Chelsea Mansions

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Oh. He was abusive to her, your father?’

  ‘No, no, not as I understand it. The danger came from some people he was dealing with, who wanted to get at him through my mother. She reached a point where she couldn’t stand it any more and just took off. He didn’t even know she was pregnant until her sister got in touch with him and told him. Her sister, my aunt, acted as an intermediary for a while, passing on messages and money he sent. But in the end my mother asked for a divorce and broke off all contact.’

  ‘Did she ever remarry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you’ve had no contact with him?’

  ‘My mother always said that my father had died before I was born, but when I turned twenty-one she finally told me the truth, that she had no idea whether he was alive or dead. I felt it didn’t matter. I mean, he’d had no more part in my life than an anonymous sperm donor. Now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘What a sad story. It reminds me a little of my boss, Brock. He lost his wife, from what I gather, in similar circumstances . . .’ The look on his face stopped her.

  She stared at him. ‘John?’

  He couldn’t meet her eyes, but gave a little nod.

  ‘Brock is your father?’ she whispered.

  ‘Mum told me his name and that he’d been a policeman in London. She said it was up to me. I felt I didn’t want it, this knowledge. For a long time I tried to ignore it. Then the conference in London came up. I tried to avoid that too, but they kept pestering me to give a paper . . .’ He shrugged helplessly.

  ‘That’s why I got a room at Chelsea Mansions, after I read about Nancy’s murder and how DCI Brock was in charge. I hoped I might get a look at him, get some impression of what he was like.’

  ‘And that night at the Two Chairmen,’ Kathy said, ‘and going to see him in hospital.’

  He nodded, looking miserable now. ‘I just didn’t know what to do, what I felt—how he would feel.’

  Kathy reached out a hand to his. ‘I don’t think you have to worry about that.’

  ‘Really?’ He looked doubtful. ‘And then there was something else. He didn’t come to the hotel, but you did. At first I wanted to find out from you what sort of man he was, but as I got to know you I found that I wanted to know you better . . . Which made things kind of complicated.’ He stopped, frowning down at the white tablecloth in front of him, and Kathy saw with some alarm that there was what looked like a tear forming in his eye.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He sucked in a deep breath and pulled his hand away to rub across his face. ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t like me, I promise.’

  ‘It must have been very emotional for you.’

  ‘Yes. I was sort of prepared for that. What I wasn’t prepared for was falling for his partner.’

  Kathy felt her face flush.

  ‘You’re an intimate part of his life, his professional life, and from what Mum said, that’s the most important part. I thought . . . I was damn sure that would kill any chance I might have had with you.’

  ‘Oh, John.’ Kathy gave him an encouraging smile, but at the same time she knew that he was right. He was certainly a different person from the one that she had felt drawn towards just a moment before. Now he was Brock’s son. How did she feel about that?

  He roused himself and reached for the bottle. ‘I should have told you before, but I got cold feet. It was what we discovered this afternoon that made me face it, I think. Like me, Nancy went to London to confront something from her past. If only she’d ignored it, stayed at home in Back Bay, she might still be alive and she and Emerson could have been the ones sharing this meal here tonight. And you and I would never have met.’ He topped up their glasses and sighed. ‘So what should I have done, Kathy? Should I have ignored it too, that presence from the past?’

  ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘that you probably felt you had no choice.’

  He gave a rueful nod.

  A thought struck Kathy. ‘I wonder if Nancy felt the same way. Do you remember the dates of the Russians’ visit to San Francisco?’

  ‘July 1939, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, the sixteenth to the thirtieth of July. And Nancy was born on the twenty-sixth of April in the following year.’ She was thinking of the photograph of Maisy and Gennady in front of the reflecting pool, a strikingly handsome couple, arm in arm, eyes bright.

