Chelsea Mansions bak-11

by Barry Maitland

  ‘Unfortunately I’ve been forbidden from coming within a mile of Chelsea Mansions.’

  John whistled. ‘That bad? Well, maybe I could keep my eyes open and tell you what’s going on in Cunningham Place, if anything interesting happens.’

  It seemed that everyone wanted to keep her informed, while she didn’t want to know. But when she got home later that afternoon, after a surprisingly good lunch and promises to catch up again, she thought about what they’d said, about Brock’s questions about Peebles, and Toby and Deb’s fear that Nancy’s murder hadn’t been properly investigated, and she forced herself to open up her laptop and load the case files, and begin to look at them afresh.

  TWENTY-SIX

  T he following day she took the laptop into the hospital with her. Brock was sitting up in bed, showing signs of impatience.

  ‘I need to get out of here, Kathy, but they’re being difficult. They say there’s some residual infection and they have to keep me in for observation a bit longer. Really it’s just that they’ve never seen Marburg fever before and they want to hang on to me, and prod me and test me like a prize specimen. I’m going mad just sitting around here.’

  ‘Well, maybe I’ve got something for you to think about. You asked what if Nancy wasn’t mistaken for Marta Moszynski? The reason we’ve been assuming that is because we can’t see any connection between Nancy and Moszynski other than the fact that they were living in the same block. But there was the thing that the neighbour, Dr Stewart, said about seeing Nancy going up the front steps of the Moszynskis’ place one day. I didn’t put much weight on it, thinking he was mistaken, because no one else had seen her and there was no record of it on the camera mounted at Moszynski’s front door.

  ‘But I’ve been going over the log we made of all the people recorded coming and going on that camera, and there are gaps. It didn’t record Moszynski going out for his cigar the night he was killed, because he switched it off himself, according to the security staff. And there are two other times that week where there are gaps-for twenty-three minutes on Wednesday afternoon, and another for ninety-two minutes at lunchtime on Monday. We were told these were for maintenance. Those ninety-two minutes would have covered the period that Dr Stewart saw her.’

  ‘Why would she visit?’ Brock mused. ‘Did she know who lived there?’

  Kathy shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Why would she go calling? To get Shaka’s autograph for her granddaughter? Because she was interested in Victorian architecture? Or might she have been there before, at some time in the past? Maybe she knew the previous owners.’

  ‘We just don’t know. We didn’t take it any further. And if she went inside, could she have seen or heard something she shouldn’t have?’

  ‘And was it just a coincidence,’ Brock said, becoming more intrigued, ‘that the camera was switched off when she called? Or could it have been done so that there was no record of her visit?’

  ‘Other people in the house would have seen her, the maid for instance, answering the front door.’ Kathy began to flick through the pages of the timetable they’d made of people’s movements. ‘But, there’s a thing…’ She showed Brock the screen. ‘The maid went out at twelve forty-five, with the cook and the office secretary. Looks like they all had a lunch break together. Mikhail’s driver and security guy was out too.’

  ‘What about family members?’

  ‘Mikhail was at home. That’s all.’

  A nurse came in to give Brock some pills and Kathy left for a few minutes. When she came back he had more questions.

  ‘Wouldn’t Nancy have phoned first to make an appointment? That would have given Mikhail time to make sure the house was clear and the camera switched off. Could there be a record of such a call? Would she have used her mobile, or the hotel phone? Wouldn’t her friend Emerson have known something?’

  ‘No, there doesn’t seem to be a record of such a call on her phone or on Moszynski’s phones, and Emerson had no idea. What I’d like to do is speak to the people in the hotel again, just make quite sure they didn’t see or hear something.’

  He sighed with frustration. ‘It’s all very well speculating, but we can’t ask the damn questions.’

  ‘Maybe I can,’ Kathy said, ‘through John Greenslade.’

  ‘The forensic linguist?’

  ‘Yes, he’s still at the hotel and offered to help. The people there are upset that Nancy has been forgotten. I’m sure they’d be keen to tell us what they can.’

  ‘And you trust Greenslade’s discretion?’

  ‘Oh, I think so.’ She got out her phone and tried his number. He responded immediately.

