Vadim, whose impassive frown had hardly altered throughout the interview, showed Kathy out. At the front door she said, ‘Do you trust Freddie Clarke, Mr Kuzmin?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll be relying on him to access Mr Moszynski’s fortune.’
He eyed her coldly. ‘Let me give good advice, Detective. Let the experts come up with the theories.’ He swung the door open and stepped back into the shadows, watching her go.
Let me give good advice, Kathy thought as she got into her car. It was a phrase from the letter to The Times.
TWELVE
K athy was in two minds about phoning Sean Ardagh, expecting a cool response, but he sounded brisk and helpful.
‘A chat? Sure. Now?’
‘If you can spare the time. Thanks.’
‘No problem. Let’s meet in Victoria Tower Gardens across the road from my office. Give me an excuse to get out.’
The gardens formed a long thin strip along the Thames Embankment close by Thames House, the MI5 building. Kathy spotted him straight away, on a timber bench, reading the Evening Standard.
They shook hands and he said, ‘So, how can I help you?’
‘I think you know more about some of the people I’m looking at than I’m finding on the files.’
‘Could be. Who are you thinking of?’
‘How about starting with Freddie Clarke.’
Ardagh smiled. ‘The boy genius? Oh, they don’t come any smarter than young Freddie.’
‘What’s his background?’
‘Classic East End barrowboy who turned out to be a financial wizard. Supposed to have a photographic memory, maybe high-function autism. He got a job as a messenger boy in the City and by the time he was twenty he was a star of the trading room, making money big-time. Then something happened, I’m not sure what exactly, probably upset somebody important. Anyway, he headed off to Luxembourg and joined Clearstream, the clearing house. You’ll have heard of them.’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Look them up. At Clearstream he got to manage some of the big accounts of the Russian oligarchs. He did very well, but his mum got cancer and he wanted to come back to London. Mikhail Moszynski got to hear and offered him an exclusive deal to handle his affairs. He bought Truscott Orr for Freddie, who is now, what, thirty, thirty-one?’
Kathy scribbled in her notebook. The late afternoon was balmy, two children further down the park playing tag around their motionless parents. ‘So where will Mikhail’s death leave Freddie?’
‘Whoever inherits will be utterly dependent on Freddie to tell them what’s going on.’
‘Really? Surely there’ll be documents, contracts?’
‘They say it’s all inside Freddie’s head. So if you’re thinking of going after Mikhail’s financial records, forget it. It’s been tried.’
‘By you lot?’
Ardagh said nothing, face expressionless.
‘Well, let’s hope Freddie doesn’t have an accident.’
‘Indeed. It’s all immensely complicated, deliberately so. Mikhail was paranoid that the Russian government would try to take his money away from him. That’s what Freddie was for, to build an impenetrable financial castle complete with false rooms, dead-end corridors, hidden passages and secret chambers.’
‘RKF?’
‘That’s just the gatehouse at the front that everyone can see. Behind it there’s a maze stretching from Luxembourg to Bermuda to Labuan to Belize, and on and on.’
‘Freddie says Alisa will inherit the controlling share.’
‘Makes sense. Keep it in the blood line. Mikhail would have wanted that.’
‘He says Shaka will be taken care of. But will she be content with that?’
‘From what I’ve seen of her, I’d say she’ll be sensible. She’s like Freddie, another tower block kid. Her old mum still sells T-shirts at the East Street Market down in Walworth. And like Freddie, it’s the game that drives Shaka, not the money. She wants to be the best, the most famous, the most glamorous.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve done quite a bit of work on these people.’
‘Not really. These are just my impressions.’ He gave a careless shrug, which Kathy didn’t quite believe.
‘How about Vadim?’
‘Okay,’ Ardagh said, ‘your turn. What do you make of Vadim?’
‘Cold, guarded, hostile. My guess was that he’d be quite controlling with Alisa.’
