Chelsea Mansions

ELEVEN

T owards noon the following day, Tuesday, the first day of June, Toby Beaumont and Deb Collins were standing in the bay window of their office, watching the police activity in the square. Behind them, John put his head around the office door.

‘What’s all the excitement?’ he asked.

‘Police,’ Deb said. ‘At it again.’

‘What are they up to now?’

‘Goodness knows,’ she replied, and turned back to her accounts. ‘The woman inspector, Kolla, has been next door at the Moszynskis’ for a couple of hours now with some other serious-looking types. I suppose she’ll be calling in here again.’

‘Mm. Makes the day interesting, I suppose.’ John glanced at the photographs on the wall. ‘Don’t you miss the excitement of the old days, Toby?’

‘No, old son,’ Toby said, with such a tone of weary resignation that both John and Deb shot him a cautious look. ‘Too old for that now.’

John pointed to one of the framed photographs on the wall. ‘I was wondering who this young guy is? You’ve got several shots of him.’

Toby turned from the window and stared at where John was pointing. ‘A very fine soldier,’ he said heavily.

‘That cap badge-isn’t that the SAS?’

Then John noticed Deb staring at him with a frown. She gave a little shake of her head and said, ‘And what can we do for you today, John?’

‘Ah yes. I was thinking I should have at least one really good meal while I’m in London. I wondered if you could recommend somewhere around here.’

‘Yes, we’ve got a list. If you wanted somewhere really special you could try Frazer’s in the King’s Road. Expensive mind. Going on your own?’

‘No, I thought I’d take a friend. Do you think we’d get in tonight?’

‘I’ll ring up for you if you like.’

‘Thanks.’

They turned at the sound of the front door bell, and Kathy walked in.

‘Ah, Inspector,’ Deb said. ‘We thought you might be paying us another visit.’

‘’Fraid so, Deb,’ Kathy said. ‘I’m going to have to speak to everyone again. Would it be possible for me to use the lounge?’

‘Be our guest,’ Toby said. ‘We’ll get you a pot of coffee.’

‘That would be wonderful.’

‘Could you do me first?’ John asked. ‘I’m going to have to leave shortly.’

‘Fine.’

They crossed the hall to the guests’ lounge and sat facing one another. He looked at her expectantly as she took out her notebook and an electronic recorder.

‘Well now, Mr Greenslade, I have to inform you that this is an official interview which I’ll be recording. Okay with that?’

‘Sure.’

She asked him his full name, age, address, employer and mobile phone number. ‘What are you doing here in London?’

‘I’m attending a conference at University College on classical philology.’

‘Which is?’

‘It’s about the interpretation of old texts.’ He saw the doubt on her face. ‘Renaissance texts mainly.’ Then he added, ‘Quattrocento.’

‘Quattrocento,’ she repeated slowly, writing it down, making the word sound pretentious. He took a breath, wanting to explain, but she moved on abruptly. ‘And when did you arrive in London?’

‘Monday the twenty-fourth, a week ago yesterday.’

‘How did you choose this hotel?’

‘Well, I was booked into some place off the Edgeware Road that was one of the conference organisers’ recommendations, but I didn’t like it very much, so after a few days I moved here.’

‘When exactly?’

‘Um… Friday it would have been. Yes, Friday.’

‘Why here?’

‘Well, I read about Nancy Haynes’ death and I was curious. The newspaper report mentioned where she was staying, and I wandered over to take a look, and thought, this is nicer than where I am, and asked if they had a free room, which they did.’

‘And it was free because it was Nancy Haynes’ room.’

‘I guess so.’

She let that hang for a moment, and he began to feel uncomfortable.

‘Why were you curious about Nancy Haynes’ death?’

‘It just struck me as rather odd, I suppose.’

‘So you wanted to sleep in her bed?’

He felt a little jolt of shock. ‘No! Now you’re looking at me the way I look at a student who’s been caught plagiarising or something. There was nothing macabre about it. I told you before, I’ve had a bit to do with the Montreal police.’

