Kathy began to argue but he shook his head abruptly and got to his feet. ‘No, sorry. Many of us are concerned about the indiscriminate taking and retaining of DNA by the police from innocent people, Inspector. I’ll pass on that one. Now you must excuse me.’ He held the door open for her. ‘You can remember the way out?’
As she made her way across Parliament Square towards Queen Anne’s Gate, Kathy pondered on the statues of famous men that she passed: Churchill, Lincoln, Mandela. She paused for a moment at the figure of Robert Peel, who had established the modern police force. All these men were remembered because they had successfully weathered crises of one kind or another, survived trials by fire. In comparison, nailing Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane was pretty small beer, only it didn’t feel like that. She knew that a lot of people would be watching her closely once she declared her hand, some of them hoping she would make a mess of it, just as Tom Reeves had done. Taking on Hadden-Vane had cost him just about everything. She allowed herself a moment of weakness, to wish that Brock were there, then took a deep breath and made a phone call. When it was done she changed course towards Victoria Street and the headquarters building of New Scotland Yard.
On the sixth floor she made her way to room 632, where Commander Sharpe’s secretary showed her straight into his office. He looked up from the report he was reading.
‘Ah, Kolla. Take a seat.’
That was the phrase Hadden-Vane had used, and she had a sudden chilling thought that all these important men were alike and would protect each other.
‘Urgent, you said?’
‘Yes, sir. I need to advise you of a development in the Moszynski murder case.’
‘Good, good.’
‘You may not think so, sir.’
He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Let’s have it then.’
So she did, and watched the eyebrows on his stern beaky face drop from surprise to foreboding as she described what had been discovered about Hadden-Vane.
‘That man again,’ he growled at last. ‘But murder! You really think he’d go that far?’
‘It depends on how desperate he was. At the moment we don’t understand the motive. It may have been financial, and that might be hard to uncover without the cooperation of Moszynski’s accountant, who seems to be rather secretive.’
‘So what can we do?’
‘It would be helpful if we could establish whether his DNA or fingerprints were present in the Hackney house where Harry Peebles was staying. Unfortunately he has refused to volunteer samples. So I’d like to arrest him on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Mikhail Moszynski, so that we can insist on him providing them.’
‘You can’t just go around arresting people so as to get their DNA.’
‘I think we have reasonable grounds for suspicion, sir.’
‘It’s all circumstantial, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but from several independent circumstances.’
Sharpe hesitated, unhappiness all over his face. ‘Leave it with me, Inspector. I’ll consult a few people and let you know my decision.’
Kathy bought a sandwich on the way back to her office and ate it while she dealt with some of the paperwork that had been building up.
After a couple of hours Sharpe got back to her.
‘You won’t get a decision until tomorrow, Inspector. In the meantime you might think about some other way of getting your evidence.’
She talked it over with Bren and they decided that they would approach the Economic and Specialist Crime Command to request an investigation into Moszynski’s financial affairs. The superintendent Kathy spoke to didn’t sound surprised by the request and said he’d put a fraud team together, but warned that an investigation might take considerable time.
Rain was splattering against the darkened windows and Kathy could hear the sounds of people leaving for the night when her phone rang. It was Suzanne, sounding both anxious and excited.
‘There’s been some change, Kathy. It seems that the fever has eased. I’m waiting to see the doctor to find out what happens next.’
‘I’ll come straight over.’
The cab made slow progress through the choked streets up to St Giles’ Circus. Beyond, traffic in Tottenham Court Road was hardly moving. Finally, itching with frustration, Kathy paid the driver and set off on foot. She was wet and panting from the exertion when she finally ran into the hospital and made her way to the isolation wards, where Suzanne was still waiting for the doctor.
The doctor looked sombre and preoccupied when she finally came to see them. ‘The fever has subsided and his temperature is almost normal. He has regained consciousness and is breathing normally. Having survived thus far, we would expect recovery to be prompt and complete, but there is still the risk of further inflammation or secondary infections. We also have to carry out more tests to see if there’s been any permanent damage to his organs, particularly his liver and eyes. We shall be monitoring this very closely. He is no longer infectious, and you can go in to see him, but please remember that he’s lost a lot of weight and is very weak.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Suzanne said, and then, as they made their way to the door of Brock’s room, she turned to Kathy and whispered, ‘His eyes?’
They blinked open, pink-rimmed and bleary, when Suzanne touched his hand.
‘Hello,’ he croaked, and Suzanne, overcome, burst into tears. ‘They tell me I’ve been ill.’
‘Of course you’ve been ill. You’ve worried us to death this past week.’
‘A week?’ He gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘Can’t remember.’
Looking at the hollow temples and sunken cheeks, the skin as white as his hair and beard, Kathy thought of King Lear.
‘How are you, Kathy?’
‘Good.’ She pulled up a seat.
‘Things are going well?’
‘Absolutely. Everything’s just fine.’
The dark eyes regarded her for a moment, then he said, ‘You must tell me everything that’s been happening.’
‘But not until you’ve got your strength back,’ Suzanne broke in.
He smiled at her and said, ‘How was Cornwall?’
After ten minutes his eyes closed and a nurse came and asked them to leave.
