Chelsea Mansions (10 page)

‘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

B
y 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.

She was on her way to Moszynski’s autopsy, which had been pushed to the front of the longlist usual for a Monday morning, when a call came through from Marilyn at the Press Bureau.

‘I can’t get hold of Brock. Do you know where he is?’

‘He’s not available, Marilyn.’

‘Not available? I’m arranging a press briefing for one o’clock. Top priority. Commander Sharpe’s agreed it with the Deputy Commissioner. Where the hell is he?’

Kathy took a deep breath. ‘In Scotland, I’m afraid.’

She heard Marilyn splutter. ‘Did I hear that right? Another Russian oligarch gets murdered in London, every media unit from here to Vladivostok is hammering on our door, and our front man buggers off to Scotland?’

Kathy swallowed. ‘An important line of inquiry. But not for publication at this stage.’

‘Sharpe doesn’t know about it, does he? I think you’d better talk to him, quick smart.’

‘Yes, I’ll do that.’

Kathy had been putting this off, but now, glimpsing the heavy machinery of senior management that had obviously been grinding away, she saw her mistake. As if to underline it, she got another call, this time from Dot.

‘Sharpe’s office is on the warpath, Kathy. Better give him a ring.’

‘Did you tell them about Scotland?’

‘I thought I’d leave that to you.’

Kathy felt a sudden spasm of nausea and wondered if she might have caught Brock’s bug. She had an overpowering desire to tell Sharpe the truth, but she had already begun the lie and to switch stories now seemed pathetic.

Sharpe’s secretary seemed reluctant to put Kathy through at first.

‘He’s in a meeting,’ she said. ‘He really needs to talk to Brock.’

‘That won’t be possible. I’m leading the Moszynski investigation at the moment. I have to speak to him.’

There was a short hesitation. ‘Hang on.’

Then a male voice, harsh and impatient. ‘Sharpe.’

‘Sir, it’s DI Kolla.’

‘Yes?’

‘Concerning the Moszynski murder last night.’

‘Yes, yes. I need Brock to brief me
immediately
.’

‘I’m afraid he’s been called away urgently, sir.’

‘Called away?’

‘Yes, a critical line of inquiry, sir, which he had to attend to personally.’ Kathy hesitated, picturing herself hanging from a public gibbet. ‘In Scotland.’

‘
Scotland!
’

‘Yes.’

‘I think you’d better get in here and tell me what’s going on.’

‘Yes, sir. Can it wait for an hour or so? I’m on my way to Moszynski’s autopsy.’

There was a strained silence, then Sharpe said. ‘Just tell me, Inspector. What’s he up to? What is this critical line of inquiry?’

‘Nancy Haynes, the American tourist, was about to go on to Scotland when she was killed last Thursday. We learned of a substantial legacy up there which she intended claiming. This provides the first real motive we’ve had for her murder, and Brock felt it was so important that he had to pursue it immediately.’

‘But . . . for God’s sake, that can wait. Moszynski’s the priority now.
Moszynski
, not Haynes.’

‘That’s what made it so urgent, sir. You see, if Haynes’ death was indeed a planned murder, and not a random act, then Moszynski’s murder may be simply an attempt to divert our attention and resources onto a much higher profile case, away from the real reason.’

‘The same killer . . .’ Sharpe said. He sounded mildly sceptical but not entirely incredulous, Kathy thought. She hoped that a banal, domestic motive for Moszynski’s death might have some appeal to Sharpe, at least enough to buy a day or two.

‘How long before he gets back?’

‘Hopefully tonight, sir, but I’m waiting for him to contact me. Unfortunately the castle’s in a rather remote area, with poor mobile coverage.’

‘The castle?’

‘The legacy, sir, a castle.’

She wondered if she’d gone too far, then heard him muse, ‘A castle in Scotland . . .’ and imagined the picture in his head, a turreted stone keep in the middle of a lonely loch among purple hills inhabited only by shaggy highland cattle.

‘We were planning on Brock holding a press conference today.’

‘I wonder if that could be delayed, sir, until we have something concrete to report?’

‘We’ll get back to you. Let me know immediately you hear anything, understand?
Immediately
.’

Kathy hung up and continued to the autopsy, which confirmed what they’d already assumed. Moszynski had died as a result of three stab wounds to the chest, one of which had punctured the left ventricle of his heart. The blade was sharp and narrow, about one centimetre wide and at least ten centimetres long. The assailant had most likely been sitting or crouching on the victim’s right side, and would have been right-handed. His or her right hand and forearm would have been covered in blood.

