Chelsea Mansions bak-11

by Barry Maitland

  ‘But you want to know about the Russians,’ Toby continued. ‘They arrived in… 2001, was it, Deb? Yes. The Mansions was eight separate properties at that time. Then two came on the market together, and Moszynski snapped them both up. Within two more years he’d got the rest, all except us. Made them offers they couldn’t refuse. Tried to buy us out too, but I wasn’t having any. Considered it, but I think what really stuck in my craw was when they decided to sell off the Barracks and redevelop the site for luxury apartments for more Russians, and I thought, no, bugger it, this is my home, my heritage, you can wait until I’m dead and gone, Mikhail, old chum.’

  ‘Only he beat you to it,’ Deb said.

  ‘Anyway, the builders moved in. For over a year the place was in turmoil. They gutted it. Have you been inside?’

  ‘Yes. Quite palatial.’

  ‘That’s what we heard. We’ve never been invited in, mind you.’

  ‘So they keep themselves to themselves, the Moszynskis?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, not since he met Shaka. Plenty of entertaining, parties, just not for us. Letting down the tone of millionaires’ row, we are. There’ll be a huge funeral, I suppose.’

  ‘Rows, fights?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Couldn’t say. Completely soundproof now, that place. You do wonder how his old mum gets on with the new wife though, don’t you?’

  ‘How about the son-in-law?’

  ‘Cold fish. Bumped into him once getting out of his Ferrari. He and the daughter live out in Surrey, but he’s often here.’

  ‘Well…’ Kathy checked her watch. ‘Thanks, I’d better get going.’

  They stood up. ‘Our MP was on the radio this morning, saying we’ve got a serial killer in Chelsea. Do you reckon he’s right?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, Deb.’

  ‘That’s what they want us to think, the people who killed Moszynski,’ Toby said. ‘That’s got to be political, and they used Nancy’s death to make it look like a serial killer. That’s my guess anyway.’

  ‘You could be right.’

  ‘You sound tired, dear,’ Deb said. ‘Must be taking it out of you, all this. Leaning hard, are they, your bosses? We know what that’s like, don’t we, Toby? When the proverbial hits the fan.’

  Kathy smiled at her. ‘Yes, it is a bit tense.’ She turned to find John Greenslade standing in the doorway.

  ‘Hi, I thought I heard you.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Well, your casebook’s getting bigger all the time. Are you running the Moszynski case too?’

  ‘I’m part of the team, yes.’

  ‘Come on, you’re the senior investigator. I spoke to that detective you were with this morning in the square. That’s what he told me. Homicide and Serious Crime Command, right?’ He saw Kathy’s eyes narrow and raised his hands with a smile. ‘No, no, I’m not stalking you, promise. I just look out of my window. How could I not? This is the most exciting corner of London right now.’

  ‘Leave the detective alone, John,’ Deb said, and to Kathy, ‘He’s always asking questions, this man.’

  Kathy’s phone rang as she reached the foot of the steps outside the hotel.

  ‘Boss? Pip Gallagher. I’m with the house-to-house teams in Cunningham Square.’

  ‘Yes, Pip? I’m in the square myself, outside the hotel.’

  ‘Yeah, I can see you. I’m to your left, in one of the flats on the east side. You got a moment? I think you might be interested in this. I’ll come downstairs and let you in.’

  They met at the front door Pip had indicated and she led them up to an apartment on the third floor. An elderly man was sitting in an armchair by the window in the front room overlooking the square. At his side, Kathy noticed, was a folded copy of The Times, its crossword completed in neat, bold letters.

  ‘This is Dr Stewart,’ Pip said and introduced Kathy. ‘Could you tell the inspector what you told me, Doctor?’

  ‘Indeed.’ The old man looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘I spend quite a lot of time in this chair these days, observing the comings and goings in the square. It used to be rather boring, but I must say that our Russian friend has livened things up considerably, especially since he married Shaka Gibbons. My goodness, the parties, the celebrities-Elton, Jude, Hugh. And have you seen their wonderful cars? That Ferrari! And the big black Maybach! Oh my

  …’

  ‘Did you see something last night, Dr Stewart?’ Kathy asked.

