‘I’ve got a book of photographs here, Angela, that I’d like you to look at and tell me if you’ve seen any of the men before, okay?’
Angela looked doubtful. ‘Will it get Kenny into trouble?’
‘No, not at all. We just want to trace the people that Harry Peebles may have met while he was in London.’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’
‘I do appreciate your help, Angela, and I’ll certainly report to the governor how cooperative you’ve been.’
‘Well, let’s take a look then.’
Kathy opened the album of mug shots and Angela began to scan them, slowly turning the pages. Eventually she stopped at one picture.
‘Oh,’ she said with a smile. ‘I know him, but he would never have met with someone like Harry Peebles.’
‘How do you know him, Angela?’
‘He was my dad’s boss. My dad was a driver—a chauffeur, he insisted on calling it. He worked for Mr Hadden-Vane for years.’
‘Really? Has he ever been to your house?’
‘Oh no. But he knew where Dad lived, right enough.’
When she got back to her office Kathy found Bren leaning over Pip’s shoulder looking at her computer screen.
‘Hey, Kathy,’ he said. ‘Take a look at this.’
It was an article from a local newspaper, three years old. The caption read, mp rewards civic-minded youths beneath a picture of Hadden-Vane handing a certificate to a grinning teenager. In the background, clapping, was a group including both Danny Yilmaz and his cousin Barbaros Kaya.
‘Brilliant, eh? The three of them together in the same photo.’
‘Yes. Can I have a word, Bren?’
They went into an empty office and Kathy told him about her visit to Holloway.
Bren grinned. ‘Well, now we have got him. We can connect him to both the killer and the bike-rider, and can establish that he had an opportunity to write the letter to The Times to put us off the scent.’
‘What about motive?’
‘Something to do with money, I’d guess. Probably to do with the heat he’s been taking over improper dealings with the Russians. Maybe Moszynski was about to come clean about something that would severely embarrass him.’
Kathy nodded. ‘Maybe, but we have absolutely no evidence of that. And was he acting alone?’
‘Vadim, you mean?’
‘Maybe, or how about Freddie Clarke?’
‘Yes . . .’ Bren considered that. ‘Yes, if it’s to do with money, he’d either be involved or have some idea of what’s going on. But if he is involved and you ask him about Hadden-Vane’s financial dealings with Moszynski, it’ll tip them off.’
‘So we need to tap their phones, get hold of their emails, take a look at their financial records.’
‘The big boys upstairs are going to be very cautious, Kathy, after the last brush we had with Hadden-Vane.’
‘You’re right. We’d be in a much stronger position if we could place him inside 13 Ferncroft Close, wouldn’t we?’
‘Yes, but none of the neighbours saw anyone else visit the house during that week that Peebles was there.’
‘We did find a number of unidentified fingerprints and DNA traces inside.’
Bren nodded slowly.
‘I thought I might have a word with Sir Nigel,’ Kathy said.
Kathy showed her identification to the policeman on duty at the Cromwell Green visitors’ entrance to the Houses of Parliament, and was directed to a reception desk from which she was escorted up stairs and along gothic corridors to the door of a secretary’s office.
‘Yes, I know he’s expecting you,’ the woman said. ‘He is very busy at the moment, but he asked me to call him when you arrived. Would you just take a seat?’
After ten minutes Hadden-Vane arrived. He looked around the room then said to Kathy, getting to her feet, ‘On your own?’
‘Yes, Sir Nigel.’ She offered him her hand, but he ignored it, or perhaps didn’t notice.
‘Thanks, Maureen.’ He lifted a thick stack of papers from the secretary’s desk and turned to the door. ‘This way.’
They walked at a fast clip down the corridor to another door. Hadden-Vane unlocked it and they entered a small office with bookcases filled with gold-lettered binders.
‘Take a seat.’ He dropped heavily into the chair behind the desk, thumped the papers down in front of him and ran his eyes quickly over the cover sheet. ‘Right. What can I do for you?’
‘We’re trying to reconstruct Mr Moszynski’s movements in the days leading up to his death. I have a couple of timesheets here for the week beginning Sunday the twenty-third, and we’d be grateful if you could fill them in, one for your own movements and one for what you know of Mr Moszynski’s. If you could let us have them in the next twenty-four hours we’d appreciate it.’
He frowned for a moment at the sheets of paper she gave him, then took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. ‘How’s your boss?’ he said, not looking up.
‘DCI Brock? He’s in hospital, in isolation. He contracted a virus.’
‘Yes, I heard. Is he out of danger?’
‘Not yet.’
He nodded slowly. It occurred to Kathy that he was tired. The bluster and showmanship of the other times she’d seen him were gone, and he seemed drained, like an actor between performances. The strain of recent days was taking its toll, she guessed.
‘So who’s in charge of the case?’
‘I’m senior investigating officer, sir, reporting to Commander Sharpe.’
‘Really?’ He seemed to consider this unlikely. ‘Busy work,’ he said finally.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s what this looks like.’ He tossed the pages onto his desk and ran a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. ‘Filling in time.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. There are always a lot of routine procedures to go through in cases like this.’