‘So you’re thinking that he’ll take effective charge of Mikhail’s fortune, and therefore has a motive for killing him?’
‘You must have had the same thought, surely?’
He nodded. ‘And the letter to The Times would point the same way, what with Vadim’s links to the FSB.’
‘So you agree he could have been a party to the killing?’
‘In theory. But you’d have a hell of a time trying to prove it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And to be honest, it doesn’t feel like the FSB to me. They’re highly professional, using sophisticated encrypted phones, stuff like that. I can’t see them having anything to do with a small-time crook like Danny Yilmaz.’
‘Maybe to put us off the scent?’
‘Well… I could speak to Six for you if you like. I know someone who would tell me what they’ve got on Vadim.’
‘Thanks.’ Kathy thought he’d get more from MI6 than she would. ‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘Anything else? What about Mikhail’s friend down the road?’ He nodded along the length of the park to the tall Gothic edifice of the Victoria Tower.
‘Parliament? You mean Hadden-Vane? He’s been hard to contact today.’
‘He’s got other things on his mind.’ He opened his newspaper and pointed to an article headed mp denies cash for citizenship claim.
‘That’s him?’
‘Here.’ Ardagh handed her the paper. ‘I’d better go. I’ll call you if I get anything useful.’
Kathy thanked him and remained on the seat, reading. Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane has denied a report that he accepted a substantial sum of money from the murdered Russian businessman Mikhail Moszynski to facilitate his daughter Alisa Kuzmin’s application for British citizenship, which was approved last year. He said that the claim, first made on westminsterwhistleblower. com, was completely without foundation. Sir Nigel was known to be a personal friend of Mr Moszynski, and was a guest at the lavish wedding of Alisa Kuzmin in 2006 on Mr Moszynski’s private Caribbean island, Little Ruby Cay, in the Bahamas.
As she walked back through the park towards her car, Kathy passed Rodin’s monumental sculpture The Burghers of Calais, with its six haggard figures standing in chains on the pedestal, and imagined Hadden-Vane up there, plump and sleek, among them.
‘Who’s behind westminsterwhistleblower. com?’ Bren asked.
‘I think we’d better find out,’ Kathy said. ‘Zack?’
‘I’ll have a go,’ he said, without much enthusiasm.
Kathy had just described what she’d been doing, and one by one they’d made their reports. There wasn’t much to be enthusiastic about. Information had been pouring into the HOLMES computer from interviews, records of phone calls made from the area around Cunningham Place, CCTV cameras, witness statements and calls from the public, but little of significance had so far emerged. Frustratingly, the camera over Moszynski’s front door had been disconnected for several spells during the previous ten days while a new system was being installed, including the period on Monday when Dr Stewart had claimed to see Nancy visit. About the only solid fact to emerge was that Moszynski’s letter to The Times had passed forensic scrutiny and was considered genuine.
‘The thing is,’ Zack said, ‘there didn’t need to be anybody in the square to see him come out for a smoke.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, the killer could have had a camera hidden somewhere, watching the front door, and removed it once he was finished.’
‘He didn’t have much time,’ Bren said. ‘My bet
would still be on one of the people inside the house tipping him off.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Zack insisted. ‘Could be anybody. Could be Vadim.’
‘No it couldn’t. He was in Moscow.’
‘So what? He could have arranged for the house security cameras to be relayed to his laptop, in Moscow or anywhere else. He could have watched Mikhail open the front door and phoned the killer as easy as if he’d been there on the spot.’
Bren gave a groan. Kathy sympathised. She’d had the same sense of helplessness when she’d been talking to Sean Ardagh, who’d been so much better informed than she was. She wondered how Brock would have moved forward.
As if thinking the same thing, their action manager, Phil, who hadn’t been told that Brock wasn’t really in Scotland, said, ‘When’s the chief getting back, anyway? Should be here I reckon.’
