Chelsea Mansions

THIRTY-SIX

‘I reckon we’ve got him,’ Bren said, nodding with satisfaction. He described what he’d established about Wayne Everett’s earlier history with Hadden-Vane and the Tottenham youth club.

‘He was Hadden-Vane’s enforcer, and he made sure the club officers were kept sweet as he used the charity to divert his share of the money coming in from Moszynski. He knew Danny Yilmaz, and also Kenny Watson, who used to come to the club before he went up to Glasgow.’

‘He told you all this?’ Brock asked.

‘Yes. It took a while, but he finally agreed to let us have his prints and DNA. They’re processing them now.’

‘Good. Does he show up on the CCTV records at Hackney?’

‘We’re still looking.’

As Brock and Bren sat down together to go through the interview record in detail, Kathy at the next desk checked her phone again. Nothing from John. She tried ringing his number, but it was still switched off. She hesitated for a moment, then finally called the number of the Chelsea Mansions Hotel. It rang for a long time before it was answered with a tentative, ‘Hello?’ She recognised Toby’s voice.

‘Toby, hello, it’s Kathy Kolla.’

‘Ah… Hello, Kathy. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m trying to get in touch with John. Is he in the hotel?’

‘John? John Greenslade?’

‘Yes.’

‘He’s not here. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

Kathy frowned. ‘I was with him yesterday evening, and he said he was going back to the hotel. He should have got there about ten-thirty, eleven.’

‘No, he didn’t come home last night-we presumed he was with you.’

‘Would you mind getting someone to check his room, Toby? See if he slept there?’

‘It’s a little awkward at the moment. I’m rather short-handed. I’ll ring his room, shall I? Hold on.’

After a minute he came back on the line. ‘No reply, I’m afraid. He’s not here.’

Kathy rang off, feeling worried.

‘Okay, Kathy?’ Brock was looking at her.

‘Not sure,’ she said, and told him.

‘Probably nothing to worry about. But why don’t you check the crime reports?’

‘Yes, I will.’ She went to her computer and logged in. She worked through the accident and crime incidents from the previous night in the districts he would have walked through on his way back to the hotel, but none of the victims resembled him, and his name didn’t crop up anywhere. Then, feeling a little foolish, she requested a check on passenger flights to North America. That too drew a blank. Well, she thought, of course he wouldn’t have gone home without contacting her. She rang the caretaker of her block to see if he’d called in there, but again there was nothing. Then she decided she was being overanxious and got back to work on a pile of the documents they’d taken from Mikhail’s office at Chelsea Mansions.

Brock came over to her side and said, ‘Did we find out any more about Toby Beaumont?’

‘Yes, a little, about his father.’ She searched through the papers on her desk and found what she was looking for. ‘Well, not much. His name was Miles, so presumably he wrote that note on the back of the photo.’

‘And probably took the picture too,’ Brock said.

‘Yes. Born 1910, Eton, Oxford, the army. He was sent over to France with the British Expeditionary Force in 1939 and evacuated from Dunkirk the following June. In September 1941 he joined the Special Operations Executive which had just been formed to carry out raids in occupied Europe. In 1942 he was parachuted into Greece as part of Operation Harling, which blew up the railway viaduct at Gorgopotamos and cut the railway line from Thessaloniki to Athens and Piraeus which was being used by the Germans to supply their army in North Africa. He subsequently returned to England, took part in D-Day and was awarded the Military Medal.’

‘A distinguished record, then.’

‘Very. Toby must have idolised him.’

‘So what did Miles do next?’

‘Nothing. At least nothing we can discover. There are no records of him after he quit the army in 1946 as a full colonel, until he committed suicide ten years later, in November 1956.’

‘The time of Suez,’ Brock said. ‘The end of innocence-wasn’t that what Toby called it? He was at Suez, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

They said nothing for a moment, Brock deep in thought. ‘So what was he up to?’ he said finally. ‘This hero of wartime special ops who vanishes from the record, and then plays host to an American diplomat and a senior Soviet party member at his home in London. What kind of larks was he up to?’ Brock shook his head and got to his feet. ‘I think we’ve been mesmerised, Kathy, by the Russians. Let’s go and have another chat to Toby.’

As they made for the door they were called back by Zack, who had returned from taking the surveillance hard drives to the SERIS unit in South London.

