Chelsea Mansions (11 page)

Sir Philip smiled pleasantly at Kathy. ‘Very good. Inspector Kolla?’

Kathy wasn’t sure whether she should get to her feet. She wished she had some kind of audiovisual prop like the MI5 people.

‘Last Thursday afternoon, as you’ll know, a seventy-year-old American tourist called Nancy Haynes was murdered on Sloane Street . . .’

It was the wrong opening, she sensed. They weren’t interested in Nancy Haynes. After a few moments the two MI5 people put their heads together to discuss something in a whisper, while the man from the Foreign Office consulted his file of papers. Kathy hurried on to the Moszynski murder and had their attention again, but only for a short while, until they realised that the police had made little progress. They perked up again when she told them about Moszynski’s letter to
The Times
and passed photocopies around.

The CTC superintendent said, ‘Is it authentic?’

‘We’re checking that now.
The Times
intend to publish it tomorrow.’

‘Other questions?’ Sir Philip asked.

No one spoke for a moment, then the MI5 man, presumably the senior of the two, raised a finger.

‘Sean?’

He spoke with a strong Ulster accent, his voice quiet but cold. ‘You seem to assume that the two killings are connected. Is that right?’

Kathy had the feeling she was being invited down a dangerous path. ‘Two victims within a few days, close neighbours.’

‘And how would you interpret that?’

‘Our minds are open at the moment, but we are investigating Nancy Haynes’ background . . .’

‘You think that’s relevant?’

‘Of course.’

Sean pursed his lips, then gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘Surely there’s a much simpler explanation.’

‘I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,’ Sir Philip interrupted. ‘Let’s complete the briefings before we debate theories. Do you want to tell us about Mr Moszynski, Sean?’

‘Sure.’ He nodded to his partner, who tapped on her laptop. ‘Mikhail Artur Moszynski.’ The screen came to life with a picture of the Russian, standing by the open door of a helicopter, dressed only in shorts and brandishing a cigar, a glass of champagne and a broad grin. The setting, on a dazzling white beach with palm trees in the background, was deliberate, Kathy guessed, shifting their attention away from parochial Cunningham Place to a more exotic and international context. At the same time she was trying desperately to work out what Sean’s simpler explanation might be.

‘Is that your chopper, Sean?’ the Foreign Office wit asked.

‘I wish. It’s an AgustaWestland AW109 Power, eight-seater twin-engine, his latest toy this year, set him back six point three million US. Moszynski was a wealthy man, but still, as we were saying earlier, not in the same league as the big boys, like Abramovich or Berezovsky, though his story isn’t dissimilar. He was born in St Petersburg—Leningrad then—in 1957. His family weren’t wealthy, but his father, Gennady Moszynski, had influence.’

The MI5 woman was smoothly changing the image to follow Sean’s delivery. A series of old photographs of Gennady and his family was followed by street scenes and aerial photographs of Leningrad, as if the two of them had been rehearsing this all morning. Everyone was paying attention, including the FO man, who had now closed his file.

‘Before the war Gennady rose through the ranks of the party in Leningrad and then moved to Moscow, where he became secretary to the Deputy People’s Commissar of Culture. When the war started he returned to Leningrad, where he came to prominence during the siege of the city. In 1945 he was awarded Hero of the Soviet Union and was a member of Leningrad’s Executive Committee for the next thirty years. This paved the way for his son Mikhail, who studied metallurgy at Leningrad Technical University in the seventies before going to work in a turbine factory. Mikhail also joined Komsomol, the Young Communist League, and became secretary of one of the city districts. With perestroika, he and a small group of insiders in the party began developing commercial interests, import-export through the port of St Petersburg. These activities expanded when Yeltsin took power in 1991, leading to the first wave of privatisations in ninety-three to ninety-four. Mikhail and his mates set up stalls all over the city buying up the shares that the government had issued to workers in their own companies for a fraction of what they were worth, paying for them in vodka and cigarettes. By the late nineties Mikhail had acquired a major stake in the shipping company Rosskomflot, and was diversifying into other industries. Then when Putin became president in 2000 and started making noises about billionaires stealing the nation’s wealth, Mikhail sold a number of his assets back to the government and began moving his money offshore. He also divorced his first wife, and bought the house in Chelsea, making it his permanent home in 2002.’