‘But I thought you’d found the culprit?’
‘It appears that he was paid to kill Mr Moszynski. We need to find who by.’
‘And the American woman? Why would he kill her?’
‘That may have been a mistake.’
‘A mistake?’ He looked incredulous for a moment, then shook his head. ‘All right, I’ll fill in your paperwork and have it faxed to you. Give me your number.’
‘It’s at the foot of the sheet. Also, I’d like to arrange for an officer to come and take your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA.’
‘What?’ Hadden-Vane seemed to focus on Kathy for the first time.
‘For elimination. There were a number of traces on and around Mr Moszynski’s body in the gardens, and we need to eliminate the ones that may have been picked up from people he’d been in contact with.’
‘But you have the killer’s body, don’t you? You know which traces are his.’
‘We have to be sure he didn’t have an accomplice.’
He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘If there was an accomplice who has a police record, you’ll know who he is. If he doesn’t, the unidentified traces won’t help you identify him, will they?’
Kathy began to argue but he shook his head abruptly and got to his feet. ‘No, sorry. Many of us are concerned about the indiscriminate taking and retaining of DNA by the police from innocent people, Inspector. I’ll pass on that one. Now you must excuse me.’ He held the door open for her. ‘You can remember the way out?’
As she made her way across Parliament Square towards Queen Anne’s Gate, Kathy pondered on the statues of famous men that she passed: Churchill, Lincoln, Mandela. She paused for a moment at the figure of Robert Peel, who had established the modern police force. All these men were remembered because they had successfully weathered crises of one kind or another, survived trials by fire. In comparison, nailing Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane was pretty small beer, only it didn’t feel like that. She knew that a lot of people would be watching her closely once she declared her hand, some of them hoping she would make a
mess of it, just as Tom Reeves had done. Taking on Hadden-Vane had cost him just about everything. She allowed herself a moment of weakness, to wish that Brock were there, then took a deep breath and made a phone call. When it was done she changed course towards Victoria Street and the headquarters building of New Scotland Yard.
On the sixth floor she made her way to room 632, where Commander Sharpe’s secretary showed her straight into his office. He looked up from the report he was reading.
‘Ah, Kolla. Take a seat.’
That was the phrase Hadden-Vane had used, and she had a sudden chilling thought that all these important men were alike and would protect each other.
‘Urgent, you said?’
‘Yes, sir. I need to advise you of a development in the Moszynski murder case.’
‘Good, good.’
‘You may not think so, sir.’
He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Let’s have it then.’
So she did, and watched the eyebrows on his stern beaky face drop from surprise to foreboding as she described what had been discovered about Hadden-Vane.
‘That man again,’ he growled at last. ‘But murder! You really think he’d go that far?’
‘It depends on how desperate he was. At the moment we don’t understand the motive. It may have been financial, and that might be hard to uncover without the cooperation of Moszynski’s accountant, who seems to be rather secretive.’
‘So what can we do?’
‘It would be helpful if we could establish whether his DNA or fingerprints were present in the Hackney house where Harry Peebles was staying. Unfortunately he has refused to volunteer samples. So I’d like to arrest him on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Mikhail Moszynski, so that we can insist on him providing them.’
‘You can’t just go around arresting people so as to get their DNA.’
‘I think we have reasonable grounds for suspicion, sir.’
‘It’s all circumstantial, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but from several independent circumstances.’
Sharpe hesitated, unhappiness all over his face. ‘Leave it with me, Inspector. I’ll consult a few people and let you know my decision.’
Kathy bought a sandwich on the way back to her office and ate it while she dealt with some of the paperwork that had been building up.
After a couple of hours Sharpe got back to her.
‘You won’t get a decision until tomorrow, Inspector. In the meantime you might think about some other way of getting your evidence.’
She talked it over with Bren and they decided that they would approach the Economic and Specialist Crime Command to request an investigation into Moszynski’s financial affairs. The superintendent Kathy spoke to didn’t sound surprised by the request and said he’d put a fraud team together, but warned that an investigation might take considerable time.
Rain was splattering against the darkened windows and Kathy could hear the sounds of people leaving for the night when her phone rang. It was Suzanne, sounding both anxious and excited.
‘There’s been some change, Kathy. It seems that the fever has eased. I’m waiting to see the doctor to find out what happens next.’
‘I’ll come straight over.’
The cab made slow progress through the choked streets up to St Giles’ Circus. Beyond, traffic in Tottenham Court Road was hardly moving. Finally, itching with frustration, Kathy paid the driver and set off on foot. She was wet and panting from the exertion when she finally ran into the hospital and made her way to the isolation wards, where Suzanne was still waiting for the doctor.
The doctor looked sombre and preoccupied when she finally came to see them. ‘The fever has subsided and his temperature is almost normal. He has regained consciousness and is breathing normally. Having survived thus far, we would expect recovery to be prompt and complete, but there is still the risk of further inflammation or secondary infections. We also have to carry out more tests to see if there’s been any permanent damage to his organs, particularly his liver and eyes. We shall be monitoring this very closely. He is no longer infectious, and you can go in to see him, but please remember that he’s lost a lot of weight and is very weak.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Suzanne said, and then, as they made their way to the door of Brock’s room, she turned to Kathy and whispered, ‘His eyes?’
