Chelsea Mansions (40 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

B
rock was early, and called in at a pub nearby to kill some time. The restaurant Kathy had suggested was an old favourite of theirs, a comfortable Italian place whose informality surely made it a good choice for a quiet friendly dinner. Yet Brock felt unsettled, as if Kathy were bringing an outsider into their relationship. No, that was absurd. He was glad for her, hoped this time it would work out. Lord knows, she had made some unfortunate, or unlucky, choices in the past. Was there a reason for that? he wondered. Something to do with her father’s suicide, perhaps? Or with being in the police?

His eyes went to a TV screen in the corner where a wide-eyed German tourist was describing a suicide he had witnessed on Westminster Bridge that afternoon, a man jumping into the river. Brock was thankful that someone else would be dealing with it. He checked his watch again, sighed, sank his whisky and said goodnight to the barman.

When he stepped into the restaurant he saw them straight away at his favourite table, with their heads together, laughing over something on the young man’s mobile phone. Then they looked up and saw him coming, and both got to their feet, eyes bright and expectant. Brock shook the man’s hand and tried to make an initial assessment. Firm grip, intelligent eyes, slightly wary. Fair enough. Not too smooth like that lawyer Martin Connell, probably not gay like Leon Desai, and apparently not Special Branch like Tom Reeves. So far so good. But what the hell had he been doing coming to see him, out cold in the hospital?

‘Looked like you were enjoying a good joke,’ Brock said.

‘Oh, yes.’ Kathy laughed. ‘John took a picture of the two guys who ran this B and B we stayed at in Boston. They were fantastic cooks.’

Brock watched them as they recited some of the dishes they’d had. There was no doubt about it, the lad was smitten, casting surreptitious glances at Kathy. He wished that Suzanne were there to help him get through the evening and afterwards carry out a considered post-mortem. She was expecting a full report on the phone when he got home.

They talked about Boston, ordered food, discussed the Henry Moore exhibition, ate, and several times he thought he noticed Kathy signalling to John with a questioning look or a raised eyebrow, and wondered what was coming. The young man was polite and deferential, but Brock had the feeling he was holding something back. Feeling a little more relaxed, he asked him about his work at McGill, and John became more animated and amusing, talking about his colleagues. Brock felt rather envious of the life he described, grappling with intellectual puzzles of—to Brock’s mind—utter uselessness.

‘So you’re a kind of detective too,’ he said.

John seemed to flush with pleasure at that. ‘Yes, in a way. Maybe it runs in the blood.’

Again that look from Kathy, and John bowed his head and took a deep breath, and Brock saw that he was about to say something that they’d already discussed. He had the feeling that this was the point of their meal together, and he felt a sudden irritation at the subterfuge, and a reluctance to share whatever confession they were about to make.

So he said quickly, ‘Well, I can’t say I’ve solved our puzzle, but I did make a little progress.’ He noticed a shadow of disappointment pass across Kathy’s face as he took out Morris’s envelope. ‘Originally there was a note accompanying the picture of Chelsea Mansions. Its message was imprinted onto the back of the photograph.’

He showed them Morris’s ESDA image.

‘Miles.’ John frowned as he read the signature. ‘That was the name of Toby Beaumont’s son, who was killed in the first Gulf War.’ He told them the story. ‘But he certainly wouldn’t have been around in 1956.’

‘Perhaps Toby named him after his own father,’ Kathy suggested. ‘He was living in that house in the background of the picture.’

‘That’s possible,’ Brock said. ‘I had hopes that Toby might have taken the picture, but perhaps it was his father. Do we know anything about him?’

Kathy shook her head. John was examining the photograph.

‘I showed a copy of that to Moszynski’s mother this afternoon,’ Brock said. ‘She got very upset—tore the picture to pieces and attacked me. Nearly crowned me. She denied that it’s Gennady.’

John was nodding, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘That’s interesting. It could tie in with an idea I had. After Kathy left Boston I had to wait to get a seat on a return flight, so I went back to the Widener Library and did a bit more digging. I thought I’d try to find out more of what Gennady Moszynski’s movements might have been in the UK during that 1956 visit, and I drew up a timeline of what happened.’

With a slight show of embarrassment, like an overenthusiastic student trying to please his teacher, Brock thought, John drew a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket and spread it out on the table.

‘The official party arrived in the UK on a Soviet cruiser, the
Ordzhonikidze
, at Portsmouth on the eighteenth of April, and stayed for ten days, during which they had meetings and functions in London, as well as visiting Birmingham, Oxford and Edinburgh. This is what I’ve been able to make of their movements. But there was one thing that didn’t go according to plan. Two days after the Russians left for home, MI6 announced that one of their operatives, a naval frogman, had disappeared near Portsmouth on the nineteenth of April, while testing some secret equipment. But the Russians then claimed that their sailors had seen a British frogman near the
Ordzhonikidze
on that day, and rumours began to circulate that the Russians had abducted or killed him. He was never found. His name was Commander—’

‘Buster Crabb,’ Brock cut in, shaking his head. He felt disappointed. Was that what this dinner was all about, so that Kathy’s new boyfriend could show off some crackpot conspiracy theory he’d come up with?