  ‘Kathy! How are you?’

  ‘Hello, John. I’m with my boss, DCI Brock, at the moment. We were just discussing Nancy’s murder, and we came up with a few questions that we thought Toby and Deb might be able to answer. Unfortunately, as you know, I can’t come to them. I wondered if you might be able to arrange for me to meet them for an hour somewhere away from the hotel?’

  Ten minutes later he rang back. They would meet her at The Parlour, in Fortnum amp; Mason, at twelve. ‘Will Brock be there?’ he asked.

  ‘’Fraid not. He’s still stuck in hospital.’

  ‘That’s too bad.’

  Brock was annoyed that he couldn’t go. ‘Haven’t been there for years,’ he said. ‘Not since…’ A memory seemed to trouble him for a moment, then his face cleared. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

  They were already there when Kathy arrived at the first floor of the Piccadilly store, the three of them at a table overlooking the street, examining menus with great concentration. They welcomed her with enthusiasm.

  ‘This is such a treat,’ Deb said. ‘The hotel is like a gaol. We pretend that we can’t leave it and stay chained to the desk, when the truth is that Destiny can easily cope for a few hours.’

  Toby ordered a knickerbocker glory and a bottle of wine, the others open sandwiches.

  ‘We were utterly disgusted by what happened to you, Kathy,’ Toby growled. ‘Your principals should be shot. If they can’t stand up to a bully like Hadden-Vane, God help us all.’

  ‘I think they had little choice under the circumstances, Toby, but thanks anyway. But stepping back has let me go over the ground again, and one grey area in particular that troubles me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘One of your neighbours told us that he’d seen Nancy calling at the Moszynskis’ front door on the Monday or Tuesday, a few days after she arrived. We weren’t sure how credible this was, but it raises the possibility that she might have had some connection with them that we don’t know about.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about a connection.’ Deb frowned. ‘She never mentioned anything like that to us.’

  ‘Which neighbour was this?’ Toby asked.

  ‘A Dr Stewart, on the east side of the square.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ Toby chuckled. ‘Did he tell you he writes murder mysteries? Never had one published. Gave me one to read once. Agatha Christie on steroids. He’d be lapping up the attention you gave him.’

  ‘You don’t think he’s a credible witness?’

  ‘Let’s just say that he’s a lonely old man who would just love to be able to offer you a juicy clue. But can you seriously see him in a courtroom under cross-examination?’

  Toby’s face lit up as their lunches arrived and the towering confection of his knickerbocker glory was placed in front of him. ‘Wonderful,’ he breathed. ‘I can remember the first and last time I had one of these. I hadn’t been in the army very long, and I’d been on some godawful training course and was home on leave, and Ma brought me here. I can still taste that first mouthful. Just before they sent me off to my first war. The end of innocence.’

  ‘Which war was that?’ John asked.

  ‘Suez. A shambles.’

  ‘You were there? I was reading a book about it recently. It was such an interesting time, 1956-the Cambridge spies, the Russian invasion of Hungary, Cas
tro landing in Cuba…’

  Toby cut in, ‘Ancient history, old chap, best forgotten. I prefer to remember the knickerbocker glories.’ He paused for a moment to taste and approve the wine, and they raised their glasses. ‘To justice,’ he murmured. ‘So, Kathy, anything else we can help you with?’

  ‘Let’s go back to the beginning. When did Nancy first contact you?’

  ‘That was last autumn, as I recall,’ Deb said. ‘She wrote this extremely enthusiastic email about how she very much wanted to stay with us and hoped we could oblige.’

  ‘Would you still have a copy?’

  ‘Should do, on file somewhere.’

  ‘Did she say why she picked Chelsea Mansions? Was it recommended by someone?’

  ‘I don’t think she said, just that she was dead set on staying with us. We could hardly refuse, she sounded so keen.’

  ‘And when she arrived, did she say anything?’

  Toby shook his head. ‘Don’t remember anything special.’ He spooned another dollop of ice-cream into his mouth.

  ‘I think she said something about loving that part of London,’ Deb said. ‘She said it made her feel at home.’

