Chelsea Mansions (7 page)

Kathy moved on, checking progress, feeling impatient, then returned to her desk. Mickey Schaeffer was at Tottenham, Brock at headquarters, and she wanted to be out of the office. One of the reports in the pile in front of her was by an officer who had spoken to organisers at the Chelsea Flower Show, which seemed to raise more questions than it answered. How had that worked, exactly? If the man that Emerson had photographed at the show was really the killer, waiting for his moment, had he planned to kill Nancy there among the crowds, and then changed his mind when he realised that they’d noticed him? The more Kathy thought about it, the more odd it seemed, a strange combination of planning and improvisation. Where had the man come from? Would a native Londoner have done it like that? Would they have relied on someone like Danny Yilmaz to make an escape? And how had he got into the flower show?

This was the final day of the show, she remembered; she could go and see for herself. She pulled on her jacket and headed out.

The street in front of the entrance gates was jammed with visitors carrying sun hats, backpacks and handfuls of maps and tickets, queuing to get in. As they approached the gates she saw them stare at the police notices posted nearby, appealing for witnesses with pictures of Nancy and the unidentified man, and whisper among themselves.

Among them were a few army veterans resident at the Royal Chelsea Hospital, in whose grounds the flower show was held, wearing the scarlet coats and black caps of the Chelsea Pensioners. She spoke to one who gave her directions to the organisers’ office. Inside, a brisk woman finished a phone call and showed Kathy to a table in a corner of the tent.

‘Yes, I spoke to a detective yesterday, Inspector,’ she said. ‘He wanted a printout of the names of all the people who bought tickets for Thursday, but he baulked a bit when I told him there were forty thousand of them. And I doubt it would help anyway. Thursday’s tickets were sold out two months ago, so he probably didn’t pre-book.’

‘Then how did he get a ticket?’

‘Probably from a scalper at the gate. I’m told the going rate is as much as two hundred and fifty pounds at the moment. The detective did try to speak to one of them, but I don’t know how much success he had.’

There had been no mention of that in the officer’s report. ‘Are there cameras at the gate?’

The woman shook her head. They discussed the security at the show and the information on volunteers held in the computer, until Kathy decided there was no more she could find out. She thanked the woman and left. Outside she stood for a while at the entrance, watching the visitors streaming through. She saw no one trying to sell tickets, and after a while she returned to Queen Anne’s Gate.

A number of messages had come in while she was away. A situation report had arrived from Tottenham Green profiling known associates of Danny Yilmaz and other possible criminals in the area. There were quite a few of them, but so far no connections to Thursday’s events had been established. Peter Namono was not known to the police in Uganda, and appeared to be an unauthorised migrant. Apparently he had been in touch with a refugee advisory service in South London.

The Home Office had forwarded a request from the American Embassy for an update on the case, with a cover note demanding urgent attention. And a preliminary report from the coroner’s office had been delivered. The autopsy had been completed and blood and tissue tests carried out in record time. Nothing new had been revealed and it was proposed to release the body to the family for return to the United States on Monday. Kathy sensed an all-round official desire to move on, to see a rapid and tidy end to an embarrassing and incomprehensible affair.

SIX

T
ucked away in one corner of Cunningham Place was a small, rather plain brick church. Built eighty years before the square was laid out, its modest spire had once stood out among the fields and hedgerows of the western edge of London, but was now overshadowed by its neighbouring housing blocks. On most Sundays its congregation amounted to barely a dozen elderly people, but today they emerged through the porch to find a small crowd assembling outside in the sunshine.

As the vicar shook the hand of the last parishioner, Toby Beaumont mounted the steps with his two employees, Garry the silent concierge and Jacko the limping bellboy, all dressed in suits and ties, and introduced them to the priest as the ushers for the memorial service. Garry was carrying a poster-sized photograph of Nancy’s smiling face, enlarged from a snapshot Emerson had provided, and received permission to tie it to one of the porch columns. Deb, Julie the cook and Destiny the maid followed, carrying huge bunches of flowers, and disappeared inside.

Kathy stood in the background in the shade of one of the large plane trees of the central gardens, watching the gathering. A few looked as if they were residents of the square, setting aside their Sunday papers to show their respect or see what was going on; some were media, including a TV camera crew and van; and others, lone men in suits mainly, appeared to be there in an official capacity. Several of these were clustered around Emerson and she speculated on which might be from the American Embassy, or representing the British government. Then a newcomer arrived, breaking into that circle to introduce himself, and Kathy recognised him with a start, his glossy bulk and prominent silk pocket handkerchief bringing back uncomfortable memories. Nigel Hadden-Vane, Member of Parliament, had figured in a previous case of hers concerning the criminal family of Spider Roach. Hadden-Vane had been instrumental in destroying the careers of both another MP and a Special Branch officer with whom Kathy had been involved. She wondered why he was here. Was he someone important in the Home Office now, or the Foreign Office? She would have to check.

They were moving inside, and Kathy followed, into the cool dimness of the little church. The organ was playing something solemn and classical, Bach perhaps, and she accepted an order of service from Garry and took a seat in a pew towards the back. She noticed Hadden-Vane say something to Garry, gesturing to a space in one of the front pews, before sitting down next to Emerson.

It seemed as if the congregation was complete and the service might begin, the vicar moving to the centre of the altar steps, when he paused and stared down the nave towards the doors, and heads turned to look. Two men were entering, both wearing black suits, white shirts and black ties. One was of middle height and age, with curling hair at the back of his balding head and a conspicuous large gold watch on his wrist. The other was younger and much larger, built like a bouncer, elbows out, head shaved. There was something slightly alien and chilling about the pair of them, and the church went very quiet, the rustle of papers fading away, as Garry got to his feet and led them to the vacant seats at the front.

