‘My dear chap,’ Toby said, rising slowly with the help of a stick and coming around the end of the counter. ‘Have you had an accident?’
‘It’s Nancy,’ Emerson said with some effort. ‘She’s dead.’ He sagged against the counter and looked as if he might crumple to the floor. Kathy stepped forward to support him and another member of staff appeared, Garry the concierge according to his badge. A man of few words apparently, he took in the situation, gathered Emerson up with little effort, pushed open a door marked Guest Lounge, and took him inside to a sofa. The receptionist, Deb, shouted down the hall to someone called Julie to bring a glass of water, and everyone crowded into the room while Garry expertly loosened Emerson’s clothing and put a cushion under his head.
‘And you are?’ Deb turned to Kathy, who explained what had happened as Emerson began to show signs of life, sitting up with a groan and accepting the water that Julie, a plump black woman in a cook’s apron, had brought in. It took several disbelieving questions before they all fell silent and stared in horror at Emerson. Finally Toby, sitting down beside him, put a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘This is absolutely appalling. My dear fellow, I don’t know what to say. Such a fine woman. And in Sloane Street?’
He looked around at them all, shaking their heads in agreement, and Kathy felt as an almost tangible thing the wave of sympathy that flowed to Emerson, and beneath it something else, a sense of collective shame that such a thing should happen to a guest of theirs.
‘We shall do everything we can to help, rely on that,’ Toby, who appeared to be in charge, went on. ‘You must be in total shock.’
‘A cup of tea,’ Julie suggested.
‘No,’ Toby corrected her, ‘brandy. Garry, if you will.’
Garry grunted and left the room for a moment, returning with a brimming glass which he handed carefully to Emerson, who hesitated, then nodded and took a sip. He coughed and mumbled, ‘I think we may have seen him, the man who did it.’
‘What?’
‘It just occurred to me as I was waking up. When we were at the flower show we noticed a man who seemed to be watching us. We joked about it, that he was an admirer, stalking Nancy. Perhaps he was. It just struck me that he looked like the man the bus driver described. Look, I took a picture.’
He pulled the little camera out of his pocket and switched it on, showing the last image to Toby, who studied it and passed it around the circle to Kathy. It certainly did look very like the bus driver’s description.
‘But that would be very strange,’ Deb objected. ‘I mean, you can’t just wander in off the street to the Chelsea Flower Show. You have to book months in advance. We tried to get a ticket for a guest last week and it was impossible. So you’re saying someone planned to go there ages ago, and when he got there picked another visitor at random and followed them out into the street?’
‘Random,’ Julie said, rubbing her hands on her apron. ‘You can’t fathom some people’s minds.’
‘I’d like to get copies made of this picture, Mr Merckle,’ Kathy said, ‘and I’d also like to take a look in Nancy’s room with you, if you feel up to it.’
‘Of course. I’ll finish this later if you don’t mind.’ He gave Toby the brandy and struggled to his feet. They went out into the hall, where Deb handed over the keys to Nancy and Emerson’s rooms, and Kathy and Emerson climbed the stairs, four full flights, to the top of the building. Emerson was gasping for breath by the time they got to Nancy’s room, and sat on the edge of the bed for a while to recover.
‘I told Nancy . . . we should have stayed . . . at the Hilton.’
Kathy looked around the room. Homely would have been a kind description, shabby more accurate, the furnishings looking as tired as Emerson, like the relics of a Victorian family’s house sale.
‘Bit rough?’ she said.
‘Oh, splendid view, but those stairs . . . You didn’t meet the porter. He has an artificial leg. He hauled our bags all the way up. And what is it with the English and plumbing?’ His shoulders sagged.
‘I’m sorry. Would you rather do this another time?’
‘No, no, go ahead. What are you looking for, her drug stash?’
Kathy gave a little smile and opened the wardrobe. ‘So there’s no possibility that Nancy knew this man?’
‘Absolutely not. Oh God, how am I going to tell her family? She has sons in California and Oregon, and a sister in Cape Cod, cousins, grandchildren . . .’
