Chelsea Mansions (13 page)

‘Ellen Fitzwilliam,’ the woman said, offering her hand. Like the maid, she too looked as if she’d been crying, and there were crumpled tissues in the bin beside her desk. ‘This is so dreadful. I heard it on the radio this morning when I was having breakfast and I still can’t believe it. People are saying that he was killed by the Russians, or by a serial killer.’

‘We really don’t know at the moment, Ellen. You must have spent a lot of time with him. Is there anything that you can tell us?’

‘Me . . .?’ She looked as if she hadn’t expected the question. ‘Well, yes, I’ve worked for Mr Moszynski for almost eight years now, but I can’t think of any reason why someone would want to hurt him. He was a perfect gentleman.’

‘A good boss?’

‘Oh yes. He was firm, very clear about what he wanted, but considerate too. When my mother was sick and I needed time off at short notice he was completely understanding. And he was just such an interesting man—he knew so many famous people. He started as a penniless apprentice, you know.’

‘Yes, an interesting family. How about his mother, Marta?’

‘Oh, she’s a character. Quite the matriarch. Of course she’s had a very hard life. She’s so proud of her son.’

Tears began to form in Ellen’s eyes. Kathy said quickly, ‘And his son-in-law, Mr Kuzmin?’

‘Ah, he is . . .’ She seemed to have trouble finding the right word. ‘Very vigorous,’ she said at last.

‘Vigorous?’ Kathy looked at her, puzzled, and the woman coloured slightly.

‘A great sportsman. He likes shooting, and he plays football.’ She hesitated. ‘And very loyal to Mr Moszynski, of course. Was there anything else?’

Kathy showed her the
Times
letter. ‘Have you seen this before?’

She frowned as she read it. ‘Friday . . . No, I haven’t.’

‘Is there someone else who might have typed it for him?’

‘No, I do all his typing. But he does sometimes write his own notes and letters on the computer. And that is his signature.’

‘Could you check your computer?’

Kathy stood behind her as she opened a file marked
Gen Corr
on the machine on her desk. ‘Nothing on Friday the twenty-eighth . . .’ She tried the previous day and scanned the list to one marked
Times
, which she opened. ‘Here it is.’

‘Can you find out for me when it was written, please?’

Ellen tapped the keys and brought up the properties information on the document. It had been created on Thursday 27 May, at nine thirty-two p.m.

‘Do you know when you left work that day, Ellen?’

She consulted her electronic diary. ‘Yes, I remember. I was taking my mother to the theatre and I had to leave on time, at five thirty.’

‘So you wouldn’t know who was here that evening?’

This time Ellen thumbed through a thick desk diary and said, ‘Mr Moszynski had pencilled in that evening for a business meeting here at the house with his close advisers. He didn’t say what it was about.’

‘His close advisers being…?’

‘Well, Mr Clarke, Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane and I suppose Mr Kuzmin, if he was still here. I think he left for Russia around then.’

‘So Sir Nigel was a business adviser to Mr Moszynski?’

‘Oh yes, and on social matters too. They were very close.’

Kathy moved on to show her Nancy’s picture.

‘Isn’t that the American lady who was staying at the hotel next door?’

‘You recognise her.’

‘Well, from her picture in the newspapers, yes, of course. We were shocked.’

‘We?’

‘Mr Moszynski and I. We talked about it. He was upset by the news.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Because she was living right next door. He was like that. He got upset when the old lady across the square was hit by a car a couple of years ago. I had to send flowers every day to her in hospital. He felt things personally.’

‘But had he met Mrs Haynes?’

‘Oh no, he would have mentioned that.’

‘Someone said that they saw her call in here on that Monday or Tuesday.’

‘Here? No, they must have been mistaken.’

‘You’re quite sure.’

‘Absolutely.’

Kathy left her and went through the same thing with the other members of the household, without learning anything new. When she asked about the recording from the security camera at the front door she was told that the police had already taken it.

As she left she looked back up at the front of Chelsea Mansions, thinking of the palace inside, and the secret lives of houses. The problem was that it seemed hardly possible that Mikhail Moszynski’s killer had spent night after night waiting in the gardens on the off chance that his target would come out for a smoke. Someone in the house had surely tipped off the murderer, who must have been nearby, within, say, a ten-minute radius.

She got into her car and headed off across the river.

There was no response when she let herself into Brock’s house in Warren Lane and called up the stairs. She had stopped at a Sainsbury’s on the way, and put the bags on the kitchen table before going through to his darkened bedroom. All she could make out of him was a tuft of white hair above the blankets, and for a moment she had the terrible thought that he might be dead. ‘Brock?’

The figure stirred, grunted and whispered, ‘Kathy? That you?’

‘Yes. Sorry to wake you.’

‘No, no . . .’ He struggled to sit up. ‘Needn’t have bothered.’

‘Has anyone else been in?’

‘The doc. Dot rang him. He thinks it’s swine flu.’ He swallowed, breathing heavily. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘I’d have got it by now. Anyway, I’ve had the jab.’

‘Good.’ He sank back against the pillows. ‘Feels like I’ve done fifteen rounds with . . .’

She couldn’t make out the rest. ‘What can I get you?’

He shook his head.

‘Soup? Hot drink?’