Kathy went on to Queen Anne’s Gate, where Zack had been busy compiling data fed into his computers from the teams in Chelsea and surrounding districts. Bren Gurney, the other DI on Brock’s team, came in and asked Kathy how it was going.

‘What’s this about Brock going to Scotland?’

He laughed when she explained. ‘The old bastard! He’s pulled a few swifties in his time, but this is a classic.’

‘It’s not funny, Bren. I’m out on a limb on this. I had to tell Sharpe a string of lies.’

Bren became serious. ‘Okay. How can I help?’

They went over it all again, the two murders, the lack of leads.

‘That was a good story, Kathy, the castle in Scotland. You should write a crime novel.’

‘The great detective doesn’t go down with flu in crime novels, Bren. Only alcohol poisoning and gunshot wounds.’

‘The crucial point is that you’re connecting the two crimes. You’re quite sure of that, are you? You’re not just trying to stop someone else moving in and taking over one or both of your murders?’

‘It’s a hell of a coincidence if they’re not connected.’

‘Yes, but the connection may not be crucial. There could still be two quite separate murderers, the second riding on the first to create a false impression of a connection, to muddy the waters. It might have affected his timing, but not his intent. And you’ve got to consider whether you wouldn’t be better concentrating on Nancy Haynes’ murder and letting someone else run the other. The Moszynski case is going to be a bastard. Everyone’ll want a piece of it—Counter Terrorism Command, MI5, MI6. And what do we know of these Russians, the Litvinenkos and Patarkatsishvilis? Only what we read in the papers—that they were maybe killed by the KGB. This isn’t our kind of case. Those other guys are experts; let them handle it.’

Kathy nodded. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. But that’s not the way Brock sees it.’

With ominous timing, Dot rang through to say that Kathy would be required to attend an interagency meeting at Marsham Street later that afternoon.

‘Marsham Street,’ Bren said. ‘Home Office. I told you, didn’t I?’

‘And there’s something else,’ Dot added. ‘We’ve just had a call from
The Times
. Apparently they received a letter this morning from Mikhail Moszynski, talking about threats to his life. They’re couriering it over.’

It arrived a short time later, a typed letter addressed to the editor of
The Times
, with Moszynski’s letterhead and signature.

Dear Sir,

Recent correspondence in The Times has focused on the economic performance of the Russian government. We must not lose sight, however, of big issues of human rights and threats to freedom of speech in Russia. Things have not changed since the murder of Anna Politkovskaya in 2006 by elements of Russian secret police for her criticism of the authorities. I too have been warned of threats to myself and my family by official elements who resent the success of expatriate Russian businessmen. Let me give good advice to your readers—do not be complacent about the situation in that great country.

Mikhail Moszynski

The letter was dated Friday 28 May, the day after Nancy Haynes was killed.

‘The envelope is also postmarked Friday,’ Bren said. ‘There’s your motive, Kathy. Like I said, this is one for the security services, yeah?’

‘But where does that leave Nancy Haynes?’

NINE

‘But only a
small
oligarch,’ the man from MI5 said.

‘A minigarch?’ the Foreign Office representative suggested, with a wry smile.

They had all been assembled when Kathy arrived, the atmosphere relaxed and convivial, as if they’d just enjoyed a pleasant lunch together to which she had not been invited. The only ones to acknowledge her arrival were the second MI5 officer, a woman, who’d given Kathy a brief smile, and Sharpe, who looked stiff and uncomfortable in his uniform and who pointed to the empty seat by his side. Out of the corner of her eye Kathy saw that the MI5 woman was setting up a screen.

She sat down and Sharpe introduced her to a superintendent from Counter Terrorism Command, then leaned to her and murmured, ‘Any developments?’

‘Only this, sir. Just came in.’ She handed him a copy of the letter to
The Times
, which he scanned with a frown.

‘Well now,’ an avuncular man at the centre of the table began, and the others fell silent. He was the only one with a name on a wooden holder in front of him,
Sir Philip Stafford, Home Office
, and Kathy wondered if he carried it around with him, or if he was permanently attached to that chair. ‘We should begin with a summary of the police investigation. If you please, Commander?’

Sharpe cleared his throat. ‘Our Senior Investigating Officer, DCI Brock, is unavoidably detained by an urgent line of inquiry, and I have invited his assistant SIO, DI Kolla, to stand in for him. I’ll ask her to brief you.’