  He looked put out. ‘Last night? Oh no, I was fast asleep when all the drama took place. I didn’t hear about it till my grandson phoned me this morning to tell me it had been on the news.’

  Kathy raised an eyebrow at Pip, who said, ‘Dr Stewart thinks he saw Nancy Haynes visiting the Moszynskis.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ he snapped, ‘I know.’

  Kathy looked at him, trying to assess how reliable he might be. He must have been eighty, or close enough, but his hands were steady, his mind and tongue sharp. ‘Tell me about it please, Doctor. This could be important.’

  ‘Very well. A week ago, last Monday, the twenty-fourth, I made myself a sandwich for lunch-tuna-and brought it here to my usual seat by the window. I saw Nancy Haynes come out of the hotel. I didn’t know that was her name or anything about her until her death was reported in the paper on Friday, but I recognised her as having arrived in a taxi with a male companion on the previous Saturday morning.’

  Kathy looked out of the window. There was a clear view across the corner of the square to the hotel, and the rest of Chelsea Mansions beyond.

  ‘This time she was alone. She turned right, and walked up the street there to the central porch of the Mansions, and climbed the steps. I saw her ring the doorbell and go inside.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘It was rather overcast and cool that day, and she had a light tan-coloured jacket and a cream skirt. Smart but comfortable.’

  Kathy remembered a tan jacket hanging in Nancy’s wardrobe. ‘I’m impressed by your memory.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory. And I was intrigued, you see. Why would one of the hotel guests be visiting the Moszynskis? Surely any friend of theirs would be staying either with them, or in a much grander hotel than Toby Beaumont’s?’

  ‘How long did she stay there?’

  ‘Ah, that I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. At least half an hour. But then, having finished my lunch, I had a nap, so I didn’t see her reappear.’

  ‘Do you always have the same thing for lunch?’

  ‘No, I have a routine. Cheese Monday, tuna Tuesday, roast beef

  …’

  ‘But you said it was Monday and you had tuna.’

  Dr Stewart stared at her, a momentary panic in his eyes. ‘No, no… You’re just confusing things. Monday, it was definitely Monday.’

  Kathy walked up the street to the central portico of Chelsea Mansions, wondering what to make of Dr Stewart’s claims. The possibility that he had seen Nancy following this same route to Moszynski’s front door was disturbing. If true, it was a crucial new element. What could she have wanted with him?

  A male voice challenged her from a speaker on the wall and she told them who she was. After a moment a maid opened the door.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Moszynski,’ Kathy said.

  ‘Mrs Shaka or Mrs Marta?’ the maid said. Her eyes looked puffy, as if she’d been crying.

  ‘Mrs Shaka, please.’

  Kathy was shown into the same room in which she’d interviewed Clarke and Hadden-Vane the previous night. Now Shaka was sitting in one of the armchairs and a man was in the other, leaning towards her as if in the middle of some intense debate. Shaka looked up with irritation as Kathy walked in, and as the man turned Kathy recognised Vadim Kuzmin, Moszynski’s son-in-law, from the MI5 photos. He got to his feet and made as if to leave, but Kathy spoke to him.

  ‘Mr Kuzmin? I’m Detective Inspector Kolla from the Metropolitan Police. I’d like to speak to you to
o.’

  He looked at her suspiciously. ‘How did you know my name?’

  ‘I was told that you had arrived this morning. Can you tell me when you left on your Russian trip?’

  ‘Last Wednesday.’

  ‘And when was the last time you were here in Cunningham Place?’

  ‘Last Wednesday.’ The suspicious frown was still there, and Kathy wondered if it was a perpetual mask through which he viewed the world. ‘I called in here to talk with my father-in-law before I left.’

  ‘Are you aware of any threats to Mr Moszynski, from people in Russia, perhaps?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We believe he wrote a letter to The Times newspaper on Friday, suggesting just that.’ Kathy showed them a copy of the letter. ‘Are you aware of this, Mrs Moszynski? Did he discuss it with you?’

  Shaka shook her head. ‘But he probably wouldn’t have spoken to me about something like that.’

