Chelsea Mansions (19 page)

Toby had heard the noise and appeared, a glass of Scotch in hand. He raised it. ‘Well done. It was definitely him, was it, that murdered Nancy?’

‘We believe so, yes.’

‘In heaven’s name why? Drugs, I suppose?’

‘We’re looking into that.’

‘You look tired, dear,’ Deb said. ‘Can we get you something?’

‘A drink?’ Toby offered.

Kathy suppressed a yawn. ‘No, thanks. I just came to have a quick word with Mr Greenslade, if he’s in.’

She was aware of them giving her quizzical looks. Toby lowered his glass. ‘He’s surely not involved, is he?’

‘No. There’s just something he might be able to help me with.’

‘Really?’ They eyed the files under her arm, then Deb said, ‘Yes, I believe he is in. Let me give him a ring.’

She picked up the phone and dialled, and after a moment purred, ‘John, dear? You have a visitor,’ in such a suggestive tone that Kathy winced and wished she’d arranged to meet him at the local police station.

‘Would you like to use the guests’ lounge, Inspector?’ Deb said. ‘There’s no one in there.’

‘Fine, thanks.’

When John appeared his hair was dishevelled and he looked as if he’d been asleep.

‘Sorry to disturb you so late,’ Kathy said.

‘No, not at all. I was doing some last-minute editing on the paper I have to deliver at the conference tomorrow, and I fell asleep. It’s one thing to nod off during somebody else’s lecture, but falling asleep during your own is a very bad sign. So what can I do for you?’

‘I’ve had approval to ask you to look at Moszynski’s letter.’

He straightened and his face lit up. ‘Really? That’s great.’

‘I have some papers here you’ll have to sign—the terms of your appointment and a confidentiality agreement.’

‘Sure.’

He pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket and Kathy watched him as he quickly scanned the pages. The glasses made him look older and more serious.

‘Not a problem,’ he said at last. ‘Got a pen?’

He scrawled several signatures then said, ‘We’ll need to get hold of some comparable things he’s written in English.’

She handed him the file. ‘We’ve found these other letters he’s written to newspapers.’

‘Excellent.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Do you know how he composes the letters? I mean, does he dictate them into a machine or to a typist, does he write a draft longhand, or does he type them on a computer?’

‘We can ask his secretary.’

‘Yeah, that would be good. I’d like to know if someone else edited them before they were finalised.’

‘Do you need to speak to her yourself?’

‘It might be as well.’

He was giving his conference paper the next morning, and would be free after one p.m. Kathy said she’d arrange something for the afternoon and text him with the details.

‘I do appreciate you asking me to do this. I was afraid you didn’t trust me. Did you have to okay it with your boss, DCI Brock?’

‘Yes, so don’t let me down, John.’

FIFTEEN

S
undeep Mehta had Harry Peebles’ naked body on the stainless-steel table, carefully checking his arms and torso and between his fingers and toes for puncture marks.

‘How long has he been out of prison?’

‘Just over four weeks,’ Kathy said. ‘He’d been inside for six years.’

The pathologist grunted. ‘I count five recent puncture marks, but the only way to be sure is to take his skin off and hold it up to the light. What’s your thinking?’

‘We’d like to establish his recent drug history. Get an idea how an experienced drug taker like him could have OD’d.’

‘Happens all the time, especially after a spell of abstinence in gaol. His hair will give us his drug history, but the analysis will take time.’

‘What about time of death?’ Brock said. Kathy glanced at him. It was the first time he’d spoken, and his voice sounded slurred. The very first time she had met him had been at an autopsy like this, with Sundeep Mehta presiding. There had been many since then. That first time she’d felt queasy, but now it was Brock who was looking grey.

‘Give me a chance, Brock!’ Sundeep protested. ‘I’ve hardly begun. But by the look of him . . .’ he gazed appraisingly at the corpse, ‘six days, seven?’

‘No, no,’ Brock growled. ‘He killed someone on Sunday night, three and a half days ago. The room he was in was very hot.’

‘I know that.’ Sundeep consulted his notes. ‘Forty-two Centigrade. But still, bacterial action is very extensive. No flies in the room unfortunately. A few maggots would have helped.’ He reached for his scalpel.

Brock cleared his throat, and Sundeep looked up. ‘You feeling all right, Brock? You’re looking . . .’

‘Fine.’ Brock roused himself. ‘Had a touch of flu. Getting over it.’

‘Not swine flu, I hope.’ Sundeep looked at him severely over his face mask.

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Have you seen a doctor?’

‘Mm.’

‘What did he give you?’

‘Tamiflu.’

Sundeep put down the scalpel and peered more closely at Brock. ‘How long have you had that rash?’

Brock touched his throat. ‘Just came up last night. Can we get on with the PM, please?’

But Sundeep wasn’t to be diverted. He peeled off his gloves, put on a fresh pair and advanced on Brock. They looked a slightly comical pair, Kathy thought affectionately, old friends, the pathologist small and nut-brown against the larger, greyer bulk of the detective. Except that the expression on Sundeep’s face wasn’t comical as he unbuttoned the front of Brock’s shirt, despite the other man’s protests, and examined the scarlet blaze across his chest.