Outside in the waiting room a dozen people sat in various stages of agitation or resignation, some staring up at a TV monitor mounted on the wall. Suzanne began to ask what Kathy’s impression had been when she stopped suddenly and pointed up at the screen.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that you?’
Kathy turned and saw a clip from the press conference they’d given the previous week, the camera focusing in close on her face. The sound was inaudible, but a ribbon of text scrolling across the bottom of the screen read: police accused of incompetence and ‘campaign of vilification’. mp admits using prostitutes. The picture had switched to Hadden-Vane, looking angry, then again to an image of a reporter beneath a dripping umbrella, talking to camera in front of the Houses of Parliament.
‘I’d better find out what this is all about, Suzanne,’ Kathy said, feeling a small hard lump of anxiety forming in her chest. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’
TWENTY-FOUR
T he traffic on Tottenham Court Road had eased a little, but it took an age, standing in the rain, before a taxi responded to her signals.
When she got back to Queen Anne’s Gate the place seemed so calm and normal, the duty officer giving her a cheerful wave, that she could almost have believed that nothing had happened. Then she opened the BBC online news on her computer. She clicked on Breaking news, and a studio newscaster began speaking.
‘In a remarkable interview at his home late this afternoon, controversial London MP Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane admitted that he has been making use of the services of prostitutes for several years.’
The image changed to one of Hadden-Vane, standing in a traditionally furnished living room, a sporting print of racehorses just visible on the wall behind him. A dignified-looking
woman was at his side, sitting in a wheelchair.
‘Three years ago my wife was seriously injured in a motor vehicle accident,’ Hadden-Vane declared, his voice resonant and sombre. ‘It was touch-and-go whether she would survive, and though she did, she is now a paraplegic. Inevitably our lives required substantial adjustment, and one of the things that became impossible for us was to share our devotion to each other in a fully physical way. Accordingly, my wife suggested that I should fulfil my physical needs through the services of professional service providers.’
A voice off-camera said, ‘Prostitutes? Is this true, Lady Hadden-Vane?’
‘It is,’ she said, her words clipped and precise. ‘We had a problem, and we faced it in an open, practical way. Nigel has been going to the same agency now for over two years. I have met the principal of the company and several of her employees, and they remind me of the women who run the hairdressing salon I use-competent, enthusiastic and highly professional. There are many couples who must face the same dilemma that we faced, and I hope that by explaining this we can encourage them to discuss it without shame or reservation. The important thing is to be open and honest with each other.’
‘Is that why you are going public with this, Sir Nigel?’
‘No, it is not. We regard this as a private matter between ourselves, and we would have preferred to keep it that way. However, I have learned that, during the course of their investigation into the murder of Mikhail Moszynski, the police came upon this information and intended to use it to implicate me in his death. I therefore decided to go public before they had that opportunity.’
‘Were you involved in Mr Moszynski’s murder?’
‘Of course not. He was a good friend of mine and a good friend to Britain, too.’
‘Then why would the police want to implicate you?’
‘Because the investigation by the Metropolitan Police Service has been badly mishandled. The team conducting the hunt for Mr Moszynski’s killers is inexperienced and has failed to make real progress, and is now flailing around looking for a scapegoat. As it happens, I have had dealings with them before, when I exposed another bungled criminal investigation. They are seeking their revenge. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were behind the scurrilous reports that have been circulating about supposedly irregular financial dealings between myself and Mr Moszynski.’
‘They did track down the man who is believed to have murdered Mr Moszynski and the American tourist Nancy Haynes though, didn’t they?’
‘He was a hired killer. The important thing is to establish who hired him.’
‘And do you have a theory about that?’
‘It seems perfectly obvious to me and to everybody else apart from the police that the murder was commissioned by a dissident group within the Russian security services, just as Mr Moszynski hinted in his letter to The Times. These people are experts in murder and espionage. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have planted evidence to implicate me.’
‘And why would they want Mr Moszynski dead?’
‘To get hold of his fortune, to intimidate other Russian expats in the UK, and to damage relations between the Russian and British governments.’
‘Did Mikhail Moszynski pay for your prostitutes, Sir Nigel?’
‘Certainly not.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘I have the receipts, VAT included.’
‘Thank you, Sir Nigel and Lady Hadden-Vane.’
Kathy was conscious of phones ringing. One of them was her mobile. She checked the caller ID-it was Bren-and put it to her ear.
‘Kathy! Have you heard?’
‘About Hadden-Vane? I’ve just been watching it.’
‘What do you think?’
The truth was that she wasn’t thinking very clearly at all.
‘The bastard,’ Bren was saying.
‘He was tipped off,’ Kathy said.
‘Must have been. Where are you?’
‘Queen Anne’s Gate… Listen, Bren, I spoke to Brock.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, he’s conscious. He’s very weak, but he sounded okay.’
‘That’s great news.’ Bren sounded hesitant, as if he wasn’t quite following her train of thought. ‘Maybe I should come in.’
‘Well, I imagine shit and fan are coming together as we speak. I’d better ring off.’
What she wanted to do was watch the film clip again, but the phone on her desk was ringing insistently.
