Chelsea Mansions (18 page)

‘No signs of movement on this side of the house,’ the Hornet operator intoned. He guided the machine over the roof and down to check the windows at the back. ‘Doesn’t look as if anybody’s at home . . . hang on. Upstairs room, far side. Curtains are closed and it looks as if . . .’ He fiddled with the helicopter controls, moving it closer. ‘Yes, a light is on inside.’

A stir went through the van, people easing in their seats, adjusting their equipment.

The Hornet operator looked at Kathy. ‘Boss?’

Kathy spoke into the radio to Bren in the other van, which was at the entrance to the rear lane. ‘Right,’ she said finally. ‘First crew straight up the stairs to that bedroom, second clear the ground floor. The others are coming in the back. Let’s go.’

The van lurched forward down Ferncroft Close and came to a stop outside number thirteen. Now the rear doors were thrown open and they were racing out, smashing open the front door, charging inside with shouts of ‘Police! Don’t move!’ Kathy pounded up the stairs, following the lead pair with their helmets and guns, and sucked in a deep breath as she watched the first man kick the bedroom door open, then come to an abrupt stop, staring inside.

‘What?’ She ran forward, and the smell hit her before anything else, a gust of hot, fetid air billowing out onto the landing. She pushed past the man and saw a figure stretched out on a narrow bed. A grotesque effigy of a man, bloated, cloudy eyes open and unseeing, skin green and mottled like a rotten marrow.

‘Is that him?’ Bren was by her side. Then he gagged and reached for a handkerchief to cover his nose.

Kathy called back over her shoulder, ‘No signs of life. Everybody out.’ She took in the rest of the room, an electric fire blazing away with both bars, a syringe and strap lying on a fluffy pink rug beside the bed, the headboard of the bed decorated with decals of fluffy teddy bears and rabbits.

She got on the phone to Brock. ‘He’s been dead a while. Several days. Hardly looks like him, but there’s that scar down his left cheek.’

‘I’m on my way.’

FOURTEEN

T
hat evening Kathy arrived back at Queen Anne’s Gate before the others and went to find Pip Gallagher. The young detective constable was at her desk, surrounded by photocopies and file notes.

‘Sounds like I missed out on some excitement,’ Pip said. ‘We really got a result?’

‘Looks promising. The man on the motorbike, dead in his safe house, OD’d by the look of it.’

‘Celebrating after a job well done, was he? Serves the bastard right.’

‘Got anything for me?’

‘Yeah, boss.’ She shuffled papers together. ‘Grab a chair.’

Kathy sat at her side and began to examine the pages Pip handed to her.

‘Mikhail has written to the papers before, once to
The Times
, several times to the
Surrey Advertiser
and before that the
Esher News and Mail
, which has now closed down. There may have been others I haven’t found.’

‘Funny place to write about the threat from the Russian government.’

‘Except that wasn’t what he was writing about.’ Pip consulted her notes. ‘He was writing in support of the activities of various bodies—mainly the BHPS.’

Kathy frowned, trying to think if she’d heard of it. ‘What’s that, neo-Nazis?’

Pip laughed. ‘Not quite. The British Hedgehog Preservation Society.’

‘You’re having me on.’

‘Straight up. Mikhail thought they were doing a wonderful job. Also the CPRE, the Campaign to Protect Rural England, and the PTES, the People’s Trust for Endangered Species. He was a member of all three, apparently, and a generous donor.’

‘Esher is where his daughter lives.’

‘Yes. I spoke to the secretary of the local branch of HogWatch. They plot hedgehog sightings reported in by volunteers. Apparently Mikhail was a keen hedgehog spotter whenever he went down to visit his daughter.’

Kathy was astonished. ‘You think you have an idea of someone, and then you come across something like this and realise you were thinking in stereotypes. The hedgehog oligarch. Nothing political? You’re sure?’

‘I’ve contacted all the national papers and the main London locals. Here are facsimile copies of the letters he sent.’ She handed Kathy a file. ‘I’ve also followed up on forensic linguists, like you said. Central registry has the names of two approved specialists, but one’s in Japan for the next month and the other’s in hospital having quintuple bypass heart surgery. So I gave them your Canadian’s name and asked them to look into him. Was that okay?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘They checked him out and said we can use him if the other two aren’t available. I’ve got the paperwork here that he’d have to sign.’ Another file.

‘You’ve done well, Pip, thanks.’

‘I’d rather have been breaking that bastard’s door down, boss.’

‘Next time.’

Brock returned from Hackney, exhausted but quietly satisfied, and told the team to get themselves cleaned up, grab mugs of tea and assemble for a debriefing. Dot was waiting for him with a message from Commander Sharpe, who wanted to come over as soon as Brock got back.

Ten minutes later he was sitting in Brock’s office.

‘Brilliant,’ he beamed. ‘To be perfectly honest, Brock, I had severe doubts about that Scottish angle you were chasing. I should have known that you always have something up your sleeve. I still don’t quite see what this has to do with Nancy Haynes’ relatives though . . .’

