The screen came to life with a title-sir nigel featherstone hadden-vane, mp: the truth-then faded to the seated figure of a man, pale-faced and brightly lit against a dark, indistinct background.
‘My name is Freddie Clarke. I am an expert in tax law and I was financial adviser to Mikhail Moszynski, who was murdered on the thirtieth of May. I am intimately familiar with the financial affairs of Mr Moszynski and his family.
‘Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane is the Member of Parliament for the district of Chelsea, in which Mr Moszynski lived, and he became acquainted with Mr Moszynski soon after he arrived here from Russia. Sir Nigel became a trusted confidant of the Moszynski family, advising on such things as legal and political matters and arranging access to important social occasions and to senior figures in politics and society, including cabinet ministers and members of the royal family. He was in fact instrumental in introducing Mr Moszynski to his future wife, Shaka Gibbons.’
Clarke’s voice was mesmerising, Brock thought, without emphasis or inflection, but punctuated in odd places by the sound of his laboured breathing. He seemed to be holding himself together with great effort, as if under some kind of tremendous pressure, though it wasn’t apparent what that might be. From time to time his eyes would flick away from the viewer to points to left and right, either to gather his thoughts or to look at someone behind the camera.
‘In return for these services Mr Moszynski donated money to Sir Nigel’s political party and paid for several trips abroad. These were declared in accordance with parliamentary rules. He also made much larger payments to Sir Nigel that were not declared, either to Parliament or to the Inland Revenue. These included a monthly retainer, a car, and miscellaneous expenses, including regular payments for prostitutes. I was engaged to hide these transactions from the authorities, which I did. However I have a mental record of them all, as follows…’
Sharpe flicked the fast-forward button. ‘There are several minutes where he just recites bank details, dates and amounts. He seems to have memorised everything.’
The film resumed.
‘… Mr Moszynski also made a number of loans to Sir Nigel on favourable terms, which Sir Nigel used to buy property and shares. Again I was asked to create financial vehicles to disguise these activities. However I did not advise Sir Nigel on his investments, since he considered himself an expert in these matters. Unfortunately he invested in the stock market in the middle of 2007 when it was at its peak, and lost heavily in the following year. In order to recoup these losses and repay his loans, Sir Nigel begged Mr Moszynski to relax the terms of their agreements, which he generously did. However when Sir Nigel was still unable to meet his obligations he resorted to fraud. Mr Moszynski’s mother, Marta Moszynski, was particularly anxious that her son be awarded a knighthood, and Sir Nigel persuaded them that he could arrange this, if Mr Moszynski undertook a program of charitable donations which Sir Nigel devised. These included wildlife conservation and youth support organisations. Two of these, the Hammersmith Youth Employment Project and the Haringey Sport and Social Trust, were in fact used by Sir Nigel to siphon off a portion of Mr Moszynski’s donations to finance Sir Nigel’s debts. In March of this year I became suspicious and suggested to Mr Moszynski that I carry out an investigation of Sir Nigel’s financial affairs. It didn’t take me long to discover hidden bank accounts into which donations to the two foundations had been transferred. The details of these are as follows…’
There was another toneless list of numbers and transactions before Clarke continued.
‘When confronted by Mr Moszynski, Sir Nigel claimed that these arrangements had been contrived for the convenience of the charities concerned and not for his personal gain, but I had proof that this was a lie. At the same time Mrs Moszynski senior was putting increasing pressure on Sir Nigel about his promise to obtain the knighthood for her son, which he seemed unable to fulfil. These discussions were ongoing at the time that Nancy Haynes and Mr Moszynski were murdered. I have no direct evidence that Sir Nigel arranged their deaths-in the case of Nancy Haynes in a mistaken attempt to kill Marta Moszynski-but there is no doubt that Mr Moszynski was close to abandoning his support for him and could have made his life very difficult.’
The screen went blank and Sharpe switched off the TV. He stared at Brock for a moment, then said, ‘I have to ask you, Brock, for the record. Were you involved in this? Or have you any knowledge of who was?’
Brock stared back, uncertain for a moment whether to feel insulted or flattered. He decided on the former. ‘Certainly not.’
