Barry Maitland: Chelsea Mansions

‘Are you getting to see a bit of London?’

Another smile, as if he was really pleased by her interest. ‘Yes, actually. Let’s see, I’ve been to Tate Modern, the National Portrait Gallery, the Courtauld…’

‘How about the Two Chairmen?’

He looked at her blankly. ‘I don’t think-’

‘It’s a pub in Westminster, at the end of Queen Anne’s Gate.’

He stared at her, his mouth open. ‘Ah. You did see me. I was afraid you might have. How embarrassing.’

Kathy stared back, saying nothing.

‘I… was intrigued,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve had a bit to do with the police in Montreal-nothing nefarious, you understand. At least they haven’t managed to arrest me yet.’ His grin faded as he saw her stony expression. ‘Yes, well, anyway, I was curious, how things were over here. You gave me your card with the address, and I went to take a look. Kind of enigmatic, I thought, the building, for a police office. Anyway, I fancied a beer and stopped at the pub down the street, and then you walked in.’

When she still said nothing he looked down at his feet and scuffed the gravel. ‘No, that’s not quite the truth. At least, not the whole truth. There was another reason.’

‘And what was that?’

He looked up with a frown and met her eyes. He shrugged. ‘Well, you know.’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You. I was interested in you.’

You cheeky bastard, she thought. For a moment he seemed rather young and vulnerable. How old was he? Twenty-eight, she remembered from the immigration record. He made her feel older than her years.

‘Inspector!’

She pulled her eyes away and saw Emerson advancing towards her, his hand on the arm of another man.

‘I’d like you to meet Nancy’s son, Martin Haynes, who’s flown over from California.’

They shook hands, and Kathy repeated the phrase that always seemed inadequate: ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

‘Thank you. This all seems very unreal.’

‘Martin flew over last night. He didn’t get much sleep,’ Emerson said, by way of explanation.

Martin went on as if he hadn’t heard him. ‘A service in a strange little church and then a garden party. I’m not sure what Mom would have made of it all.’

‘She would certainly have appreciated the flowers,’ Emerson said.

‘Any progress with the case?’ Martin asked.

‘We’re pursuing a promising lead, and we’ll just have to see where it takes us. I’m confident we’ll find the culprit.’

‘Are you?’ Martin stifled a yawn.

‘It looks as if the coroner will release Nancy’s body tomorrow. I’ll confirm it as soon as I can.’

Emerson nodded. ‘The embassy are helping us with arrangements.’

They parted and Kathy began to make her way out to the street. There was no sign of John Greenslade. On the way back to the tube station she passed Chelsea Mansions and took a quick glance up at the windows at the top of the hotel.

S hortly before ten that Sunday night the front door in the central porch of Chelsea Mansions opened and a man emerged. He stood for a moment beneath the light, taking a deep breath of the warm evening air as if relieved to be outside. In his right hand he held a long, unlit cigar, which he gently rolled between his fingers. After a moment he looked carefully up and down the street, then descended the steps and crossed to the gate in the fence around the gardens. He transferred the cigar to his left hand, felt in his trouser pocket for the key with his right, and opened the gate. The darkness closed around him, the streetlights barely penetrating the thick foliage of the gardens as he followed the gravel path to the bench beneath the oak tree in the centre, where he sat down. Searching again in his pockets he found the little guillotine and prepared the cigar, a Cuban Montecristo, which Shaka forbade him to smoke in the house. His lighter flared in the darkness, blinding him as he drew in the first breath of exotic smoke. He sat back with a sigh. In the distance he could hear the murmur of traffic on Sloane Street and Brompton Road, but here in Cunningham Place nothing stirred.

And yet, there was something, the faint sound of music coming from one of the windows around the square. The tune, broken by the whisper and rustle of the trees, seemed very familiar, but at first he couldn’t place it. What was it again? He strained for the notes until suddenly he had it-Mussorgsky, of course, Pictures at an Exhibition, his father’s favourite, and suddenly he was back in the apartment on Moskovsky Prospekt, his father leaning intently over the gramophone, beating time with an outstretched finger. ‘You hear them, Mikhail? Can you see them in your mind? Two Jews, Samuel and Schmuyle. One is rich and the other is poor. Can you tell which is which?’

He was so engrossed by this memory that it was a moment before he registered the presence of someone else in the gardens, a dark shadow gliding silently to his side.

‘Hello, Mikhail,’ the figure murmured, taking a seat beside him.

‘We have things to resolve,’ Mikhail said. ‘Let me tell you how it will be.’ He spoke for several minutes, relishing the moment, punctuating his words with gestures with his cigar, its tip glowing in the darkness. When he finished he waited for a reply.

There was silence for a long moment, and then the other said, ‘No, Mikhail. This is how it will be.’ He felt an arm embrace him, and he made to pull away, offended by this familiarity. Then he froze as his eye caught the gleam of a blade. With some incredulity he felt its tip press hard against his breast, then a sharp pain as it pierced his fine cashmere sweater and entered his chest, once, twice, three times. The cigar dropped from his fingers and he heard a voice in his head say, ‘Yes, Papa, of course I know which is the rich one.’

Brock jerked awake with the phone ringing. He was sprawled across the sofa, the table lamp still burning, the second glass-or was it the third?-of medicinal hot whisky toddy half full at his elbow.

‘You all right, sir?’ the duty officer responded to his hoarse gurgle.

No, he wasn’t all right. He’d been feeling rough all day and was beginning to wonder if it might be swine flu-he’d neglected to have his shot, despite Suzanne’s urging. He sat up, trying to clear his head. The place looked a mess, papers, books, CD cases, shoes, cushions all over the place. He looked around hopelessly for a pen and paper. At times like this he told himself that he needed more of Suzanne’s disciplined presence in his life.

‘Chelsea, sir. Cunningham Place. Fatality.’

‘Yes, yes, so what?’

‘You know about it?’

‘’Course I bloody know about it. Nancy Haynes. What is this?’

‘Not Nancy Haynes, sir. Mikhail Moszynski. Fatal stabbing. Called in forty minutes ago. Kensington and Chelsea BOCU are asking for you.’

‘Oh… right.’ A calm descended on him and he found a pen next to the whisky glass. ‘Get a car out here to pick me up, will you? Tell me again.’

Before he got to his feet to take a shower, Brock speed-dialled Kathy’s mobile. It took a while for her to answer-she was in a cinema with her friend Nicole, she explained, a late-night screening of Pedro Almodovar’s latest. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said.

The patrol car dropped Brock by the entrance to the gardens in Cunningham Place and he was immediately struck by the scene, the bright glow among the trees in the centre of the garden, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, windows in the surrounding buildings lit up with figures staring down at the activity, and the throb of a helicopter moving slowly overhead. He gave his name and walked in along a route defined by tapes towards the spot where lights and screens were being set up. At the centre of the activity the figure of a man sat slumped on the bench. At first glance he looked like an actor on a bright stage, pausing in the middle of his performance, but then the dark stain across his chest and left leg brought the reality home.