‘Yes, you did say that. What exactly have you had to do with them?’

‘You don’t believe me, do you? Look, why don’t I give you the name of someone to call, and they can vouch for me, okay?’

He took out his phone and scrolled through his address book and handed it to her. ‘Paul Ledoux is a lieutenant in the Montreal Police Service, that’s his office number.’ She wrote it down and handed back the phone.

‘The conference has been a bit of a disappointment, not really my period, and I was looking for a distraction. I thought it might be interesting to be in the middle of a murder investigation.’

‘And is it?’

‘Well, right at the moment it’s a little uncomfortable, to tell the truth.’

‘Maybe that’s because you’re not being completely open with me, Mr Greenslade.’

He sighed, lowered his eyes from that accusing glare of hers and said, ‘Can I make a suggestion? Phone Paul Ledoux in a couple of hours when he gets in to work, and if you’re not completely satisfied you can get out the thumbscrews. But if you are satisfied-’

He was interrupted by the sound of Kathy’s phone. She glanced at the number and winced. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Better take this.’

She got to her feet and walked over to the window, her back to him. ‘Sir?’ He watched her listen, motionless, then shake her head and say, ‘I’m afraid he’s still in Scotland, sir… Yes, I did tell him about the meeting, but he wanted to complete his inquiries… No, sir… Probably this evening, or tomorrow…’ She took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, the phone clamped to her ear. Eventually she said, ‘Absolutely, sir, I…’ She fell silent, snapped the phone shut and put it back in her pocket.

‘Where were we?’ she said.

‘We were agreeing that you’d phone Montreal, after which if you weren’t satisfied you would haul me in for further questioning, but if you were satisfied you’d have dinner with me tonight.’

Kathy shook her head. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve, John.’

At least she’d called him John. ‘Yes, well, time is short. They’re having a conference dinner tonight and I need an excuse not to go. I’d much prefer to eat somewhere nice with somebody who wouldn’t want to talk about classical philology.’

She nodded. ‘I can understand that.’

‘And I’ve had an idea about your case that I’d like to put to you. I thought of Frazer’s in the King’s Road.’

‘Frazer’s?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘You’ve heard of it?’

‘Yes. I’m told it’s expensive.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘I’d rather have a sandwich at the Red Lion.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes, and I’ll pay for my own. Say six o’clock?’

‘You are serious. Where is this Red Lion?’

‘Parliament Street, not far from the Two Chairmen, which you know so well.’

John left her to interview the next resident of the hotel. In the hall Deb called to him that she’d tried Frazer’s and it was booked out. Did he want her to try somewhere else? He thanked her and told her not to bother.

When she’d finished at the hotel Kathy checked the progress of the others in the square, and went through the lists they were working from. Several people had not yet been reinterviewed: Vadim and Alisa Kuzmin had returned to their home in Surrey and apparently Shaka had gone with them; Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane was tied up with parliamentary business in Westminster; and Mikhail Moszynski’s financial adviser, Freddie Clarke, was working at his office in Mayfair. Kathy decided to start with him.

The place was hard to find, an inconspicuous door in a tiny square tucked away behind Curzon Street. The name on the small brass plate said Truscott Orr. It wasn’t apparent what Truscott Orr did. The voice on the intercom was guarded, and when Kathy mounted the stairs to the small reception area she was confronted by a severe, smartly dressed woman who gave the strong impression that Kathy was intruding. Through an open door she caught a glimpse of two young men, not long out of school by the look of them, staring at computer screens. The woman spoke into a phone and led Kathy to another door.

Clarke had his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. His striped shirt was enlivened by a colourful pair of braces, decorated with bears on one side and bulls on the other. Kathy wondered if you could tell which way the market was heading by watching which side he tugged.

‘Ah, hello again. Er…’ He glanced at the secretary who was hovering at the door as if reluctant to leave him alone with the detective. Rather as if she’s his mother, Kathy thought. Clarke said, ‘Coffee, Renee? Thanks.’