  ‘Nine months,’ John said. ‘Wow, you could be right. An American romance.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  She blinked her eyes, hearing the dawn chorus clamouring through the curtained window. Then the previous evening came back to her, and John’s revelation. His confusion had touched her, and she’d wanted to comfort him, but had held back, afraid that he would misinterpret her sympathy. She took a deep breath and sat up, wanting to be outside, running through the cool streets with the birds singing their little lungs out.

  She slid out of bed and pulled on her running gear. Not too far, she thought, just down Beacon to the Common.

  As she ran she replayed their conversation of the previous night, and then her thoughts turned to that other possible revelation, about Maisy and Gennady. It was such a tantalising thought, which would explain so well why Nancy would have wanted to make contact with Mikhail, her half-brother. Perhaps too tantalising, but easy enough to check, she thought. The path lab would have both their DNA. And if it were true, what did that mean? Why did they have to die?

  She swerved around a couple of joggers coming in the other direction, and circled the Brewer Fountain to begin the run back.

  Peter caught her in the entrance hall. ‘You are a popular girl, aren’t you?’ He nodded his head towards the dining room. ‘Another early morning visitor demanding breakfast. I’ll have to reserve a special table for your men friends.’

  Her heart skipped. Was Brock clairvoyant? She could believe it. ‘What sort of man?’

  ‘Oh, a rather sinister type if you ask me. Irish—from the north, I’d say. Ulster, Belfast, that sort of thing.’

  She swore under her breath. No, it couldn’t be.

  ‘Tell me it isn’t your angry husband, Kathy. I can’t face bloodshed at breakfast time.’

  ‘I don’t have one, Peter.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that. He saw you coming up the front steps, so you’d better go and say hello.’

  She opened the door and saw the lone diner by the window. He looked up and waved his fork at her. ‘Have you tried these chocolate waffles? Bloody brilliant.’

  ‘Hello, Sean.’ Kathy went over and sat down facing the MI5 man. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘You do, Kathy. You’ve been naughty.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘An American citizen has complained to the authorities about being interrogated on American soil by a British police officer.’

  Janice, Kathy thought. ‘Bit of an exaggeration. Hardly an interrogation. Just a chat.’

  ‘That’s not how she saw it. She reported it to the Massachusetts State Police, who notified the FBI, who contacted us. And you should thank your lucky stars that they did, and that it’s me sitting here rather than a couple of heavy guys from the Met.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I called Emerson Merckle from London. He was very helpful.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘Mm, I believe I’ll have to have another serving of these. Sadly you won’t have time. You have ten minutes to pack your bags.’ He gave a sniff. ‘And take a shower before we head off to the airport. So run upstairs and get on with it. And don’t try to climb out of the bathroom window—the house is surrounded.’ He glared at her, then broke into a laugh. ‘You should see your face.’

  She hurried upstairs to John’s room. He opened his door with a yawn, rubbing his eyes. ‘You’ve been out already? Boy, you’re keen.’

  ‘Listen, John,’ she said urgently. ‘There’s an MI5 officer downstairs, come to take me back to London.’

  ‘What?’ He froze, startled. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll explain later, bu
t I have to go straight away. I don’t think he knows about you, so let’s keep it that way. It would just complicate things. Will you be going back to London?’

  He blinked, clearly still trying to get his head around what was happening. ‘I . . . yes, yes sure.’

  ‘Good. We’ll talk when you get there. Sorry about this.’

  ‘Me too. Kathy, you won’t tell Brock, will you? About what I told you last night? I have to do that myself.’

  ‘Of course.’ She leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘It’ll be just fine, you’ll see. And thanks for coming over here.’

  The taxi was waiting at the door when she got downstairs. She found Peter and paid and thanked him, then hurried out. As she got into the cab she looked up and saw John’s face at his window, then she slammed the door and they moved off.

  ‘Pretty town, Boston, don’t you think?’ Sean said as they sped into a tunnel. ‘Wonderful what they did, burying that expressway by the harbour. You had a chance to get a good look around, did you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kathy said sourly.