  ‘Do you think she might have been there before?’

  Deb shrugged and took a bite of her smoked salmon sandwich. ‘No, I think it was just a general statement. I think the real reason was that we were handy for the flower show and not too expensive.’

  ‘How about the neighbours? Did she know about the Moszynskis?’

  ‘I think we did talk about them, didn’t we, Toby? Or was that with the Leeds people? Someone had read about Shaka’s wedding.’

  ‘That wouldn’t have made the American news, would it?’ Kathy said doubtfully.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ John said. ‘We got it in Canada. One of those juicy news bites, “Glamorous model weds Russian billionaire”, you know, like beauty and the beast.

  ‘But I was thinking,’ he went on, ‘Toby, you mentioned that your aunt ran a hotel next door to your house at Chelsea Mansions. Is it possible that Nancy, or her parents maybe, once stayed there, and met the people down the street, and maybe Nancy thought she might try to trace them?’

  Toby looked at Deb and they both frowned. ‘She didn’t mention anything like that.’

  ‘Would it be worth seeing if you have any old records or photographs that might tell us something?’

  ‘We had boxes of old family papers, but they got damaged by damp, down in the shelter.’

  ‘The shelter?’ John asked.

  ‘Our cellar. Pa built a bomb shelter for us in the cellar in ’39, before he went off to France with the BEF. Damn stupid idea really-if the house had been hit we’d all have been buried alive. But it’s damp down there so we took what we could salvage up to the attic, next to your room, John. You’re welcome to have a look if you want.’

  ‘Perhaps I might,’ John said. ‘History was originally my subject. If you really wouldn’t mind, Toby?’

  ‘Be my guest, old son. If you find any worthwhile photos, we might get them framed.’

  After they finished their lunch they lingered for a while in the food hall, and John took hold of Kathy’s arm and steered her away.

  ‘You think there might be some connection between Nancy and Chelsea Mansions?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea, John, but it’s an intriguing thought.’

  ‘It does kind of make sense. The holiday was a bit of a nostalgia trip for her-tracing the lost relatives in Scotland, that kind of thing. And she had brought old photographs with her. Emerson showed me.’

  ‘Yes, I saw those. I didn’t take much notice at the time.’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing any of Chelsea Mansions. They were mainly pictures of people. It would be interesting if any of those faces are up in Toby’s attic, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It might explain why she came to the hotel.’

  But not much else, she thought, as she waved them off in a taxi, the three of them looking like an affectionate family group, the elderly couple and their deferential, grown-up son, indulging the old man’s passion for knickerbocker glories. The sight of them together filled Kathy with a sense of futility. They hadn’t been able to help, although they’d obviously wanted to, and the failure wasn’t theirs, it was hers. She had been in a kind of shock since being dumped from the case, wasting time, clutching at straws like this, when the real questions lay elsewhere.

  And the real questions were why Nigel Hadden-Vane had done it and how he’d managed it. They had caught sight of a couple of his connections to the killer and his accomplice, and sketched out a circumstantial case, but nothing more. How had he arranged it, making contact with the son of his old chauffeur in Barlinnie Prison to recruit Harry Peebles? How had he made contact with Peebles, given his instructions, paid the cash? The only person who might have given them an inkling was Danny Yilmaz, and he was dead.

  On the way home she went over again in her mind that first interview with Danny. She remembered a slight change in his manner, an apparent eagerness to cooperate, when she began to question him about the man who had made the arrangements for the job over the phone. Did he know the caller? Was it Hadden-Vane himself, or had he worked through some other acquaintance of Danny’s?

  When she got back to her flat she went through the case files on her computer once again, searching for the newspaper photograph that Bren had shown her, of Hadden-Vane at the Haringey Sport and Social Club, handing out certificates. When she found it she stared at the faces, a dozen of them watching the ceremony. The quality was poor, the features grainy, but there was one other that seemed familiar. It took her a moment to place him, then she remembered. In the back row, face partially obscured, stood a man who looked very like Wayne Everett, the security man on duty the night Moszynski died.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  W hen she got to the hospital the following morning, Brock was dressed and getting ready to leave.

