a preliminary examination of Moszynski’s body. Now he unfastened his bag and checked Brock’s temperature and pulse. He asked Kathy and Brock a few questions and then said, ‘Looks like influenza, maybe swine flu. Have you been immunised?’ Brock shook his head. ‘He shouldn’t be at work,’ the doctor said. ‘Get him home to bed now and contact his GP in the morning.’ He searched around in his bag and said, ‘You’re in luck.’ He pulled out a packet of Tamiflu tablets. ‘These will ease the symptoms.’

  ‘Come on,’ Kathy said to Brock. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll get a cab. You stay here. You’re senior investigating officer now.’

  ‘Take him home,’ the detective said. ‘There’s not much you can do till morning. You’ll need to be fresh then. I’ll ring you if there’s any results from CCTV.’

  ‘You’re interviewing people in the square?’

  ‘Of course, all under control.’

  Kathy turned to the doctor. ‘Anything you can tell us?’

  ‘I’d put time of death at two to four hours ago, three puncture wounds to the heart, narrow blade, neat grouping, very precise.’

  Brock heard their discussion as if through a blanket. ‘Like an exercise in fencing school,’ he whispered.

  Kathy put a hand under his arm and said, ‘Come on.’ As he got groggily to his feet he heard the detective chuckle. ‘He’s probably given it to all our witnesses. See if you can spread it among the press on your way out.’

  They avoided the crowd around Chelsea Mansions and reached Kathy’s car parked in the next street.

  As he pulled the belt across his chest he gathered his breath and said, ‘Sorry, Kathy. Came on so fast. Feel so bloody helpless.’

  ‘A friend of Nicole’s caught it, said it was like being poleaxed.’ She opened the packet of pills and gave him one with a bottle of water she had in the car. ‘One a day,’ she said, and started the engine.

  Brock was silent for a while, his eyes closed, trying to think, and then, as they were crossing Chelsea Bridge, he said, ‘This is going to be big, Kathy. Did you hear what the press were shouting? Litvinenko. They think it’s another political killing. MI5 will be involved, the Foreign Office…’

  ‘Yes of course, I understand that.’ She paused. ‘You think it’s too big for me?’

  ‘Not the detective work, no, but the politics is something else.’ He coughed and tried to put some force into his words. She had to understand. ‘Sharpe will feel obliged to appoint a more senior SIO. Probably Dick Chivers.’

  ‘Superintendent Chivers,’ Kathy sighed. ‘Oh.’

>   ‘Yes. He’s got his own team. It won’t be our case any more.’

  He watched her thinking about that. Would it matter to her? He had seen the look of distaste on her face as they’d been confronted by the gaudy opulence of the Russian’s house. Perhaps she’d be happy to let Chivers have it. But I wouldn’t, he thought.

  There was a long silence as they drove on into South London. They were skirting Clapham Common when Brock spoke again. ‘It would only be for a day or two.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Tamiflu will sort me out in a couple of days. If we can hold them off until then…’

  ‘How could we do that?’

  ‘Nancy was going up to Scotland, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, to Angus.’

  ‘Then an urgent lead has taken me away to Angus.’

  Kathy laughed in a way that suggested he was joking, or mildly delirious.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he insisted. ‘You can tell them I’ll be back tomorrow night, then put them off till the next night…’

  ‘You’re not serious, Brock! Commander Sharpe would have kittens.’

  ‘You and I would be in constant touch.’ Then he sighed and closed his eyes again. ‘No, you’re right, it wouldn’t be easy, especially for you. Forget it.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘It’d be like sabotage, telling lies, undermining the system.’

  ‘Mm.’

  She was driving down his high street now, slowing for the turning beneath the archway into Warren Lane, and then he heard the tyres drumming on cobblestones. They passed under the horse chestnut tree, huge in her headlights, and came to a stop outside his front door.

  He staggered inside, up the book-lined staircase to the rooms on the first floor, and Kathy helped him to his bedroom.

  ‘Thanks, Kathy. Too far for you to go home tonight. The spare bed’s made up.’

  ‘Yes, sounds good. I’ll ring Suzanne tomorrow, let her know.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. She’s gone to the West Country for an antiques sale.’ He could hardly get the words out now. ‘There are things she wants for the shop. I don’t want her charging back here just for this.’

  All the same, Kathy thought. She’d probably get in trouble either way from one of them. The terms of Brock and Suzanne’s relationship remained unclear to her. They loved each other yet preferred to live separate lives.

  There was an alarm clock in the spare room, which Kathy set for five a.m., three hours away, wanting to be back in Cunningham Place at dawn, when the detailed search of the square would begin.

  EIGHT

  B y eight the next morning it was becoming clear that they were unlikely to find any traces of the killer in the garden. A German shepherd from the Dog Support Unit had followed a trail out of the garden gate and across the street, but no further, and it was probably Moszynski’s own. They would have to hope for fingerprint or DNA evidence that forensics may have picked up on the gate or bench, or on Moszynski himself. Another detective from the borough command, a DI, had taken charge of the scene, and briefed Kathy on the search that had been going on through the night for possible CCTV sightings, so far without a firm result.

  Kathy phoned Dot at Queen Anne’s Gate and told her about Brock’s illness, and his plan to keep control of the investigation. She seemed unfazed by his Scottish deception, which, in the light of a new day, seemed increasingly unrealistic to Kathy. Together they went over the most urgent administrative tasks that would need to be covered, and Kathy asked her to send Phil, her usual case action manager, and DC Pip Gallagher, now permanently attached to the team, to meet her at the Chelsea police station as soon as they arrived.

