Chelsea Mansions

by Barry Maitland

  Inside, the atmosphere was more as Kathy had expected, the dark interior glittering with the light of candles, perfumed by clouds of incense and reverberating with the deep mournful sound of a male choir. There were no seats, the mourners standing packed together in the nave, overlooked on three sides by a balcony. Kathy took an order of service sheet, printed in English and Russian, and found the stairs to the upper level from which she could get a view across the congregation towards the east end, where three bearded priests, wearing heavy silver and gold robes, stood in front of an altar and a panelled screen hung with icons. They faced Mikhail Moszynski’s coffin, around which his family clustered.

  The harmonies of the choir subsided into an expectant silence, broken at last by the voice of one of the priests. ‘Blessed is our God,’ he chanted, ‘now and forever and to the ages of ages.’ There was a murmur from some of the crowd, and the priest continued, alternating between English and Russian.

  It was an impressive service, Kathy thought, with its sense of ancient ritual, and most of all the spine-shivering voices of the choir, unaccompanied by any instrument, whose deep chords throbbed through the whole building and every body inside it. There was only one discordant moment, when the priest gestured to the family and both Mikhail’s mother and wife got to their feet. Marta tottered and Shaka made to take hold of her arm, but the old woman shook her off with a hoarse cry, clearly audible in the silent cathedral, that sounded very like a curse.

  Afterwards, blinking outside in the sunlight, Kathy watched the people queuing to pay their respects to the bereaved family, all except Shaka, who was somewhere among a mob of photographers heading towards a limo. As Kathy wove her way through the crowd her ears were straining for voices, hoping to catch something.

  ‘Inspector.’

  She turned to see John Greenslade at her elbow. Toby and Deb from the hotel were standing behind him, all three beaming at Kathy, like the best of friends, out for the day to see the sights.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’

  Toby’s smile widened. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. What about that singing, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned to John and said quickly, ‘I’m getting some more letters for you.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘See you.’

  She moved off to the edge of the crowd, where chauffeured cars were picking people up. From somewhere behind her she heard a woman’s voice, flirtatious.

  ‘And what about you, Nigel? Can we offer you a lift?’

  And the reply, ‘If you please, darling. If you please.’

  Kathy held her breath and turned slowly around. An elegant female leg was disappearing into the rear door of a car, and following it, leaning forward as if he might pounce on it, was the bulky figure of Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane.

  Kathy pulled out her radio and spoke rapidly to Pip Gallagher, who she knew was sitting in a car further down the street. ‘There’s a black Mercedes coming your way,’ she said, and gave the registration number. ‘See where it goes.’ Then she made a call on her mobile to Bren, back at Queen Anne’s Gate. ‘I think I’ve got him, Bren, our Mr X. It’s Hadden-Vane.’

  ‘Bloody hell. You sure?’

  ‘Not a hundred per cent. I think he’s on his way to the function for invited mourners. It’s in a club in Kensington. Pip’s on his tail. I’m coming back.’

  The private function centre was on a rooftop, landscaped with pergolas, pools and groves of trees, and with sweeping views across the city. In the streets below, unmarked police cars took up position and waited for the MP to reappear, which he did at three thirty p.m., bustling out of the front door as the taxi he’d ordered drew up at the kerb. At the same time a call came through from the car waiting outside the riverside apartments in Battersea. ‘Chloe’s on the move,’ the officer reported. ‘Catching a cab.’

  At Queen Anne’s Gate Kathy and Bren watched the routes of the two taxis converge on West Kensington. Almost simultaneously the following cars reported their destination: the Wintergarden Hotel.

  ‘I want pictures of them together in the lobby, if you can,’ Kathy said. ‘But don’t let anyone see you doing it.’

  Bren swore under his breath. ‘You were right, Kathy. It is him. This is going to put one hell of a cat among the pigeons. I want to see Sharpe’s face when we tell him. But even more, I want to see Hadden-Vane’s face when we knock on that hotel room door.’

