Chelsea Mansions (14 page)

‘It just struck me as rather odd, I suppose.’

‘So you wanted to sleep in her bed?’

He felt a little jolt of shock. ‘No! Now you’re looking at me the way I look at a student who’s been caught plagiarising or something. There was nothing macabre about it. I told you before, I’ve had a bit to do with the Montreal police.’

‘Yes, you did say that. What exactly have you had to do with them?’

‘You don’t believe me, do you? Look, why don’t I give you the name of someone to call, and they can vouch for me, okay?’

He took out his phone and scrolled through his address book and handed it to her. ‘Paul Ledoux is a lieutenant in the Montreal Police Service, that’s his office number.’ She wrote it down and handed back the phone.

‘The conference has been a bit of a disappointment, not really my period, and I was looking for a distraction. I thought it might be interesting to be in the middle of a murder investigation.’

‘And is it?’

‘Well, right at the moment it’s a little uncomfortable, to tell the truth.’

‘Maybe that’s because you’re not being completely open with me, Mr Greenslade.’

He sighed, lowered his eyes from that accusing glare of hers and said, ‘Can I make a suggestion? Phone Paul Ledoux in a couple of hours when he gets in to work, and if you’re not completely satisfied you can get out the thumbscrews. But if you are satisfied—’

He was interrupted by the sound of Kathy’s phone. She glanced at the number and winced. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Better take this.’

She got to her feet and walked over to the window, her back to him. ‘Sir?’ He watched her listen, motionless, then shake her head and say, ‘I’m afraid he’s still in Scotland, sir . . . Yes, I did tell him about the meeting, but he wanted to complete his inquiries . . . No, sir . . . Probably this evening, or tomorrow . . .’ She took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, the phone clamped to her ear. Eventually she said, ‘Absolutely, sir, I . . .’ She fell silent, snapped the phone shut and put it back in her pocket.

‘Where were we?’ she said.

‘We were agreeing that you’d phone Montreal, after which if you weren’t satisfied you would haul me in for further questioning, but if you were satisfied you’d have dinner with me tonight.’

Kathy shook her head. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve, John.’

At least she’d called him John. ‘Yes, well, time is short. They’re having a conference dinner tonight and I need an excuse not to go. I’d much prefer to eat somewhere nice with somebody who wouldn’t want to talk about classical philology.’

She nodded. ‘I can understand that.’

‘And I’ve had an idea about your case that I’d like to put to you. I thought of Frazer’s in the King’s Road.’

‘Frazer’s?’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘You’ve heard of it?’

‘Yes. I’m told it’s expensive.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘I’d rather have a sandwich at the Red Lion.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes, and I’ll pay for my own. Say six o’clock?’

‘You are serious. Where is this Red Lion?’

‘Parliament Street, not far from the Two Chairmen, which you know so well.’

John left her to interview the next resident of the hotel. In the hall Deb called to him that she’d tried Frazer’s and it was booked out. Did he want her to try somewhere else? He thanked her and told her not to bother.

When she’d finished at the hotel Kathy checked the progress of the others in the square, and went through the lists they were working from. Several people had not yet been reinterviewed: Vadim and Alisa Kuzmin had returned to their home in Surrey and apparently Shaka had gone with them; Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane was tied up with parliamentary business in Westminster; and Mikhail Moszynski’s financial adviser, Freddie Clarke, was working at his office in Mayfair. Kathy decided to start with him.

The place was hard to find, an inconspicuous door in a tiny square tucked away behind Curzon Street. The name on the small brass plate said
Truscott Orr
. It wasn’t apparent what Truscott Orr did. The voice on the intercom was guarded, and when Kathy mounted the stairs to the small reception area she was confronted by a severe, smartly dressed woman who gave the strong impression that Kathy was intruding. Through an open door she caught a glimpse of two young men, not long out of school by the look of them, staring at computer screens. The woman spoke into a phone and led Kathy to another door.

Clarke had his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. His striped shirt was enlivened by a colourful pair of braces, decorated with bears on one side and bulls on the other. Kathy wondered if you could tell which way the market was heading by watching which side he tugged.

‘Ah, hello again. Er . . .’ He glanced at the secretary who was hovering at the door as if reluctant to leave him alone with the detective. Rather as if she’s his mother, Kathy thought. Clarke said, ‘Coffee, Renee? Thanks.’

‘Thank you for seeing me at short notice, Mr Clarke,’ Kathy began. ‘There are a few points I need to clarify. First of all, can you just explain to me again exactly what your relationship was with Mr Moszynski?’

He inserted a thumb under the bulls and said, ‘I advised him on his financial affairs.’

‘You are a financial adviser, then?’

‘Yeah. Specialist in tax law.’

A smart cockney spiv, Kathy thought. ‘So you weren’t business partners, as such?’

‘That too, but on a modest scale. I have investments in some of Mr Moszynski’s companies.’ He smiled encouragingly, as if to suggest he was an open book.

‘Who are Truscott and Orr?’