‘We’ll do everything we can, and of course the American Embassy will want to help you with arrangements.’
‘Oh yes, I suppose so.’
‘There will have to be a post-mortem, and a report to the coroner. I’ll keep you informed.’
There was nothing in the least remarkable about Nancy Haynes’ belongings, their very ordinariness a painful reproach. She had an account with the Citizens Bank in Boston, was reading Anita Shreve’s latest novel, taking blood pressure and antihistamine tablets, and had an address book in which the only UK contact was someone called McKellar in Angus, Scotland.
‘A distant cousin she made contact with. Like I told you, she wanted to check out her family roots. There should be some family photos she brought to show them.’
Kathy found the pouch in the lid of Nancy’s suitcase, containing a wad of pictures of children, family gatherings, studio portraits and some older black and white images of smiling forebears.
‘They’ll blame me, you know.’ Emerson sighed, staring at one of the photos of a family group.
‘Of course not. There was nothing you could do.’
‘All the same, they’ll think I should have protected her. Maybe if I’d tried harder to get a cab, or figured out how to pay for the bus . . .’
‘You can’t look at it that way. Was she well off?’
‘She owns a valuable house in a good area of Boston, but she was short of cash. Net income last year was thirty-seven thousand dollars. I still do her tax returns. She invested unwisely a couple of years ago against my advice and her savings took a whack. But she was still adamant that we come on this trip.’
Kathy got details of next of kin and returned downstairs.Toby was waiting for her in the hall, a determined set to his mouth. He stepped forward.
‘Look, I didn’t introduce us properly. I’m Toby Beaumont, the owner of the hotel, and behind the counter is Deb Collins, our manager and receptionist and mainstay of the operation. We were just discussing . . . it’s hard not to feel a personal involvement with something like this. Of course you have hundreds of terrible cases to deal with, but this is so . . . intolerably unfair. What I’m trying to say is that we would like you to give us your personal assurance that Nancy’s death will be pursued to the very utmost of the police capacities.’
‘Yes, I can assure you of that, Mr Beaumont. We will do everything we can to solve this case.’
‘Right,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Thank you. Well, if there’s anything we can do, you must let us know.’
‘Mr Merckle has taken one of the pills the doctor gave him and is lying down for a while. He was supposed to be going on to Scotland tomorrow, but I think he may want to remain in London for a few more days. Can he stay here?’
‘Of course, as long as he likes.’
He didn’t have to consult the computer. Business must be quiet, Kathy thought.
‘I’m going to arrange for someone from Victim Support to contact him, and see what help they can give. Here’s my card, and if anything occurs to you please get in touch.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Beaumont looked as if he wanted to say more, but then sagged as if defeated by it all, leaning more heavily on his stick. ‘The bastard was drugged to his eyeballs, I suppose. It’s a shameful business.’
Kathy returned to the offices in Queen Anne’s Gate, where the team led by Detective Chief Inspector David Brock was based. The Queen Anne’s Gate annexe was a few blocks north of the main buildings of New Scotland Yard, and unlike the modern headquarters was old, a hundred yea
rs older than Chelsea Mansions. The original terrace of townhouses had been converted into offices by openings punched through their party walls, so that the rooms were connected by a confusing maze of corridors and staircases. Which made the new critical incident command and control suite recently set up in one of the larger rooms look incongruous, with all those big touchscreen displays and computers supporting the latest HOLMES 2 suite for processing large volumes of information from major incidents. At first Brock had tried to ignore it, but of late he’d become enthusiastic, thanks mainly to Zack, the civilian operator who came with the machines and who made it all seem simple. Brock and Zack were there when Kathy arrived, along with most of the other people in the building, staring at a scene being played out in slow motion on the largest screen: a stream of pedestrians walking along a street, a red double-decker bus approaching. As they watched, someone drew their breath sharply, others shook their heads.
Kathy, standing behind them, said, ‘That’s exactly how the bus driver described it.’
Brock looked back over his shoulder at her. ‘The camera is above a doorway thirty yards beyond the scene. Here he comes . . .’
Kathy watched the tall dark-haired man emerge from the group by the bus and run past, below the camera.