‘Ah, Kolla, at last.’ Sharpe sounded breathless. ‘You’re at Queen Anne’s Gate?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are the press there?’
‘Hang on a minute, sir…’ She went over to the window and looked down into the street. It was deserted. ‘No, sir.’
‘Good. They’re besieging New Scotland Yard. I’m on my way in. We’ll come to you.’
She didn’t have a chance to ask who ‘we’ were.
She checked her phone messages. Her friend Nicole was asking her to ring, and the caretaker of her block of flats in Finchley was letting her know that there were reporters outside, wanting to interview her.
Kathy opened up the BBC website again.
After half an hour there was a tap on her door and Superintendent Dick Chivers walked in. Another member of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command under Sharpe, ‘Cheery’ Chivers was looking even more gloomy than usual. ‘Kathy,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Bad business.’
‘Hello, sir.’
In answer to the unspoken question on Kathy’s face, Chivers said, ‘Commander Sharpe told me to meet him here.’ He unfastened his raincoat and gave it a shake. ‘Still pissing down.’ He took a seat at one of the consoles and looked around. ‘You’ve had a technical upgrade. Any word on Brock?’
Kathy told him and a smile passed briefly across his face. ‘Excellent, excellent.’
She stood there for a moment, then said, ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘Good idea,’ he said dolefully. ‘We’ll need plenty before the night’s out, I dare say.’
After an awkward interval in which Kathy completed typing her observations on Hadden-Vane’s performance, a call came from the front desk to say that Commander Sharpe had arrived and would meet them in the main conference room. Bren had also arrived, and was waiting in the front lobby when they went down. Together they made their way to the meeting room.
Sharpe was in his uniform, his hat and gloves on the table in front of him, looking as if he were ready to confront a riot or a press ambush. Marilyn from the Press Bureau was sitting at his side, typing furiously into a laptop.
‘I’ve had words with the Assistant Commissioner on the way in,’ Sharpe said. ‘He agrees that we have little option. There will be a change of personnel. Superintendent Chivers will assume command of the investigations into the deaths of Haynes and Moszynski and all related inquiries. You’ll make this your number-one priority, Dick. We need rapid progress.
‘DI Gurney, you and your people will brief the new team and then be allocated to other commands.’
Bren looked stunned. ‘Other commands, sir?’
‘Yes. We’ll work out where later. There’s no shortage of opportunities.’
‘As a short-term measure?’ Bren asked.
Sharpe gave him a barbed look of impatience. ‘Permanently, Inspector. The unit is no longer viable.’ He hurried on, ‘DI Kolla, you have twenty-three days of accrued leave entitlement. You will take this beginning noon tomorrow, after you’ve finished briefing Dick’s team. I would strongly recommend, for your own convenience and ours, that you spend that time outside of London. In particular-and this is an order-I don’t want you within a mile of Cunningham Place.’
Marilyn was eyeing Kathy over the top of her large glasses, watching her reaction.
Kathy felt detached, as if seeing all this from a distance.
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I have prepared a detailed rebuttal of Sir Nigel’s statements. I don’t believe we need to overreact to-’
‘ Overreact! ’ S
harpe exploded, then thrust out his jaw and said, ‘Give your paper to Superintendent Chivers, Inspector. What I said stands.’ He took a breath, then continued, ‘We will announce a press conference at nine tomorrow morning, at which I shall make a statement. Marilyn?’
She handed out sheets, and they read. The MPS views with grave concern the claims made by Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane on BBC television last night. We deny absolutely any attempt to embarrass or incriminate him. As in any murder inquiry, those people closely associated with the victim or present at the scene have been investigated in a vigorous but scrupulous manner by our officers, who have acted throughout with diligence and fairness. Our investigation has been hampered by elements of secrecy surrounding some of Mr Moszynski’s affairs, but the investigating team has made significant progress, including establishing the identity of the murderer. The team has also been hampered by the sudden critical illness of its leader, DCI Brock. As a result we have decided to appoint Superintendent Richard Chivers to overall command of the inquiry.
‘That’s all I propose to say to the press,’ Sharpe said.
‘They’ll ask about Kathy,’ Marilyn objected.
‘That’s all I shall say,’ Sharpe repeated, and got to his feet. ‘Now you and I should go to New Scotland Yard.’
With a rueful look at Kathy, Marilyn stood up and followed him.
‘Well,’ Chivers said finally, ‘sorry about that. Didn’t know he was going to kick you lot out.’ His eye roved around the room as if working out where to hang his framed commendation certificates. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going home to get some shut-eye. See you both here tomorrow, eh? Eight o’clock sharp.’
When he’d gone Bren said softly, ‘Bastard.’
Kathy blinked and sat up. ‘I feel sorry for him, stuck in the middle.’
‘No, Sharpe. He looked like he felt defiled just being here, like what he really wanted to do was raze the place to the ground and spread salt over the rubble. You were dead right, Kathy, they’re overreacting, badly.’
Kathy couldn’t frame a response to that.
Bren looked at her with concern and said, ‘Come back and stay at our place tonight, Kathy. After a good kip and one of Deanne’s hot breakfasts things will look brighter.’
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