Sharpe gave a quick, embarrassed nod. ‘No, of course not. Had to ask. You may have seen the news reports of Dick Chivers’ press conference yesterday, in which he announced the suspension of the police investigation into the murders, and specifically cleared Hadden-Vane of suspicion. In the light of these new developments, he’s asked to be relieved of his involvement in the case. I have agreed. He’s waiting downstairs and will go on extended leave once he’s briefed you.’
‘Me?’
‘I want you running the show again, Brock. You’re up to it? Physically, I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get your team back to Queen Anne’s Gate, quick as you can. I’m putting out a press release to give us some time. Obviously the fraud boys will be checking through all the banking information on the tape. Your job is to prove that Hadden-Vane arranged the murders.’
‘Do we know where Clarke is?’
‘He hasn’t been seen since yesterday lunchtime, apparently. We’ve no idea why he decided to go public on this. Conscience, perhaps. Dick will give you all the details.’
Brock found Chivers scowling into a coffee mug. He looked up and nodded.
‘Musical chairs, eh? Help yourself to a coffee.’
Brock did so and sat down. ‘Yes. Tough luck.’
‘I simply don’t understand it. We were leaning on that little bastard for days, trying to squeeze something out of him, and he didn’t say a word, not a hint. Then suddenly he’s on the record with the complete works-bank account numbers, transactions down to the last penny. What made him do it?’
‘We’ll have to ask him.’
‘Fat chance.’ Chivers pushed a piece of paper across to Brock. ‘Seems he caught a flight to Athens this morning without telling anyone. He could be anywhere by now.’
‘Was he alone in that room where he was being filmed, do you think?’
‘No idea. Why, you think he had help?’
‘I don’t know. What else have you got for me?’
Chivers indicated a neat stack of files. ‘Our records of interviews and daily summaries. You should find the paperwork up to date.’ He was famous for his paperwork, Brock thought.
‘My team is at your disposal, and I won’t be going anywhere for a few days, so you can get hold of me any time, day or night.’ Then Chivers reached into his pocket and laid down a bunch of keys. ‘Queen Anne’s Gate. It’s all yours again, Brock.’
Brock walked over to Queen Anne’s Gate, the files under his arm, through deserted streets. He opened the front door of the darkened building with the keys and made his way up to his old office. It looked unnaturally tidy and there was a faint smell of Chivers’ aftershave.
He sat at the desk and dialled Dot’s number. She lived in East Barnet, he knew, near the station in a house she’d bought with the husband who had died soon afterwards of a heart attack, but Brock had never been there and had no mental image of the place. She answered almost immediately, a phone beside her bed or armchair, perhaps, and he told her what had happened.
‘It was on the ten o’clock news, that he’d killed himself,’ she said. ‘I wondered what they’d do.’
‘Can you phone round the team and get everyone to Queen Anne’s Gate first thing tomorrow morning, please, Dot? I’ll speak to Bren and Kathy myself.’
When he rang Kathy’s number he wondered what he might be interrupting, but she answered immediately, sounding calm and slightly distant. After
he’d told her of developments, he added, ‘That was a pleasant meal. Sorry I had to dash off. I hope John didn’t think I was rude.’
‘’Course not. He’s gone back to the hotel. I can contact him if you want to see him again.’
‘Not at this stage, Kathy.’
John Greenslade returned to Chelsea Mansions after a brisk walk that failed to clear his head of troubled thoughts and doubts. He said a quick hello to Toby and Deb, and went upstairs.
In his room he stripped and stood for a while under the pathetic dribble of warm water that passed for a shower, then lay on his bed, trying to decide what to do. To return to Canada having achieved nothing would be like a defeat, and yet he seemed to have boxed himself into a corner, making it almost impossible, he thought, to confront his father with the truth. The turning point had been his gaffe about the frogman, Commander Crabb. He had seen, in Brock’s dismissal of the idea, any curiosity and interest that he might have had in John vanish. The only way to retrieve the situation would be to come up with something to make up for the mistake and establish himself as someone to be taken seriously. But what could that be?