‘We need much better profiles of all the main characters,’ Kathy said forcefully. ‘Bren, get on to your friends in Fraud and Financial Investigations, see if they’ve done work on any of them-the Russians, Shaka, Freddie Clarke, Hadden-Vane. The money has got to be a big part of this.’
She was late getting to the Red Lion, telling herself that she was stupid to come at all and should have phoned to cancel. John was standing by the bar, looking subdued. He glanced up and his face brightened as he caught sight of her, and she felt a little better. He showed her to a small table in the corner.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Just mineral water, thanks. I’ve got some driving to do.’
She watched him blink away disappointment and say, ‘Certainly. Ice? Lemon?’
‘Please.’
‘You didn’t mean a sandwich here literally, did you?’
‘Yes, I did. Sorry, I’m short of time.’
‘Of course.’ He looked chastened and hurried away.
He returned with her water and a pint of beer for himself. ‘Sorry, no sandwiches.’
‘Oh.’ She shrugged.
‘Look, you’ve got to eat. Can’t I buy you a decent, quick dinner?’
‘Another time.’ She took a sip of water and sat back against the wall with a sigh, thankful to be off her feet. ‘So, how was your day?’
‘Not as exciting as yours, I dare say. I went to the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. Big crowds, but I enjoyed it.’
‘Good.’ Kathy looked around the room, checking. On reflection it wasn’t a good idea meeting there, so close to Queen Anne’s Gate. ‘What did you want to tell me?’
‘Did you ring that Montreal number I gave you?’
‘Sorry, didn’t have time.’
‘Oh.’ He frowned down at his beer. ‘This was a mistake, wasn’t it? I’m imposing on you when you’re so busy.’
She looked over and felt a little sorry for him, aware of the brusqueness in her manner. ‘Why don’t you tell me about Chelsea Mansions? Is it a dump?’
‘Well, it isn’t the Savoy, that’s for sure. I’ve no idea how it stays solvent with so few guests. But I like the people, Toby, Deb and the others. They’re real characters and would do anything for you. They met in Saudi during the first Gulf War, he was in the army and she in the Foreign Office.’
‘Yes, they told me.’
‘And did they tell you that’s where he lost his son?’
‘No.’
‘Toby doesn’t talk about it, but Deb told me today. Apparently he was with special forces. He disappeared somewhere out in the Iraqi desert. What made it especially tragic was that Toby was on the team at headquarters that planned the operation. He was keen for his son to go, to have a chance to see action.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes. Deb thinks that’s why he gave me a room. I’m the same age as his son was apparently, twenty-eight, and Deb says I look a bit like him.’
‘He has to like you to give you a room at his hotel?’
‘Absolutely!’ John laughed. ‘And what he charges depends on how much he likes you. My room’s ridiculously cheap. That’s what I mean about wondering how they stay in business. And that’s why he feels so guilty about Nancy Haynes. He thinks that if he’d turned her down and she’d gone somewhere else she might still be alive. But according to Deb she wrote him this really charming letter about how she didn’t want to stay anywhere else in London, and he said okay.’
‘Do you know why she wanted to stay there?’
‘Good location for the Chelsea Flower Show, I imagine. So tell me, how did you come to be a detective?’
‘Oh…’ She didn’t feel like going into it, but made an effort. ‘One day I was having a cup of coffee in a cafe. Across the street was a police station. I watched the people come and go through the doors-uniformed men, shirt-sleeved for the summer, chatting in pairs as they returned from their beat; people in civilian clothes looking like any other office workers, running down the steps to catch their buses; and, most of all, the uniformed women. I watched the way they moved through the evening crowds, and the way they spoke to each other. When I finished my coffee I crossed the street, followed three women constables up the steps, and asked the desk sergeant for information on joining up.’
‘Just like that? No regrets?’
‘No. I felt like I’d come home.’
He gave a puzzled smile. ‘I guess I’d have to know the back story to understand that.’
But Kathy didn’t want to say any more about herself. ‘You’d make a pretty good detective. You seem to be good at getting information.’