‘Water,’ he croaked. ‘Then sit down and tell me . . .’

So she told him about her day. When she got to the end she was convinced he’d fallen asleep, and was just getting to her feet, when he muttered, ‘Or he’s staying in the square.’

‘What?’

‘Could see Moszynski go out, from a window overlooking the square.’

He was right of course. They would have to trace everybody who could do that. But someone immediately sprang to mind. She thought of John Greenslade’s comment,
I just look out of my window. How could I not?

She began to tell Brock about him, but then stopped, listening to his breathing. This time he really was asleep.

Later, sitting at home in front of the blank TV, nursing a glass of wine, Kathy was glad he hadn’t heard her account of John Greenslade. It hadn’t been quite right, betraying the lack of resolution in her own mind. Her first impression of him on Friday morning, when she’d come upon him talking to Emerson in the hotel lounge, was almost of recognition, as if she’d met him before or seen his picture somewhere. She’d liked the look of him, his intelligent eyes and pleasant smile. She’d found him attractive, and perhaps he’d realised it and had tried to use it against her. For after that first meeting he had behaved like one of those murderers she’d heard about but never really encountered before, haunting the scene of the crime, trying to insinuate himself into the investigation, eager to help. Or was she reading too much into it? Was he just naturally curious and, as he’d claimed, interested in her? Either way, she thought she was going to have to find out more about him.

He’d described himself on his entry card as a university professor, so she googled Montreal University and came up blank. Then she looked for other Quebec universities and found him at McGill, where there was an associate professor in the field of Renaissance philology by the name of John Greenslade. Renaissance philology—what the hell was that? There was no photograph.

ELEVEN

T
owards noon the following day, Tuesday, the first day of June, Toby Beaumont and Deb Collins were standing in the bay window of their office, watching the police activity in the square. Behind them, John put his head around the office door.

‘What’s all the excitement?’ he asked.

‘Police,’ Deb said. ‘At it again.’

‘What are they up to now?’

‘Goodness knows,’ she replied, and turned back to her accounts. ‘The woman inspector, Kolla, has been next door at the Moszynskis’ for a couple of hours now with some other serious-looking types. I suppose she’ll be calling in here again.’

‘Mm. Makes the day interesting, I suppose.’ John glanced at the photographs on the wall. ‘Don’t you miss the excitement of the old days, Toby?’

‘No, old son,’ Toby said, with such a tone of weary resignation that both John and Deb shot him a cautious look. ‘Too old for that now.’

John pointed to one of the framed photographs on the wall. ‘I was wondering who this young guy is? You’ve got several shots of him.’

Toby turned from the window and stared at where John was pointing. ‘A very fine soldier,’ he said heavily.

‘That cap badge—isn’t that the SAS?’

Then John noticed Deb staring at him with a frown. She gave a little shake of her head and said, ‘And what can we do for you today, John?’

‘Ah yes. I was thinking I should have at least one really good meal while I’m in London. I wondered if you could recommend somewhere around here.’

‘Yes, we’ve got a list. If you wanted somewhere really special you could try Frazer’s in the King’s Road. Expensive mind. Going on your own?’

‘No, I thought I’d take a friend. Do you think we’d get in tonight?’

‘I’ll ring up for you if you like.’

‘Thanks.’

They turned at the sound of the front door bell, and Kathy walked in.

‘Ah, Inspector,’ Deb said. ‘We thought you might be paying us another visit.’

‘’Fraid so, Deb,’ Kathy said. ‘I’m going to have to speak to everyone again. Would it be possible for me to use the lounge?’

‘Be our guest,’ Toby said. ‘We’ll get you a pot of coffee.’

‘That would be wonderful.’

‘Could you do me first?’ John asked. ‘I’m going to have to leave shortly.’

‘Fine.’

They crossed the hall to the guests’ lounge and sat facing one another. He looked at her expectantly as she took out her notebook and an electronic recorder.

‘Well now, Mr Greenslade, I have to inform you that this is an official interview which I’ll be recording. Okay with that?’

‘Sure.’

She asked him his full name, age, address, employer and mobile phone number. ‘What are you doing here in London?’

‘I’m attending a conference at University College on classical philology.’

‘Which is?’

‘It’s about the interpretation of old texts.’ He saw the doubt on her face. ‘Renaissance texts mainly.’ Then he added, ‘Quattrocento.’

‘Quattrocento,’ she repeated slowly, writing it down, making the word sound pretentious. He took a breath, wanting to explain, but she moved on abruptly. ‘And when did you arrive in London?’

‘Monday the twenty-fourth, a week ago yesterday.’

‘How did you choose this hotel?’

‘Well, I was booked into some place off the Edgeware Road that was one of the conference organisers’ recommendations, but I didn’t like it very much, so after a few days I moved here.’

‘When exactly?’

‘Um . . . Friday it would have been. Yes, Friday.’

‘Why here?’

‘Well, I read about Nancy Haynes’ death and I was curious. The newspaper report mentioned where she was staying, and I wandered over to take a look, and thought, this is nicer than where I am, and asked if they had a free room, which they did.’

‘And it was free because it was Nancy Haynes’ room.’

‘I guess so.’

She let that hang for a moment, and he began to feel uncomfortable.

‘Why were you curious about Nancy Haynes’ death?’