Chelsea Mansions

by Barry Maitland

  ‘I can confirm that,’ his boss said. ‘I had words with Mr Moszynski about it, but he was pretty relaxed about security.’

  ‘What about the murder of the American lady at the end of the block?’ Kathy said. ‘Didn’t that concern him?’

  Wayne Everett frowned at her. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. Why should it?’

  ‘He knew her though, didn’t he?’

  Everett exchanged a glance with his boss. ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘He went to Mrs Haynes’ memorial service this morning,’ Kathy insisted. ‘Your colleague was with him. Did he talk to you about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who’s been here in the house this evening?’ Brock said.

  Everett listed them: the cook who’d prepared evening meals for the household had left at nine p.m.; the housekeeper, Mrs Truscott; Mr Moszynski’s wife, Ms Gibbons, who had eaten alone in her suite; Ms Gibbons’ business manager, who’d arrived within the past half hour at Ms Gibbons’ request; and Mr Moszynski’s two guests—his business partner Mr Freddie Clarke and Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane.

  ‘Hadden-Vane?’ Brock stared at him, then at Kathy.

  ‘Yes, he was at the memorial service this morning too. Sir Nigel now, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Everett said. ‘He’s the local Member of Parliament.’

  They went to speak to the wife first, in her suite on the first floor. As they mounted the stairs Brock felt oddly disoriented. From the outside the building appeared to be the series of townhouses that it once had been, with individual front doors, but inside the scale expanded, as if he’d drunk from Alice’s magic bottle. They must have ripped out its guts, he realised, to build a palace inside the shell.

  Shaka Gibbons was sitting on an antique chaise longue while a man leaned forward at the other end, whispering urgently into her ear. ‘Sitting’ didn’t really do justice to the elegant way she had arranged herself across the velvet fabric. Brock realised that he had seen photographs of her before, attending film and theatre first nights, the races at Ascot. Now, in the flesh, he saw what a compelling presence she had: the sculpted African features, the pale caramel complexion, the attenuated limbs and fingers. And the East End cockney accent, softly spoken, which somehow gave the rest an edge, like a shot of rough brandy in a cup of exquisitely smooth coffee.

  She pulled herself upright and the man at her side drew back. There was a smudge of mascara on her cheek and her eyes were liquidy. ‘This is my manager, Derek. Sit down, please,’ she murmured, and they sat.

  ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Forcing Mikhail out into the street to ’ave a cigar. What a bitch. That’s what people will say. But it wasn’t really like that. I ’ave asthma, you see, and the smoke fucks me up. But he could ’ave gone to his study, or the billiard room. They ’ave separate air-conditioning, he insisted on that. That’s where he usually goes after dinner. But it was a warm night, and he liked the gardens, the space, the trees. He could imagine he was back in St Petersburg, or wherever. And he probably wanted to get away from those two parasites.’

  ‘Parasites?’ Brock cleared his throat. He felt suddenly very hot.

  ‘Nigel and Freddie.’ She looked suspiciously at Brock. ‘You aren’t going down with something are you? You ’aven’t got the flu or something?’

  Derek sprang abruptly to his feet and whisked a small aerosol can from his pocket and sprayed the air between Brock and Shaka. Then he took another container from his other pocket and approached Brock.

  ‘Just for the hands,’ he said.

  Brock looked at him as if he were mad.

  ‘The hands? Please?’

  Kathy held out her palms and Derek sprayed them, then turned back to Brock, who reluctantly followed suit.

  ‘Are you aware of any threats made against your husband, Mrs Moszynski?’ he said.

  ‘No. Of course people were jealous of him.’ She shrugged. ‘Freddie would know more about that.’ She was speaking more rapidly now, as if anxious to finish the interview.

  ‘What about in Russia?’ Kathy said. ‘Did he have enemies there?’

  ‘The same, envy. He hated going back, the way people looked at him, because he was rich. Vadim takes care of things over there now.’

  ‘His son-in-law.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But he didn’t mention any threatening letters, phone calls?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘What about Nancy Haynes?’