‘Macula,’ he muttered. ‘Papular.’

‘What’s that mean in English?’ Brock grunted, brushing him off.

‘It means . . .’ Sundeep began, then shook his head and turned away to the phone on the wall. He consulted the hospital directory hanging beside it and made a call while the rest of them—Brock, Kathy and what could be seen of Sundeep’s assistant beneath her plastic helmet and thick rubber gloves and apron—stood motionless, waiting.

‘All right.’ Sundeep hung up. ‘It means that you’re going upstairs to the fourth floor to see a friend of mine.’

‘No,’ Brock said. ‘This is . . .’ He stopped, gave a grunt and slumped to the floor.

It was almost an hour before Dr Mehta emerged from the isolation ward. He looked worried and preoccupied.

‘What is it, Sundeep?’ Kathy demanded. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘Well, it’s not swine flu, Kathy.’

‘So?’

Sundeep looked at her and his face formed an encouraging smile, which Kathy didn’t find very convincing. ‘We aren’t sure yet. There are many causes of maculopapular rash.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, measles, rubella, typhoid . . .’

‘Typhoid?’

‘Has he been abroad lately?’

‘No.’

‘In contact with foreigners?’

Kathy thought. ‘This started on Sunday night. We attended the murder scene of that Russian, Mikhail Moszynski, and Brock suddenly felt faint.’

‘Did he touch the body?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Sundeep disappeared abruptly back into the ward, and Kathy watched him through the glass panel, gesticulating to the doctor who was at Brock’s bedside. As she watched them, Kathy guessed what they were discussing, and a chill formed inside her. After a few minutes Sundeep returned.

‘You’re thinking about Litvinenko,’ Kathy said.

He nodded. ‘Four years ago, Alexander Litvinenko fell suddenly ill in a sushi restaurant in London. It took a little while to establish that he had been poisoned with a radioactive isotope, polonium-210, in his tea. Polonium is invisible to normal radiation detectors, because it doesn’t emit gamma rays, only alpha rays. It is highly toxic if swallowed—
or inhaled
.’

‘But . . . Moszynski was stabbed to death. You did the autopsy yourself.’

‘Yes.’ Sundeep was shaking his head.

‘You think the stabbing was to disguise the real cause of death?’

‘I don’t know, Kathy. They’re doing lots of tests. They want us both to give samples. When you’ve done that, go back to work and don’t worry.’

Easier said than done. When Kathy got into her car she rang the number of the antiques shop down in Sussex owned by Brock’s partner, Suzanne Chambers. Suzanne’s assistant, Ginny, said that she was still on her tour of the West Country, attending auctions and sales, and gave Kathy the number of her mobile. Suzanne was devastated when Kathy told her what had happened.

‘In hospital? He was feeling rotten when I phoned him on Saturday, before I left, but of course he said it was nothing.’

‘Saturday?’

‘Yes. He thought it was just a cold.’

Suzanne said she’d come straight back to London. She took down the address of the hospital and asked Kathy to ring again if there was further news.

Bren and his team had returned from a further search of the Hackney house when Kathy got back to Queen Anne’s Gate and told them what had happened. She was still feeling stunned. ‘They can’t say what’s wrong with him, but it’s not flu. They’re doing tests.’

‘Like what? His heart?’

‘I don’t think so. They’ve put him in isolation, as if he’s picked up something infectious. I had to give them a blood sample, and so did Sundeep.’

Mickey Schaeffer gave a frown. ‘Do you think it could have something to do with the Ugandan kid in Danny Yilmaz’s flat? He covered Brock with his nose bleed.’

‘I forgot about him. Where is he now?’

‘They handed him over to Immigration.’

‘Get on to them, Mickey. Find out what happened to him. See if he’s sick.’

It was hard to concentrate on anything else, but while they waited Kathy asked Bren about Ferncroft Close.

‘Neighbours can’t remember seeing any visitors to number thirteen apart from Peebles. His are the only prints on the syringe and the foil of heroin. No indication where he got it from. Only his prints on the cash. Variety of prints elsewhere in the house, some probably the owner’s, Angela Storey. We’ll have to interview her in Holloway and get names of visitors we can eliminate.’

‘Nothing then?’

‘Wouldn’t say that.’ Bren gave his quiet smile, keeping the best for last. ‘The mobile phone. It’s a prepaid job, again only his prints on it. It’s made and received calls from just two numbers.’

Bren handed her a note of the numbers. ‘One is another anonymous prepaid mobile. The other is a landline belonging to one Gloria Cummins with a Chelsea address. We know her.’ He handed Kathy a printout from the PNC.

‘A prostitute?’ Kathy skimmed down a string of aliases, cautions, arrests, charges and convictions.

‘She’s a madam now, and moved upmarket, running an escort service with a posh address and a stable of classy girls.’

‘Do we speak to her?’

‘I don’t know. I think there’s something funny about this. Gloria seems an odd choice for a rough bastard like Peebles. You should check out her website, appealing to a better class of punters, and expensive. And she’s in Chelsea.’