Chelsea Mansions (4 page)

‘Do you really need me?’ Kathy said.

‘Absolutely. Bad news comes best from an attractive young woman.’ She gave Kathy a humourless smile that might have been ironic or sarcastic. ‘Brock, you first, with an outline of the facts and the police response. Rigorous, dedicated, no stone unturned.
Gravitas
. For Christ’s sake nothing about Americans being safer in London than Boston, or Chelsea crime statistics or anything like that—it sounds defensive. You, Kathy, the human side—sympathy for the family, appeal for support from the public. Brief response to questions. We’ll plant a final one for you to end on a positive note.’

THREE

T
he following morning a young man sat in a café in Edgeware Road reading a newspaper report of the murder in Sloane Street. At that moment a TV mounted up in the corner of the room began showing highlights of the police press conference on the same subject. He watched with a particular intensity as first Brock and then Kathy spoke to the camera. The waitress, approaching him with his order of bacon and eggs, put him in his late twenties. He had a rather serious, studious air about him with the glasses and the way he rubbed his jaw, studying the screen. Tall, dark, quite nice, but not her type.

‘Fancy her then, do you?’ she asked, thumping the plate down in front of him.

‘Sorry?’ The news moved on to something else and he turned his attention to her.

‘The blonde cop. Reckon she’s attractive?’

‘Oh . . . yeah, I guess so.’

‘American, are you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘They always put a blonde on to tell bad news.’

‘I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re probably right.’

‘I like the other one, with the beard.’

‘He’s way too old for you.’

‘Yeah, but he’s got a twinkle in his eye, don’t you reckon?’

The man frowned, as if he found the idea mildly disturbing.

‘Anyway, I’ll let you eat your breakfast.’

After he’d finished he walked down to Marble Arch and crossed into Hyde Park. It was a fine May day, a cool breeze sending puffy white clouds scudding across a pale blue sky, and as he made his way deeper into the park, the grass as high as his knees, it seemed as if he might be far away in the countryside. Then he was crossing the broad path of Rotten Row, its sandy surface stamped with horses’ hooves, and was plunged back into the city, making his way across Knightsbridge into Sloane Street before turning off into the side streets to reach the relative stillness of Cunningham Place.

A bell on the front door tinkled as he stepped inside, and a mature, rather intimidating-looking woman straightened up from a computer behind the counter and gave him the once-over.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘Good morning. I wonder if you have a room?’

‘I’m afraid not. We’re full.’

‘Oh.’

‘Four-oh-two’s free.’ The voice came from behind the woman, and a man, previously hidden, appeared around her shoulder and peered at the stranger through darkened round glasses. ‘Canadian?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Yes, I can usually tell the difference.’

‘But four-oh-two . . .’ the woman began to object, then shrugged. ‘Fourth floor. We don’t have a lift, I’m afraid, but you’re young and fit. How long for?’

‘I’m not sure. A week? Maybe more. What’s the rate?’

The two behind the desk had a brief whispered conversation before the woman offered him a price. It seemed very reasonable.

‘Fine.’

The man with the dark glasses suddenly leaned across the desk and thrust out his hand. ‘Toby Beaumont, proprietor, and this is Deb.’

‘John, John Greenslade.’

‘How old are you, John?’ Toby asked.

‘Twenty-eight,’ the man replied, a little puzzled.

‘Ah yes.’ Toby nodded, as if something significant had been confirmed. ‘Bags?’

‘I’ve been staying somewhere else, but this is the area I wanted. I’ll bring them over later.’

He returned in a cab towards noon. As he made his way to the front steps he stopped for a moment to examine a large black limousine parked at the kerb. It was a Maybach 62 Zeppelin, very new by the look of it. He’d never seen one before.

Deb introduced the concierge, Garry, saying he would be delighted to help with restaurant bookings, theatre tickets and anything else John might need during his visit, although Garry, who avoided his eyes and said nothing, didn’t give an immediate impression of delight. She also called Jacko, the porter, to carry John’s suitcase up to his room, but when he saw how Jacko dragged his left leg John said he’d manage just fine himself.

He liked the room, a bit stuffy under the roof and probably unbearable on a hot day, but with a great view out over the square. He opened the window and the door to let in some air and began to unpack. The wardrobe door creaked as he hung his suit and a couple of shirts on mismatched wooden hangers, then stuffed his other things in the chest of drawers before sitting by the window and powering up his laptop. He checked his emails, then got into Google and looked up Maybach. The list price for a new 62 Zeppelin was 473,200 euros. He gave a little whistle.

Someone coughed. He looked around and saw an elderly man with his arm in a sling standing at the door.

‘Oh, sorry,’ the man said. ‘I heard someone in here and I thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought.’ He had an American accent—New England, John judged, and watched as the man turned and went off down the stairs. But when John looked out of the window he didn’t see him leave the building by the front steps below.