‘Thank you for seeing me at short notice, Mr Clarke,’ Kathy began. ‘There are a few points I need to clarify. First of all, can you just explain to me again exactly what your relationship was with Mr Moszynski?’

He inserted a thumb under the bulls and said, ‘I advised him on his financial affairs.’

‘You are a financial adviser, then?’

‘Yeah. Specialist in tax law.’

A smart cockney spiv, Kathy thought. ‘So you weren’t business partners, as such?’

‘That too, but on a modest scale. I have investments in some of Mr Moszynski’s companies.’ He smiled encouragingly, as if to suggest he was an open book.

‘Who are Truscott and Orr?’

‘Founders of the firm, back in the seventies. I’m the sole director now.’

‘So you’re familiar with all of Mr Moszynski’s business affairs?’

‘I couldn’t claim that.’

‘Could you describe them to me?’

‘Mr Moszynski came to the UK with substantial assets, which he has diversified through a number of holding and investment companies. He also set up several charitable and family trusts.’

‘I imagine it will be complicated.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And his family will be relying on you to sort things out.’

‘In part. Ah, coffee.’

Renee had appeared with a tray. ‘The boys are stuck, Freddie,’ she said.

‘Oh damn. Could you excuse me a moment, Inspector?’ He rushed to the door while Renee struggled to find a place to set the tray down among the papers heaped over every surface.

Kathy said, ‘My boss’s desk looks a bit like that.’

‘Freddie is a genius,’ Renee replied stonily, defying her to deny it.

‘At tax minimisation?’ Kathy said.

‘At what he does.’

‘It sounds boring, but I don’t suppose it is, with clients like the Russians.’

Renee said nothing, seemingly not wanting to enter into a conversation, but also not wanting to leave Kathy alone in Clarke’s office. She began arranging papers into piles, then stopped and turned to Kathy. ‘I read about the letter in the paper this morning. That’s obviously the answer, isn’t it? Like those other Russians. The KGB did it.’

‘Did Nancy Haynes ever come here, Renee?’

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

‘The American lady who was staying next door to Mikhail Moszynski-the one who was murdered last Thursday.’

‘What’s that?’ Freddie Clarke had reappeared at the door.

Kathy repeated the question.

‘Hell, no. Why would she? She certainly wasn’t a client of ours. Why, are you trying to make some connection?’

‘This is her photograph,’ Kathy said, showing it to both of them. ‘Have you ever seen her?’

They both said no, and Renee left.

‘As you see, Inspector,’ Clarke went on, ‘I’m up to my ears at the moment. Was there anything in particular you were after?’

‘I just wanted an overview of Mr Moszynski’s business affairs. I’m probably not asking the right questions. Maybe I should get our financial specialists to come and talk to you.’

He frowned and tugged at the bears. ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I could give you a list of his principal companies and trusts, if you like. The most significant is RKF SA.’

‘Thank you.’ She thought a moment. ‘RKF as in Rosskomflot?’

He looked at her sharply. ‘That’s right. You do know something of his affairs, then?’

‘A little. Do you have company prospectuses, annual statements?’

He smirked. ‘These are private companies, almost all registered overseas. RKF is registered in Luxembourg, for example.’

‘Ah yes, of course. So what would Mikhail be worth, all up?’

‘Oh…’ Clarke shook his head with a frown. ‘Very hard to say.’

‘Roughly. Take a guess.’

‘Roughly…’ He spread his hands. ‘Five hundred million? Six?’

‘Sterling?’

‘Dollars.’

‘And who will control that now?’

‘I haven’t seen his will…’

‘But he must have discussed it with you.’

‘Various family members will inherit, but taken with her present holding in RKF, his daughter Alisa-Mrs Kuzmin-will have a controlling interest, I believe.’

‘Not his wife?’

‘Not under the terms of their pre-nuptial agreement. She will be generously provided for, but won’t play an active part in the companies.’

‘And what role does Alisa’s husband Vadim play?’