‘It’s the man who was following them at the flower show,’ she said. ‘The woman’s companion, Emerson Merckle, took a picture of him there.’ She handed Emerson’s camera to Zack.
‘Okay, now here’s the interesting thing,’ Brock went on. ‘There’s another camera at the bus stop towards Pont Street, a hundred yards further on.’
Zack changed the picture, pedestrians walking past a bus stop.
‘Nothing,’ Brock said. ‘He doesn’t show up. There are no side streets. Where did he disappear to? Let’s go take a look.’
As they reached the front door Brock’s secretary, Dot, caught them.
‘The Press Bureau are after you, Brock,’ she said. ‘They need to see you as soon as possible, they say. So does Commander Sharpe. The American Embassy has been on to the Home Office.’
‘We’ll be back in an hour. I’ll ring them.’
When they reached the car Brock said, ‘Let’s make it quick, Kathy.’
She switched on the lights and sped out into the London traffic, briefing him on the way about Emerson Merckle’s account. When she had finished he took out his phone and started making calls. He folded it away as she turned into Sloane Street and came to a stop in front of the crime scene cordon.
A uniformed woman was setting up signs appealing for witnesses, and another was standing at the kerb with a clipboard, speaking to a cluster of passers-by. Other officers were door-knocking along the street. Brock spoke to the woman with the clipboard, then he and Kathy began to walk slowly in the direction the man had taken, towards the first camera, then on up the street to the second. There were no side lanes or obvious ways out.
There was a fenced park on the other side of Sloane Street occupying the centre of Cadogan Place. Kathy looked at it and said, ‘He could have crossed the street.’
‘Yes, but he’d have been picked up by the second camera, unless he climbed over the railings and ran into the park. He’d have been pretty conspicuous doing that, but no one has mentioned seeing it.’ They stared across at the railings, shoulder height, with spiked tops like small spears.
There was one building between the cameras that was shrouded in scaffolding and plastic sheeting, with a builder’s skip on the footpath, and they checked it carefully, but like all the others along the street its front door was firmly shut. A taxi drove slowly past and Brock took out his phone and called Zack. After a moment he snapped it shut again and shook his head. ‘No, there are no taxis on the CCTV footage, and all the traffic behind the bus was brought to a halt when it happened.’
Brock’s phone rang and he answered it as they walked back to their car. Kathy watched the frown, the scratching at his cropped white hair and beard as he listened, classic signs of Brock’s impatience. ‘I really think that’s premature, sir,’ he said, then fell silent as the caller gave him an earful. ‘Right you are,’ he said finally, and rang off.
He sighed. ‘The nation is on trial, the Met is on trial, we are on trial.’
They climbed in, Kathy started the car, then paused. ‘Suppose someone was waiting up there, between the cameras, to pick him up.’
‘There’s no parking. They’d be moved on.’
‘A builder’s van? Or a motorbike, on the pavement behind the skip?’ She started the flashing lights and took off.
Brock called Zack again, listened, then closed the phone with a thoughtful glance at Kathy. ‘The last vehicle to pass the second camera was a motorbike with two riders. Only it didn’t appear on the first camera immediately before the assault.’
‘So it was waiting there, somewhere in between.’
Brock nodded. ‘Zack’s checking back to earlier footage to see how long before it came through the first camera.’
‘An accomplice.’
‘Two of them,’ Brock growled. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’
When they got to the rear entrance of New Scotland Yard, Kathy assumed she was dropping Brock off, but he said, ‘They want you too, Kathy.’
‘Really? Why?’
He shrugged and she gave her keys to one of the men at the barrier and followed him inside, where they passed through the security check and took the lift up to Commander Sharpe’s office on the sixth floor.
He looked older than she remembered from the last time she’d seen him, Kathy thought, as if the job was draining the colour out of him. Probably he didn’t have long to go before retirement. She wondered if Brock might be in line for the job if that happened, but then dismissed the idea; he’d loathe it.
Sharpe spoke briskly, outlining the pressure that was already building around them, then listened to a short briefing from Brock.