After ten minutes he locked the door of his room and went down. He spied the American in the guests’ sitting room, reading a morning paper, and went in.

‘Hi,’ he said.

The American looked up as if he’d never seen John before.

‘We met upstairs just now,’ John explained, and they shook hands and introduced themselves.

‘I’m sorry,’ Emerson said, ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted you. I was a little confused. I knew the last person who had that room, you see.’

John sat down beside him. ‘Was that the lady I read about?’ He nodded at the paper Emerson was reading, folded to the report of Nancy’s death: bizarre murder of american tourist.

Emerson nodded with a sigh.

‘I’m really sorry about your friend,’ John said. ‘It must be terrible for you.’

‘Yeah. I still can’t get my head around it. I woke up and thought, oh, it’s a nice day, and then bang, it hit me.’

He suddenly looked over John’s shoulder and bit his lip. ‘Uh-oh.’

John turned and saw the blonde police inspector outside in the lobby talking to Deb. She wasn’t wearing the dark suit she’d had on TV, but a light shirt and pants, and she looked faintly flushed, as if she’d been running. Her features were rather lean, tending almost to severe, he thought, and he guessed that she didn’t eat enough. Deb said something and the cop turned and came into the sitting room, smiling at Emerson, who gave a cautious smile in return and began to struggle out of his chair.

‘Don’t get up,’ she said. ‘I’ll sit here.’

John got to his feet. ‘I guess you two need to talk. I’ll see you later, Emerson.’ He turned to the cop. ‘Hi, I’m John.’

She nodded, making a mental note, he guessed.

Kathy sat down beside Emerson, seeing the newspaper report by his side. ‘How are you today?’

‘The shoulder’s aching a bit, but the doc said that would happen. I’ve got painkillers.’

‘Have Victim Support been in touch?’

‘Oh yes, a nice lady called in this morning. We had a chat.’

‘Good.’

‘And two people from the US Embassy.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘And Nancy’s son in California phoned to say he’s flying out here right away to help me. I told him not to, but he insisted.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And about twenty reporters and photographers stopped by. The colonel wanted to chase them away, but they just needed a picture and a few words about Nancy, so I gave them that and they left.’

‘The colonel?’

‘The hotel owner, Toby Beaumont. Ex-army, as if you couldn’t guess. We heard one of the other staff call him “Colonel”, so Nancy . . .’

He stopped and swallowed, then took a sip of water from the glass at his elbow and continued. ‘Toby wants to organise a memorial service for Nancy in the little church on the other side of the square. I’ve told him it isn’t necessary, but he’s determined. He says people want to do something to show how they feel.’

‘Do you want me to dissuade him?’

Emerson thought about it, then shook his head. ‘No, I guess it’s okay. It’s kind of him. He’s talking about Sunday, after the morning service. I don’t think there will be many people there.’

‘Right.’ Kathy hesitated, then said, ‘You know Nancy’s family pretty well then?’

‘Sure, I’ve known them for, oh, thirty years or more. I used to play golf with her husband, she and my wife were best friends, and I’ve watched their children grow up and leave home.’

‘I have to ask this. Is there any possibility, do you think, that there could be a domestic reason of some kind for Nancy to be killed? Something to do with her life back home?’

‘Oh, you mean the mafia cousins in Las Vegas, and the huge life insurance the boys just took out on their mother?’ He gave Kathy a weak smile. ‘You know, I did have that thought too, for a very brief moment. I guess we all watch too much TV. But it’s just too ridiculous. Nancy is the last person on earth I could imagine this kind of thing happening to.’

‘Fine. I had to ask.’

‘Sure.’

‘Do you happen to know who will be the beneficiaries of her estate?’

He sighed, as if reluctant to go into it. ‘I do, as a matter of fact. A couple of years ago she asked me to act as one of her executors, and she asked my opinion about leaving specific small sums to her grandchildren and sister. Her two sons would be the principal beneficiaries, sharing her main asset, the house.’

‘How much is that worth?’

‘Probably five million plus.’

Kathy made a note of the name and address of Nancy’s solicitor, thanked Emerson and got up to go.

In the hallway she saw the man who’d been talking to him earlier. He looked up from the leaflet for the London Eye that he was reading and said, ‘Hi again. I saw you on TV. Terrible business.’

‘You’re staying here?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’re American too?’

‘Canadian. Look, I guess everybody says this, but I’d really like to help, if I can.’

She nodded and showed him a copy of the photo from Emerson’s camera. ‘You haven’t seen anyone like this hanging around, have you?’

‘Sorry, I’ve only just arrived. But I’ll certainly keep my eyes open.’

‘Just so long as you don’t try to tackle him if you do see him.’

‘No, I’d give you a call, I guess. If I had your contact details.’

Kathy gave him her card. He seemed pleasant, but there was something odd about his manner, the rather intense way he looked at her. ‘What was your name again?’

‘John, John Greenslade, from Montreal.’

FOUR