They blinked open, pink-rimmed and bleary, when Suzanne touched his hand.
‘Hello,’ he croaked, and Suzanne, overcome, burst into tears. ‘They tell me I’ve been ill.’
‘Of course you’ve been ill. You’ve worried us to death this past week.’
‘A week?’ He gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘Can’t remember.’
Looking at the hollow temples and sunken cheeks, the skin as white as his hair and beard, Kathy thought of King Lear.
‘How are you, Kathy?’
‘Good.’ She pulled up a seat.
‘Things are going well?’
‘Absolutely. Everything’s just fine.’
The dark eyes regarded her for a moment, then he said, ‘You must tell me everything that’s been happening.’
‘But not until you’ve got your strength back,’ Suzanne broke in.
He smiled at her and said, ‘How was Cornwall?’
After ten minutes his eyes closed and a nurse came and asked them to leave.
Outside in the waiting room a dozen people sat in various stages of agitation or resignation, some staring up at a TV monitor mounted on the wall. Suzanne began to ask what Kathy’s impression had been when she stopped suddenly and pointed up at the screen.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that you?’
Kathy turned and saw a clip from the press conference they’d given the previous week, the camera focusing in close on her face. The sound was inaudible, but a ribbon of text scrolling across the bottom of the screen read: police accused of incompetence and ‘campaign of vilification’. mp admits using prostitutes. The picture had switched to Hadden-Vane, looking angry, then again to an image of a reporter beneath a dripping umbrella, talking to camera in front of the Houses of Parliament.
‘I’d better find out what this is all about, Suzanne,’ Kathy said, feeling a small hard lump of anxiety forming in her chest. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’
TWENTY-FOUR
The traffic on Tottenham Court Road had eased a little, but it took an age, standing in the rain, before a taxi responded to her signals.
When she got back to Queen Anne’s Gate the place seemed so calm and normal, the duty officer giving her a cheerful wave, that she could almost have believed that nothing had happened. Then she opened the BBC online news on her computer. She clicked on Breaking news, and a studio newscaster began speaking.
‘In a remarkable interview at his home late this afternoon, controversial London MP Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane admitted that he has been making use of the services of prostitutes for several years.’
The image changed to one of Hadden-Vane, standing in a traditionally furnished living room, a sporting print of racehorses just visible on the wall behind him. A dignified-looking woman was at his side, sitting in a wheelchair.
‘Three years ago my wife was seriously injured in a motor vehicle accident,’ Hadden-Vane declared, his voice resonant and sombre. ‘It was touch-and-go whether she would survive, and though she did, she is now a paraplegic. Inevitably our lives required substantial adjustment, and one of the things that became impossible for us was to share our devotion to each other in a fully physical way. Accordingly, my wife suggested that I should fulfil my physical needs through the services of professional service providers.’
A voice off-camera said, ‘Prostitutes? Is this true, Lady Hadden-Vane?’
‘It is,’ she said, her words clipped and precise. ‘We had a problem, and we faced it in an open, practical way. Nigel has been going to the same agency now for over two years. I have met the principal of the company and several of her employees, and they remind me of th
e women who run the hairdressing salon I use—competent, enthusiastic and highly professional. There are many couples who must face the same dilemma that we faced, and I hope that by explaining this we can encourage them to discuss it without shame or reservation. The important thing is to be open and honest with each other.’
‘Is that why you are going public with this, Sir Nigel?’
‘No, it is not. We regard this as a private matter between ourselves, and we would have preferred to keep it that way. However, I have learned that, during the course of their investigation into the murder of Mikhail Moszynski, the police came upon this information and intended to use it to implicate me in his death. I therefore decided to go public before they had that opportunity.’
‘Were you involved in Mr Moszynski’s murder?’
‘Of course not. He was a good friend of mine and a good friend to Britain, too.’
‘Then why would the police want to implicate you?’
‘Because the investigation by the Metropolitan Police Service has been badly mishandled. The team conducting the hunt for Mr Moszynski’s killers is inexperienced and has failed to make real progress, and is now flailing around looking for a scapegoat. As it happens, I have had dealings with them before, when I exposed another bungled criminal investigation. They are seeking their revenge. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were behind the scurrilous reports that have been circulating about supposedly irregular financial dealings between myself and Mr Moszynski.’
‘They did track down the man who is believed to have murdered Mr Moszynski and the American tourist Nancy Haynes though, didn’t they?’
‘He was a hired killer. The important thing is to establish who hired him.’
‘And do you have a theory about that?’
‘It seems perfectly obvious to me and to everybody else apart from the police that the murder was commissioned by a dissident group within the Russian security services, just as Mr Moszynski hinted in his letter to The Times. These people are experts in murder and espionage. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have planted evidence to implicate me.’
Chelsea Mansions Page 18