  ‘Mm. I’m never a great talker first thing in the morning either. But then, this is lunchtime for me, and I’ve been up half the night coming over here to get you, so you’d better get used to it and find your tongue.’

  Kathy saw the taxi driver glance at them in his mirror and she turned away and stared out of the window.

  When they checked in at the airport Kathy was glad to discover that they wouldn’t be travelling together; Sean was booked into business class, while she was in economy. He led the way to a café and bought them coffees and a hamburger for her. She thought she couldn’t touch it, but after the first bite she wolfed it down.

  ‘Better now?’ he said. ‘So tell me all about it.’

  She’d had time in the cab to decide that she wouldn’t tell him about Gennady unless it was absolutely necessary, her reasoning being that if Gennady had been a spy, and involved with MI5 or the Americans, it would probably be better to feign ignorance. But Sean Ardagh’s sudden appearance had unnerved her. Had the FBI put a tail on her? Did they know about John, and their trip to the Widener Library?

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘much better,’ hoping she sounded contrite and cooperative.

  ‘So what possessed you to come out here?’

  ‘I thought there was an angle that we’d overlooked, and that Superintendent Chivers might not be interested in.’

  ‘And that was?’

  ‘I was puzzled by why Nancy Haynes had chosen such an uncomfortable hotel. Emerson complained about her choice—he could hardly climb the stairs to his room. I wondered if Nancy had had a particular reason, perhaps some family connection with Cunningham Place.’

  ‘Would that be relevant to her death?’

  ‘Probably not. That’s why it was never pursued, but it bothered me. When they took me off the case they told me to take a holiday, the further away the better, so I thought I’d come over here and try to satisfy my curiosity.’

  He shook his head with a sarcastic smile. ‘When you’d been told to keep your nose out of it. So what did you discover?’

  She took him through her conversations with Emerson, their visit to Nancy’s house and the trip to Provincetown to see if Janice could identify the people. ‘And then there was this.’ She opened up her laptop and showed him the group photo. ‘That looks very much like a teenage Nancy and her parents in front of Chelsea Mansions.’

  He studied it carefully, then said, ‘What about this other man?’

  Kathy shrugged. ‘Janice didn’t know who he was. Some family friend, I suppose. Or someone they’d met in London.’

  She was glad that he kept his cool grey eyes on the picture and not on her. It was disconcerting being on the wrong side of an interrogation.

  ‘Can you put a date to this?’

  ‘Janice thought it was around the time of Nancy’s sixteenth birthday, in April 1956,’ she said, wanting to appear eager to help. ‘Her birthday was the twenty-sixth.’

  Now he did look at her, hard and for a long moment, studying her face for signs of duplicity. ‘So Nancy had been to Cunningham Place when she was a girl. So what?’

  Kathy pursed her lips, trying not to overdo it. It was remarkably hard to appear innocent once every muscle twitch became self-conscious. ‘I don’t know. I got my answer, I suppose, as to why she chose Chelsea Mansions.’

  ‘A nostalgia trip, you think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that’s everything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll need a full, detailed report of every minute you spent in the United States, with a verbatim account of your conversations with Emerson and Janice—particularly Janice. You were way out of your jurisdiction, Kathy, and you could have done a lot of damage. The Americans and ourselves, we have to cooperate on so many levels. We have to rely on people following the rules. You should have known that.’

  ‘Yes, Sean. I’m sorry. It was thoughtless.’

  ‘It was damn careless, that’s what it was. You thought you wouldn’t get found out.’

  She nodded, head bowed in contrition.

  ‘I want that report when we land at Heathrow, with copies of the photos and everything. Put it on this.’ He handed her a flash drive. ‘We may have to give it to the Yanks, so try to sound as if you’ve got at least half a brain—your reasons for going, your reasons for not informing the American authorities, and especially the fact that you did it on your own, without reference to us. Be frank and open and penitent. Okay?’

  ‘Yes. Will you be informing Commander Sharpe?’