  ‘Kathy!’ he beamed. ‘I was going to give you a call. They’re letting me go home at last. Fancy a train ride?’

  They caught a cab to Victoria Station, Brock opening the window to take in the smells of the city, untainted by hospital chemicals, and it was only when they were on the train that he began to speak of what was on his mind. He had been careful to choose an empty compartment, and as the train pulled out of the station he said, ‘Chivers called in to see me this morning. He brought me a book about preparing for retirement. I nearly threw it at him. Apparently he’d heard a rumour that I’d decided to go.’

  They were rumbling across Grosvenor Bridge, the chimneys and bulk of the old Battersea Power Station on the far side of the river, and hovering overhead a helicopter coming in to the heliport that Moszynski had used. Life goes on, Kathy thought.

  ‘Did he say how his investigation is going?’

  ‘I rather gathered that they haven’t found anything more concrete to link Hadden-Vane to Peebles, nor a motive for him to be involved in either death.’

  ‘I might be able to help him.’

  ‘You got something from the hotel people?’

  ‘No, they couldn’t help. But afterwards I was thinking about Danny Yilmaz, and wondering who else might have made the arrangements for Peebles’ visit, if it wasn’t Hadden-Vane himself. So I looked again at that picture of him at the Haringey club, and I recognised Moszynski’s bodyguard, Wayne Everett, among the onlookers. And that makes sense too, because Hadden-Vane is a director of the company he works for, Shere Security.’

  Brock nodded, thoughtful. ‘I see.’

  ‘Should I tell Chivers?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Hm, I think he’d regard it as just another circumstantial detail. So Everett was in the photo, so what? And it doesn’t help us with the most important thing, the thing that’s bothering him most: the motive. Why on earth would Hadden-Vane want to harm Moszynski or Nancy Haynes?’

  They were passing through the densely packed terraces of inner South London now, the brickwork blackened with age an
d long-extinct coal fires. It was an area Brock had once worked as a young CID officer, and he said, ‘This feels like being in limbo, doesn’t it? Watching life through glass.’

  ‘You could get away. Take a holiday, go somewhere nice with Suzanne.’

  ‘She’s busy, and I’m supposed to check in to the clinic every day for tests. I could still be a walking time bomb, according to the specialist. So if you hear me ticking, watch out.’

  When they got off the train they stopped at the Bishop’s Mitre on the way back to Brock’s house. Brock ordered his habitual pork pie and pint of bitter, and Kathy watched him address them like a sacrament for a life recovered.

  When they were finished she took a couple of sheets of paper from her bag and spread them out on the table. ‘This is our victim profile for Nancy Haynes. Thin, isn’t it? I realised when I was talking to the hotel people how little we really know about her. We don’t know why she chose Chelsea Mansions or if she’d been to London before, and we have only a vague sketch of her background and family structure. It didn’t seem particularly relevant. Now I wonder. What if she had had some previous contact with Hadden-Vane?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking the same thing,’ Brock said. ‘In fact I’ve been wondering if Sharpe might be right about you leaving London.’

  She gave him a puzzled look and he said, ‘Have you ever been to Boston?’

  She hadn’t. In fact she’d never been to North America, and at first she didn’t like the idea of leaving. It felt like running away, and she objected that they could talk to Emerson and Nancy’s relatives on the phone, but Brock wasn’t having any of that.

  ‘It’s not the same, Kathy. You’ve got to see them on their home ground. Get the taste of it, where she lived, what kind of life she had. You know that.’

  So they went back to Brock’s house and explored the idea, and when they’d finished Kathy got on the web and started to make some bookings.

  On the train back to central London later that afternoon, Kathy called John Greenslade. He was at the Tate Gallery, viewing the Henry Moore exhibition, and they arranged to meet outside on the gallery steps. The sky was heavy with dark clouds when Kathy came out of Victoria Station and walked briskly down Vauxhall Bridge Road, and by the time she reached the river and turned along Millbank fat drops of rain were spotting the pavement. She ran up the steps towards the shelter of the portico and John stepped out to meet her with a smile, and it struck her with a sudden feeling of regret that she probably wouldn’t see him again.