Chelsea Mansions

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.

Sharpe was in his uniform, his hat and gloves on the table in front of him, looking as if he were ready to confront a riot or a press ambush. Marilyn from the Press Bureau was sitting at his side, typing furiously into a laptop.

‘I’ve had words with the Assistant Commissioner on the way in,’ Sharpe said. ‘He agrees that we have little option. There will be a change of personnel. Superintendent Chivers will assume command of the investigations into the deaths of Haynes and Moszynski and all related inquiries. You’ll make this your number-one priority, Dick. We need rapid progress.

‘DI Gurney, you and your people will brief the new team and then be allocated to other commands.’

Bren looked stunned. ‘Other commands, sir?’

‘Yes. We’ll work out where later. There’s no shortage of opportunities.’

‘As a short-term measure?’ Bren asked.

Sharpe gave him a barbed look of impatience. ‘Permanently, Inspector. The unit is no longer viable.’ He hurried on, ‘DI Kolla, you have twenty-three days of accrued leave entitlement. You will take this beginning noon tomorrow, after you’ve finished briefing Dick’s team. I would strongly recommend, for your own convenience and ours, that you spend that time outside of London. In particular-and this is an order-I don’t want you within a mile of Cunningham Place.’

Marilyn was eyeing Kathy over the top of her large glasses, watching her reaction.

Kathy felt detached, as if seeing all this from a distance.

‘Sir,’ she said, ‘I have prepared a detailed rebuttal of Sir Nigel’s statements. I don’t believe we need to overreact to-’

‘ Overreact! ’ Sharpe exploded, then thrust out his jaw and said, ‘Give your paper to Superintendent Chivers, Inspector. What I said stands.’ He took a breath, then continued, ‘We will announce a press conference at nine tomorrow morning, at which I shall make a statement. Marilyn?’

She handed out sheets, and they read. The MPS views with grave concern the claims made by Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane on BBC television last night. We deny absolutely any attempt to embarrass or incriminate him. As in any murder inquiry, those people closely associated with the victim or present at the scene have been investigated in a vigorous but scrupulous manner by our officers, who have acted throughout with diligence and fairness. Our investigation has been hampered by elements of secrecy surrounding some of Mr Moszynski’s affairs, but the investigating team has made significant progress, including establishing the identity of the murderer. The team has also been hampered by the sudden critical illness of its leader, DCI Brock. As a result we have decided to appoint Superintendent Richard Chivers to overall command of the inquiry.

‘That’s all I propose to say to the press,’ Sharpe said.

‘They’ll ask about Kathy,’ Marilyn objected.

‘That’s all I shall say,’ Sharpe repeated, and got to his feet. ‘Now you and I should go to New Scotland Yard.’

With a rueful look at Kathy, Marilyn stood up and followed him.

‘Well,’ Chivers said finally, ‘sorry about that. Didn’t know he was going to kick you lot out.’ His eye roved around the room as if working out where to hang his framed commendation certificates. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m going home to get some shut-eye. See you both here tomorrow, eh? Eight o’clock sharp.’

When he’d gone Bren said softly, ‘Bastard.’

Kathy blinked and sat up. ‘I feel sorry for him, stuck in the middle.’

‘No, Sharpe. He looked like he felt defiled just being here, like what he really wanted to do was raze the place to the ground and spread salt over the rubble. You were dead right, Kathy, they’re overreacting, badly.’

Kathy couldn’t frame a response to that.

Bren looked at her with concern and said, ‘Come back and stay at our place tonight, Kathy. After a good kip and one of Deanne’s hot breakfasts things will look brighter.’

‘Thanks, Bren, I appreciate it, but I’ll head off home to lick my wounds. See you tomorrow.’

She didn’t go home to face the press mob. There was a change of shirt and underwear in her locker and a bed in the staffroom, and she just wanted to be alone to confront the reality of it all, to come face to face at last with something that had haunted her from the beginning: the possibility of stuffing things up so badly that her career would be over. No longer viable. Only it was worse than that, because along with her, Brock’s whole outfit was going down. She had destroyed it, all of Brock’s patiently nurtured team broken up, scattered across London. And she had to go and tell him what she’d done. A sudden wave of nausea rose up in her gullet and she got quickly to her feet, went out to the women’s toilets down the corridor, and was sick.

She rose at five the following morning from the unfamiliar bunk, moist from a couple of hours of sweaty dream-filled sleep, had a shower and got dressed. Then she went to her computer and downloaded all the case files she could access onto a flash drive, and typed out the letter of resignation that she had been composing during the night.