  He hesitated. ‘No, I’ll leave that to you. Tell him if you want. Personally I’d let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘Thanks, Sean. I appreciate it.’

  ‘So you damn well should.’

  She did as she was told, composing the report on her laptop on the seven-hour flight home, trying to make her actions seem innocuous. Most of Sunday had to be invented, with John and the Widener Library edited out. He had insisted on paying for the harbourside meal the previous evening, which was a blessing if they checked her credit card usage. Would anyone do that? She thought not, mostly reassured by Sean’s response to her explanation, but she wasn’t certain. What had she done to warrant a senior MI5 officer dropping everything and crossing the Atlantic to escort her home? Why hadn’t he just phoned her and told her to get on the next plane? Had the Americans really been that annoyed?

  She handed over the memory stick when they landed. Sean had no luggage and they parted on the way to the carousels, leaving Kathy relieved that he wasn’t going to confiscate her laptop, or take her in for more questions.

  It was almost midnight when she got home, her day compressed by the flight across the spin of the earth, and she was in two minds whether to ring Brock. She decided she’d better. He was still up, restless from inactivity and excited by her outline of her trip. They agreed to meet the next morning in the city for breakfast.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Brock spied Kathy cradling a mug of coffee at a table beneath a large poster of the female toreador Cristina Sánchez, who was poised, arms raised, to deliver the death blow with her sword. He noticed straight away that there was something different about her—Kathy, that was—though he couldn’t identify at first what it was.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  She gave him a big smile, then jumped to her feet and planted a kiss on his cheek, which was quite unprecedented.

  ‘Goodness,’ he said. ‘What have I done to deserve that?’

  She laughed. ‘Well, we’re off-duty, and it’s a lovely morning. You’re looking great. You’ve got some colour back.’

  ‘Yes, I am feeling almost normal again.’ A delivery truck ground past outside, pumping diesel fumes into the café. The sky was overcast with a threat of rain, and it didn’t seem to him like a particularly lovely morning. Her eyes were shining, her complexion subtly different. He remembered how low she had been when she left for America, but now her post
ure suggested optimism and energy, as if Cristina Sánchez looming over her had filled her with new life. ‘And you look as if the change has done you good too.’

  ‘Yes, it was what I needed, just to get out of London for a few days.’

  ‘So you liked Boston?’

  ‘Brilliant. I’d have loved to stay longer, if Sean Ardagh hadn’t stuck his ugly nose in.’

  ‘But it doesn’t seem to have fazed you.’

  A waitress came to their table, and Brock ordered an omelette and toast, Kathy the full English breakfast.

  ‘Well, I hope I convinced him of my abject contrition. He demanded a full report, which I had to write on the plane coming back. I’ve got a copy for you. There’s no mention of you, of course. And I didn’t tell him about identifying Gennady Moszynski in the photos.’

  ‘Why didn’t you do that, I wonder?’

  She hesitated. ‘I didn’t think he was being open with me, about why he was there and what his interest in the case really was. I think they’re involved somehow, perhaps with Vadim.’

  ‘Vadim?’

  ‘Yes. Suppose Vadim is secretly working for MI5 or MI6 when he goes to Russia, and suppose they know, or suspect, that Vadim had a hand in the Haynes and Moszynski murders. Would they protect him?’

  ‘I suppose,’ he said slowly, ‘it might depend on how valuable he is to them.’

  ‘That’s what I think. So I thought I’d hold the Gennady angle back until we’re more sure of our ground.’

  ‘Hm, a dangerous game, Kathy. But I’m impressed with your discovery. A great piece of research.’

  Brock noticed a faint trace of colour appear in Kathy’s face, and a hint of guardedness when she replied.

  ‘Well, I did have some help.’

  ‘Ah, at Harvard? An American?’

  ‘Actually no. It was that Canadian who gave us the opinion on the authenticity of Moszynski’s letter, remember?’