Sean ran through some of his other properties and assets, and then outlined the Moszynski family members, including the celebrity second wife, Shaka Gibbons, whom Mikhail had wed two years previously. He came to a picture of Mikhail’s son-in-law.

‘Vadim Kuzmin, forty-five, also a native of St Petersburg, and a former party lieutenant of Mikhail and Gennady in the eighties. In 1989 he was recruited by what was then the KGB, now the FSB, in the Sixth Directorate, which is responsible for economic counter-intelligence and industrial security. He married Mikhail’s daughter Alisa in 2003, while she was studying at the London School of Economics, and he then moved permanently to the UK, although he maintains extensive contacts in Russia, and is thought to be still associated with the FSB. He flew back this morning on a private flight to Biggin Hill, where he got a lift in to Battersea heliport on Mikhail’s chopper and went straight to Chelsea Mansions.’

Kathy had an uncomfortable feeling that Sean knew very well that she hadn’t been aware of that.

‘So you’ve been keeping an eye on them, Sean?’ Sir Philip inquired.

‘With Tony’s people, yes.’ Sean nodded at the CTC superintendent. It seemed as if everyone was on first-name terms except Sharpe and herself.

‘And is Kuzmin significant for our purposes?’ Sir Philip asked.

‘It’s possible, yes. The letter to
The Times
confirms our first reaction, and probably everyone else’s, that Moszynski’s murder was an FSB assassination, like Litvinenko. Yet Moszynski wasn’t an obvious target. He had certainly made off with a large chunk of money that most of his countrymen, including Putin, would say belonged to the Russian people. But he wasn’t too ostentatious with his wealth, didn’t interfere in Russian politics and did contribute to a number of Russian charities, educational foundations and a hospital in St Petersburg. Vladimir Putin came from St Petersburg too, of course, and it’s said that his family knew Gennady Moszynski, and it’s always been assumed that the Kremlin didn’t have a grudge against Mikhail. However, there’s Vadim. He acts as Mikhail’s agent in Russia, and is involved with a number of business and political groups, as well as the FSB. It’s possible that he’s been stirring things up.’

Kathy looked at the thick file in front of Sean. The Security Service had been carrying out a parallel investigation to her own, and one that was smarter, better informed and backed up by a wealth of background of which she’d been entirely ignorant. She was out of her depth. Bren had been right. Let them have Moszynski.

At her side Commander Sharpe shifted in his seat. ‘Then what about Nancy Haynes?’ He sounded as if he didn’t really want to hear the answer.

‘Ah yes.’ Sean nodded at his companion, and a new image came up. Two faces, side by side. ‘Nancy Haynes on the left, Marta Moszynski—Mikhail’s mother—on the right.’ He really didn’t need to say any more. They could have been sisters.

‘You think it’s a case of mistaken identity?’ Sir Philip prompted.

‘It’s a distinct possibility. We could imagine that the killer was given a description and a photograph, that he was watching Chelsea Mansions, saw an elderly woman come out of one of the front doors, and assumed it was Marta.’

‘But why kill Marta Moszynski?’

‘As a warning to Mikhail. When that failed they had no option but to go directly for him.’

Kathy felt uneasy. Was that really possible? Why hadn’t she thought of it, and seen the similarity? And yet, the images were misleading. The picture of Marta was hardly recognisable as the woman she’d seen at Chelsea Mansions the previous night. The face on the screen looked ten years younger; the deep lines had been brushed away, the complexion lightened, the hair given more colour and body. Nancy Haynes, on the other hand, appeared older and more strained than the woman Kathy had seen in her photographs. It was probably a passport image, she guessed, the eyes blank, colour bleached. And the two portraits were also enlarged to make the two faces look exactly the same size, but that too was misleading, for surely Nancy was taller and slimmer than the dumpy little woman who had run forward to Shaka, who had had to reach down awkwardly to embrace her.