‘We’ve looked at that gap on the night of Sunday May the thirtieth,’ Zack said, ‘when Moszynski was killed. The system was checked at eighteen minutes past midnight, and it was discovered to have been switched off at nine-fifty-two p.m., just before Moszynski left the house.’

‘That’s what the security people said.’

‘Yes, and that’s what the copy that we took from the hard drive showed. But we’ve now had a closer look at the hard drive, and it seems that the system was actually switched off at six minutes past eleven. The previous hour and fourteen minutes had been recorded, but then erased.’

‘Aha.’ Brock leaned forward. ‘Wayne Everett. But is it possible to retrieve the missing time?’

‘If you go to the computer suite I’ll show you what we’ve got so far,’ Zack said.

They hurried there, where Zack typed on a keyboard and the screen in front of them buzzed into life, a crackle of white static at first, clearing to show the front steps of the Moszynski house and the street beyond. A car drove past, then a figure came out from beneath the camera and stood for a while at the top of the steps, the man’s head and shoulders bathed in the porch light: Mikhail Moszynski. He looked to left and right up the street, then walked down the steps and across to the gate in the fence to the gardens on the far side, where the lower half of his body was visible as he fiddled with the lock, swung the gate open and disappeared off the top of the screen.

‘Nothing happens for a couple of minutes,’ Zack said, and there was a buzz of static as the recording was fast-forwarded. ‘Now…’

The lower half of a figure emerged in the top left of the screen. It was wearing dark trousers, and against the background of dark foliage it was difficult to make out any detail. It walked quite slowly to the gate and went into the gardens.

‘Another five minutes where nothing happens,’ Zack fast-forwarded the film. ‘Here we go.’

The dark trousers had reappeared at the gate, and retraced their route out of view.

‘There’s nothing more for another twenty minutes,’ Zack said, ‘until Wayne Everett comes out and goes across the road, just as he said. There’s no sign of him carrying a knife.’

Brock was getting to his feet. ‘Come on, Kathy.’

‘You know who it is?’ she said.

‘Yes, so do you. Didn’t you see the stick?’

There was a car standing at the kerb outside the hotel when they arrived, its engine running. As they went up the steps the front door opened and Toby emerged, one hand clutching his stick and a briefcase.

‘Hello, Toby,’ Brock said. ‘I’m glad we’ve caught you in.’

‘Oh.’ He glanced from Brock to Kathy and back. ‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush, Chief Inspector. Let’s make it another time.’

‘Sorry, this won’t wait.’ Brock advanced on him so that he had to back through the door. Looking over her shoulder Kathy noticed the driver get out of the waiting car. It was the concierge, she saw, Garry, the silent one.

They moved into the hotel office. Filing cabinet drawers were open, papers strewn across the table, as if there had been a hurried search for something, and Toby’s photographs were missing from the wall.

‘Where are you off to?’ Brock asked.

‘Can you tell me what this is all about?’ Toby said, a touch of annoyance in his voice. ‘I really am in rather a hurry.’

‘Sit down, Toby,’ Brock said, and drew out a chair for himself.

They heard the front door slam shut and Garry came in and stood behind them in the office doorway.

‘We’ve managed to decipher the CCTV footage shot by the camera on Mikhail Moszynski’s porch on the night he died,’ Brock said. ‘It shows him going into the gardens, closely followed by yourself.’

Toby stood there and stared, inscrutable behind the tinted glasses. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. You stayed with Moszynski for about five minutes and then left. You were the only one in the gardens with him until the security guard went in there twenty minutes later and raised the alarm. Care to explain?’

‘I think not.’

‘Very well. Toby Beaumont, I am arresting you on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Mikhail Moszynski. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

Toby listened in silence to the caution, immobile as if on parade. Then he glanced at Garry and slowly sat down, facing Brock across the table.