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ Vadim said. ‘He never mentioned this to me, and I would know if there was a problem in Russia.’

  ‘The Aleksandrovs,’ Shaka said, ‘at dinner last month, they were going on about the FSB spying on their bank accounts.’

  ‘Expats!’ Vadim snarled dismissively. ‘The Aleksandrovs are paranoid. It’s nonsense. There was no threat to Mikhail. I tell you, I would know.’

  ‘Yeah, but maybe he wrote the letter for the sake of his friends, like the Aleksandrovs, that’s what I’m saying, Vadim.’

  ‘Do you know this woman, Mr Kuzmin?’ Kathy showed him Nancy Haynes’ photograph.

  He shook his head.

  ‘How about you, Mrs Moszynski?’

  ‘No, I don’t know her. Who is she?’

  ‘It’s the American woman who was murdered last Thursday. She was staying at the hotel next door.’

  ‘That dump?’

  ‘You’re quite sure you’ve never seen or heard of her? Her name was Nancy Haynes.’ Kathy spelled it.

  ‘No, I told you.’

  ‘Only someone saw her call in here last Monday or Tuesday, at around one o’clock.’

  ‘No, you’ve got that wrong. Why would she come here?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d like to show your staff the photograph.’

  She shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘I also need to ask them and both of you if you can remember any strangers hanging around in the square recently.’

  She continued with them for a while without getting anywhere, then went to speak to the staff, beginning with Moszynski’s secretary, a middle-aged woman, elegantly groomed in an inconspicuous way, as if to blend into the greys and beiges of the decor. Her office seemed to be equipped with every latest business machine, yet Kathy had the impression that there was little work for her to do.

  ‘Ellen Fitzwilliam,’ the woman said, offering her hand. Like the maid, she too looked as if she’d been crying, and there were crumpled tissues in the bin beside her desk. ‘This is so dreadful. I heard it on the radio this morning when I was having breakfast and I still can’t believe it. People are saying that he was killed by the Russians, or by a serial killer.’

  ‘We really don’t know at the moment, Ellen. You must have spent a lot of time with him. Is there anything that you can tell us?’

  ‘Me…?’ She looked as if she hadn’t expected the question. ‘Well, yes, I’ve worked for Mr Moszynski for almost eight years now, but I can’t think of any reason why someone would want to hurt him. He was a perfect gentleman.’

  ‘A good boss?’

  ‘Oh yes. He was firm, very clear about what he wanted, but considerate too. When my mother was sick and I needed time off at short notice he was completely understanding. And he was just such an interesting man-he knew so many famous people. He started as a penniless apprentice, you know.’

  ‘Yes, an interesting family. How about his mother, Marta?’

  ‘Oh, she’s a character. Quite the matriarch. Of course she’s had a very hard life. She’s so proud of her son.’

  Tears began to form in Ellen’s eyes. Kathy said quickly, ‘And his son-in-law, Mr Kuzmin?’

  ‘Ah, he is…’ She seemed to have trouble finding the right word. ‘Very vigorous,’ she said at last.

  ‘Vigorous?’ Kathy looked at her, puzzled, and the woman coloured slightly.

  ‘A great sportsman. He likes shooting, and he plays football.’ She hesitated. ‘And very loyal to Mr Moszynski, of course. Was there anything else?’

  Kathy showed her the Times letter. ‘Have you seen this before?’

  She frowned as she read it. ‘Friday… No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Is there someone else who might have typed it for him?’

  ‘No, I do all his typing. But he does sometimes write his own notes and letters on the computer. And that is his signature.’

  ‘Could you check your computer?’

  Kathy stood behind her as she opened a file marked Gen Corr on the machine on her desk. ‘Nothing on Friday the twenty-eighth…’ She tried the previous day and scanned the list to one marked Times, which she opened. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Can you find out for me when it was written, please?’

  Ellen tapped the keys and brought up the properties information on the document. It had been created on Thursday 27 May, at nine thirty-two p.m.

  ‘Do you know when you left work that day, Ellen?’