The service was simple and dignified: a couple of hymns, a couple of readings, some words from the vicar and a short and moving eulogy from Emerson. Then they were moving out into the silent square and across the street to the gates of the central gardens, where Julie and Destiny were waiting with trays of champagne and canapés. Kathy wasn’t alone in noticing that the two latecomers remained in their pew until the church had emptied, and then strode away down the street.

‘Who were those two?’ she heard a woman asking Toby, who was standing with Emerson, shaking hands.

‘Our neighbours, my dear.’ Toby raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh, the Russians!’ the woman said. ‘So
that’s
them.’

Nigel Hadden-Vane was working the crowd, Kathy saw, or at least that part of it which looked important, nodding vigorously, gesturing with his champagne glass, mopping his flushed face with his blue pocket handkerchief.

‘Hello again.’

Kathy turned and saw John Greenslade standing beside her, watching her intently, as if he’d been studying her.

‘Hello. I didn’t see you there.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t stay away—Toby would never have forgiven me. He’s done them proud, hasn’t he? He deserves a medal, but I guess he’s already got plenty of those.’

Kathy couldn’t decide whether he was being genuinely appreciative or mildly sarcastic. It was hard to tell with him, his quiet voice seeming to leave itself open to different interpretations, as if testing her response.

‘Yes, he seems to have organised it with military precision.’

‘Exactly.’ John broke into a warm smile, as if she’d said something witty. ‘The whole team was up at three this morning, getting all this ready. I heard them from the top floor—that’s where my room is. I’m a light sleeper, I guess.’

‘Are you getting to see a bit of London?’

Another smile, as if he was really pleased by her interest. ‘Yes, actually. Let’s see, I’ve been to Tate Modern, the National Portrait Gallery, the Courtauld . . .’

‘How about the Two Chairmen?’

He looked at her blankly. ‘I don’t think—’

‘It’s a pub in Westminster, at the end of Queen Anne’s Gate.’

He stared at her, his mouth open. ‘Ah. You did see me. I was afraid you might have. How embarrassing.’

Kathy stared back, saying nothing.

‘I . . . was intrigued,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve had a bit to do with the police in Montreal—nothing nefarious, you understand. At least they haven’t managed to arrest me yet.’ His grin faded as he saw her stony expression. ‘Yes, well, anyway, I was curious, how things were over here. You gave me your card with the address, and I went to take a look. Kind of enigmatic, I thought, the building, for a police office. Anyway, I fancied a beer and stopped at the pub down the street, and then you walked in.’

When she still said nothing he looked down at his feet and scuffed the gravel. ‘No, that’s not quite the truth. At least, not the whole truth. There was another reason.’

‘And what was that?’

He looked up with a frown and met her eyes. He shrugged. ‘Well, you know.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You. I was interested in you.’

You cheeky bastard
, she thought. For a moment he seemed rather young and vulnerable. How old was he? Twenty-eight, she remembered from the immigration record. He made her feel older than her years.

‘Inspector!’

She pulled her eyes away and saw Emerson advancing towards her, his hand on the arm of another man.

‘I’d like you to meet Nancy’s son, Martin Haynes, who’s flown over from California.’

They shook hands, and Kathy repeated the phrase that always seemed inadequate: ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you. This all seems very unreal.’

‘Martin flew over last night. He didn’t get much sleep,’ Emerson said, by way of explanation.

Martin went on as if he hadn’t heard him. ‘A service in a strange little church and then a garden party. I’m not sure what Mom would have made of it all.’

‘She would certainly have appreciated the flowers,’ Emerson said.

‘Any progress with the case?’ Martin asked.

‘We’re pursuing a promising lead, and we’ll just have to see where it takes us. I’m confident we’ll find the culprit.’

‘Are you?’ Martin stifled a yawn.

‘It looks as if the coroner will release Nancy’s body tomorrow. I’ll confirm it as soon as I can.’

Emerson nodded. ‘The embassy are helping us with arrangements.’

They parted and Kathy began to make her way out to the street. There was no sign of John Greenslade. On the way back to the tube station she passed Chelsea Mansions and took a quick glance up at the windows at the top of the hotel.

SEVEN

S
hortly before ten that Sunday night the front door in the central porch of Chelsea Mansions opened and a man emerged. He stood for a moment beneath the light, taking a deep breath of the warm evening air as if relieved to be outside. In his right hand he held a long, unlit cigar, which he gently rolled between his fingers. After a moment he looked carefully up and down the street, then descended the steps and crossed to the gate in the fence around the gardens. He transferred the cigar to his left hand, felt in his trouser pocket for the key with his right, and opened the gate. The darkness closed around him, the streetlights barely penetrating the thick foliage of the gardens as he followed the gravel path to the bench beneath the oak tree in the centre, where he sat down. Searching again in his pockets he found the little guillotine and prepared the cigar, a Cuban Montecristo, which Shaka forbade him to smoke in the house. His lighter flared in the darkness, blinding him as he drew in the first breath of exotic smoke. He sat back with a sigh. In the distance he could hear the murmur of traffic on Sloane Street and Brompton Road, but here in Cunningham Place nothing stirred.

And yet, there was something, the faint sound of music coming from one of the windows around the square. The tune, broken by the whisper and rustle of the trees, seemed very familiar, but at first he couldn’t place it. What was it again? He strained for the notes until suddenly he had it—Mussorgsky, of course,
Pictures at an Exhibition
, his father’s favourite, and suddenly he was back in the apartment on Moskovsky Prospekt, his father leaning intently over the gramophone, beating time with an outstretched finger. ‘You hear them, Mikhail? Can you see them in your mind? Two Jews, Samuel and Schmuÿle. One is rich and the other is poor. Can you tell which is which?’