Sharpe cleared his throat. ‘It sounds as if you’ve got it all worked out. I imagine you want us to hand the investigation over to you. We’ll offer every assistance, of course.’

‘Good Lord, no!’ The Foreign Office representative looked appalled. He glanced at Sean, who shot him a brief, grim little smile. Kathy saw it, and the thought flashed into her head,
They’ve agreed all this beforehand
.

‘These are difficult times,’ the FO man went on. ‘Our relations with the Russian government are particularly sensitive on a great number of issues. We really don’t want this to be seen as a
security
matter, not if we can help it. The local Member of Parliament was on the radio this morning saying that he believes there’s a psychopath on the loose in Chelsea, and we really think that might be the best working hypothesis. Clearly a police matter, to be treated like any other local crime until evidence indicates otherwise.’

Kathy could almost hear the conversation they must have had before the meeting.
Let the plod handle it. Calm things down
.

‘Of course, if, in the course of your inquiries, you were to find leads pointing firmly offshore, then we would have to think again, but in the meantime, let’s treat this case as you would any other murder in the capital.’

‘There is this letter to
The Times
, and we can’t ignore what you’ve just told us,’ Sharpe objected. ‘What about international departures in the past eighteen hours? You’ve been checking exit points, I take it?’

Sean nodded. ‘Nothing obvious. No sudden departures of Russian embassy staff.’

Sharpe glanced at Kathy, raised his eyebrows and said, ‘Very well, if that’s the consensus we’ll proceed as before. What about Moszynski’s financial affairs? Should we be looking into those?’

‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so, Commander,’ Sir Philip said, gathering up his notes. ‘Not likely to lead to his murderer. So thank you all.’

As they made for the door, Sean caught Kathy and handed her his card.
Sean Ardagh
. ‘Give me a ring when you need some help,’ he said.

‘Thanks. Hold on, I’ll give you mine.’

‘It’s okay. I know all about you.’ He grinned and turned away.

On their way out Sharpe said to Kathy, ‘Heard from Brock?’

‘No, sir. Not yet.’

‘Better tell him he’s wasting his time, eh? Get him back here.’

TEN

K
athy parked in Cunningham Place and began walking towards Chelsea Mansions. The passers-by that she had seen that morning leaving for work were now returning, glancing as they passed at the police tape draped on the fence of the gardens. As she approached the central portico she changed her mind, and decided to go first to the hotel. The bell sounded on the door and Deb Collins strolled out.

‘Hello, Inspector. Thought we might get another visit from you.’

‘Yes, I’d like to have a word.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve missed Emerson. He flew back to the States this morning with Nancy’s son.’

‘It was about the murder in the square last night.’

‘Ah yes. Your people called by this morning, but none of us saw anything useful. Poor old Moszynski, eh? Want to come through?’

She lifted the flap in the counter and showed Kathy into an office with a bay window overlooking the square. Toby was sitting at a table in the centre, a bill held a few inches in front of his face, a glass of whisky by his side. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, getting to his feet.

Kathy looked around the room, neat and orderly. It didn’t look as if there was a huge amount of business going on. There were framed photographs on the wall beside her and she took a closer look. Soldiers and tanks. Among them she made out a younger Toby Beaumont in desert uniform.

‘You, Colonel Beaumont?’

‘First Gulf War, 1991. Come and sit down. How can we help?’

‘I was wanting a bit of background on your neighbours. Wondered if you could tell me anything about them.’

‘I’d have thought MI5 would know it all,’ Toby said.

‘Yes, the official stuff. I was thinking more on a personal, day-to-day level.’