‘Very well. You want the truth, do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mikhail Moszynski made my life hell. For some reason that I could never fathom, he was obsessed with this building, with Chelsea Mansions, and was determined to own it all. One by one he bought out the other owners until there was just us left. When I refused to sell he resorted to subterfuge. I needed money to carry out a much-needed modernisation of the hotel, and one day a guest, a very plausible sort of chap, got talking to me about it. How much would I need? he asked. More than the bank was prepared to lend, I told him. It turned out he worked for a private investment company that specialised in loans for property developments of various kinds. We discussed the ideas I had in mind, and why the bank thought them too ambitious while I was convinced they would work. He thought so too, and a few days later he presented me with a proposal. It was exactly what I needed. I scanned the terms and noticed a couple of clauses that looked a little strict, but he assured me that his company was very experienced in this sort of project and understood the need for flexibility. I took him at his word and signed up, and the money was in my bank account the next day.

‘Then the problems began. There were endless delays with the council over approval for alterations to the interior of a heritage building, by putting in a lift and so on. Good grief! I pointed out that the bloody Russians next door had gutted their heritage building and turned it into something from Las Vegas, but it made no difference. I discovered later that the poison toad, Hadden-Vane, had gone behind the scenes and used his influence and Moszynski’s cash to fix the building inspector. Then there were extraordinary problems getting a builder. They would promise to tender, then back out at the last minute. Everyone we approached seemed to suddenly find themselves unexpectedly tied up elsewhere.

‘The end result was that when the time came to start repaying the loan, we were hopelessly embroiled, the place a mess, no guests and no income. I failed to meet the first deadline for a repayment and when I asked for flexibility I was told that the letter of the contract would apply. Within a week we were rushed to court, where, surprise, surprise, Moszynski appeared as the owner of the loan company, backed up by a phalanx of barristers and solicitors. He didn’t just want the first repayment. We were in default, he said, and so the surety on the loan, the building itself, was now his. He also demanded that I cover all his legal costs, amounting to a quarter of a million so far. When the judge mildly pointed out that this would ruin me, Moszynski nodded and said, “So be it.”

‘In the end the judge saved us. He didn’t like the way Moszynski was using the law like an assault weapon. He gave me another week in which to fulfil the terms of the contract, and made Moszynski carry his own costs. Somehow we scrambled together enough money to settle the first account, and later arranged a loan from another lender and paid off Moszynski’s debt in full. The hotel, as you see, was left unimproved.

‘I tell you this, not by way of mitigation, but so that you understand the nature of this man, Mikhail Moszynski. If there was something he wanted, he was utterly ruthless and relentless until he had it.

‘Well now, on Sunday the thirtieth of May we held a memorial service for Nancy Haynes. You were there, Inspector Kolla, and so, to my surprise, was Moszynski. I was even more surprised when he spoke to me and asked to meet with me in the gardens at ten o’clock that evening for a private conversation. I was inclined to tell him to go to hell, but I had learned to be cautious where Mikhail Moszynski was concerned.

‘It was dark, and the others were concerned about my going. Deb wanted me to take Garry here with me, but Moszynski had insisted I come alone and I decided to comply. I am somewhat incapacitated of course, but not entirely helpless. I made my way to the gate and took a pace into the gardens, then stopped. I could see nothing. But then I smelled his cigar, and he called out to me, and I followed the gravel path to the bench where he was sitting.

‘He seemed in a good mood, cheerful about something. Apart from the cigar I could smell brandy, and his voice was slurred. He said he had an interesting proposition to put to me.

‘He began talking about Nancy Haynes, asking if she’d told me that she had visited Chelsea Mansions once before, as a teenager, staying with her parents at my great-aunt’s hotel next door. I said no, she hadn’t mentioned it, and he told me that she had met him at the Russian cathedral the previous Sunday, and told him about the visit. I hardly knew whether to believe him, because Nancy had given no hint of it to us, but then he said that she told him she had also met my father back then, and had developed a bit of a crush on him, and even had a photograph of him. He took it out of his pocket to show me, and though it was too dark for me to make it out, I was inclined to believe him.

‘He then started talking about Nancy’s murder, and how unfortunate it would be if further unpleasant consequences were to flow from that tragic event. Well, my ears pricked up at that-from the tone of his voice it sounded like a threat of some kind, and I demanded to know what he meant. Then he told me, as calmly as you please, that he would give me one final chance to sell the hotel to him, and if I refused he had it in his power to arrange things in such a way that the police would have incontrovertible proof that I, assisted by my staff here at the hotel, had murdered Nancy.