  Kathy shook her head. ‘No, Bren. We need more, much more. And he mustn’t know we’re on to him while we get it.’

  After a couple of minutes a report came back from one of the cars. ‘We’ve got a couple of shots of them together. They went up to the sixth floor. From the look on the receptionist’s face he’s a regular here. Shall we speak to her?’

  ‘No,’ Kathy said. ‘Take pictures as they leave and follow them.’

  She took a deep breath and stared at Bren. ‘Why? Why would he want Moszynski killed? They were great mates.’

  ‘We know he’s a corrupt bastard with some very dodgy friends, Kathy. Remember the last time? We knew he was tied up with Spider Roach, but we couldn’t prove it.’

  ‘That’s why we have to be careful. He made mincemeat of us the last time. He destroyed Tom Reeves’ career and very nearly took Brock and the rest of us down too.’

  ‘Tom Reeves cut corners. He was a maverick, you know that. And Hadden-Vane destroyed him from behind the screen of parliamentary privilege. But he won’t be able to hide from this.’

  ‘All we’ve got is a record of three very brief phone calls between Harry Peebles’ and Hadden-Vane’s mobile phones. We don’t know what was said. We need further proof of contact between the two of them and we need a convincing motive.’

  Bren thought for a moment. ‘Maybe there’re others involved. Vadim Kuzmin, for instance.’

  ‘A family coup, you mean? Yes, I’ve wondered about that.’

  ‘Maybe Vadim got Hadden-Vane to use his criminal contacts to do the deed while Vadim was safely out of the country.’

  Kathy nodded slowly. ‘That’s possible.’

  ‘I just wish we could tell Brock,’ Bren said. ‘This would have him back on his feet in no time.’

  By the time she got to the hospital that evening Kathy was filled with a quiet sense of elation. For too long they had lived with the memory of Hadden-Vane’s plot—his ‘Spider trap’ as Brock had called it—to destroy a rival MP and in the process discredit Brock and his team. Now they were surely very close to getting the evidence that would finally expose him. She hurried into the hospital lift, imagining the look on Brock’s face when she told him.

  Suzanne was standing by the window looking into his cubicle, and when she turned around, Kathy was stopped short by the look of desolation on her face.

  ‘Suzanne?’

  ‘Oh, Kathy.’ Tears flooded down her cheeks.

  ‘What’s happened!’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘They’ve just taken his body away.’

  Kathy felt dizzy, hardly able to take in what Suzanne was saying.

  ‘So sudden . . . I was with his mother . . .’

  Kathy sucked in air, trying to hold herself together. ‘His mother?’ Brock had never spoken of his mother.

  ‘Such a lovely woman. Devastated, of course. I had to ring for her husband to come. I had to tell him, Kathy. I had to tell him that Danny was dead.’

  ‘Danny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My God, I thought . . . I thought you meant Brock.’

  ‘No, there’s no change. But Kathy, you know what this means. They’re all going to die. All three of them.’ She began shaking with uncontrollable sobs.

  ‘No.’ Kathy wrapped her arms around the other woman and held her tight. ‘No, it surely doesn’t mean that. Have the doctors said so?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to them, but . . .’

  ‘l’ll do it.’ She made Suzanne sit down and told h
er to wait while she went along the corridor to the nurses’ station, where she found one of the specialists.

  There was no way of knowing, he said. Danny had had a sudden relapse, but Peter Namono was still stable, and so was Brock. They were doing everything they could. A new antiviral drug was being flown over from America. They could only wait and hope.

  Suzanne was calmer when Kathy returned and passed on what she’d been told. Suzanne gave a weary sigh and wiped a hand across her eye. ‘I’m sorry, Kathy. I keep thinking the worst.’

  ‘When did you last have a decent meal? Not since last week, I’ll bet. Come on, nothing’s going to happen tonight. If he could he’d be telling us to get out of here and have a proper feed. I saw an Italian place down the road. How about it?’

