Chelsea Mansions

SEVENTEEN

T he cool night air revived Kathy and as she went to her car she was suddenly possessed by a sense of energy and relief. Worrying about Brock had blocked out the thought of her own reprieve, but now its full force struck her. She was alive, out of danger, and suddenly very hungry. She hadn’t touched the food that had been delivered to Queen Anne’s Gate and now she felt an urgent need for a hot meal and company. There was a text message on her phone that she hadn’t picked up, from John Greenslade, saying simply, need to talk. Her first instinct was to ignore it, but after a moment’s reflection she keyed in his number.

‘Kathy, hi, thanks for ringing back. I was worried about what you said, about a bug going around. Are you really okay?’

‘Yes, John, I’m fine.’

‘Great. And I’ve had some thoughts on the letter.’

She could hear music and laughter in the background, and imagined him at a conference function, having a good time. ‘You at a party?’ she asked.

‘’Fraid not,’ he laughed. ‘I’m in a pub. I’d invite you to join me, but it’s a dump.’

‘I suppose you’ve eaten?’

‘I had something that claimed to be a Cornish pastie. They must have a special machine that turns pastry into bullet-proof cardboard.’

‘Yes, they do. I haven’t eaten all day. Can I buy you a glass of wine while you watch me eat? As a consultant, of course.’

‘You’re on. Where?’

‘Are you in Chelsea?’

‘Yes, in Brompton Road. There’s a Mexican place just across the street, nothing fancy.’

She took a note of the address and rang off.

He was there when she arrived, waving to her from a corner table. There was a bottle of wine at his elbow, and he poured her a glass as she sat down. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ She took a deep breath and sat back. ‘So how did your talk go today?’

‘Fine, I think. Well, most of them stayed awake, I guess. Are you really all right? You look worn out. Hard day?’

‘Oh, you know… Well, yes, it has been hard.’

‘Want to talk about it? I have signed the Official Secrets Act.’

So she told him about Brock and the virus.

He looked horrified. ‘I’ve heard of Marburg. It’s really serious, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but I’ve been cleared, so I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about. Brock never actually came into the hotel, did he?’

‘But you’re so lucky.’

‘Yes, yes I am.’

‘That’s just terrible about Brock. I can’t believe… he could actually die.’

He sounded so appalled, so concerned for someone he’d never even met, that Kathy thought he might just be being melodramatic, but when she looked at him she saw that he’d gone quite pale.

‘All we can do is wait.’

‘Yes. That’s so awful for you. And his wife? Is he married?’

‘He has a partner, but they don’t live together. She’s been away and knew nothing about him being ill until I phoned her today. She’s with him at the hospital now.’

‘What about kids?’

‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, come on, let’s eat.’

She signalled to the waiter, who came and took their order.

When he’d gone, John said, ‘You face this sort of thing every day, don’t you? It makes my life seem absurdly sheltered. Sitting here like this, doing this job for you, I feel like a voyeur. If I can help, in any way…’ He spread his hands helplessly.

‘Well, actually it does help talking about it to someone on the outside, someone not personally affected.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘Maybe you should tell me something about yourself, apart from the fact that you’re a university lecturer who does jobs for the Montreal police.’

‘What, like a dating site, you mean?’ He put on a sugary voice. ‘I’m twenty-eight, single, an only child, and just adore cross-country skiing, classical opera and French food.’

She smiled. ‘Good enough.’

‘What about you?’

‘Me? Oh, I’m single and an only child too, but I’ve never skied, don’t much care for classical opera and prefer Indian.’

‘Sounds like we’re in trouble. But I like Indian too, and I’m sure we could work on the opera and skis.’

‘Anyway, this is a business meeting, remember? You said you had something to discuss.’

‘Yes, right. I had a good talk on the phone with Moszynski’s secretary. She knew all the letters I mentioned to her except the last one, to The Times, which she hadn’t seen until you showed it to her. The others she typed herself, either from dictation or from handwritten versions that Moszynski gave her. She’s been working for him for eight years, since soon after he came to London. She got the job because she’s fluent in both Russian and English and she said he always took great care with the wording of his letters, as if they might end up as evidence in a court of law-that’s what he told her. At first his English was a bit rough, and she would suggest a lot of changes, but he was a good learner and gradually she came to make fewer and fewer corrections, especially for a formal document, like a business letter or one to the newspapers. She said she was surprised at the political content of The Times letter, but he had been quite preoccupied that Friday it was sent, because of the death of the American lady next door, so maybe that was the explanation. Maybe he thought the Russian government was somehow involved.’

He paused and looked at Kathy carefully. ‘That’s what the secretary was suggesting to me. Does it make sense, do you think?’

‘Possibly. You could take that into account.’

‘Yes. Well, I did that, and I’ve come to a preliminary opinion I thought I might share with you.’

‘You haven’t had long.’

‘No, and I’ll need more time to set out a thorough argument, but I’m fairly positive. I don’t think that letter to The Times was written by Moszynski.’

‘Really?’ Kathy was surprised. She’d gone down this road in order to cover herself, in case the letter’s authenticity was questioned later in court, but she’d never seriously doubted it. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘There are several small departures from colloquial English usage-a couple of missing definite articles, like here…’ He took a copy of the letter from his pocket and showed her: ‘… elements of Russian secret police, rather than the Russian secret police. The biggest departure I would say is towards the end, here: Let me give good advice to your readers. It sounds like a Russian gangster, doesn’t it?’

‘But he was a Russian gangster, John. Or at least a Russian businessman. And I’ve heard his Russian son-in-law use the same phrase.’

‘Okay, but he was very careful to avoid such mistakes in his other letters. They were correct to the point of being stilted. When I pointed it out to his secretary she said she didn’t think he would have put it like that, though he might have said it in conversation. Judging from the other letters, especially the most recent ones, I would say that it was written by someone who knew how he spoke, and wanted to impersonate his speech in the letter.’

Kathy reread the letter, frowning over the points he’d made. They seemed pretty insubstantial to support such a major conclusion. Also, it occurred to her that he was rather young to be held up as an expert in a field like this. How would he stand up to interrogation by Brock, let alone a barrister?

‘Maybe he was just in a hurry,’ she said, ‘or upset, as his secretary said. Is there any way we can be more definite about this?’

He shrugged. ‘Get more samples of recent letters of his. Or get a second opinion.’

‘It’s just that, as you said before, the implications are pretty serious. If you’re right, it suggests that there was a plot by Moszynski’s killers to implicate the Russian authorities.’

She stopped talking as the waiter approached with their food.

They didn’t discuss the letters further, as if they both wanted to avoid a subject that might lead to disagreement between them. Instead, he told her horror stories of Canadian winters and tales about the city where he lived and which he loved. He was good company, and Kathy was glad to have her mind taken off Brock’s illness for a little while. John didn’t forget though, and at one point, as they were considering the dessert menu, he suddenly asked her if she’d let him know if there was any change. ‘I just feel,’ he said, ‘that I’d like to shake the great detective’s hand, if I get the chance, having come all this way.’ It seemed an odd way of putting it.

She said goodnight to him outside on the street and got a taxi to the tube station for the ride home to her flat in Finchley.