Chelsea Mansions (12 page)

‘Gossip, you mean,’ Deb said.

Kathy smiled. ‘If you like.’

‘Oh, we can give you plenty of that, can’t we, Toby?’

‘How long have you two been here?’

‘Since 1995,’ Toby said. ‘My great-grandfather bought this house when it was built in 1890. He was adjutant at the Chelsea Barracks down the road and wanted the family home nearby, and it’s been in the family ever since. My father left it to my brother, who died in 1995 and left it to me. I’d recently retired from the army and was at a loose end. I looked at the place and thought, what the hell am I going to do with that on my own? Then I thought, a small, exclusive hotel—why not? But I knew I’d need someone to help me, someone absolutely dependable, and I thought of Deb. We’d met in Saudi, during the war.’ He nodded at the photographs. ‘I was on General de la Billière’s staff in Riyadh and she was my liaison with the British Embassy there. The perfect choice, I thought, and I was right.’

Deb chuckled.

‘But you want to know about the Russians,’ Toby continued. ‘They arrived in . . . 2001, was it, Deb? Yes. The Mansions was eight separate properties at that time. Then two came on the market together, and Moszynski snapped them both up. Within two more years he’d got the rest, all except us. Made them offers they couldn’t refuse. Tried to buy us out too, but I wasn’t having any. Considered it, but I think what really stuck in my craw was when they decided to sell off the Barracks and redevelop the site for luxury apartments for more Russians, and I thought, no, bugger it, this is my home, my heritage, you can wait until I’m dead and gone, Mikhail, old chum.’

‘Only he beat you to it,’ Deb said.

‘Anyway, the builders moved in. For over a year the place was in turmoil. They gutted it. Have you been inside?’

‘Yes. Quite palatial.’

‘That’s what we heard. We’ve never been invited in, mind you.’

‘So they keep themselves to themselves, the Moszynskis?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, not since he met Shaka. Plenty of entertaining, parties, just not for us. Letting down the tone of millionaires’ row, we are. There’ll be a huge funeral, I suppose.’

‘Rows, fights?’ Kathy asked.

‘Couldn’t say. Completely soundproof now, that place. You do wonder how his old mum gets on with the new wife though, don’t you?’

‘How about the son-in-law?’

‘Cold fish. Bumped into him once getting out of his Ferrari. He and the daughter live out in Surrey, but he’s often here.’

‘Well . . .’ Kathy checked her watch. ‘Thanks, I’d better get going.’

They stood up. ‘Our MP was on the radio this morning, saying we’ve got a serial killer in Chelsea. Do you reckon he’s right?’

‘We don’t know yet, Deb.’

‘That’s what they want us to think, the people who killed Moszynski,’ Toby said. ‘That’s got to be political, and they used Nancy’s death to make it look like a serial killer. That’s my guess anyway.’

‘You could be right.’

‘You sound tired, dear,’ Deb said. ‘Must be taking it out of you, all this. Leaning hard, are they, your bosses? We know what that’s like, don’t we, Toby? When the proverbial hits the fan.’

Kathy smiled at her. ‘Yes, it is a bit tense.’ She turned to find John Greenslade standing in the doorway.

‘Hi, I thought I heard you.’

‘Hello.’

‘Well, your casebook’s getting bigger all the time. Are you running the Moszynski case too?’

‘I’m part of the team, yes.’

‘Come on, you’re the senior investigator. I spoke to that detective you were with this morning in the square. That’s what he told me. Homicide and Serious Crime Command, right?’ He saw Kathy’s eyes narrow and raised his hands with a smile. ‘No, no, I’m not stalking you, promise. I just look out of my window. How could I not? This is the most exciting corner of London right now.’

‘Leave the detective alone, John,’ Deb said, and to Kathy, ‘He’s always asking questions, this man.’

Kathy’s phone rang as she reached the foot of the steps outside the hotel.

‘Boss? Pip Gallagher. I’m with the house-to-house teams in Cunningham Square.’

‘Yes, Pip? I’m in the square myself, outside the hotel.’

‘Yeah, I can see you. I’m to your left, in one of the flats on the east side. You got a moment? I think you might be interested in this. I’ll come downstairs and let you in.’

They met at the front door Pip had indicated and she led them up to an apartment on the third floor. An elderly man was sitting in an armchair by the window in the front room overlooking the square. At his side, Kathy noticed, was a folded copy of
The Times
, its crossword completed in neat, bold letters.

‘This is Dr Stewart,’ Pip said and introduced Kathy. ‘Could you tell the inspector what you told me, Doctor?’

‘Indeed.’ The old man looked as if he was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘I spend quite a lot of time in this chair these days, observing the comings and goings in the square. It used to be rather boring, but I must say that our Russian friend has livened things up considerably, especially since he married Shaka Gibbons. My goodness, the parties, the celebrities—Elton, Jude, Hugh. And have you seen their wonderful cars? That Ferrari! And the big black Maybach! Oh my . . .’

‘Did you see something last night, Dr Stewart?’ Kathy asked.

He looked put out. ‘Last night? Oh no, I was fast asleep when all the drama took place. I didn’t hear about it till my grandson phoned me this morning to tell me it had been on the news.’

Kathy raised an eyebrow at Pip, who said, ‘Dr Stewart thinks he saw Nancy Haynes visiting the Moszynskis.’