‘So what are the alternatives?’ Sharpe asked. ‘Terrorists? She was American after all.’
Brock shook his head. ‘We’ve been in touch with Counter Terrorism Command, but she seems a very unlikely target, one among hundreds of thousands of tourists.’
‘Perhaps that’s the point. A random victim, no American is safe, that kind of thing.’
‘And yet she doesn’t seem to be entirely random.’ Brock went over the problem of access to the Chelsea Flower Show. ‘If that was the same man.’
‘What then?’
‘It’s too early to say, but if she was deliberately targeted we’d have to consider something relating to her home circumstances. Might she or her family be involved in something problematic in the States?’
‘Ah.’ Kathy saw Sharpe’s face brighten. He liked that idea. ‘And they decided to sort it out over here, well away from home. Was she wealthy?’
‘Not according to her companion, Emerson Merckle, who’s also her accountant,’ Kathy said. ‘She made some bad investments a couple of years ago.’
‘What’s he like? Maybe he’s been ripping her off and thought he’d get found out.’
‘There are a few things we should get the FBI to check on for us,’ Brock suggested quickly. It was always a worry when Sharpe wanted to play at detective. ‘But I really don’t think a domestic angle is something we can even hint at in public. Not without evidence. Let’s keep it simple.’
‘Yes, yes. I’ve been talking to the Press Bureau about that, and they’re anxious for us to hold a press conference immediately to contain rumours. Let’s get Marilyn in.’
Marilyn was the senior media strategist with the MPS Press Bureau, and a woman of swift and decisive opinions. She came in and eyed Brock and Kathy for a moment, then nodded.
‘Yes, just you two.’
Brock said, ‘Wouldn’t a senior figure, an AC, or Commander Sharpe, lend weight?’
She shook her head. ‘At this stage it would smack of panic. We’re treating this as a highly professional but essentially routine response, right?’
Sharpe nodded.
‘Do you really need me?’ Kathy said.
‘Absolutely. Bad news comes best from an attractive young woman.’ She gave Kathy a humourless smile that might have been ironic or sarcastic. ‘Brock, you first, with an outline of the facts and the police response. Rigorous, dedicated, no stone unturned. Gravitas. For Christ’s sake nothing about Americans being safer in London than Boston, or Chelsea crime statistics or anything like that—it sounds defensive. You, Kathy, the human side—sympathy for the family, appeal for support from the public. Brief response to questions. We’ll plant a final one for you to end on a positive note.’
THREE
The following morning a young man sat in a café in Edgeware Road reading a newspaper report of the murder in Sloane Street. At that moment a TV mounted up in the corner of the room began showing highlights of the police press conference on the same subject. He watched with a particular intensity as first Brock and then Kathy spoke to the camera. The waitress, approaching him with his order of bacon and eggs, put him in his late twenties. He had a rather serious, studious air about him with the glasses and the way he rubbed his jaw, studying the screen. Tall, dark, quite nice, but not her type.
‘Fancy her then, do you?’ she asked, thumping the plate down in front of him.
‘Sorry?’ The news moved on to something else and he turned his attention to her.
‘The blonde cop. Reckon she’s attractive?’
‘Oh . . . yeah, I guess so.’
‘American, are you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘They always put a blonde on to tell bad news.’
‘I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re probably right.’
‘I like the other one, with the beard.’
‘He’s way too old for you.’
‘Yeah, but he’s got a twinkle in his eye, don’t you reckon?’
The man frowned, as if he found the idea mildly disturbing.
‘Anyway, I’ll let you eat your breakfast.’
After he’d finished he walked down to Marble Arch and crossed into Hyde Park. It was a fine May day, a cool breeze sending puffy white clouds scudding across a pale blue sky, and as he made his way deeper into the park, the grass as high as his knees, it seemed as if he might be far away in the countryside. Then he was crossing the broad path of Rotten Row, its sandy surface stamped with horses’ hooves, and was plunged back into the city, making his way across Knightsbridge into Sloane Street before turning off into the side streets to reach the relative stillness of Cunningham Place.
Chelsea Mansions Page 2
