Chelsea Mansions bak-11

by Barry Maitland

‘I just wish we could tell Brock,’ Bren said. ‘This would have him back on his feet in no time.’

  By the time she got to the hospital that evening Kathy was filled with a quiet sense of elation. For too long they had lived with the memory of Hadden-Vane’s plot-his ‘Spider trap’ as Brock had called it-to destroy a rival MP and in the process discredit Brock and his team. Now they were surely very close to getting the evidence that would finally expose him. She hurried into the hospital lift, imagining the look on Brock’s face when she told him.

  Suzanne was standing by the window looking into his cubicle, and when she turned around, Kathy was stopped short by the look of desolation on her face.

  ‘Suzanne?’

  ‘Oh, Kathy.’ Tears flooded down her cheeks.

  ‘What’s happened!’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘They’ve just taken his body away.’

  Kathy felt dizzy, hardly able to take in what Suzanne was saying.

  ‘So sudden… I was with his mother…’

  Kathy sucked in air, trying to hold herself together. ‘His mother?’ Brock had never spoken of his mother.

  ‘Such a lovely woman. Devastated, of course. I had to ring for her husband to come. I had to tell him, Kathy. I had to tell him that Danny was dead.’

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My God, I thought… I thought you meant Brock.’

  ‘No, there’s no change. But Kathy, you know what this means. They’re all going to die. All three of them.’ She began shaking with uncontrollable sobs.

  ‘No.’ Kathy wrapped her arms around the other woman and held her tight. ‘No, it surely doesn’t mean that. Have the doctors said so?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to them, but…’

  ‘l’ll do it.’ She made Suzanne sit down and told her to wait while she went along the corridor to the nurses’ station, where she found one of the specialists.

  There was no way of knowing, he said. Danny had had a sudden relapse, but Peter Namono was still stable, and so was Brock. They were doing everything they could. A new antiviral drug was being flown over from America. They could only wait and hope.

  Suzanne was calmer when Kathy returned and passed on what she’d been told. Suzanne gave a weary sigh and wiped a hand across her eye. ‘I’m sorry, Kathy. I keep thinking the worst.’

  ‘When did you last have a decent meal? Not since last week, I’ll bet. Come on, nothing’s going to happen tonight. If he could he’d be telling us to get out of here and have a proper feed. I saw an Italian place down the road. How about it?’

  Suzanne sniffed and began to form a refusal, then relented.

  After the first glass of Chianti she gave a reluctant smile and said, ‘Thanks, Kathy. I did need to get away from that place. If he ever gets out of there I’ll kill him for putting us through this.’

  Kathy nodded.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the work you do, the pair of you,’ Suzanne went on. ‘And I’ve thought about how alike you two are. That’s why you get on so well, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re alike at all.’

  ‘Oh yes you are. Both stubborn, like terriers when you get your teeth into something. Very loyal, but not always to the right priorities.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You both suffer from the same problem, what I used to call Brock’s Paradox, the belief that you can only keep a relationship alive by not allowing it to reach its full potential.’

  Kathy sat back, feeling as if she’d been unexpectedly slapped.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Suzanne said. ‘I’ve upset you. Please, forget it. I’ve had so much on my mind and I-’

  ‘Do you really think that’s true?’

  ‘About him, yes. Maybe not about you. Maybe you’ve just been unlucky with your men. What happened to the one who went to the Middle East?’

  ‘He’s moved on to Shanghai.’

  ‘Oh, that is rather inconvenient.’ She took another sip of her wine and then said, ‘That Canadian you’re working with obviously thinks the world of you.’

  ‘What? John Greenslade? You’ve met him?’

  ‘Yes. He came to the hospital a few days ago, Friday I think, with a beautiful bunch of spring flowers. He said he’d never met Brock, but just wanted to pay his respects. And then we had quite a conversation about you and the work he’s helping you with. Quite star-struck, he was.’

  Kathy felt a blush creeping up her neck, and was saved from replying by the arrival of their vitello tonnato, the speciality of the house.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘L isten, I’m goin’ fuckin’ mad. Everybody wants me. I’m gettin’ out of here.’

