Chelsea Mansions

TWENTY-SEVEN

W hen she got to the hospital the following morning, Brock was dressed and getting ready to leave.

‘Kathy!’ he beamed. ‘I was going to give you a call. They’re letting me go home at last. Fancy a train ride?’

They caught a cab to Victoria Station, Brock opening the window to take in the smells of the city, untainted by hospital chemicals, and it was only when they were on the train that he began to speak of what was on his mind. He had been careful to choose an empty compartment, and as the train pulled out of the station he said, ‘Chivers called in to see me this morning. He brought me a book about preparing for retirement. I nearly threw it at him. Apparently he’d heard a rumour that I’d decided to go.’

They were rumbling across Grosvenor Bridge, the chimneys and bulk of the old Battersea Power Station on the far side of the river, and hovering overhead a helicopter coming in to the heliport that Moszynski had used. Life goes on, Kathy thought.

‘Did he say how his investigation is going?’

‘I rather gathered that they haven’t found anything more concrete to link Hadden-Vane to Peebles, nor a motive for him to be involved in either death.’

‘I might be able to help him.’

‘You got something from the hotel people?’

‘No, they couldn’t help. But afterwards I was thinking about Danny Yilmaz, and wondering who else might have made the arrangements for Peebles’ visit, if it wasn’t Hadden-Vane himself. So I looked again at that picture of him at the Haringey club, and I recognised Moszynski’s bodyguard, Wayne Everett, among the onlookers. And that makes sense too, because Hadden-Vane is a director of the company he works for, Shere Security.’

Brock nodded, thoughtful. ‘I see.’

‘Should I tell Chivers?’ Kathy asked.

‘Hm, I think he’d regard it as just another circumstantial detail. So Everett was in the photo, so what? And it doesn’t help us with the most important thing, the thing that’s bothering him most: the motive. Why on earth would Hadden-Vane want to harm Moszynski or Nancy Haynes?’

They were passing through the densely packed terraces of inner South London now, the brickwork blackened with age and long-extinct coal fires. It was an area Brock had once worked as a young CID officer, and he said, ‘This feels like being in limbo, doesn’t it? Watching life through glass.’

‘You could get away. Take a holiday, go somewhere nice with Suzanne.’

‘She’s busy, and I’m supposed to check in to the clinic every day for tests. I could still be a walking time bomb, according to the specialist. So if you hear me ticking, watch out.’

When they got off the train they stopped at the Bishop’s Mitre on the way back to Brock’s house. Brock ordered his habitual pork pie and pint of bitter, and Kathy watched him address them like a sacrament for a life recovered.

When they were finished she took a couple of sheets of paper from her bag and spread them out on the table. ‘This is our victim profile for Nancy Haynes. Thin, isn’t it? I realised when I was talking to the hotel people how little we really know about her. We don’t know why she chose Chelsea Mansions or if she’d been to London before, and we have only a vague sketch of her background and family structure. It didn’t seem particularly relevant. Now I wonder. What if she had had some previous contact with Hadden-Vane?’

‘I’ve been thinking the same thing,’ Brock said. ‘In fact I’ve been wondering if Sharpe might be right about you leaving London.’

She gave him a puzzled look and he said, ‘Have you ever been to Boston?’

She hadn’t. In fact she’d never been to North America, and at first she didn’t like the idea of leaving. It felt like running away, and she objected that they could talk to Emerson and Nancy’s relatives on the phone, but Brock wasn’t having any of that.

‘It’s not the same, Kathy. You’ve got to see them on their home ground. Get the taste of it, where she lived, what kind of life she had. You know that.’

So they went back to Brock’s house and explored the idea, and when they’d finished Kathy got on the web and started to make some bookings.

On the train back to central London later that afternoon, Kathy called John Greenslade. He was at the Tate Gallery, viewing the Henry Moore exhibition, and they arranged to meet outside on the gallery steps. The sky was heavy with dark clouds when Kathy came out of Victoria Station and walked briskly down Vauxhall Bridge Road, and by the time she reached the river and turned along Millbank fat drops of rain were spotting the pavement. She ran up the steps towards the shelter of the portico and John stepped out to meet her with a smile, and it struck her with a sudden feeling of regret that she probably wouldn’t see him again.

‘Fancy a cup of tea?’ he said.

‘Okay.’

They went inside and downstairs to the cafe.

‘How have you been making out?’ he asked, and she sensed a reserve about him, as if he’d resigned himself to getting nowhere with her.

‘A bit of a loose end.’

He nodded. ‘I would have called, but I figured you’d get in touch if you wanted to.’ He stirred his tea slowly. ‘And now you have. So what can I do for you?’

Kathy felt uncomfortable. ‘I really appreciate the help you’ve given me, John.’

‘Don’t mention it. What do you need?’

‘I wondered if you’re going to stay in London for a few more days.’

‘I reckoned I’d stay at least over the weekend. Why?’

‘If you had the time to look through Toby’s old records that would be very useful.’

‘Yes, I said I would. In fact I made a start this morning. I found some old photo albums, family groups mostly-on a beach, playing golf, at a fair-the sort of things you’d expect, but I didn’t come across anyone I recognised. To tell the truth, I don’t really have any idea what I’m supposed to be looking for.’

‘I’m going to try to get hold of those photographs that Nancy brought with her, and I thought I could email them to you so that you could see if any of the people in those showed up in Toby’s pictures. That would give us a connection.’

‘Email?’

‘Yes, I’m going over to Boston. She may have had other photos, or letters which might tell us something.’

John looked stunned. ‘I see. Are you back on the case then?’

‘Not officially, no. But since they don’t seem to be checking this angle I thought I would. Give me something to do. I’d be grateful if you kept it to yourself, though.’

‘When are you going?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Have you been there before?’

She shook her head.

‘I spent a month at Harvard last year. Hotels are pricey though. Have you got somewhere to stay?’

‘A bed and breakfast in a place called Back Bay.’

‘Back Bay is nice. Very classy. You’ll like it.’

‘It’s where Emerson lives.’

An awkward silence fell between them. She guessed what was going through his mind: I could come with you, it’s on my way home. But if that was what he was thinking he didn’t say, and she certainly didn’t want to compound the problems she would face if Chivers found out what she was doing.

‘I’m grateful, John, really I am,’ she said at last.

‘It’s a pleasure.’ He smiled stiffly. ‘You’ll have packing to do. I think I’ll take another look at Henry Moore.’

At the door they shook hands and went their separate ways.