Barry Maitland: Chelsea Mansions

Shaka Gibbons was sitting on an antique chaise longue while a man leaned forward at the other end, whispering urgently into her ear. ‘Sitting’ didn’t really do justice to the elegant way she had arranged herself across the velvet fabric. Brock realised that he had seen photographs of her before, attending film and theatre first nights, the races at Ascot. Now, in the flesh, he saw what a compelling presence she had: the sculpted African features, the pale caramel complexion, the attenuated limbs and fingers. And the East End cockney accent, softly spoken, which somehow gave the rest an edge, like a shot of rough brandy in a cup of exquisitely smooth coffee.

She pulled herself upright and the man at her side drew back. There was a smudge of mascara on her cheek and her eyes were liquidy. ‘This is my manager, Derek. Sit down, please,’ she murmured, and they sat.

‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Forcing Mikhail out into the street to ’ave a cigar. What a bitch. That’s what people will say. But it wasn’t really like that. I ’ave asthma, you see, and the smoke fucks me up. But he could ’ave gone to his study, or the billiard room. They ’ave separate air-conditioning, he insisted on that. That’s where he usually goes after dinner. But it was a warm night, and he liked the gardens, the space, the trees. He could imagine he was back in St Petersburg, or wherever. And he probably wanted to get away from those two parasites.’

‘Parasites?’ Brock cleared his throat. He felt suddenly very hot.

‘Nigel and Freddie.’ She looked suspiciously at Brock. ‘You aren’t going down with something are you? You ’aven’t got the flu or something?’

Derek sprang abruptly to his feet and whisked a small aerosol can from his pocket and sprayed the air between Brock and Shaka. Then he took another container from his other pocket and approached Brock.

‘Just for the hands,’ he said.

Brock looked at him as if he were mad.

‘The hands? Please?’

Kathy held out her palms and Derek sprayed them, then turned back to Brock, who reluctantly followed suit.

‘Are you aware of any threats made against your husband, Mrs Moszynski?’ he said.

‘No. Of course people were jealous of him.’ She shrugged. ‘Freddie would know more about that.’ She was speaking more rapidly now, as if anxious to finish the interview.

‘What about in Russia?’ Kathy said. ‘Did he have enemies there?’

‘The same, envy. He hated going back, the way people looked at him, because he was rich. Vadim takes care of things over there now.’

‘His son-in-law.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But he didn’t mention any threatening letters, phone calls?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘What about Nancy Haynes?’

Shaka looked blank.

‘The American tourist who was staying at the hotel next door. Who was murdered last Thursday.’

Shaka looked at her manager. ‘Did I know about that?’

‘I don’t know, Shaka.’

‘Your husband didn’t mention it?’ Kathy asked.

‘No.’

‘He went to her memorial service in the little church across the square this morning.’

‘Did he? I thought he’d gone to the cathedral. He usually does on Sunday mornings.’ She turned again to Derek. ‘It is Sunday, isn’t it?’

He checked his watch. ‘Not any more, darling.’ Then he added, to Kathy, ‘That’s the Russian Orthodox Cathedral up the road in Knightsbridge. Very devout, Mr Moszynski.’

They were interrupted by noises from outside the room, the wailing protest of a woman’s voice. The sound came closer and Shaka gave a groan.

‘Sounds like Mr Moszynski’s mother,’ Derek whispered to Brock.

A small grey-haired woman burst into the room, her arms outstretched. Shaka got to her feet and reached down to embrace her mother-in-law. They kissed on both cheeks without much sign of warmth and the older woman swung round on Brock and hurled a stream of angry Russian.

‘Sorry.’ Another woman, aged about thirty, had come into the room with a baby held against her chest. ‘My grandmother is upset. Baba!’ she said sharply to the older woman, and then followed with some Russian. The old woman sank into a chair, put her face in her hands and began to sob.

Brock and Kathy went back downstairs, where Everett showed them into what he described as the library. Two men were sitting in leather armchairs on each side of a marble fireplace. They got to their feet and Nigel Hadden-Vane took a step forward. Brock saw a flicker of recognition cross his face as he introduced Kathy and himself. On their last encounter they had been adversaries by proxy, through the agency of other players, but the underlying agenda had been between Brock and the veteran criminal Spider Roach, whose part Hadden-Vane had taken. Whether he had done so in order to score points against parliamentary rivals, or for more sinister reasons, had never been resolved.

Now Hadden-Vane seemed subdued and cautious, eyeing Brock from time to time as Kathy put the questions. He explained that he had attended the memorial service for Nancy Haynes that morning in his capacity as MP for the borough. Mr Moszynski, who was well known to him, had also attended and invited him back afterwards for some lunch. As a member of the Parliamentary Business and Enterprise Committee, Sir Nigel had recently returned from an official visit to Russia to promote UK-Russian trade, and he and Mr Moszynski had many things to discuss. Later they were joined by Mr Moszynski’s financial adviser, Mr Clarke.

‘Freddie,’ Clarke interrupted, putting out his hand, then offering Kathy his business card, with an address in Mayfair. Head shaved, with a gingery goatee beard and moustache, he looked far too young to be anybody’s financial adviser.

The meeting had turned into a social occasion, Hadden-Vane continued. Mr Moszynski was well known for his generous hospitality and the three men had remained together for supper, after which their host had left to smoke a cigar outside. He had given no indication of a threat against his life.

‘Absolutely not,’ Freddie Clarke agreed. ‘This is just, well, unbelievable.’

‘Did he know Mrs Haynes?’ Kathy asked.

‘No, no.’ Hadden-Vane shook his head. He was speaking carefully, as if to control a slight slur in his voice. Brock had noticed the glass and decanter of brandy on the small table by his armchair and guessed he was slightly drunk. ‘He attended her memorial service this morning to show his support, as a neighbour. He was extremely aware of his status as a guest in this country, and took it upon himself to behave as a model resident, supporting charities, local schools and the like.’

Brock and Kathy continued questioning both men for some time, without getting any clearer idea of why Moszynski might have been attacked. Clarke sketched the international scale of his business dealings, but insisted that they were impeccably conducted and had attracted no personal or criminal antagonism.

‘What about the Russians?’ Kathy asked.

Hadden-Vane gave a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘There’s too much hysterical nonsense made of all that. Every time some Russian expat has a turn it’s a plot by the Kremlin and the FSB. Believe me, they’re as embarrassed by those sorts of rumours and allegations as we are.’

‘Mr Moszynski didn’t exactly have a turn,’ Kathy said.

Hadden-Vane’s eyes narrowed and a flush spread across his face. ‘No, and I should have thought it pretty obvious that the reason lies a good deal closer to home. There is clearly a psychopathic maniac on the loose in this borough, and the sooner the police focus on that fact the better.’

Brock saw Kathy stiffen at the contempt in the MP’s voice. ‘Two random victims from the same building?’