  Suzanne sniffed and began to form a refusal, then relented.

  After the first glass of Chianti she gave a reluctant smile and said, ‘Thanks, Kathy. I did need to get away from that place. If he ever gets out of there I’ll kill him for putting us through this.’

  Kathy nodded.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the work you do, the pair of you,’ Suzanne went on. ‘And I’ve thought about how alike you two are. That’s why you get on so well, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t think we’re alike at all.’

  ‘Oh yes you are. Both stubborn, like terriers when you get your teeth into something. Very loyal, but not always to the right priorities.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You both suffer from the same problem, what I used to call Brock’s Paradox, the belief that you can only keep a relationship alive by not allowing it to reach its full potential.’

  Kathy sat back, feeling as if she’d been unexpectedly slapped.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Suzanne said. ‘I’ve upset you. Please, forget it. I’ve had so much on my mind and I—’

  ‘Do you really think that’s true?’

  ‘About him, yes. Maybe not about you. Maybe you’ve just been unlucky with your men. What happened to the one who went to the Middle East?’

  ‘He’s moved on to Shanghai.’

  ‘Oh, that is rather inconvenient.’ She took another sip of her wine and then said, ‘That Canadian you’re working with obviously thinks the world of you.’

  ‘What? John Greenslade? You’ve met him?’

  ‘Yes. He came to the hospital a few days ago, Friday I think, with a beautiful bunch of spring flowers. He said he’d never met Brock, but just wanted to pay his respects. And then we had quite a conversation about you and the work he’s helping you with. Quite star-struck, he was.’

  Kathy felt a blush creeping up her neck, and was saved from replying by the arrival of their vitello tonnato, the speciality of the house.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘Listen, I’m goin’ fuckin’ mad. Everybody wants me. I’m gettin’ out of here.’

  Kathy listened to her ranting down the phone, about being cooped up in quarantine with her mother-in-law, about the press hounding her, about the stupid rumours they were printing, then said, conciliatory, ‘It must be terrible for you, Shaka, and I wouldn’t bother you again if I could avoid it. Are you at home in Chelsea now?’

  ‘No way. I’m goin’ crazy in that house. I’m at Derek’s office. The little shit’s home in his bed, thinks he’s sick now, so I’m hidin’ out in his office.’

  ‘I’ll come and see you there.’

  ‘I told you, I’m leavin’. Today.’

  ‘Just stay there. I’ll be with you in a few minutes. I won’t take up much of your time.’

  The agent’s office was in Golden Square in Soho. In the taxi over there Kathy thought about the plight of Shaka, one of the most beautiful and admired women in the country who was being driven mad by the constant gaze of rapt attention. It was another paradox for Suzanne, she thought. They had parted the previous night on good terms, happy to have renewed their friendship, promising to keep in touch, and there had been a text message from her that morning, thanking Kathy for the meal.

  Shaka answered Kathy’s ring on the office door on the third floor. Several expensive-looking suitcases were standing inside.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Kathy asked.

  ‘Little Ruby Cay. The driver will be here soon to collect me, so you’d better make it quick.’

  ‘All right. When I spoke to you on the night of Mikhail’s murder, you described Freddie Clarke and Nigel Hadden-Vane, who were there in the house, as parasites.’

  Shaka shrugged. ‘Did I?’

  ‘Did you tell Mikhail how you felt about them? How you didn’t trust them?’

  ‘They were useful. He used them.’

  ‘I know how he met Freddie, in Luxembourg, but how about Hadden-Vane?’

  ‘Nigel got his claws into Mikhail as soon as he arrived, gettin’ him invitations to the right places, introducing him to the right people. Mikhail needed that. Hell, he even arranged for us to meet. Mikhail saw a picture of me and said something to Nigel, and the next thing we were being introduced at a party. He was like Mikhail’s pimp.’

  ‘He got girls for Mikhail?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it literally. It was just the way he acted, like a creepy pimp, buttering Mikhail up, arranging favours. I hated the way he flattered Mikhail all the time.’