He thought of the message revealed on the back of the 1956 photograph, and the signature ‘Miles’. If Miles had been Toby’s father or uncle, then the family’s records might have confirmed it, yet he couldn’t remember any such references in the boxes in the attic that he’d gone through. When he had searched them it had just seemed a bit of fun, something to bring him closer to Kathy, but now it took on a deadly seriousness. He wondered if he had missed something, and remembered Toby’s comment about moving the records out of the basement where they had originally been stored. Perhaps some had been left behind, he thought. He should ask.
By the time he’d come to this conclusion the hotel was silent, the lights out. He decided to wait till morning, and to consult Toby first about his father. But he couldn’t settle, and after an hour of restless turning back and forth on his bed he got up, dressed, and padded silently downstairs.
The door to the cellar was unlocked, and he felt inside for the switch for the light on the stairs and went down. He felt the sudden chill radiating from the rough old concrete columns and slabs that had been built down there in 1939 to protect its occupants from a direct hit on the house above. There was a smell of damp, and something else, something sour like old drains recently disturbed. There were a couple of tea-chests standing against the far wall. He went over to investigate their contents and found that they were full of old china, wrapped in ancient newspapers. Nearby was a bench with a few tools and boxes of rusty old nails, and beside it a rack of industrial shelving next to a solid door set flush in the wall. It had a large handle and two heavy bolts set in its steel face, as if it were the entrance to a bank vault or, more likely, a blast-proof inner shelter. And he noticed that the floor in front of the door was streaked with smears of muddy footprints.
He took hold of the handle, turned it and pulled. The heavy door creaked open, and a stronger smell of fetid air gusted out. The room inside was in pitch darkness, and it took him a moment to find the light switch on the wall outside, by the shelving. He turned it on and peered back into the chamber. The first thing he saw was a pick and shovel leaning against a side wall, next to a section of the brick-paved floor that had been dug up, with a pile of rubble and earth heaped beside the hole. The room was like a cell, he thought, imagining how claustrophobic it would have felt to be inside, feeling the thud and tremble of the building around you as the bombs fell.
Beyond the hole, on the far side of the room, was something else, a piece of gym equipment perhaps, and John went in to investigate, skirting around the diggings. It looked like a bench that was higher at one end than the other, to form a sloping platform, and next to it were coiled several thick leather belts and lengths of rope, and a bucket containing a damp cloth. An unpleasant memory stirred in his head, a TV film of the torture of prisoners in Iraq, and an image of a man stretched out on such a contraption, feet up, head down, his face covered by a wet cloth onto which water was being poured to induce the sensation of being drowned. Waterboarding, he thought. But why would-?
Then John heard a sound from the cellar outside. As he turned to look, the light in the chamber was abruptly switched off. He heard the scrape of steel on stone and gave a shout as the rectangle of light from the doorway began to narrow. The heavy door slammed shut, plunging the room into absolute darkness.
‘Hey!’ He scrambled towards the door, tripping blindly over the bricks, and heard the bolts, one and then the other, being rammed home. When he tried the handle there was no movement. He beat his fists against the steel and yelled, and the sounds seemed to sink, deadened, into the mass of the material in which he was now entombed.
After a minute of shouting, kicking and banging on the door, he subsided with a groan. This was ridiculous. Who had locked him in? Not Toby or Deb, surely, nor Jacko with the artificial leg, or Julie or Destiny. Garry then, the silent one. But had he realised that anyone was inside the room? John thought back. Yes, he had definitely called out before the door closed. Was Garry deaf?
John shivered, suddenly very cold. He felt in his pockets and realised he’d left his mobile phone upstairs in his room. He swore out loud. What if Garry hadn’t heard him? He’d probably been doing his rounds, locking up for the night, never imagining that there was someone down here. How long would it be before they wanted to get into this room again? A day? A month? He felt a skitter of panic in his chest. There was a spade and pickaxe, he remembered. Could he dig his way out? What else might be hidden in the corners of the room? A flashlight? Matches? He turned to blindly feel his way around and promptly stumbled onto the pile of rubble beside the pit. He reached out his hand and felt something smooth and hard and rounded, like an old copper cistern ballcock, perhaps. An old copper cistern ballcock with two holes, like eye sockets. And a row of ragged teeth. He dropped it, swore and fell backwards, cutting his hand on something sharp and hard. Broken bones. ‘Dear God,’ he groaned. ‘What’s going on here?’