‘It turned out to be a bit more complicated than we first thought,’ Brock improvised. ‘There’s still a lot of work to be done to tie Peebles to whoever commissioned the murders.’

‘Yes, but the important thing is that we have a result.’ Sharpe paused, looking at Brock more closely. ‘You look all in, old chap.’

‘I’ve had a bit of a bug, sir.’

‘Well, I think a simple press release. No need for interviews until you have some more answers.’

‘Yes, I agree.’

Sharpe got to his feet. ‘I’d like to congratulate everyone personally.’

‘Of course.’ Brock led the way to the big room where they were all gathered and Sharpe said his piece, shook hands with Brock and left.

There was a buzz of satisfaction in the room, a sense of shared achievement, and Brock had to remind them that this was a good beginning, but only a beginning. Now they had to discover where Harry Peebles would lead them.

‘Bren,’ he said, ‘tell us what we have from the house.’

‘Right.’ Bren got to his feet and stood in front of the board on which Peebles’ picture was posted. Alongside he stuck felt-pen sketch plans of the layout of the two floors of the house in Ferncroft Close, and photographs of the bedroom.

‘The body was found upstairs in this bedroom, fully clothed, with a syringe on the floor beside the bed on which he was lying. Fingerprints confirm that it is Peebles. Time of death is obviously important, but the body was not fresh. The medical examiner was cagey about time of death, because of the high temperature in the room. When pressed he suggested about three days ago, which would put it immediately after Mikhail Moszynski was killed. The light was on in the bedroom, indicating it happened at night. On the chest of drawers in the bedroom we also found a bag containing ten thousand pounds in twenties.

‘The search of the house and garden hasn’t yet found the knife that was used to kill Moszynski. But we did find a mobile phone in the pocket of Peebles’ jeans. This is being given priority.

‘The rest of the house looked as if Peebles had been living there for several days. Judging by the bottles, frozen-food packets and dirty dishes, it looked as if he was doing most of his eating and drinking there and not going out for meals. We’ve started door-knocking the street and surrounding area, including the local off-licence and supermarket, and of course the CCTV cameras in the vicinity.’

Bren paused, and Brock said, ‘Any other drugs in the house?’

‘Not that we’ve found so far. But I did wonder if there could be a drug angle to this. Suppose Moszynski was using his companies to bring drugs into the country and had upset some locals, who decided to bring in an outside contractor to take care of him.’

‘Hm. What do we know about Peebles? Any gangland drug connections there?’

Kathy spoke. ‘We’ve got his record, and yes, plenty of drug connections. He was gaoled twice for dealing and his last spell in Barlinnie was for the killing of a user who owed one of the big Glasgow drug gangs a lot of money. The Crown Office settled for manslaughter. Peebles was also a heroin user. He was on drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs while he was inside. No known connections to London dealers though. He told his parole officer about an offer of work in London, and was given permission to go south for a trial period of one week.’

‘Maybe Moszynski was moving into the Scottish market and upsetting people up there,’ Bren suggested.

‘Anything else, Kathy?’ Brock felt drained, remembering that he was due to take another Tamiflu tablet.

‘We’ve been checking the cameras at Heathrow to see if Peebles was met off his flight on Wednesday, but nothing so far.’

‘Right.’ Brock stood up. ‘Well done, everyone. Go home and get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got plenty to follow up tomorrow.’

As he made his way out Kathy caught up with him and said, ‘One other thing. I thought I’d have the text of the letter that Moszynski sent to
The Times
authenticated.’

‘Haven’t we done that already?’

‘The notepaper and signature were passed by forensics, but we should make sure the language was his. We can compare it with other letters he sent to newspapers. But the thing is that the two specialists the Yard normally uses are both unavailable. There is someone else, a Canadian staying in the hotel next to the Moszynskis in Chelsea, where Nancy Haynes was also staying. He’s had experience doing this kind of work for the police in Canada. In fact, it was he who suggested to me we should get it done. I thought I might ask him to have a look.’

Brock gazed at her for a moment and thought he detected a slight awkwardness in her manner. It did sound a bit odd.

‘Have I met him?’

‘I don’t think so, no. His name is John Greenslade, a professor of linguistics at McGill University. I’ve checked him out.’

‘So he’s not a possible suspect?’

Kathy hesitated. ‘Well, I suppose no one in Cunningham Place is completely in the clear until we find whoever was paying Peebles. But it seems unlikely.’

Brock frowned and rubbed his chin. ‘I remember the hotel, but haven’t been inside. When I get on top of things I must go and take a good look. Okay, go ahead.’

It was almost ten o’clock that night when Kathy called in at Cunningham Place on her way back to her flat in Finchley. She might have left it till the following day, but told herself it would be another job done.

Deb was at her usual station at the front desk, the radio playing softly behind her. She looked up at the sound of the front door bell and cried, ‘Aha! Congratulations!’

Kathy hesitated. ‘Sorry?’

‘It was on the news just now. A breakthrough in the Chelsea murder cases. You’ve got somebody.’

‘That was quick. Yes, we had a bit of luck today.’