‘Well, the idea was so preposterous, even for that megalomaniac, that I just laughed and told him he was drunk. I asked him, what would be my motive in killing her? He replied that he would tell the police that Nancy had revealed to him that my father had raped her on that visit, and she was about to make it public. He would also arrange for physical evidence of some kind to link me to the murder. He said that he rather hoped I wouldn’t agree to sell, and that he could watch me being destroyed, and my staff along with me.

‘And that’s when I realised that he wasn’t drunk, and that he wasn’t a man to make threats he couldn’t carry out. I also realised just how much he hated me, and that he would carry out his threat whether I agreed or not.’

Toby sat up a little straighter in his chair and raised his walking stick in both hands. He gave it a twist and a tug, and the handle slid out to reveal a long slender blade. He laid it carefully on the table in front of Brock.

‘My grandfather took this with him to the Boer War in 1900 as a young subaltern,’ he said, ‘although I don’t believe he ever had cause to use it. But I like to think that he would have approved of the fact that I did. It was my duty to protect my staff, and as clear a case of self-defence as if Moszynski had held a gun to my head. The man was going to destroy us. I had no choice but to respond in the only way I could.’

Brock said, ‘You’re admitting to us that you killed Mikhail Moszynski.’

‘Yes.’

It was a spellbinding performance, Kathy thought, all the more disconcerting for his utter coolness. She glanced back at Garry, standing with his back to the door, hands behind him. Was he armed? Was that why Toby seemed so unconcerned?

‘When you returned from the garden, were you aware that you were being filmed?’

‘Yes, I remembered the camera, so when I got back I asked Garry to fix it.’

‘How could he do that?’

‘Oh,’ Toby said with a careless gesture of his hand, ‘when my father built the air-raid shelter in the basement he extended it under all three of the properties the family owned. They were interconnected, so that if there were a direct hit on one house, the people would be able to escape through to the basement next door. The openings had been sealed up since then, but I remembered where they were, and we made a way through. Garry simply went into their security centre when the coast was clear, wiped the tape and switched the camera off.’

‘What about Freddie Clarke’s confession and Hadden-Vane’s suicide? Do you know anything about that?’

Toby gave a little smile. ‘It would be nice to think that I in some way encouraged the truth to come out, but I shan’t say any more than that. And it was an excellent outcome, was it not, apart from poor Nancy’s death? Moszynski dead, Hadden-Vane dead, the old witch Marta Moszynski running back to Russia and Freddie Clarke banished to who knows where. The whole damn viper’s nest cleared out, and justice served better than I suspect you would have been able to achieve, Chief Inspector.’

Kathy saw Brock glance back at Garry, still immobile and silent at the door, then reach into his pocket and take out his phone, but Toby leaned forward and shook his head. ‘No.’

‘I’m going to call for a car to take us into the station to formally record your statement. You gave it under caution. It’s already valid in a court of law and you are still under arrest.’

‘No,’ Toby repeated, apparently quite unperturbed. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t quite finished yet.’

‘There’s more?’

‘A little piece of personal history. It’s rather painful to recall, but relevant to our situation. In 1990 I was in Riyadh, a staff officer at British Army headquarters preparing for the first Gulf War, following the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait.’

Toby gave an enigmatic smile and, without moving his gaze from Brock’s face, pointed to the wall to his left. ‘Over there was a photograph of my son, Miles, named after my father. He also was in Saudi, an officer with the SAS. Before the main hostilities began we hatched a plan to send some units across the border to pinpoint the mobile Scud missile batteries that we knew the Iraqis were deploying in the desert. Then we got intelligence that a senior Iraqi general, a close relative of Saddam Hussein, was personally supervising the deployment in a certain area, and we had the idea of sending a raiding party to capture or kill this man. It seemed a brilliant idea, like Colonel Keyes’ commando raid to kidnap Rommel in North Africa in 1942. Some on the planning staff urged caution-it would mean penetrating deep into enemy territory, war hadn’t yet been declared and the odds were formidable. But I was gung-ho. I was also responsible for selecting the unit to go, and I wanted my son to command it. It would be the making of his career, I thought, his one great chance for glory. I should have paid more attention to history-Colonel Keyes was killed in the raid on Rommel. And my son was killed in Iraq.

‘Now, I want you to put yourself in my shoes, Brock. Imagine yourself as a father, ignoring sensible advice and sending your son to his death for a noble but doomed cause. How do you feel?’