  Kathy listened to her ranting down the phone, about being cooped up in quarantine with her mother-in-law, about the press hounding her, about the stupid rumours they were printing, then said, conciliatory, ‘It must be terrible for you, Shaka, and I wouldn’t bother you again if I could avoid it. Are you at home in Chelsea now?’

  ‘No way. I’m goin’ crazy in that house. I’m at Derek’s office. The little shit’s home in his bed, thinks he’s sick now, so I’m hidin’ out in his office.’

  ‘I’ll come and see you there.’

  ‘I told you, I’m leavin’. Today.’

  ‘Just stay there. I’ll be with you in a few minutes. I won’t take up much of your time.’

  The agent’s office was in Golden Square in Soho. In the taxi over there Kathy thought about the plight of Shaka, one of the most beautiful and admired women in the country who was being driven mad by the constant gaze of rapt attention. It was another paradox for Suzanne, she thought. They had parted the previous night on good terms, happy to have renewed their friendship, promising to keep in touch, and there had been a text message from her that morning, thanking Kathy for the meal.

  Shaka answered Kathy’s ring on the office door on the third floor. Several expensive-looking suitcases were standing inside.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Little Ruby Cay. The driver will be here soon to collect me, so you’d better make it quick.’

  ‘All right. When I spoke to you on the night of Mikhail’s murder, you described Freddie Clarke and Nigel Hadden-Vane, who were there in the house, as parasites.’

  Shaka shrugged. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Did you tell Mikhail how you felt about them? How you didn’t trust them?’

  ‘They were useful. He used them.’

  ‘I know how he met Freddie, in Luxembourg, but how about Hadden-Vane?’

  ‘Nigel got his claws into Mikhail as soon as he arrived, gettin’ him invitations to the right places, introducing him to the right people. Mikhail needed that. Hell, he even arranged for us to meet. Mikhail saw a picture of me and said something to Nigel, and the next thing we were being introduced at a party. He was like Mikhail’s pimp.’

  ‘He got girls for Mikhail?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it literally. It was just the way he acted, like a creepy pimp, buttering Mikhail up, arranging favours. I hated the way he flattered Mikhail all the time.’

  ‘And you told Mikhail that.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And Nigel knew how you felt?’

  ‘I didn’t try to hide it.’

  ‘That would have made Nigel feel pretty insecure, wouldn’t it?’

  Shaka’s mobile began playing a tune and she turned away to answer it with a few curt words, then said, ‘The driver’s here in two minutes.’

  ‘How does Nigel get on with the rest of Mikhail’s family?’

  ‘All right I suppose, all except his mother. He can’t stand Marta.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’s a poisonous old witch. “Nigel,”’ she whined, ‘“You get me to meet Queen Elizabeth. Nigel, you get citizenship for Uncle Boris.” She’s a fuckin’ pain. Nobody can stand her. Even Mikhail had had enough.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

&nb
sp; ‘Oh, they had a blazin’ row.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Not long before Mikhail died. I was away on a shoot. It must have been the Tuesday or Wednesday of that week. He was very upset that evenin’ when I got back. The old bitch had been givin’ him a hard time about something, he wouldn’t say what.’

  The buzzer on the office door sounded.

  ‘Okay,’ Shaka said. ‘Gotta go.’

  ‘Have a nice break.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. It was our favourite place, Mikhail and me. We were happy there. No paparazzi, no Marta.’

  ‘How about the parasites? Did they go?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about leaving now, Shaka? Aren’t you afraid they may try to rip you off while you’re away?’

  Shaka gazed at Kathy for a moment, face expressionless, then said, ‘Vadim will keep them in line.’

  Despite Shaka’s vivid impersonation of Marta’s spoken English, the old woman refused to speak to Kathy except in Russian, and an interpreter was called in.

