Chelsea Mansions

by Barry Maitland

  ‘So you’re a kind of detective too,’ he said.

  John seemed to flush with pleasure at that. ‘Yes, in a way. Maybe it runs in the blood.’

  Again that look from Kathy, and John bowed his head and took a deep breath, and Brock saw that he was about to say something that they’d already discussed. He had the feeling that this was the point of their meal together, and he felt a sudden irritation at the subterfuge, and a reluctance to share whatever confession they were about to make.

  So he said quickly, ‘Well, I can’t say I’ve solved our puzzle, but I did make a little progress.’ He noticed a shadow of disappointment pass across Kathy’s face as he took out Morris’s envelope. ‘Originally there was a note accompanying the picture of Chelsea Mansions. Its message was imprinted onto the back of the photograph.’

  He showed them Morris’s ESDA image.

  ‘Miles.’ John frowned as he read the signature. ‘That was the name of Toby Beaumont’s son, who was killed in the first Gulf War.’ He told them the story. ‘But he certainly wouldn’t have been around in 1956.’

  ‘Perhaps Toby named him after his own father,’ Kathy suggested. ‘He was living in that house in the background of the picture.’

  ‘That’s possible,’ Brock said. ‘I had hopes that Toby might have taken the picture, but perhaps it was his father. Do we know anything about him?’

  Kathy shook her head. John was examining the photograph.

  ‘I showed a copy of that to Moszynski’s mother this afternoon,’ Brock said. ‘She got very upset—tore the picture to pieces and attacked me. Nearly crowned me. She denied that it’s Gennady.’

  John was nodding, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘That’s interesting. It could tie in with an idea I had. After Kathy left Boston I had to wait to get a seat on a return flight, so I went back to the Widener Library and did a bit more digging. I thought I’d try to find out more of what Gennady Moszynski’s movements might have been in the UK during that 1956 visit, and I drew up a timeline of what happened.’

  With a slight show of embarrassment, like an overenthusiastic student trying to please his teacher, Brock thought, John drew a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket and spread it out on the table.

  ‘The official party arrived in the UK on a Soviet cruiser, the Ordzhonikidze, at Portsmouth on the eighteenth of April, and stayed for ten days, during which they had meetings and functions in London, as well as visiting Birmingham, Oxford and Edinburgh. This is what I’ve been able to make of their movements. But there was one thing that didn’t go according to plan. Two days after the Russians left for home, MI6 announced that one of their operatives, a naval frogman, had disappeared near Portsmouth on the nineteenth of April, while testing some secret equipment. But the Russians then claimed that their sailors had seen a British frogman near the Ordzhonikidze on that day, and rumours began to circulate that the Russians had abducted or killed him. He was never found. His name was Commander—’

  ‘Buster Crabb,’ Brock cut in, shaking his head. He felt disappointed. Was that what this dinner was all about, so that Kathy’s new boyfriend could show off some crackpot conspiracy theory he’d come up with?

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’ John said.

  ‘It’s an old chestnut in this country, John, one of the great unsolved mysteries of the Cold War. There have been dozens of different explanations—Crabb had his throat cut by a Russian frogman, or was kidnapped and taken back to Russia, or defected, or even was murdered by MI6. Every couple of years someone comes up with a new idea. It’s a waste of time.’

  John looked deflated. ‘I just thought, what if Gennady Moszynski was mixed up in that business and Nancy’s mother had known about it and told Nancy? Wouldn’t the Moszynskis want to shut her up? I mean, the Brits might not be so friendly if the word got out . . .’

  ‘Then why kill Mikhail Moszynski? No, John, forget it. There’s something much more personal behind this. Look at that photograph again, at the features of Nancy and Gennady. You were right about Nancy’s birth date, Kathy. I asked the lab to compare the DNA samples taken from the bodies of Nancy and Mikhail. They were close relatives, brother and sister, with the same father—Gennady. That’s the family secret that everybody’s been trying to hide.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kathy said, ‘but . . .’ She stopped as Brock’s phone began to ring.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and flicked it open and listened. When the call was over he looked across at Kathy and said, ‘They’ve pulled Hadden-Vane’s body from the river. Apparently he jumped from Westminster Bridge earlier this evening. Sharpe wants me at headquarters. Sorry, but I’m going to have to leave you.’

  After Brock had gone they were silent for several long minutes. Finally John said, ‘Well, I sure blew that, didn’t I?’

  ‘I could see how difficult it was for you.’

  He shook his head in frustration. ‘I just couldn’t find the words to tell him. All the time I felt like an idiot intruder, an amateur sleuth trying to impress real cops.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that, John. He was a bit distant, but it was the first time you two have met and he’s probably still feeling rough. He’s usually warmer than that. You’ll see.’

  ‘No. That bit about the frogman . . . Hell, he must think I’m a complete fool. And he’s right. I should never have come to London, never have got myself into this situation.’

  ‘It was a good idea about Crabb. He shouldn’t have dismissed it the way he did.’

  ‘He didn’t just dismiss the idea, Kathy. He dismissed me. There’s no way we’re going to repeat this evening.’

  She reached across for his hand, which was clenched tight into a fist. ‘Come on, things will seem better in the morning. Let’s have another glass of wine.’

  ‘No. Look, I need to be alone for while, to get my head around this. I’m sorry, Kathy, this is really difficult for me. I think I’ll walk for a while, back to the hotel.’

  She withdrew her hand. ‘All right, if you’re sure.’

  ‘I just didn’t realise this would be so difficult.’

  He reached for his wallet and she said, ‘No, my turn. I owe you for that great meal in Boston.’

  ‘Seems a long time ago, doesn’t it?’

  She watched sadly as he walked away, turning at the door to give her a look of resignation, then disappearing into the night. It felt like a final parting, and she had to resist the impulse to go after him.

  Commander Sharpe was alone in his office on the sixth floor. He was watching something on a TV screen when Brock walked in, and clicked the remote in his hand to switch it off.

  ‘Come in, Brock.’ Sharpe passed him a plastic sleeve containing a handwritten note, which read,

  Dear Nigel,

  Take a look at this. westminsterwhistleblower.com has a copy.

  Freddie

  ‘This was in Hadden-Vale’s mail today, inside a padded pouch that’s currently with forensics. He opened it in his parliamentary office at around five this afternoon, and soon after walked out of the building to the middle of Westminster Bridge, where he jumped into the river. There were a number of witnesses.

  ‘Presumably there was something else in the envelope, our guess is a DVD or flash drive with a recording of an interview with Moszynski’s accountant, Freddie Clarke, which has since been released on the westminsterwhistleblower.com website.’ He nodded at the TV. ‘You’d better take a look.’

  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 Moszynsk
i 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.