An hour or so later, John, hunched against a wall and shivering with cold, heard a faint sound from the direction of the door. He strained his ears and then heard another noise, a more substantial clunk, and then a heavy creak and a thin line of bright light appeared.
‘Thank goodness!’ he cried, and tried to scramble to his feet, but his knees had locked with cramp and he staggered, momentarily blinded by the sudden dazzle as the door was flung open. He made out the black silhouette of a figure against the light and began gabbling, ‘I thought I was here for good!’ He laughed, seeing the figure’s arm swing up towards him, as if to catch him. ‘It’s all right, I can stand,’ he cried, and was felled by a shattering blow to the side of his head.
His face was pressed into the mud and someone was on his back, wrenching his arms behind him, binding them with tape. Then he was being turned roughly over and he felt a searing jolt of pain as if they’d dislocated his shoulder. He gave a scream that was abruptly cut off as tape was stretched across his mouth and wrapped several times around his head, his eyes. Fingers pinched his nostrils closed and he couldn’t breathe. He began to struggle wildly, lashing out with his legs, and the hand released his nose. Now his ankles were being gripped, taped together, and he was being dragged across the floor and dumped awkwardly in a corner. Through the singing in his ears and the muffle of the tape he heard people talking. It seemed to go on for a while until he heard the bang of the steel door closing, and total silence. He tried to move his lips under the tape, but this had the effect of easing the tape up across his nostrils as well as his mouth. He froze, terrified he was going to suffocate.
THIRTY-FIVE
B rock had worked through the night on the files, preparing his plan of attack. By five he was satisfied and had taken an hour’s nap before waking to the sound of Dot in the outer office.
‘Wanted to see what sort of mess they’d left the place in,’ she said when he put his head around
the door, as if she were talking about squatters who’d invaded her home.
Brock yawned. The clean shirt and toiletries that he used to keep in the desk drawer were no longer there, and he’d just have to make do with a quick splash in the toilet basin. A lick and a promise, his mother would have said.
The team assembled quickly, talking together excitedly about the developments. Chivers’ action manager was present too, to answer queries about the ground his team had covered, and his detectives were available if required.
Brock began with a brief summary of the facts surrounding Hadden-Vane’s suicide, and then they sat in silence, watching the recording of Freddie Clarke’s revelations. At the end of it, Brock asked Zack if he had any observations to make on the tape itself.
‘Well, it’s been edited,’ Zack said. ‘Nothing sophisticated, just a couple of places where there’s a slight jump, as if a few seconds have been cut out.’
‘Meaning?’
‘It could be that someone spoke, asked him a question maybe, and that’s been deleted.’
They replayed the tape to the places Zack indicated. ‘See?’ he said. ‘His eyes have shifted as if responding to someone to the left, behind the camera.’
Kathy said, ‘There is something different about his manner from when I saw him. He’s very tense, keyed up. His eyes are staring and he hardly blinks.’
‘Drugs?’ someone suggested. ‘Or fear?’
‘What about the background?’ Brock asked Zack. ‘Could you enhance it, get some idea where he is?’
Zack shook his head doubtfully. ‘Maybe if we had the original recording, but the quality of this is poor. I’ll have a go.’
Brock moved on to describe the lines of inquiry he wanted pursued. ‘We have to finish the job we were doing when we were taken off the case. We’d made connections between Hadden-Vane and the Haringey youth club and the house in Hackney, but we hadn’t established how it was done. How did Hadden-Vane brief Harry Peebles? How did he pay him? The missing link may be the security guard, Wayne Everett. Kathy noticed him in the background of that newspaper photo you found, Bren. Could he have been Hadden-Vane’s agent in all this? We need to go through all the CCTV footage again, and all the forensic evidence from Ferncroft Close, to look for his traces.
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