  Kathy began with a few words of condolence and a compliment on the dignity of the funeral service, but Marta, draped in a black shawl and wearing a large silver cross around her neck, listened to the translation with all the animation of a rock. A very tough old lady, Kathy thought, watching her. She’d been a teenager through the siege of Leningrad, of course, and had probably seen enough by the time she turned sixteen to harden the softest heart. She had married Gennady in 1950, when she was twenty-two and he forty-seven and already an important figure in Leningrad politics. Kathy wondered what had drawn the pair together. Was Marta once beautiful? Had she captivated the older man with her sparkling eyes and flashing smile? It was impossible to imagine now.

  She had been hardened by tragedy, she said, in a growling Russian that sounded as if she were reciting some ancient saga, but nothing could prepare her for the loss of her son. He was a lion, a genius, a saint. Her only consolation was that he had left her a granddaughter and a great-grandson.

  Kathy asked if she had any idea who might be responsible for her son’s death.

  Criminals, she said. English criminals. They were everywhere in the streets. You had only to look at television to know this.

  ‘Could there have been anyone close to Mikhail who might want him dead?’ Kathy asked.

  Impossible. To know Mikhail was to love him, as a brother, as a father, as a son.

  Kathy persisted. Did she trust Mikhail’s friends? Freddie Clarke and Nigel Hadden-Vane, for instance?

  Freddie was a genius and Sir Nigel a true English gentleman. They loved Mikhail and he loved them.

  After a quarter of an hour of this, Kathy gave up. She thanked Marta, took the interpreter to the door and asked to see Ellen Fitzwilliam again.

  Mikhail’s secretary was feeding a paper shredder when Kathy was shown into the office at the far end of the building.

  ‘Getting rid of the evidence?’ Kathy said.

  The woman looked at her in consternation, but then Kathy smiled. ‘Just joking. How are things going?’

  ‘I’m just trying to tidy things up while Freddie-that’s Mr Clarke, Mr Moszynski’s accountant-while Mr Clarke sorts out what’s to be done.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Freddie. I got the impression that Mr Moszynski’s business affairs were complicated.’

  ‘Freddie deals with all the financial matters. I mainly concentrate on social and charitable affairs, and his travel arrangements.’

  ‘I believe that one of our consultants, Mr Greenslade, was in touch with you.’

  ‘Oh yes. I hope I was able to help.’

  ‘Certainly. He wondered if you had any more letters written by Mr Moszynski, for comparison.’

  ‘I think he had copies of all the ones to newspapers…’

  ‘Anything similar would do, provided it was composed entirely by himself.’

  The secretary frowned. ‘Then you do suspect that he didn’t write the one to The Times?’

  ‘Perhaps Mr Greenslade didn’t explain,’ Kathy said. ‘Both the coroner’s and the criminal courts are very particular about the integrity of evidence, and we have to be meticulous.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m sure I can find something.’

  As she began to scan through her computer, Kathy said, ‘Has Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane been keeping in touch since Mr Moszynski died?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him here lately, but he was at the funeral.’

  ‘They had some disagreements recently, didn’t they?’

  Ellen looked surprised. ‘I was never aware of this.’

  ‘Wasn’t Mrs Marta Moszynski giving Sir Nigel a hard time?’

  ‘Oh…’ Ellen chuckled. ‘You’ve heard about that. Yes, she can be, well, difficult. I heard her… No, I shouldn’t gossip.’

  ‘Ellen, this is a murder inquiry. You have to help me understand the dynamics here so that I don’t go off on the wrong track.’

  ‘Of course. It’s just that Marta can be quite imperious. She sometimes speaks to people as if they’re her servants.’

  ‘Especially Sir Nigel.’

  ‘Yes, he does seem to cop it. I was shocked sometimes.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  Ellen dropped her voice. ‘Once I overheard him objecting to something she’d asked him to do for them, I don’t know what, and she said that if she told him to lick her…’

  Kathy watched Ellen’s face go bright pink. ‘Yes?’

  ‘… her fat Russian arse, then he’d bloody well do it. Those were her words, Inspector, not mine.’

  Kathy laughed, and Ellen joined in, with a look of relief.