‘He acts as Mikhail’s business representative in Russia. Vadim has extensive contacts with government and business over there. Mikhail hasn’t been back to Russia since his mother joined him over here.’

‘Was he afraid?’

‘I’ve read the letter and editorial in The Times this morning, and I was a little surprised. Mikhail hadn’t expressed those opinions so forcibly to me, but he was certainly uncomfortable about returning to Russia. He felt unwelcome there. Now look, if you don’t mind…’

Kathy got to her feet. ‘Could I have your mobile number, Mr Clarke? Just in case I have any more queries.’

He looked reluctant, but wrote a number on the back of a card and gave it to her.

‘Did you make any calls from Mr Moszynski’s house last Sunday?’

Clarke frowned. ‘Not that I can remember.’

‘What about anyone else? Did you see or hear anyone making or taking calls that afternoon and evening?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane, for instance?’

‘Em… actually, I think he did call his wife at one stage.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. Now I really must get on.’

Kathy drove across the river and picked up the A30, heading south into Surrey. Beyond Esher she turned off the main road, following the satnav prompts. The traffic faded away and the houses, glimpsed through dense banks of foliage, became larger.

She turned onto a gravel drive towards an orange-brick, half-timbered Tudorbethan country house outside which a red Ferrari Spider was parked. A maid showed her into a living room overlooking a broad lawn at the back of the house. Two people were sitting on a sofa, Shaka and Vadim, just like the last time Kathy had seen them at Chelsea Mansions, almost like two people plotting. When they saw Kathy their faces shut down. Shaka’s took on the distant, haughty look of a model on a catwalk, while Vadim’s set into a hostile frown.

‘Sorry to bother you again. I just need to check a few things with you. We need to establish a complete picture of where everyone was during the past week.’ Kathy went through her routine, recording their recollections of people’s movements. Vadim had little to say, and looked increasingly impatient.

When they were finished, Kathy said, ‘Can you tell me who are the executors of Mr Moszynski’s estate?’

‘We are,’ Shaka said. ‘The two of us.’ Had she sounded just a little too offhand?

‘You and Mr Kuzmin.’

‘Right.’

‘When was that arranged?’

She shrugged. ‘Soon after Mikhail and I got married, wasn’t it, Vadim?’

He didn’t reply, staring balefully at Kathy. She wondered if he’d learned that stare in the KGB.

‘You’ll have your hands full trying to sort out your husband’s finances, won’t you, Mrs Moszynski? I gather they’re complicated.’

‘He’s not even in the ground yet,’ Shaka said coolly. ‘We’re grieving. We haven’t thought about it.’

Kathy doubted that.

They heard Alisa’s voice somewhere outside and Vadim seemed to rouse himself. He said, ‘We haven’t shown Alisa the newspaper reports today. She is still very upset. Please be tactful.’

When Alisa came in Kathy went through her questions, and as Moszynski’s daughter spoke Kathy was struck by the contrast between Alisa and the other two. At thirty she was actually a couple of years older than Shaka, but seemed much more vulnerable. From time to time she wiped tears from her eyes, recalling something her father had said or done, while Shaka showed no emotion at all. Alisa’s husband was fifteen years older than her, and Kathy thought that if she had known nothing about the three of them she might have supposed that Shaka and Vadim were the older generation, more worldly and hardened, and Alisa young enough to be their daughter.

When Kathy was finished she got to her feet and Alisa came over to her, head bowed, and said, ‘I don’t know what I will do without Papa.’

Vadim, whose impassive frown had hardly altered throughout the interview, showed Kathy out. At the front door she said, ‘Do you trust Freddie Clarke, Mr Kuzmin?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ll be relying on him to access Mr Moszynski’s fortune.’

He eyed her coldly. ‘Let me give good advice, Detective. Let the experts come up with the theories.’ He swung the door open and stepped back into the shadows, watching her go.

Let me give good advice, Kathy thought as she got into her car. It was a phrase from the letter to The Times.