‘Oh, don’t say that. My mother would kill me. She told me I could be anything I wanted, except a cop.’
‘How come?’
‘She was married to one once-my dad.’
‘Ah.’
‘Yeah. So I became an academic, but still, I’ve always been curious about the police. I guess it must be the sense of comradeship that made you feel at home, the people you work closely with.’
She laughed. ‘Not all of them.’
‘No, but, well there’s that guy you were on TV with. Brock? Was that his name?’
‘Yes, I’ve been on his team for a long time now. He’s the best.’
‘Right. You must get pretty close, emotionally.’
She stared at him, eyebrows going up, and he blushed. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.’
‘Yes you did. Brock and I are colleagues.’
‘Right, right.’
‘So what would your Lieutenant Ledoux have told me if I’d got around to ringing him?’
‘Ah, well, I’ve done some work for him.’
‘What, tutoring his kids, fixing his car?’
‘No, no. Police work.’
Kathy gave him a sceptical look and he hurried on. ‘My academic field is linguistics, studying texts, mainly from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. One of things I’ve specialised in is establishing authorship of unattributed fragments of writing. A couple of years ago they did an article about it in the Montreal Gazette and Paul Ledoux contacted me. He was working on a suicide that he suspected might be a murder, and wondered if I could tell if the suicide note left on the guy’s computer was genuine. Looking at other things he’d done, I decided he hadn’t written this, and appeared as an expert witness in court. It turned out I was right. Since then I’ve given advice in over a dozen cases in Canada.’
‘Forensic linguistics,’ Kathy said.
‘Right. There aren’t many of us about. The thing is, I heard about the Russian’s letter to The Times this morning, and it occurred to me that you might need to authenticate it.’
‘We’ve done that.’
‘Oh.’ His face dropped.
‘The notepaper, the signature appear to be genuine. It was typed on his computer.’
‘That’s not what I look at. People can steal a piece of notepaper and copy a signature, but they can’t impersonate another person’s form of words, not perfectly. That’s what I study: the text, its construction, vocabulary, use of idiom and so on.’
‘Yes, I understand tha
t, but-’
‘It just seemed to me a good idea-no, vital, that you check that too. After all, if Moszynski didn’t write that letter it changes everything, doesn’t it?’
Kathy considered his bright, intelligent eyes. There was something quite disarming about his enthusiasm, like an eager border collie that knows exactly what needs to be done. She could have used a few more border collies on the job today. ‘It certainly does.’
‘And you don’t really think the FSB is behind this, do you?’
‘Don’t I? Why do you say that?’
‘Because Brock’s in Scotland, isn’t he?’
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘On your phone in the hotel. Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing. You were talking about someone being in Scotland. It’s Brock, isn’t it, following up a completely different line of investigation? I had exactly the same idea myself.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. Emerson told me about Nancy’s plans to contact long-lost relatives up there, and I wondered if there might be something in her past that led to her death. I guess it’s my work that makes me think like that. I need to place the texts I deal with in the context of their past, because everything about them-language, ideas, themes-is shaped by that. You have to understand the past in order to interpret the present, like why you became a cop and I didn’t. So anyway, what do you think? Will Brock agree?’
‘Agree to what?’
‘To me taking a look at Moszynski’s letter. Or maybe he doesn’t have to, if he’s away in Scotland. You could commission me. I’m not expensive.’
Kathy laughed.
‘And it would look good on my CV. What we would need is similar samples-ideally other letters to newspapers. Do you know if he was in the habit of writing to the papers?’
A good question. ‘We can find out.’
She felt weary by the time she got to Brock’s place. Apprehensive, too-she had never seen Brock ill before, and it had been like a sudden revelation of his mortality. It had shaken her more than she’d realised, and as she raised the key to his front door she hesitated, remembering that first glimpse of him in bed the day before, and wondering how she would react if she went in and really did find him dead. Part of her would die too, she was sure of that.
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