  ‘Marta’s got a pretty good command of English when she needs it,’ Kathy said.

  ‘Oh yes. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of her tongue.’

  ‘And she could be hard on Mikhail too, couldn’t she? That Monday before he was killed, I believe they had a big row.’

  ‘Really? Monday… No, I don’t remember that. But later that week, it must have been the Friday, the day after the American lady was killed, I know he was very upset about that, and she made some remark to him that made him angry.’

  ‘What sort of remark?’

  ‘Oh, she came in here to get the newspaper, and it was open to the report of the woman’s death-Mikhail had been reading it-and she made a rude comment about Americans, and he got angry with her.’

  Kathy waited while the secretary printed off half a dozen more letters that Mikhail had composed, then thanked her and left.

  It was raining when she stepped out into Cunningham Place, and she hesitated for a moment, pulling the collar of her coat up, before running to the end of the block and up the steps of the hotel. Deb, leaning on the counter reading the morning paper, gave her a broad smile.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. How are we today? A bit damp?’

  ‘A bit. I just want to drop off some papers for John.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve missed him. He went out for lunch twenty minutes ago to his new favourite pub, the Anglesea in Onslow Gardens. Know it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They do a very nice pie and chips, John tells me. Very partial to his pie and chips is our John. Why don’t you go and join him?’

  Kathy checked her watch. ‘I might look in there on my way back. Thanks, Deb. See you.’

  She managed to find a park around the corner from the pub and found John seated at a corner table in the crowded bar, reading a copy of the Spectator.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, and saw his look of surprise change to a bright smile. ‘I’ve got some more letters for you.’

  ‘Oh, great. Sit down.’

  ‘Better not stop.’

  ‘Have you had lunch? Come on, have a sandwich or something now you’re here. The pies are sensational.’

  She shrugged off her coat. ‘Ten minutes then.’

  He hurried over to the counter and returned with a glass of mineral water for her. ‘Pies are on the way. How did you find me?�
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  ‘Deb told me this was your favourite pub now.’

  ‘Yes, Garry the concierge told me to try it.’

  ‘So he can speak.’

  ‘Occasionally. I think both he and Jacko are invalided ex-soldiers that Toby took under his wing. Anyway, he said this was the place, and I’ve seen the security guards from the Russians’ house in here too.’

  Kathy showed him the letters. ‘I got these from Ellen Fitzwilliam.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, putting on his glasses. ‘Yes, these should be okay.’

  ‘I was wondering, John. If you were right that Moszynski didn’t write that letter, would it be possible to find out who did by analysing other people’s letters?’

  ‘In theory, yes, it might be possible. Why, do you have a suspect?’

  Kathy shook her head. ‘I was meaning more for the purposes of elimination.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s cop speak. You forget, I’ve worked with cops before. When they don’t want to tell you what they’re thinking they start to talk cop speak, right?’

  She smiled but didn’t say anything. John got up in response to a call from the bar and returned with their pies.

  ‘So you have got a suspect,’ he said.

  ‘What I’ve got is at least three people who were close to Moszynski and who were in his house at the time the letter was written. So I would like to rule them out as suspects.’

  ‘That’s fascinating. This would make an interesting academic paper.’

  ‘Except that you can’t write it. You signed a confidentiality agreement, remember?’

  ‘Okay, what can you tell me about them?’

  ‘They were involved with Moszynski on a day-to-day basis.’

  ‘First language English?’

  ‘For two of them. The other is Russian.’

  ‘Male, female?’

  ‘All male.’

  ‘Not Shaka then. So we’ve got Vadim Kuzmin, Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane and one other, right?’

  Kathy looked at him with surprise. ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘It’s our favourite topic of conversation at Chelsea Mansions, and I noticed them both at Moszynski’s funeral. And then there’s this…’ He opened the magazine he was reading and showed her a reference to Hadden-Vane’s appearance before the Parliamentary Committee on Standards and Privileges to answer accusations that he had used influence to secure Alisa Kuzmin’s British citizenship in return for hidden payments. ‘So who’s the third?’