Chelsea Mansions (3 page)

‘We’ll do everything we can, and of course the American Embassy will want to help you with arrangements.’

‘Oh yes, I suppose so.’

‘There will have to be a post-mortem, and a report to the coroner. I’ll keep you informed.’

There was nothing in the least remarkable about Nancy Haynes’ belongings, their very ordinariness a painful reproach. She had an account with the Citizens Bank in Boston, was reading Anita Shreve’s latest novel, taking blood pressure and antihistamine tablets, and had an address book in which the only UK contact was someone called McKellar in Angus, Scotland.

‘A distant cousin she made contact with. Like I told you, she wanted to check out her family roots. There should be some family photos she brought to show them.’

Kathy found the pouch in the lid of Nancy’s suitcase, containing a wad of pictures of children, family gatherings, studio portraits and some older black and white images of smiling forebears.

‘They’ll blame me, you know.’ Emerson sighed, staring at one of the photos of a family group.

‘Of course not. There was nothing you could do.’

‘All the same, they’ll think I should have protected her. Maybe if I’d tried harder to get a cab, or figured out how to pay for the bus . . .’

‘You can’t look at it that way. Was she well off?’

‘She owns a valuable house in a good area of Boston, but she was short of cash. Net income last year was thirty-seven thousand dollars. I still do her tax returns. She invested unwisely a couple of years ago against my advice and her savings took a whack. But she was still adamant that we come on this trip.’

Kathy got details of next of kin and returned downstairs.Toby was waiting for her in the hall, a determined set to his mouth. He stepped forward.

‘Look, I didn’t introduce us properly. I’m Toby Beaumont, the owner of the hotel, and behind the counter is Deb Collins, our manager and receptionist and mainstay of the operation. We were just discussing . . . it’s hard not to feel a personal involvement with something like this. Of course you have hundreds of terrible cases to deal with, but this is so . . .  intolerably unfair. What I’m trying to say is that we would like you to give us your personal assurance that Nancy’s death will be pursued to the very utmost of the police capacities.’

‘Yes, I can assure you of that, Mr Beaumont. We will do everything we can to solve this case.’

‘Right,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Thank you. Well, if there’s anything we can do, you must let us know.’

‘Mr Merckle has taken one of the pills the doctor gave him and is lying down for a while. He was supposed to be going on to Scotland tomorrow, but I think he may want to remain in London for a few more days. Can he stay here?’

‘Of course, as long as he likes.’

He didn’t have to consult the computer. Business must be quiet, Kathy thought.

‘I’m going to arrange for someone from Victim Support to contact him, and see what help they can give. Here’s my card, and if anything occurs to you please get in touch.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Beaumont looked as if he wanted to say more, but then sagged as if defeated by it all, leaning more heavily on his stick. ‘The bastard was drugged to his eyeballs, I suppose. It’s a shameful business.’

Kathy returned to the offices in Queen Anne’s Gate, where the team led by Detective Chief Inspector David Brock was based. The Queen Anne’s Gate annexe was a few blocks north of the main buildings of New Scotland Yard, and unlike the modern headquarters was old, a hundred years older than Chelsea Mansions. The original terrace of townhouses had been converted into offices by openings punched through their party walls, so that the rooms were connected by a confusing maze of corridors and staircases. Which made the new critical incident command and control suite recently set up in one of the larger rooms look incongruous, with all those big touchscreen displays and computers supporting the latest HOLMES 2 suite for processing large volumes of information from major incidents. At first Brock had tried to ignore it, but of late he’d become enthusiastic, thanks mainly to Zack, the civilian operator who came with the machines and who made it all seem simple. Brock and Zack were there when Kathy arrived, along with most of the other people in the building, staring at a scene being played out in slow motion on the largest screen: a stream of pedestrians walking along a street, a red double-decker bus approaching. As they watched, someone drew their breath sharply, others shook their heads.

Kathy, standing behind them, said, ‘That’s exactly how the bus driver described it.’

Brock looked back over his shoulder at her. ‘The camera is above a doorway thirty yards beyond the scene. Here he comes . . .’

Kathy watched the tall dark-haired man emerge from the group by the bus and run past, below the camera.

‘It’s the man who was following them at the flower show,’ she said. ‘The woman’s companion, Emerson Merckle, took a picture of him there.’ She handed Emerson’s camera to Zack.

‘Okay, now here’s the interesting thing,’ Brock went on. ‘There’s another camera at the bus stop towards Pont Street, a hundred yards further on.’

Zack changed the picture, pedestrians walking past a bus stop.

‘Nothing,’ Brock said. ‘He doesn’t show up. There are no side streets. Where did he disappear to? Let’s go take a look.’

As they reached the front door Brock’s secretary, Dot, caught them.

‘The Press Bureau are after you, Brock,’ she said. ‘They need to see you as soon as possible, they say. So does Commander Sharpe. The American Embassy has been on to the Home Office.’

‘We’ll be back in an hour. I’ll ring them.’

When they reached the car Brock said, ‘Let’s make it quick, Kathy.’

She switched on the lights and sped out into the London traffic, briefing him on the way about Emerson Merckle’s account. When she had finished he took out his phone and started making calls. He folded it away as she turned into Sloane Street and came to a stop in front of the crime scene cordon.

A uniformed woman was setting up signs appealing for witnesses, and another was standing at the kerb with a clipboard, speaking to a cluster of passers-by. Other officers were door-knocking along the street. Brock spoke to the woman with the clipboard, then he and Kathy began to walk slowly in the direction the man had taken, towards the first camera, then on up the street to the second. There were no side lanes or obvious ways out.

There was a fenced park on the other side of Sloane Street occupying the centre of Cadogan Place. Kathy looked at it and said, ‘He could have crossed the street.’

‘Yes, but he’d have been picked up by the second camera, unless he climbed over the railings and ran into the park. He’d have been pretty conspicuous doing that, but no one has mentioned seeing it.’ They stared across at the railings, shoulder height, with spiked tops like small spears.

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.