‘There’s no point to this…’

Toby suddenly slammed his fist hard on the table, making his stick bounce. Behind her Kathy sensed Garry stir. ‘Bear with me, sir!’ Toby barked. ‘How do you feel?’

Brock stared at him. ‘Devastated?’

‘Devastated-exactly. You would never forgive yourself, would you? Now I put it to you that you are in precisely this same situation.’

Kathy drew in her breath. Brock was frowning, as if he’d decided that the old soldier was insane.

‘No,’ Brock said slowly. ‘I am not.’

Toby gave a sudden radiant smile. At least his mouth was smiling, but what his eyes were doing behind the black discs Kathy couldn’t tell.

‘The day after Nancy was murdered,’ Toby said, ‘a young man called in here at the hotel, looking for a room. I liked him. He reminded me a little of my son, the same enthusiasm, the same mischievous smile, and the same age as Miles was when he died. He was very interested in what had happened to Nancy. I assumed at first that this was just natural curiosity, but then I began to wonder. He went to some trouble to meet with you, Inspector Kolla, and to become involved in the police investigation. There was something about him that struck a chord with me, though I couldn’t quite pin it down. It was as if he were trying to find something he had lost. Then he told us that you were critically ill in hospital, Brock, and that he had gone to visit you, and had waited outside your room for some time, and I thought I understood. I had lost a son, and he had lost a father. I put it to him, and he confessed that it was true. His mother, your wife, left you when she was pregnant, did she not? She went to Canada and refused further contact except, for a while, through her sister. When John learned the truth about his father’s identity he felt compelled to come to London to meet him-you-only to discover you were now at death’s door. However, you recovered, and I assumed he would have told you about himself, but apparently he did not. I wonder why?’

Kathy had watched Brock’s expression freeze. He turned his eyes to her and she bit her lip and nodded. ‘It’s true,’ she said softly.

‘Ah, so you knew,’ Toby said to her. ‘Well, to the point. You, Brock, are in the position that I was in, though with rather more certainty about the outcome. You can go ahead and do what you believe to be your duty and arrest me, but if you do so you will know with absolute certainty, as I did not, that you will lose your son.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kathy made to get up but felt Garry’s hand on her shoulder, pressing her down. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘When he returned here last night, John became rather too inquisitive. He found something he shouldn’t, and I was obliged to take him into my custody. He’s still alive, I should think, but he probably won’t survive another night, which would be a shame. You have no chance of finding him without my help, which I will give you, by phone, two hours after Garry and I drive away from here, and provided you don’t raise the alarm in the meantime. You can trust me on that. I give you my word. What do you say?’

‘You can go to hell,’ Brock said.

‘Brock, I think we should talk about this,’ Kathy broke in.

‘Sensible woman,’ Toby said. ‘Listen to her, Brock. Just two hours. Garry and I will retire to the inner office there to let you discuss this in private, eh? You have three minutes to decide.’ He got to his feet and marched stiffly to the door which Garry held open for him.

Brock was staring at Kathy. ‘Is it really true?’

‘Yes, John told me. I had to let him speak to you first. He was hesitant, uncertain how you’d take it, but we agreed that he’d tell you over dinner last night. Only it didn’t work out for some reason.’

Brock swore softly under his breath. ‘I think that was my fault. Dear God, Kathy! I had no idea.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. So what are we going to do?’

‘We can’t agree to this. The man’s just admitted to murder. There was no evidence of a struggle, was there? He’s a killer.’

‘And ruthless enough to let John die. We can’t allow that, can we?’

‘He’s bluffing.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Brock put both hands to his face.

‘Forget he’s your son,’ Kathy said. ‘He’s a member of the public whose safety depends on our giving a self-confessed killer a head start. We have no choice.’

Brock took a deep breath and sat upright. He was about to speak when they heard the sound of a car starting outside in the street. Kathy ran to the window and saw Toby ease himself into the passenger seat and pull the door shut behind him. The car drew away from the kerb. She turned back to Brock.

‘They must have gone out the back way. What do we do?’

Brock nodded. ‘You’re right, we have no choice.’ He seemed momentarily defeated.

‘We could have them followed, but I think it’s too risky. I’ll get Zack to track them with cameras, shall I?’