  Shaka looked blank.

  ‘The American tourist who was staying at the hotel next door. Who was murdered last Thursday.’

  Shaka looked at her manager. ‘Did I know about that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Shaka.’

  ‘Your husband didn’t mention it?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He went to her memorial service in the little church across the square this morning.’

  ‘Did he? I thought he’d gone to the cathedral. He usually does on Sunday mornings.’ She turned again to Derek. ‘It is Sunday, isn’t it?’

  He checked his watch. ‘Not any more, darling.’ Then he added, to Kathy, ‘That’s the Russian Orthodox Cathedral up the road in Knightsbridge. Very devout, Mr Moszynski.’

  They were interrupted by noises from outside the room, the wailing protest of a woman’s voice. The sound came closer and Shaka gave a groan.

  ‘Sounds like Mr Moszynski’s mother,’ Derek whispered to Brock.

  A small grey-haired woman burst into the room, her arms outstretched. Shaka got to her feet and reached down to embrace her mother-in-law. They kissed on both cheeks without much sign of warmth and the older woman swung round on Brock and hurled a stream of angry Russian.

  ‘Sorry.’ Another woman, aged about thirty, had come into the room with a baby held against her chest. ‘My grandmother is upset. Baba!’ she said sharply to the older woman, and then followed with some Russian. The old woman sank into a chair, put her face in her hands and began to sob.

  Brock and Kathy went back downstairs, where Everett showed them into what he described as the library. Two men were sitting in leather armchairs on each side of a marble fireplace. They got to their feet and Nigel Hadden-Vane took a step forward. Brock saw a flicker of recognition cross his face as he introduced Kathy and himself. On their last encounter they had been adversaries by proxy, through the agency of other players, but the underlying agenda had been between Brock and the veteran criminal Spider Roach, whose part Hadden-Vane had taken. Whether he had done so in order to score points against parliamentary rivals, or for more sinister reasons, had never been resolved.

  Now Hadden-Vane seemed subdued and cautious, eyeing Brock from time to time as Kathy put the questions. He explained that he had attended the memorial service for Nancy Haynes that morning in his capacity as MP for the borough. Mr Moszynski, who was well known to him, had also attended and invited him back afterwards for some lunch. As a member of the Parliamentary Business and Enterprise Committee, Sir Nigel had recently returned from an official visit to Russia to promote UK–Russian trade, and he and Mr Moszynski had many things to discuss. Later they were joined by Mr Moszynski’s financial adviser, Mr Clarke.

  ‘Freddie,’ Clarke interrupted, putting out his hand, then offering Kathy his business card, with an address in Mayfair. Head shaved, with a gingery goatee beard and moustache, he looked far too young to be anybody’s financial adviser.

  The meeting had turned into a social occasion, Hadden-Vane continued. Mr Moszynski was well known for his generous hospitality and the three men had remained together for supper, after which their host had left to smoke a cigar outside. He had given no indication of a threat against his life.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Freddie Clarke agreed. ‘This is just, well, unbelievable.’

  ‘Did he know Mrs Haynes?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘No, no.’ Hadden-Vane shook his head. He was speaking carefully, as if to control a slight slur in his voice. Brock had noticed the glass and decan
ter of brandy on the small table by his armchair and guessed he was slightly drunk. ‘He attended her memorial service this morning to show his support, as a neighbour. He was extremely aware of his status as a guest in this country, and took it upon himself to behave as a model resident, supporting charities, local schools and the like.’

  Brock and Kathy continued questioning both men for some time, without getting any clearer idea of why Moszynski might have been attacked. Clarke sketched the international scale of his business dealings, but insisted that they were impeccably conducted and had attracted no personal or criminal antagonism.

  ‘What about the Russians?’ Kathy asked.

  Hadden-Vane gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘There’s too much hysterical nonsense made of all that. Every time some Russian expat has a turn it’s a plot by the Kremlin and the FSB. Believe me, they’re as embarrassed by those sorts of rumours and allegations as we are.’