She could hardly bring herself to look at them during Chivers’ team meeting-Dot, Pip, Mickey, Zack, Phil and the others-as they gasped with disbelief at the news that they were to be moved on. When Chivers called upon her to speak she did force herself to meet their eyes as she accepted full responsibility for the way things had turned out, and commended them on their dedication. She told them the hopeful news of Brock’s recovery and said she would be seeing him later that day to tell him what had happened, if he was well enough. Then she asked them to give Superintendent Chivers and his team every assistance to complete their work.

Chivers introduced his team, looking subdued, and explained how the debriefing would be organised.

At lunchtime, when it was all over, Chivers gave Brock’s team the rest of the day off, saying they would receive text messages later as to where to report the following day. Bren suggested they adjourn to the Two Chairmen, and they all filed out, carrying bulging bags and backpacks. Kathy stood the first round, and waited until the moans became repetitive, then said she would have to leave them to go and see Brock.

When she got to the hospital and caught a first glimpse of him, sitting up against the pillows, sucking juice through a straw, her courage gave out. But he looked up suddenly as if he’d sensed her presence, and smiled and waved her in. That gaunt smile was the worst thing of all, she decided, but she choked back the sick feeling and fixed a smile on her own face and stepped forward.

‘You look better today,’ she said brightly. ‘There’s colour in your face.’

‘I am feeling a bit more myself. Sorry if I was dozy yesterday. Suzanne’s just popped out to do some shopping. How are you?’

‘Umm…’ She wasn’t sure whether she should say anything, but then his eyes probed her and she launched into it. ‘It’s been a bad twenty-four hours, actually.’

He nodded. ‘Panic stations, eh?’ He indicated the TV on the wall facing the bed. ‘I saw Hadden-Vane’s performance, and Sharpe’s press statement. But we’ve seen it all before.’

She heard his reassuring, steadying voice, and wondered how she could tell him that it was worse, much worse.

‘Sharpe has decided to put Chivers in charge,’ she said.

He frowned. ‘Well, can’t be helped. In terms of his own accountability, Sharpe probably should have done it a week ago. You’ll get on with old Cheery all right. Just play it by the book. That’s what he likes.’

‘I won’t get that chance, Brock. None of us will. He’s brought his own team in. We spent this morning briefing them. We’re being

… dispersed.’

‘Dispersed?’

‘Assigned to other commands.’

A low growl rumbled in Brock’s throat.

‘And Chivers has taken over Queen Anne’s Gate.’

He looked startled, then slowly shook his head.

She waited, giving him a chance to say something before she broached the final thing. At last, when he said nothing, his expression unreadable, she took the envelope out of her pocket and said, ‘I’ve written my letter of resignation. I’ll post it downstairs when I leave.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ he said quietly. ‘A building’s just a building and the team could benefit from a change for a while, but you’re not going to sacrifice your career for that corrupt windbag. What on earth are you thinking of?’

‘The team’s being broken up permanently. Sharpe says it’s no longer viable, and it’s my fault entirely. I’m sorry, I was impatient. I showed my hand before I was ready. I deserved to be crushed. But you and the team don’t. I’ve ruined everything you’ve worked for.’ She took a breath and shook her head. ‘I just feel so bloody stupid and inept. It’s not as if I hadn’t seen it all before. I let him do to me what he did to Tom Reeves-I set him up and then had him pull the rug out from under me, in full public view.’

‘This is nothing like what Tom Reeves did. Tom set himself up, getting evidence by breaking the law. I take it you haven’t done that?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’ He gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Come on, Kathy, this isn’t like you. You’re tired, aren’t you? But you’re a fighter, and your instincts are spot on. You know as well as I do that that man is bent. I’ll bet a pound to a penny that there’s a ton of stuff about him and Moszynski that he’s desperate to keep hidden.’

Kathy bowed her head. ‘Yes.’

Brock was scratching his beard. ‘That last bit about keeping the receipts, remember that? Bit odd, wasn’t it?’

Kathy nodded. ‘I thought he must have primed the interviewer to ask that question.’

‘Exactly! That was his hidden confession. He couldn’t help himself. The cock of the walk, preening himself in front of an audience of millions, he just had to say it. Moszynski paid for my tarts, but you’ll never be able to prove it.’

Kathy thought about it. ‘He’s probably right.’

‘You’d better tell me everything that’s been happening while I’ve been out of it.’

So for the next couple of hours she did, taking him through the investigation step by step. He said little as she spoke, as if soaking it all in. At times his eyes closed and she thought he’d fallen asleep, but when she paused he’d murmur a question and she’d resume.

Finally Suzanne came back and put a stop to it.

‘Don’t worry, Kathy,’ Brock said as she got up to leave. ‘We’ll sort it out.’ He really sounded eager, as if, having returned from the dead, the prospect of a battle ahead was invigorating. But all Kathy could feel was defeat.