  She consulted her electronic diary. ‘Yes, I remember. I was taking my mother to the theatre and I had to leave on time, at five thirty.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know who was here that evening?’

  This time Ellen thumbed through a thick desk diary and said, ‘Mr Moszynski had pencilled in that evening for a business meeting here at the house with his close advisers. He didn’t say what it was about.’

  ‘His close advisers being…?’

  ‘Well, Mr Clarke, Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane and I suppose Mr Kuzmin, if he was still here. I think he left for Russia around then.’

  ‘So Sir Nigel was a business adviser to Mr Moszynski?’

  ‘Oh yes, and on social matters too. They were very close.’

  Kathy moved on to show her Nancy’s picture.

  ‘Isn’t that the American lady who was staying at the hotel next door?’

  ‘You recognise her.’

  ‘Well, from her picture in the newspapers, yes, of course. We were shocked.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mr Moszynski and I. We talked about it. He was upset by the news.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because she was living right next door. He was like that. He got upset when the old lady across the square was hit by a car a couple of years ago. I had to send flowers every day to her in hospital. He felt things personally.’

  ‘But had he met Mrs Haynes?’

  ‘Oh no, he would have mentioned that.’

  ‘Someone said that they saw her call in here on that Monday or Tuesday.’

  ‘Here? No, they must have been mistaken.’

  ‘You’re quite sure.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Kathy left her and went through the same thing with the other members of the household, without learning anything new. When she asked about the recording from the security camera at the front door she was told that the police had already taken it.

  As she left she looked back up at the front of Chelsea Mansions, thinking of the palace inside, and the secret lives of houses. The problem was that it seemed hardly possible that Mikhail Moszynski’s killer had spent night after night waiting in the gardens on the off chance that his target would come out for a smoke. Someone in the house had surely tipped off the murderer, who must have been nearby, within, say, a ten-minute radius.

  She got into her car and headed off across the river.

  There was no response when she let herself into Brock’s house in Warren Lane and called up the stairs. She had stopped at a Sainsbury’s on the way, and put the bags on the kitchen table before going through to his darkened bedroom.
All she could make out of him was a tuft of white hair above the blankets, and for a moment she had the terrible thought that he might be dead. ‘Brock?’

  The figure stirred, grunted and whispered, ‘Kathy? That you?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry to wake you.’

  ‘No, no…’ He struggled to sit up. ‘Needn’t have bothered.’

  ‘Has anyone else been in?’

  ‘The doc. Dot rang him. He thinks it’s swine flu.’ He swallowed, breathing heavily. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘I’d have got it by now. Anyway, I’ve had the jab.’

  ‘Good.’ He sank back against the pillows. ‘Feels like I’ve done fifteen rounds with…’

  She couldn’t make out the rest. ‘What can I get you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Soup? Hot drink?’

  ‘Water,’ he croaked. ‘Then sit down and tell me…’

  So she told him about her day. When she got to the end she was convinced he’d fallen asleep, and was just getting to her feet, when he muttered, ‘Or he’s staying in the square.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Could see Moszynski go out, from a window overlooking the square.’

  He was right of course. They would have to trace everybody who could do that. But someone immediately sprang to mind. She thought of John Greenslade’s comment, I just look out of my window. How could I not?

  She began to tell Brock about him, but then stopped, listening to his breathing. This time he really was asleep.

  Later, sitting at home in front of the blank TV, nursing a glass of wine, Kathy was glad he hadn’t heard her account of John Greenslade. It hadn’t been quite right, betraying the lack of resolution in her own mind. Her first impression of him on Friday morning, when she’d come upon him talking to Emerson in the hotel lounge, was almost of recognition, as if she’d met him before or seen his picture somewhere. She’d liked the look of him, his intelligent eyes and pleasant smile. She’d found him attractive, and perhaps he’d realised it and had tried to use it against her. For after that first meeting he had behaved like one of those murderers she’d heard about but never really encountered before, haunting the scene of the crime, trying to insinuate himself into the investigation, eager to help. Or was she reading too much into it? Was he just naturally curious and, as he’d claimed, interested in her? Either way, she thought she was going to have to find out more about him.