‘I don’t
think
,’ he snapped, ‘I
know
.’

Kathy looked at him, trying to assess how reliable he might be. He must have been eighty, or close enough, but his hands were steady, his mind and tongue sharp. ‘Tell me about it please, Doctor. This could be important.’

‘Very well. A week ago, last Monday, the twenty-fourth, I made myself a sandwich for lunch—tuna—and brought it here to my usual seat by the window. I saw Nancy Haynes come out of the hotel. I didn’t know that was her name or anything about her until her death was reported in the paper on Friday, but I recognised her as having arrived in a taxi with a male companion on the previous Saturday morning.’

Kathy looked out of the window. There was a clear view across the corner of the square to the hotel, and the rest of Chelsea Mansions beyond.

‘This time she was alone. She turned right, and walked up the street there to the central porch of the Mansions, and climbed the steps. I saw her ring the doorbell and go inside.’

‘What was she wearing?’

‘It was rather overcast and cool that day, and she had a light tan-coloured jacket and a cream skirt. Smart but comfortable.’

Kathy remembered a tan jacket hanging in Nancy’s wardrobe. ‘I’m impressed by your memory.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my memory. And I was intrigued, you see. Why would one of the hotel guests be visiting the Moszynskis? Surely any friend of theirs would be staying either with them, or in a much grander hotel than Toby Beaumont’s?’

‘How long did she stay there?’

‘Ah, that I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. At least half an hour. But then, having finished my lunch, I had a nap, so I didn’t see her reappear.’

‘Do you always have the same thing for lunch?’

‘No, I have a routine. Cheese Monday, tuna Tuesday, roast beef . . .’

‘But you said it was Monday and you had tuna.’

Dr Stewart stared at her, a momentary panic in his eyes. ‘No, no . . . You’re just confusing things. Monday, it was definitely Monday.’

Kathy walked up the street to the central portico of Chelsea Mansions, wondering what to make of Dr Stewart’s claims. The possibility that he had seen Nancy following this same route to Moszynski’s front door was disturbing. If true, it was a crucial new element. What could she have wanted with him?

A male voice challenged her from a speaker on the wall and she told them who she was. After a moment a maid opened the door.

‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Moszynski,’ Kathy said.

‘Mrs Shaka or Mrs Marta?’ the maid said. Her eyes looked puffy, as if she’d been crying.

‘Mrs Shaka, please.’

Kathy was shown into the same room in which she’d interviewed Clarke and Hadden-Vane the previous night. Now Shaka was sitting in one of the armchairs and a man was in the other, leaning towards her as if in the middle of some intense debate. Shaka looked up with irritation as Kathy walked in, and as the man turned Kathy recognised Vadim Kuzmin, Moszynski’s son-in-law, from the MI5 photos. He got to his feet and made as if to leave, but Kathy spoke to him.

‘Mr Kuzmin? I’m Detective Inspector Kolla from the Metropolitan Police. I’d like to speak to you too.’

He looked at her suspiciously. ‘How did you know my name?’

‘I was told that you had arrived this morning. Can you tell me when you left on your Russian trip?’

‘Last Wednesday.’

‘And when was the last time you were here in Cunningham Place?’

‘Last Wednesday.’ The suspicious frown was still there, and Kathy wondered if it was a perpetual mask through which he viewed the world. ‘I called in here to talk with my father-in-law before I left.’

‘Are you aware of any threats to Mr Moszynski, from people in Russia, perhaps?’

‘No.’

‘We believe he wrote a letter to
The Times
newspaper on Friday, suggesting just that.’ Kathy showed them a copy of the letter. ‘Are you aware of this, Mrs Moszynski? Did he discuss it with you?’

Shaka shook her head. ‘But he probably wouldn’t have spoken to me about something like that.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ Vadim said. ‘He never mentioned this to me, and I would know if there was a problem in Russia.’

‘The Aleksandrovs,’ Shaka said, ‘at dinner last month, they were going on about the FSB spying on their bank accounts.’

‘Expats!’ Vadim snarled dismissively. ‘The Aleksandrovs are paranoid. It’s nonsense. There was no threat to Mikhail. I tell you, I would know.’

‘Yeah, but maybe he wrote the letter for the sake of his friends, like the Aleksandrovs, that’s what I’m saying, Vadim.’

‘Do you know this woman, Mr Kuzmin?’ Kathy showed him Nancy Haynes’ photograph.

He shook his head.

‘How about you, Mrs Moszynski?’

‘No, I don’t know her. Who is she?’

‘It’s the American woman who was murdered last Thursday. She was staying at the hotel next door.’

‘That dump?’

‘You’re quite sure you’ve never seen or heard of her? Her name was Nancy Haynes.’ Kathy spelled it.

‘No, I told you.’

‘Only someone saw her call in here last Monday or Tuesday, at around one o’clock.’

‘No, you’ve got that wrong. Why would she come here?’

‘I don’t know. I’d like to show your staff the photograph.’

She shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

‘I also need to ask them and both of you if you can remember any strangers hanging around in the square recently.’

She continued with them for a while without getting anywhere, then went to speak to the staff, beginning with Moszynski’s secretary, a middle-aged woman, elegantly groomed in an inconspicuous way, as if to blend into the greys and beiges of the decor. Her office seemed to be equipped with every latest business machine, yet Kathy had the impression that there was little work for her to do.