She used her mobile to ring Queen Anne’s Gate, speaking urgently down the line, giving them a description of the car and its number, then listened while they got to work.

‘They’ve got them crossing the river on Chelsea Bridge,’ she said at last. ‘The roads are clear to the south. What do you think, Gatwick?’

Then, a minute later, ‘They’re turning west on Battersea Park Road.’

‘The heliport?’ Brock roused himself. ‘Come on, we’ve got to find John before they get away.’

‘How can we? They could have taken him anywhere.’

‘What could he have discovered that forced their hand?’

Kathy thought. ‘He’d been looking through their old records stored in the attic by his room on the top floor.’

They hurried out to the front desk, where Kathy grabbed keys from the pigeonholes and they ran to the stairs. When they reached the top floor they opened the door to John’s room. His bag was still there, the bed unmade.

‘So he went to bed last night. Then maybe he got up and started searching the attic again.’

They found the door nearby on the landing, opening into a narrow staircase that doglegged up into a cramped loft laced with rafters and beams. In the pale gloaming from a dusty roof light they made out boxes, piles of old books and several metal-bound trunks. They searched rapidly, peering into the dim recesses, accompanied by the muffled cooing of pigeons on the roof outside, but found no sign of John.

‘I wonder,’ Kathy said, trying to suppress a rising feeling of panic, ‘if they made that tape of Freddie Clarke’s confession? Perhaps John found some evidence of it.’

Her phone interrupted her, and she whipped it out and listened. Toby Beaumont and Garry had abandoned their car outside the London Heliport terminal on Lombard Road and were boarding a waiting helicopter.

‘An AgustaWestland AW109,’ Zack said. ‘The registered owner is Mikhail Moszynski’s company, RKF.’

Brock was thinking about what Kathy had said, the video of Clarke’s confession, the glimpses of old whitewashed brickwork in the background, like the cellar next door. ‘Perhaps they brought Clarke here. We should check the cellar.’

As they ran downstairs Kathy received another message. The helicopter’s reported route was to Biggin Hill airfield in Kent, a fifteen-minute flight away.

They found the door to the cellar beneath the stairs in the ground-floor hallway, switched on the light and saw the flight of stone flags leading down. ‘John!’ Kathy called. ‘Are you there?’ There was only a dead silence.

At the foot of the steps they paused and looked around-a bench, some steel shelving, a box of tools, a bucket, pickaxe and spade. Nothing seemed out of place. Through an arched opening another room was bare, smelling of raw damp. They looked into a third room and a fourth, all empty.

‘Nothing,’ Kathy said, feeling panicky.

‘Beaumont was enjoying that, upstairs,’ Brock panted, feeling the chill of the place. ‘He was excited, hyped up, alive. He was back in Riyadh, in the war room- gung-ho, as he put it.’

‘Let’s hope we can trust him. There’s no sign of John anywhere.’

‘Someone’s been down here recently,’ Brock said, pointing to footprints on the dusty floor.

Another call came in. ‘The helicopter is landing at Biggin Hill. There’s only one plane preparing for take-off at present, a Cessna Citation Sovereign jet, fuelled up, waiting on the tarmac for its final passengers. It’s privately owned. RKF again.’ She listened some more. ‘It has a range of five thousand kilometres. Flight plan to Lagos, Nigeria. Zack is asking if we want flight control to hold it up.’

Brock frowned. ‘We have no extradition treaty with Nigeria.’ He shook his head and kicked at the shovel in frustration, sending it skidding across the floor. Then he crouched down. Kathy saw that his kick had dislodged a lump of clay from the back of the shovel’s blade. He felt it, damp and sticky.

He straightened and said, ‘No. Tell them to stop the plane. Put a vehicle on the runway. Don’t let it take off.’

Kathy stared at him in surprise. ‘Are you sure?’

‘They’ve been digging,’ he said, ‘like in the cellars next door. But there’s no sign of disturbance in here. So where were they digging?’

Together they paced rapidly around the other rooms again, scanning the floors and walls, examining the brickwork, but could see nothing. When they returned Kathy took another call from Biggin Hill; the pilot of the Cessna was asking what was going on and the control tower wanted to know what to tell them.