  ‘Mr Moszynski didn’t exactly have a turn,’ Kathy said.

  Hadden-Vane’s eyes narrowed and a flush spread across his face. ‘No, and I should have thought it pretty obvious that the reason lies a good deal closer to home. There is clearly a psychopathic maniac on the loose in this borough, and the sooner the police focus on that fact the better.’

  Brock saw Kathy stiffen at the contempt in the MP’s voice. ‘Two random victims from the same building?’

  ‘And why not?’ Hadden-Vane shot back, his voice raised now and angry. ‘The papers reported where Mrs Haynes was living. Why wouldn’t he come back to haunt the place? Maybe he hates foreigners; maybe he hates Chelsea, maybe he hates the police. I don’t know, but it’s your job to find out, and put a fucking stop to it.’

  Behind him, Clarke looked down at his feet with a little smirk on his face.

  There were press and TV cameras outside when they opened the front door, throwing a dazzling light in their faces. The night air was filled with a hubbub of shouted questions. The crowd parted reluctantly as they pushed through to the gate across the street and the relative calm of the crime scene.

  ‘Sorry,’ Kathy said. ‘I almost lost it with Hadden-Vane.’

  ‘You did fine,’ Brock said.

  ‘I wanted to hit him.’

  ‘That I would have liked to see . . . oh.’ A wave of nausea and dizziness suddenly overwhelmed him and he stopped and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Dizzy.’ There was a bench nearby in the shadows, and he stumbled towards it and slumped down. ‘Hot,’ he muttered. ‘Is it me or is it very hot?’

  The local CID man came towards them. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘My boss isn’t well,’ Kathy said, sitting down beside Brock. He felt her cool hand on his brow and heard her intake of breath. ‘I think I’d better get him to a doctor.’

  ‘No . . .’ Brock objected, but he found it suddenly hard to frame the words.

  ‘We’ve got one here.’ The detective strode away and returned a minute later with a figure shrouded in a blue paper crime scene suit. He was the local forensic physician, who’d just completed a preliminary examination of Moszynski’s body. Now he unfastened his bag and checked Brock’s temperature and pulse. He asked Kathy and Brock a few questions and then said, ‘Looks like influenza, maybe swine flu. Have you been immunised?’ Brock shook his head. ‘He shouldn’t be at work,’ the doctor said. ‘Get him home to bed now and contact his GP in the morning.’ He searched around in his bag and said, ‘You’re in luck.’ He pulled out a packet of Tamiflu tablets. ‘These will ease the symptoms.’

  ‘Come on,’ Kathy said to Brock. ‘I’ll take you home.’

  ‘No,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll get a cab. You stay here. You’re senior investigating officer now.’

  ‘Take him home,’ the detective said. ‘There’s not much you can do till morning. You’ll need to be fresh then. I’ll ring you if there’s any results from CCTV.’

  ‘You’re interviewing people in the square?’

  ‘Of course, all under control.’

  Kathy turned to the doctor. ‘Anything you can tell us?’

  ‘I’d put time of death at two to four hours ago, three puncture wounds to the heart, narrow blade, neat grouping, very precise.’

  Brock heard their discussion as if through a blanket. ‘Like an exercise in fencing school,’ he whispered.

  Kathy put a hand under his arm and said, ‘Come on.’ As he got groggily to his feet he heard the detective chuckle. ‘He’s probably given it to all our witnesses. See if you can spread it among the press on your way out.’

  They avoided the crowd around Chelsea Mansions and reached Kathy’s car parked in the next street.

  As he pulled the belt across his chest he gathered his breath and said, ‘Sorry, Kathy. Came on so fast. Feel so bloody helpless.’

  ‘A friend of Nicole’s caught it, said it was like being poleaxed.’ She opened the packet of pills and gave him one with a bottle of water she had in the car. ‘One a day,’ she said, and started the engine.

  Brock was silent for a while, his eyes closed, trying to think, and then, as they were crossing Chelsea Bridge, he said, ‘This is going to be big, Kathy. Did you hear what the press were shouting? Litvinenko. They think it’s another political killing. MI5 will be involved, the Foreign Office . . .’

