Chelsea Mansions (28 page)

‘That man again,’ he growled at last. ‘But murder! You really think he’d go that far?’

‘It depends on how desperate he was. At the moment we don’t understand the motive. It may have been financial, and that might be hard to uncover without the cooperation of Moszynski’s accountant, who seems to be rather secretive.’

‘So what can we do?’

‘It would be helpful if we could establish whether his DNA or fingerprints were present in the Hackney house where Harry Peebles was staying. Unfortunately he has refused to volunteer samples. So I’d like to arrest him on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Mikhail Moszynski, so that we can insist on him providing them.’

‘You can’t just go around arresting people so as to get their DNA.’

‘I think we have reasonable grounds for suspicion, sir.’

‘It’s all circumstantial, though, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but from several independent circumstances.’

Sharpe hesitated, unhappiness all over his face. ‘Leave it with me, Inspector. I’ll consult a few people and let you know my decision.’

Kathy bought a sandwich on the way back to her office and ate it while she dealt with some of the paperwork that had been building up.

After a couple of hours Sharpe got back to her.

‘You won’t get a decision until tomorrow, Inspector. In the meantime you might think about some other way of getting your evidence.’

She talked it over with Bren and they decided that they would approach the Economic and Specialist Crime Command to request an investigation into Moszynski’s financial affairs. The superintendent Kathy spoke to didn’t sound surprised by the request and said he’d put a fraud team together, but warned that an investigation might take considerable time.

Rain was splattering against the darkened windows and Kathy could hear the sounds of people leaving for the night when her phone rang. It was Suzanne, sounding both anxious and excited.

‘There’s been some change, Kathy. It seems that the fever has eased. I’m waiting to see the doctor to find out what happens next.’

‘I’ll come straight over.’

The cab made slow progress through the choked streets up to St Giles’ Circus. Beyond, traffic in Tottenham Court Road was hardly moving. Finally, itching with frustration, Kathy paid the driver and set off on foot. She was wet and panting from the exertion when she finally ran into the hospital and made her way to the isolation wards, where Suzanne was still waiting for the doctor.

The doctor looked sombre and preoccupied when she finally came to see them. ‘The fever has subsided and his temperature is almost normal. He has regained consciousness and is breathing normally. Having survived thus far, we would expect recovery to be prompt and complete, but there is still the risk of further inflammation or secondary infections. We also have to carry out more tests to see if there’s been any permanent damage to his organs, particularly his liver and eyes. We shall be monitoring this very closely. He is no longer infectious, and you can go in to see him, but please remember that he’s lost a lot of weight and is very weak.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Suzanne said, and then, as they made their way to the door of Brock’s room, she turned to Kathy and whispered, ‘His eyes?’

They blinked open, pink-rimmed and bleary, when Suzanne touched his hand.

‘Hello,’ he croaked, and Suzanne, overcome, burst into tears. ‘They tell me I’ve been ill.’

‘Of course you’ve been ill. You’ve worried us to death this past week.’

‘A week?’ He gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘Can’t remember.’

Looking at the hollow temples and sunken cheeks, the skin as white as his hair and beard, Kathy thought of King Lear.

‘How are you, Kathy?’

‘Good.’ She pulled up a seat.

‘Things are going well?’

‘Absolutely. Everything’s just fine.’

The dark eyes regarded her for a moment, then he said, ‘You must tell me everything that’s been happening.’

‘But not until you’ve got your strength back,’ Suzanne broke in.

He smiled at her and said, ‘How was Cornwall?’

After ten minutes his eyes closed and a nurse came and asked them to leave.

Outside in the waiting room a dozen people sat in various stages of agitation or resignation, some staring up at a TV monitor mounted on the wall. Suzanne began to ask what Kathy’s impression had been when she stopped suddenly and pointed up at the screen.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that you?’

Kathy turned and saw a clip from the press conference they’d given the previous week, the camera focusing in close on her face. The sound was inaudible, but a ribbon of text scrolling across the bottom of the screen read: police accused of incompetence and ‘campaign of vilification’. mp admits using prostitutes. The picture had switched to Hadden-Vane, looking angry, then again to an image of a reporter beneath a dripping umbrella, talking to camera in front of the Houses of Parliament.

‘I’d better find out what this is all about, Suzanne,’ Kathy said, feeling a small hard lump of anxiety forming in her chest. ‘I’ll speak to you later.’

TWENTY-FOUR

T
he traffic on Tottenham Court Road had eased a little, but it took an age, standing in the rain, before a taxi responded to her signals.

When she got back to Queen Anne’s Gate the place seemed so calm and normal, the duty officer giving her a cheerful wave, that she could almost have believed that nothing had happened. Then she opened the BBC online news on her computer. She clicked on
Breaking news
, and a studio newscaster began speaking.

‘In a remarkable interview at his home late this afternoon, controversial London MP Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane admitted that he has been making use of the services of prostitutes for several years.’

The image changed to one of Hadden-Vane, standing in a traditionally furnished living room, a sporting print of racehorses just visible on the wall behind him. A dignified-looking woman was at his side, sitting in a wheelchair.