Brock groaned. ‘Tell them…’ he began slowly, and at that moment Kathy’s eyes focused on the steel shelving in front of her. ‘Wait,’ she said. She stepped forward and heaved at the shelving, sending it crashing to the floor. As Brock looked at her in astonishment she pointed to the white wall behind the shelving, which wasn’t brickwork but a panel of white board. Together they pulled the board away to reveal a metal door with a steel handle and two heavy bolts. Kathy reached for them, then abruptly stopped, noticing the wires that led from the bolts to a large flat cardboard box which had been taped to the centre of the door.

‘They’ve booby-trapped it,’ she said, taking a careful step back. ‘What is he planning to do, blow the whole building up?’

Brock said, ‘Call the bomb squad, Kathy.’ As she made the call she watched him walk away, looking back to the stair and round again at the wall with the sealed door, scratching his beard. When she hung up he said rapidly, ‘This is the side of the house facing the Moszynskis, right? And Toby told us that he had found a way through to their basement. So we may be able to get into this room from the other side, from the Moszynskis’.’

They ran up the stairs, along the hall and out into the street, Kathy on her phone again, shouting for back-up. When they arrived, panting, at the Moszynskis’ front porch there was no answer to their urgent pounding on the door.

‘The place is empty,’ Brock gasped. ‘They’ve all left.’

As they waited for help there was another call from the airfield. A Colonel Beaumont had asked for a message to be relayed. Chief Inspector Brock was running out of time, he’d said. The plane must be allowed to take off immediately, or he would not answer for the consequences. Kathy looked at Brock for a response, but he said nothing, staring fixedly down the street from where the sounds of police sirens could be heard.

Brock shouted at the crew of the first car as they jumped out, and they brought up a ram and began slamming it at the edge of the door. The door was very solidly built, and it seemed to take an age before it finally splintered and burst inward.

‘Kathy,’ Brock said, ‘one of us will have to stay at the hotel and take the bomb squad down. I’ll do that. You go with these lads. There’s a door behind the glass lift on the other side of the hall that gives access to a stair to the basement. You’ll find tools down there you may need, pickaxes and sledgehammers. Let me have the Biggin Hill number and I’ll stay in touch with them.’

Kathy gave it to him and then led the uniforms, joined now by a second squad, across the hallway. She followed Brock’s directions, running through the cellars, leaping over excavations and piles of debris until they came up against a solid brick wall with no openings. ‘Okay,’ she panted, ‘we need to work our way along this wall, left and right, into the rooms next door, until we come to some sign of a way through.’

It wasn’t long before they found it, a panel, encrusted with layers of old whitewash. They ripped the panel apart with a crowbar to reveal a heavy steel door beneath, like the one next door, but without a handle. ‘Handle must be on the other side,’ Kathy said.

A few blows with sledgehammers convinced them that they would never penetrate it that way. ‘We’ll have to go through the wall,’ one of the men said. ‘Stand back!’ and two of them began an assault on the brickwork to one side of the door, sending splinters of brick flying.

As they worked, Kathy imagined the bomb, just a few yards away from them now, steadily ticking towards whatever deadline Toby Beaumont had set. She turned away from the noise of the sledgehammers and called Brock. The bomb squad had arrived, he said; he was with them now, examining the box with some kind of equipment they’d brought; they could hear the pounding of the hammers, ringing through the brickwork. She turned at the sound of a shout as a blow finally punched a small hole through the wall. ‘Shouldn’t be long now,’ she yelled into her phone.

They steadily worked at the hole, smashing it larger and larger until it was wide enough for a man to slide through. Then they stopped and looked at Kathy. She called for a torch and stuck her head and shoulders through and turned it on. The beam flashed around the chamber, picking up a mound of soil and bricks, a shovel, but no human figure. Her heart sank. They would be too late now. They would never find him. ‘This isn’t it. He’s not here,’ she cried, and then thought she heard an answering sound, a distant moan. She twisted her head, straining, and called out, ‘Hello!’‚ and there it was again, not much more than a whisper. She pushed her head further in and turned the beam down at the floor, and saw a figure directly beneath her, bound in tape and covered in broken bricks and dust, a mop of dark hair she thought she recognised. ‘Hell!’ she said. ‘We could have killed him.’ She clambered through the hole, swept the debris off him, and began to rip away the tape. At the same moment a door on the other side of the chamber swung open and Brock stood there and the room was flooded with light.