Barry Maitland: Chelsea Mansions

There was one building between the cameras that was shrouded in scaffolding and plastic sheeting, with a builder’s skip on the footpath, and they checked it carefully, but like all the others along the street its front door was firmly shut. A taxi drove slowly past and Brock took out his phone and called Zack. After a moment he snapped it shut again and shook his head. ‘No, there are no taxis on the CCTV footage, and all the traffic behind the bus was brought to a halt when it happened.’

Brock’s phone rang and he answered it as they walked back to their car. Kathy watched the frown, the scratching at his cropped white hair and beard as he listened, classic signs of Brock’s impatience. ‘I really think that’s premature, sir,’ he said, then fell silent as the caller gave him an earful. ‘Right you are,’ he said finally, and rang off.

He sighed. ‘The nation is on trial, the Met is on trial, we are on trial.’

They climbed in, Kathy started the car, then paused. ‘Suppose someone was waiting up there, between the cameras, to pick him up.’

‘There’s no parking. They’d be moved on.’

‘A builder’s van? Or a motorbike, on the pavement behind the skip?’ She started the flashing lights and took off.

Brock called Zack again, listened, then closed the phone with a thoughtful glance at Kathy. ‘The last vehicle to pass the second camera was a motorbike with two riders. Only it didn’t appear on the first camera immediately before the assault.’

‘So it was waiting there, somewhere in between.’

Brock nodded. ‘Zack’s checking back to earlier footage to see how long before it came through the first camera.’

‘An accomplice.’

‘Two of them,’ Brock growled. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’

When they got to the rear entrance of New Scotland Yard, Kathy assumed she was dropping Brock off, but he said, ‘They want you too, Kathy.’

‘Really? Why?’

He shrugged and she gave her keys to one of the men at the barrier and followed him inside, where they passed through the security check and took the lift up to Commander Sharpe’s office on the sixth floor.

He looked older than she remembered from the last time she’d seen him, Kathy thought, as if the job was draining the colour out of him. Probably he didn’t have long to go before retirement. She wondered if Brock might be in line for the job if that happened, but then dismissed the idea; he’d loathe it.

Sharpe spoke briskly, outlining the pressure that was already building around them, then listened to a short briefing from Brock.

‘So what are the alternatives?’ Sharpe asked. ‘Terrorists? She was American after all.’

Brock shook his head. ‘We’ve been in touch with Counter Terrorism Command, but she seems a very unlikely target, one among hundreds of thousands of tourists.’

‘Perhaps that’s the point. A random victim, no American is safe, that kind of thing.’

‘And yet she doesn’t seem to be entirely random.’ Brock went over the problem of access to the Chelsea Flower Show. ‘If that was the same man.’

‘What then?’

‘It’s too early to say, but if she was deliberately targeted we’d have to consider something relating to her home circumstances. Might she or her family be involved in something problematic in the States?’

‘Ah.’ Kathy saw Sharpe’s face brighten. He liked that idea. ‘And they decided to sort it out over here, well away from home. Was she wealthy?’

‘Not according to her companion, Emerson Merckle, who’s also her accountant,’ Kathy said. ‘She made some bad investments a couple of years ago.’

‘What’s he like? Maybe he’s been ripping her off and thought he’d get found out.’

‘There are a few things we should get the FBI to check on for us,’ Brock suggested quickly. It was always a worry when Sharpe wanted to play at detective. ‘But I really don’t think a domestic angle is something we can even hint at in public. Not without evidence. Let’s keep it simple.’

‘Yes, yes. I’ve been talking to the Press Bureau about that, and they’re anxious for us to hold a press conference immediately to contain rumours. Let’s get Marilyn in.’

Marilyn was the senior media strategist with the MPS Press Bureau, and a woman of swift and decisive opinions. She came in and eyed Brock and Kathy for a moment, then nodded.

‘Yes, just you two.’

Brock said, ‘Wouldn’t a senior figure, an AC, or Commander Sharpe, lend weight?’

She shook her head. ‘At this stage it would smack of panic. We’re treating this as a highly professional but essentially routine response, right?’

Sharpe nodded.

‘Do you really need me?’ Kathy said.

‘Absolutely. Bad news comes best from an attractive young woman.’ She gave Kathy a humourless smile that might have been ironic or sarcastic. ‘Brock, you first, with an outline of the facts and the police response. Rigorous, dedicated, no stone unturned. Gravitas. For Christ’s sake nothing about Americans being safer in London than Boston, or Chelsea crime statistics or anything like that-it sounds defensive. You, Kathy, the human side-sympathy for the family, appeal for support from the public. Brief response to questions. We’ll plant a final one for you to end on a positive note.’

T he following morning a young man sat in a cafe in Edgeware Road reading a newspaper report of the murder in Sloane Street. At that moment a TV mounted up in the corner of the room began showing highlights of the police press conference on the same subject. He watched with a particular intensity as first Brock and then Kathy spoke to the camera. The waitress, approaching him with his order of bacon and eggs, put him in his late twenties. He had a rather serious, studious air about him with the glasses and the way he rubbed his jaw, studying the screen. Tall, dark, quite nice, but not her type.

‘Fancy her then, do you?’ she asked, thumping the plate down in front of him.

‘Sorry?’ The news moved on to something else and he turned his attention to her.

‘The blonde cop. Reckon she’s attractive?’

‘Oh… yeah, I guess so.’

‘American, are you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘They always put a blonde on to tell bad news.’

‘I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re probably right.’

‘I like the other one, with the beard.’

‘He’s way too old for you.’

‘Yeah, but he’s got a twinkle in his eye, don’t you reckon?’

The man frowned, as if he found the idea mildly disturbing.

‘Anyway, I’ll let you eat your breakfast.’

After he’d finished he walked down to Marble Arch and crossed into Hyde Park. It was a fine May day, a cool breeze sending puffy white clouds scudding across a pale blue sky, and as he made his way deeper into the park, the grass as high as his knees, it seemed as if he might be far away in the countryside. Then he was crossing the broad path of Rotten Row, its sandy surface stamped with horses’ hooves, and was plunged back into the city, making his way across Knightsbridge into Sloane Street before turning off into the side streets to reach the relative stillness of Cunningham Place.

A bell on the front door tinkled as he stepped inside, and a mature, rather intimidating-looking woman straightened up from a computer behind the counter and gave him the once-over.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘Good morning. I wonder if you have a room?’

‘I’m afraid not. We’re full.’

‘Oh.’

‘Four-oh-two’s free.’ The voice came from behind the woman, and a man, previously hidden, appeared around her shoulder and peered at the stranger through darkened round glasses. ‘Canadian?’