‘Three years ago my wife was seriously injured in a motor vehicle accident,’ Hadden-Vane declared, his voice resonant and sombre. ‘It was touch-and-go whether she would survive, and though she did, she is now a paraplegic. Inevitably our lives required substantial adjustment, and one of the things that became impossible for us was to share our devotion to each other in a fully physical way. Accordingly, my wife suggested that I should fulfil my physical needs through the services of professional service providers.’

A voice off-camera said, ‘Prostitutes? Is this true, Lady Hadden-Vane?’

‘It is,’ she said, her words clipped and precise. ‘We had a problem, and we faced it in an open, practical way. Nigel has been going to the same agency now for over two years. I have met the principal of the company and several of her employees, and they remind me of the women who run the hairdressing salon I use—competent, enthusiastic and highly professional. There are many couples who must face the same dilemma that we faced, and I hope that by explaining this we can encourage them to discuss it without shame or reservation. The important thing is to be open and honest with each other.’

‘Is that why you are going public with this, Sir Nigel?’

‘No, it is not. We regard this as a private matter between ourselves, and we would have preferred to keep it that way. However, I have learned that, during the course of their investigation into the murder of Mikhail Moszynski, the police came upon this information and intended to use it to implicate me in his death. I therefore decided to go public before they had that opportunity.’

‘Were you involved in Mr Moszynski’s murder?’

‘Of course not. He was a good friend of mine and a good friend to Britain, too.’

‘Then why would the police want to implicate you?’

‘Because the investigation by the Metropolitan Police Service has been badly mishandled. The team conducting the hunt for Mr Moszynski’s killers is inexperienced and has failed to make real progress, and is now flailing around looking for a scapegoat. As it happens, I have had dealings with them before, when I exposed another bungled criminal investigation. They are seeking their revenge. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were behind the scurrilous reports that have been circulating about supposedly irregular financial dealings between myself and Mr Moszynski.’

‘They did track down the man who is believed to have murdered Mr Moszynski and the American tourist Nancy Haynes though, didn’t they?’

‘He was a hired killer. The important thing is to establish who hired him.’

‘And do you have a theory about that?’

‘It seems perfectly obvious to me and to everybody else apart from the police that the murder was commissioned by a dissident group within the Russian security services, just as Mr Moszynski hinted in his letter to
The Times
. These people are experts in murder and espionage. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have planted evidence to implicate me.’

‘And why would they want Mr Moszynski dead?’

‘To get hold of his fortune, to intimidate other Russian expats in the UK, and to damage relations between the Russian and British governments.’

‘Did Mikhail Moszynski pay for your prostitutes, Sir Nigel?’

‘Certainly not.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘I have the receipts, VAT included.’

‘Thank you, Sir Nigel and Lady Hadden-Vane.’

Kathy was conscious of phones ringing. One of them was her mobile. She checked the caller ID—it was Bren—and put it to her ear.

‘Kathy! Have you heard?’

‘About Hadden-Vane? I’ve just been watching it.’

‘What do you think?’

The truth was that she wasn’t thinking very clearly at all.

‘The bastard,’ Bren was saying.

‘He was tipped off,’ Kathy said.

‘Must have been. Where are you?’

‘Queen Anne’s Gate . . . Listen, Bren, I spoke to Brock.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, he’s conscious. He’s very weak, but he sounded okay.’

‘That’s great news.’ Bren sounded hesitant, as if he wasn’t quite following her train of thought. ‘Maybe I should come in.’

‘Well, I imagine shit and fan are coming together as we speak. I’d better ring off.’

What she wanted to do was watch the film clip again, but the phone on her desk was ringing insistently.

‘Ah, Kolla, at last.’ Sharpe sounded breathless. ‘You’re at Queen Anne’s Gate?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Are the press there?’

‘Hang on a minute, sir . . .’ She went over to the window and looked down into the street. It was deserted. ‘No, sir.’

‘Good. They’re besieging New Scotland Yard. I’m on my way in. We’ll come to you.’

She didn’t have a chance to ask who ‘we’ were.

She checked her phone messages. Her friend Nicole was asking her to ring, and the caretaker of her block of flats in Finchley was letting her know that there were reporters outside, wanting to interview her.

Kathy opened up the BBC website again.

After half an hour there was a tap on her door and Superintendent Dick Chivers walked in. Another member of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command under Sharpe, ‘Cheery’ Chivers was looking even more gloomy than usual. ‘Kathy,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘Bad business.’

‘Hello, sir.’

In answer to the unspoken question on Kathy’s face, Chivers said, ‘Commander Sharpe told me to meet him here.’ He unfastened his raincoat and gave it a shake. ‘Still pissing down.’ He took a seat at one of the consoles and looked around. ‘You’ve had a technical upgrade. Any word on Brock?’

Kathy told him and a smile passed briefly across his face. ‘Excellent, excellent.’

She stood there for a moment, then said, ‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Good idea,’ he said dolefully. ‘We’ll need plenty before the night’s out, I dare say.’

After an awkward interval in which Kathy completed typing her observations on Hadden-Vane’s performance, a call came from the front desk to say that Commander Sharpe had arrived and would meet them in the main conference room. Bren had also arrived, and was waiting in the front lobby when they went down. Together they made their way to the meeting room.