  ‘And you told Mikhail that.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And Nigel knew how you felt?’

  ‘I didn’t try to hide it.’

  ‘That would have made Nigel feel pretty insecure, wouldn’t it?’

  Shaka’s mobile began playing a tune and she turned away to answer it with a few curt words, then said, ‘The driver’s here in two minutes.’

  ‘How does Nigel get on with the rest of Mikhail’s family?’

  ‘All right I suppose, all except his mother. He can’t stand Marta.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because she’s a poisonous old witch. “Nigel,”’ she whined, ‘“You get me to meet Queen Elizabeth. Nigel, you get citizenship for Uncle Boris.” She’s a fuckin’ pain. Nobody can stand her. Even Mikhail had had enough.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, they had a blazin’ row.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Not long before Mikhail died. I was away on a shoot. It must have been the Tuesday or Wednesday of that week. He was very upset that evenin’ when I got back. The old bitch had been givin’ him a hard time about something, he wouldn’t say what.’

  The buzzer on the office door sounded.

  ‘Okay,’ Shaka said. ‘Gotta go.’

  ‘Have a nice break.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. It was our favourite place, Mikhail and me. We were happy there. No paparazzi, no Marta.’

  ‘How about the parasites? Did they go?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about leaving now, Shaka? Aren’t you afraid they may try to rip you off while you’re away?’

  Shaka gazed at Kathy for a moment, face expressionless, then said, ‘Vadim will keep them in line.’

  Despite Shaka’s vivid impersonation of Marta’s spoken English, the old woman refused to speak to Kathy except in Russian, and an interpreter was called in.

  Kathy began with a few words of condolence and a compliment on the dignity of the funeral service, but Marta, draped in a black shawl and wearing a large silver cross around her neck, listened to the translation with all the animation of a rock. A very tough old lady, Kathy thought, watching her. She’d been a teenager through the siege of Leningrad, of course, and had probably seen enough by the time she turned sixteen to harden the softest heart. She had married Gennady in 1950, when she was twenty-two and he forty-seven and already an important figure in Leningrad politics. Kathy wondered what had drawn the pair together. Was Marta once beautiful? Had she captivated the older man with her sparkling eyes and flashing smile? It was impossible to imagine now.

  She had been hardened by tragedy, she said, in a growling Russian that sounded as if she were reci
ting some ancient saga, but nothing could prepare her for the loss of her son. He was a lion, a genius, a saint. Her only consolation was that he had left her a granddaughter and a great-grandson.

  Kathy asked if she had any idea who might be responsible for her son’s death.

  Criminals, she said. English criminals. They were everywhere in the streets. You had only to look at television to know this.

  ‘Could there have been anyone close to Mikhail who might want him dead?’ Kathy asked.

  Impossible. To know Mikhail was to love him, as a brother, as a father, as a son.

  Kathy persisted. Did she trust Mikhail’s friends? Freddie Clarke and Nigel Hadden-Vane, for instance?

  Freddie was a genius and Sir Nigel a true English gentleman. They loved Mikhail and he loved them.

  After a quarter of an hour of this, Kathy gave up. She thanked Marta, took the interpreter to the door and asked to see Ellen Fitzwilliam again.

  Mikhail’s secretary was feeding a paper shredder when Kathy was shown into the office at the far end of the building.

  ‘Getting rid of the evidence?’ Kathy said.

  The woman looked at her in consternation, but then Kathy smiled. ‘Just joking. How are things going?’

  ‘I’m just trying to tidy things up while Freddie—that’s Mr Clarke, Mr Moszynski’s accountant—while Mr Clarke sorts out what’s to be done.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Freddie. I got the impression that Mr Moszynski’s business affairs were complicated.’

  ‘Freddie deals with all the financial matters. I mainly concentrate on social and charitable affairs, and his travel arrangements.’

  ‘I believe that one of our consultants, Mr Greenslade, was in touch with you.’