‘Founders of the firm, back in the seventies. I’m the sole director now.’

‘So you’re familiar with all of Mr Moszynski’s business affairs?’

‘I couldn’t claim that.’

‘Could you describe them to me?’

‘Mr Moszynski came to the UK with substantial assets, which he has diversified through a number of holding and investment companies. He also set up several charitable and family trusts.’

‘I imagine it will be complicated.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And his family will be relying on you to sort things out.’

‘In part. Ah, coffee.’

Renee had appeared with a tray. ‘The boys are stuck, Freddie,’ she said.

‘Oh damn. Could you excuse me a moment, Inspector?’ He rushed to the door while Renee struggled to find a place to set the tray down among the papers heaped over every surface.

Kathy said, ‘My boss’s desk looks a bit like that.’

‘Freddie is a genius,’ Renee replied stonily, defying her to deny it.

‘At tax minimisation?’ Kathy said.

‘At what he does.’

‘It sounds boring, but I don’t suppose it is, with clients like the Russians.’

Renee said nothing, seemingly not wanting to enter into a conversation, but also not wanting to leave Kathy alone in Clarke’s office. She began arranging papers into piles, then stopped and turned to Kathy. ‘I read about the letter in the paper this morning. That’s obviously the answer, isn’t it? Like those other Russians. The KGB did it.’

‘Did Nancy Haynes ever come here, Renee?’

The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

‘The American lady who was staying next door to Mikhail Moszynski—the one who was murdered last Thursday.’

‘What’s that?’ Freddie Clarke had reappeared at the door.

Kathy repeated the question.

‘Hell, no. Why would she? She certainly wasn’t a client of ours. Why, are you trying to make some connection?’

‘This is her photograph,’ Kathy said, showing it to both of them. ‘Have you ever seen her?’

They both said no, and Renee left.

‘As you see, Inspector,’ Clarke went on, ‘I’m up to my ears at the moment. Was there anything in particular you were after?’

‘I just wanted an overview of Mr Moszynski’s business affairs. I’m probably not asking the right questions. Maybe I should get our financial specialists to come and talk to you.’

He frowned and tugged at the bears. ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I could give you a list of his principal companies and trusts, if you like. The most significant is RKF SA.’

‘Thank you.’ She thought a moment. ‘RKF as in Rosskomflot?’

He looked at her sharply. ‘That’s right. You do know something of his affairs, then?’

‘A little. Do you have company prospectuses, annual statements?’

He smirked. ‘These are private companies, almost all registered overseas. RKF is registered in Luxembourg, for example.’

‘Ah yes, of course. So what would Mikhail be worth, all up?’

‘Oh . . .’ Clarke shook his head with a frown. ‘Very hard to say.’

‘Roughly. Take a guess.’

‘Roughly . . .’ He spread his hands. ‘Five hundred million? Six?’

‘Sterling?’

‘Dollars.’

‘And who will control that now?’

‘I haven’t seen his will . . .’

‘But he must have discussed it with you.’

‘Various family members will inherit, but taken with her present holding in RKF, his daughter Alisa—Mrs Kuzmin—will have a controlling interest, I believe.’

‘Not his wife?’

‘Not under the terms of their pre-nuptial agreement. She will be generously provided for, but won’t play an active part in the companies.’

‘And what role does Alisa’s husband Vadim play?’

‘He acts as Mikhail’s business representative in Russia. Vadim has extensive contacts with government and business over there. Mikhail hasn’t been back to Russia since his mother joined him over here.’

‘Was he afraid?’

‘I’ve read the letter and editorial in
The Times
this morning, and I was a little surprised. Mikhail hadn’t expressed those opinions so forcibly to me, but he was certainly uncomfortable about returning to Russia. He felt unwelcome there. Now look, if you don’t mind . . .’

Kathy got to her feet. ‘Could I have your mobile number, Mr Clarke? Just in case I have any more queries.’

He looked reluctant, but wrote a number on the back of a card and gave it to her.

‘Did you make any calls from Mr Moszynski’s house last Sunday?’

Clarke frowned. ‘Not that I can remember.’

‘What about anyone else? Did you see or hear anyone making or taking calls that afternoon and evening?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane, for instance?’

‘Em . . . actually, I think he did call his wife at one stage.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. Now I really must get on.’

Kathy drove across the river and picked up the A30, heading south into Surrey. Beyond Esher she turned off the main road, following the satnav prompts. The traffic faded away and the houses, glimpsed through dense banks of foliage, became larger.

She turned onto a gravel drive towards an orange-brick, half-timbered Tudorbethan country house outside which a red Ferrari Spider was parked. A maid showed her into a living room overlooking a broad lawn at the back of the house. Two people were sitting on a sofa, Shaka and Vadim, just like the last time Kathy had seen them at Chelsea Mansions, almost like two people plotting. When they saw Kathy their faces shut down. Shaka’s took on the distant, haughty look of a model on a catwalk, while Vadim’s set into a hostile frown.