‘You’ve heard of him?’ John said.

‘It’s an old chestnut in this country, John, one of the great unsolved mysteries of the Cold War. There have been dozens of different explanations—Crabb had his throat cut by a Russian frogman, or was kidnapped and taken back to Russia, or defected, or even was murdered by MI6. Every couple of years someone comes up with a new idea. It’s a waste of time.’

John looked deflated. ‘I just thought, what if Gennady Moszynski was mixed up in that business and Nancy’s mother had known about it and told Nancy? Wouldn’t the Moszynskis want to shut her up? I mean, the Brits might not be so friendly if the word got out . . .’

‘Then why kill Mikhail Moszynski? No, John, forget it. There’s something much more personal behind this. Look at that photograph again, at the features of Nancy and Gennady. You were right about Nancy’s birth date, Kathy. I asked the lab to compare the DNA samples taken from the bodies of Nancy and Mikhail. They were close relatives, brother and sister, with the same father—Gennady. That’s the family secret that everybody’s been trying to hide.’

‘Yes,’ Kathy said, ‘but . . .’ She stopped as Brock’s phone began to ring.

‘Excuse me,’ he said, and flicked it open and listened. When the call was over he looked across at Kathy and said, ‘They’ve pulled Hadden-Vane’s body from the river. Apparently he jumped from Westminster Bridge earlier this evening. Sharpe wants me at headquarters. Sorry, but I’m going to have to leave you.’

After Brock had gone they were silent for several long minutes. Finally John said, ‘Well, I sure blew that, didn’t I?’

‘I could see how difficult it was for you.’

He shook his head in frustration. ‘I just couldn’t find the words to tell him. All the time I felt like an idiot intruder, an amateur sleuth trying to impress real cops.’

‘It wasn’t like that, John. He was a bit distant, but it was the first time you two have met and he’s probably still feeling rough. He’s usually warmer than that. You’ll see.’

‘No. That bit about the frogman . . . Hell, he must think I’m a complete fool. And he’s right. I should never have come to London, never have got myself into this situation.’

‘It was a good idea about Crabb. He shouldn’t have dismissed it the way he did.’

‘He didn’t just dismiss the idea, Kathy. He dismissed me. There’s no way we’re going to repeat this evening.’

She reached across for his hand, which was clenched tight into a fist. ‘Come on, things will seem better in the morning. Let’s have another glass of wine.’

‘No. Look, I need to be alone for while, to get my head around this. I’m sorry, Kathy, this is really difficult for me. I think I’ll walk for a while, back to the hotel.’

She withdrew her hand. ‘All right, if you’re sure.’

‘I just didn’t realise this would be so difficult.’

He reached for his wallet and she said, ‘No, my turn. I owe you for that great meal in Boston.’

‘Seems a long time ago, doesn’t it?’

She watched sadly as he walked away, turning at the door to give her a look of resignation, then disappearing into the night. It felt like a final parting, and she had to resist the impulse to go after him.

Commander Sharpe was alone in his office on the sixth floor. He was watching something on a TV screen when Brock walked in, and clicked the remote in his hand to switch it off.

‘Come in, Brock.’ Sharpe passed him a plastic sleeve containing a handwritten note, which read,

Dear Nigel,

Take a look at this. westminsterwhistleblower.com has a copy.

Freddie

‘This was in Hadden-Vale’s mail today, inside a padded pouch that’s currently with forensics. He opened it in his parliamentary office at around five this afternoon, and soon after walked out of the building to the middle of Westminster Bridge, where he jumped into the river. There were a number of witnesses.

‘Presumably there was something else in the envelope, our guess is a DVD or flash drive with a recording of an interview with Moszynski’s accountant, Freddie Clarke, which has since been released on the westminsterwhistleblower.com website.’ He nodded at the TV. ‘You’d better take a look.’

The screen came to life with a title—sir nigel featherstone hadden-vane, mp: the truth—then faded to the seated figure of a man, pale-faced and brightly lit against a dark, indistinct background.

‘My name is Freddie Clarke. I am an expert in tax law and I was financial adviser to Mikhail Moszynski, who was murdered on the thirtieth of May. I am intimately familiar with the financial affairs of Mr Moszynski and his family.

‘Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane is the Member of Parliament for the district of Chelsea, in which Mr Moszynski lived, and he became acquainted with Mr Moszynski soon after he arrived here from Russia. Sir Nigel became a trusted confidant of the Moszynski family, advising on such things as legal and political matters and arranging access to important social occasions and to senior figures in politics and society, including cabinet ministers and members of the royal family. He was in fact instrumental in introducing Mr Moszynski to his future wife, Shaka Gibbons.’

Clarke’s voice was mesmerising, Brock thought, without emphasis or inflection, but punctuated in odd places by the sound of his laboured breathing. He seemed to be holding himself together with great effort, as if under some kind of tremendous pressure, though it wasn’t apparent what that might be. From time to time his eyes would flick away from the viewer to points to left and right, either to gather his thoughts or to look at someone behind the camera.