  They gathered there with borough command officers to plan the next stages of the investigation and allocate manpower. The steps were familiar and predictable, everyone busy, but as the time passed and no tangible leads to the killer emerged, Kathy began to feel the same nagging sense of frustration that she’d been feeling about Nancy’s investigation, as if they were missing something. It’s the public interest, she told herself. The morning editions of the papers were full of it. It was like dancing naked on an empty stage.

  She was on her way to Moszynski’s autopsy, which had been pushed to the front of the longlist usual for a Monday morning, when a call came through from Marilyn at the Press Bureau.

  ‘I can’t get hold of Brock. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘He’s not available, Marilyn.’

  ‘Not available? I’m arranging a press briefing for one o’clock. Top priority. Commander Sharpe’s agreed it with the Deputy Commissioner. Where the hell is he?’

  Kathy took a deep breath. ‘In Scotland, I’m afraid.’

  She heard Marilyn splutter. ‘Did I hear that right? Another Russian oligarch gets murdered in London, every media unit from here to Vladivostok is hammering on our door, and our front man buggers off to Scotland?’

  Kathy swallowed. ‘An important line of inquiry. But not for publication at this stage.’

  ‘Sharpe doesn’t know about it, does he? I think you’d better talk to him, quick smart.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll do that.’

  Kathy had been putting this off, but now, glimpsing the heavy machinery of senior management that had obviously been grinding away, she saw her mistake. As if to underline it, she got another call, this time from Dot.

  ‘Sharpe’s office is on the warpath, Kathy. Better give him a ring.’

  ‘Did you tell them about Scotland?’

  ‘I thought I’d leave that to you.’

  Kathy felt a sudden spasm of nausea and wondered if she might have caught Brock’s bug. She had an overpowering desire to tell Sharpe the truth, but she had already begun the lie and to switch stories now seemed pathetic.

  Sharpe’s secretary seemed reluctant to put Kathy through at first.

  ‘He’s in a meeting,’ she said. ‘He really needs to talk to Brock.’

  ‘That won’t be possible. I’m leading the Moszynski investigation at the moment. I have to speak to him.’

  There was a short hesitation. ‘Hang on.’

  Then a male voice, harsh and impatient. ‘Sharpe.’

  ‘Sir, it’s DI Kolla.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Concerning the Moszynski murder last night.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I need Brock to brief me immediately.’

  ‘I’m afraid he’s been called away urgently, sir.’

  ‘Called away?’

  ‘Yes, a critical line of inquiry, sir, which he had to attend to personally.’ Kathy hesitated, picturing herself hanging from a public gibbet. ‘In Scotland.’

  ‘ Scotland! ’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you’d better get in here and tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Can it wait for an hour or so? I’m on my way to Moszynski’s autopsy.’

  There was a strained silence, then Sharpe said. ‘Just tell me, Inspector. What’s he up to? What is this critical line of inquiry?’

  ‘Nancy Haynes, the American tourist, was about to go on to Scotland when she was killed last Thursday. We learned of a substantial legacy up there which she intended claiming. This provides the first real motive we’ve had for her murder, and Brock felt it was so important that he had to pursue it immediately.’

  ‘But… for God’s sake, that can wait. Moszynski’s the priority now. Moszynski, not Haynes.’

  ‘That’s what made it so urgent, sir. You see, if Haynes’ death was indeed a planned murder, and not a random act, then Moszynski’s murder may be simply an attempt to divert our attention and resources onto a much higher profile case, away from the real reason.’

  ‘The same killer…’ Sharpe said. He sounded mildly sceptical but not entirely incredulous, Kathy thought. She hoped that a banal, domestic motive for Moszynski’s death might have some appeal to Sharpe, at least enough to buy a day or two.

  ‘How long before he gets back?’

  ‘Hopefully tonig
ht, sir, but I’m waiting for him to contact me. Unfortunately the castle’s in a rather remote area, with poor mobile coverage.’

  ‘The castle?’

  ‘The legacy, sir, a castle.’

  She wondered if she’d gone too far, then heard him muse, ‘A castle in Scotland…’ and imagined the picture in his head, a turreted stone keep in the middle of a lonely loch among purple hills inhabited only by shaggy highland cattle.

  ‘We were planning on Brock holding a press conference today.’

  ‘I wonder if that could be delayed, sir, until we have something concrete to report?’

  ‘We’ll get back to you. Let me know immediately you hear anything, understand? Immediately.’

  Kathy hung up and continued to the autopsy, which confirmed what they’d already assumed. Moszynski had died as a result of three stab wounds to the chest, one of which had punctured the left ventricle of his heart. The blade was sharp and narrow, about one centimetre wide and at least ten centimetres long. The assailant had most likely been sitting or crouching on the victim’s right side, and would have been right-handed. His or her right hand and forearm would have been covered in blood.

  Kathy went on to Queen Anne’s Gate, where Zack had been busy compiling data fed into his computers from the teams in Chelsea and surrounding districts. Bren Gurney, the other DI on Brock’s team, came in and asked Kathy how it was going.

  ‘What’s this about Brock going to Scotland?’

  He laughed when she explained. ‘The old bastard! He’s pulled a few swifties in his time, but this is a classic.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Bren. I’m out on a limb on this. I had to tell Sharpe a string of lies.’

  Bren became serious. ‘Okay. How can I help?’

  They went over it all again, the two murders, the lack of leads.

  ‘That was a good story, Kathy, the castle in Scotland. You should write a crime novel.’

  ‘The great detective doesn’t go down with flu in crime novels, Bren. Only alcohol poisoning and gunshot wounds.’