  ‘Yes of course, I understand that.’ She paused. ‘You think it’s too big for me?’

  ‘Not the detective work, no, but the politics is something else.’ He coughed and tried to put some force into his words. She had to understand. ‘Sharpe will feel obliged to appoint a more senior SIO. Probably Dick Chivers.’

  ‘Superintendent Chivers,’ Kathy sighed. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. He’s got his own team. It won’t be our case any more.’

  He watched her thinking about that. Would it matter to her? He had seen the look of distaste on her face as they’d been confronted by the gaudy opulence of the Russian’s house. Perhaps she’d be happy to let Chivers have it. But I wouldn’t, he thought.

  There was a long silence as they drove on into South London. They were skirting Clapham Common when Brock spoke again. ‘It would only be for a day or two.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Tamiflu will sort me out in a couple of days. If we can hold them off until then . . .’

  ‘How could we do that?’

  ‘Nancy was going up to Scotland, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, to Angus.’

  ‘Then an urgent lead has taken me away to Angus.’

  Kathy laughed in a way that suggested he was joking, or mildly delirious.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he insisted. ‘You can tell them I’ll be back tomorrow night, then put them off till the next night . . .’

  ‘You’re not serious, Brock! Commander Sharpe would have kittens.’

  ‘You and I would be in constant touch.’ Then he sighed and closed his eyes again. ‘No, you’re right, it wouldn’t be easy, especially for you. Forget it.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘It’d be like sabotage, telling lies, undermining the system.’

  ‘Mm.’

  She was driving down his high street now, slowing for the turning beneath the archway into Warren Lane, and then he heard the tyres drumming on cobblestones. They passed under the horse chestnut tree, huge in her headlights, and came to a stop outside his front door.

  He staggered inside, up the book-lined staircase to the rooms on the first floor, and Kathy helped him to his bedroom.

  ‘Thanks, Kathy. Too far for you to go home tonight. The spare bed’s made up.’

  ‘Yes, sounds good. I’ll ring Suzanne tomorrow, let her know.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. She’s gone to the West Country for an antiques sale.’ He could hardly get the words out now. ‘There are things she wants for the shop. I don’t want her charging back here just for this.’

  All the same, Kathy thought. She’d probably get in trouble either way from one
of them. The terms of Brock and Suzanne’s relationship remained unclear to her. They loved each other yet preferred to live separate lives.

  There was an alarm clock in the spare room, which Kathy set for five a.m., three hours away, wanting to be back in Cunningham Place at dawn, when the detailed search of the square would begin.

  EIGHT

  By eight the next morning it was becoming clear that they were unlikely to find any traces of the killer in the garden. A German shepherd from the Dog Support Unit had followed a trail out of the garden gate and across the street, but no further, and it was probably Moszynski’s own. They would have to hope for fingerprint or DNA evidence that forensics may have picked up on the gate or bench, or on Moszynski himself. Another detective from the borough command, a DI, had taken charge of the scene, and briefed Kathy on the search that had been going on through the night for possible CCTV sightings, so far without a firm result.

  Kathy phoned Dot at Queen Anne’s Gate and told her about Brock’s illness, and his plan to keep control of the investigation. She seemed unfazed by his Scottish deception, which, in the light of a new day, seemed increasingly unrealistic to Kathy. Together they went over the most urgent administrative tasks that would need to be covered, and Kathy asked her to send Phil, her usual case action manager, and DC Pip Gallagher, now permanently attached to the team, to meet her at the Chelsea police station as soon as they arrived.

  They gathered there with borough command officers to plan the next stages of the investigation and allocate manpower. The steps were familiar and predictable, everyone busy, but as the time passed and no tangible leads to the killer emerged, Kathy began to feel the same nagging sense of frustration that she’d been feeling about Nancy’s investigation, as if they were missing something. It’s the public interest, she told herself. The morning editions of the papers were full of it. It was like dancing naked on an empty stage.