Chelsea Mansions (41 page)

‘In return for these services Mr Moszynski donated money to Sir Nigel’s political party and paid for several trips abroad. These were declared in accordance with parliamentary rules. He also made much larger payments to Sir Nigel that were not declared, either to Parliament or to the Inland Revenue. These included a monthly retainer, a car, and miscellaneous expenses, including regular payments for prostitutes. I was engaged to hide these transactions from the authorities, which I did. However I have a mental record of them all, as follows . . .’

Sharpe flicked the fast-forward button. ‘There are several minutes where he just recites bank details, dates and amounts. He seems to have memorised everything.’

The film resumed.

‘. . . Mr Moszynski also made a number of loans to Sir Nigel on favourable terms, which Sir Nigel used to buy property and shares. Again I was asked to create financial vehicles to disguise these activities. However I did not advise Sir Nigel on his investments, since he considered himself an expert in these matters. Unfortunately he invested in the stock market in the middle of 2007 when it was at its peak, and lost heavily in the following year. In order to recoup these losses and repay his loans, Sir Nigel begged Mr Moszynski to relax the terms of their agreements, which he generously did. However when Sir Nigel was still unable to meet his obligations he resorted to fraud. Mr Moszynski’s mother, Marta Moszynski, was particularly anxious that her son be awarded a knighthood, and Sir Nigel persuaded them that he could arrange this, if Mr Moszynski undertook a program of charitable donations which Sir Nigel devised. These included wildlife conservation and youth support organisations. Two of these, the Hammersmith Youth Employment Project and the Haringey Sport and Social Trust, were in fact used by Sir Nigel to siphon off a portion of Mr Moszynski’s donations to finance Sir Nigel’s debts. In March of this year I became suspicious and suggested to Mr Moszynski that I carry out an investigation of Sir Nigel’s financial affairs. It didn’t take me long to discover hidden bank accounts into which donations to the two foundations had been transferred. The details of these are as follows . . .’

There was another toneless list of numbers and transactions before Clarke continued.

‘When confronted by Mr Moszynski, Sir Nigel claimed that these arrangements had been contrived for the convenience of the charities concerned and not for his personal gain, but I had proof that this was a lie. At the same time Mrs Moszynski senior was putting increasing pressure on Sir Nigel about his promise to obtain the knighthood for her son, which he seemed unable to fulfil. These discussions were ongoing at the time that Nancy Haynes and Mr Moszynski were murdered. I have no direct evidence that Sir Nigel arranged their deaths—in the case of Nancy Haynes in a mistaken attempt to kill Marta Moszynski—but there is no doubt that Mr Moszynski was close to abandoning his support for him and could have made his life very difficult.’

The screen went blank and Sharpe switched off the TV. He stared at Brock for a moment, then said, ‘I have to ask you, Brock, for the record. Were you involved in this? Or have you any knowledge of who was?’

Brock stared back, uncertain for a moment whether to feel insulted or flattered. He decided on the former. ‘Certainly not.’

Sharpe gave a quick, embarrassed nod. ‘No, of course not. Had to ask. You may have seen the news reports of Dick Chivers’ press conference yesterday, in which he announced the suspension of the police investigation into the murders, and specifically cleared Hadden-Vane of suspicion. In the light of these new developments, he’s asked to be relieved of his involvement in the case. I have agreed. He’s waiting downstairs and will go on extended leave once he’s briefed you.’

‘Me?’

‘I want you running the show again, Brock. You’re up to it? Physically, I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get your team back to Queen Anne’s Gate, quick as you can. I’m putting out a press release to give us some time. Obviously the fraud boys will be checking through all the banking information on the tape. Your job is to prove that Hadden-Vane arranged the murders.’

‘Do we know where Clarke is?’

‘He hasn’t been seen since yesterday lunchtime, apparently. We’ve no idea why he decided to go public on this. Conscience, perhaps. Dick will give you all the details.’

Brock found Chivers scowling into a coffee mug. He looked up and nodded.

‘Musical chairs, eh? Help yourself to a coffee.’

Brock did so and sat down. ‘Yes. Tough luck.’

‘I simply don’t understand it. We were leaning on that little bastard for days, trying to squeeze something out of him, and he didn’t say a word, not a hint. Then suddenly he’s on the record with the complete works—bank account numbers, transactions down to the last penny. What made him do it?’

‘We’ll have to ask him.’

‘Fat chance.’ Chivers pushed a piece of paper across to Brock. ‘Seems he caught a flight to Athens this morning without telling anyone. He could be anywhere by now.’

‘Was he alone in that room where he was being filmed, do you think?’

‘No idea. Why, you think he had help?’

‘I don’t know. What else have you got for me?’

Chivers indicated a neat stack of files. ‘Our records of interviews and daily summaries. You should find the paperwork up to date.’ He was famous for his paperwork, Brock thought.

‘My team is at your disposal, and I won’t be going anywhere for a few days, so you can get hold of me any time, day or night.’ Then Chivers reached into his pocket and laid down a bunch of keys. ‘Queen Anne’s Gate. It’s all yours again, Brock.’

Brock walked over to Queen Anne’s Gate, the files under his arm, through deserted streets. He opened the front door of the darkened building with the keys and made his way up to his old office. It looked unnaturally tidy and there was a faint smell of Chivers’ aftershave.

He sat at the desk and dialled Dot’s number. She lived in East Barnet, he knew, near the station in a house she’d bought with the husband who had died soon afterwards of a heart attack, but Brock had never been there and had no mental image of the place. She answered almost immediately, a phone beside her bed or armchair, perhaps, and he told her what had happened.

‘It was on the ten o’clock news, that he’d killed himself,’ she said. ‘I wondered what they’d do.’

‘Can you phone round the team and get everyone to Queen Anne’s Gate first thing tomorrow morning, please, Dot? I’ll speak to Bren and Kathy myself.’

When he rang Kathy’s number he wondered what he might be interrupting, but she answered immediately, sounding calm and slightly distant. After he’d told her of developments, he added, ‘That was a pleasant meal. Sorry I had to dash off. I hope John didn’t think I was rude.’

‘’Course not. He’s gone back to the hotel. I can contact him if you want to see him again.’

‘Not at this stage, Kathy.’

John Greenslade returned to Chelsea Mansions after a brisk walk that failed to clear his head of troubled thoughts and doubts. He said a quick hello to Toby and Deb, and went upstairs.

In his room he stripped and stood for a while under the pathetic dribble of warm water that passed for a shower, then lay on his bed, trying to decide what to do. To return to Canada having achieved nothing would be like a defeat, and yet he seemed to have boxed himself into a corner, making it almost impossible, he thought, to confront his father with the truth. The turning point had been his gaffe about the frogman, Commander Crabb. He had seen, in Brock’s dismissal of the idea, any curiosity and interest that he might have had in John vanish. The only way to retrieve the situation would be to come up with something to make up for the mistake and establish himself as someone to be taken seriously. But what could that be?

He thought of the message revealed on the back of the 1956 photograph, and the signature ‘Miles’. If Miles had been Toby’s father or uncle, then the family’s records might have confirmed it, yet he couldn’t remember any such references in the boxes in the attic that he’d gone through. When he had searched them it had just seemed a bit of fun, something to bring him closer to Kathy, but now it took on a deadly seriousness. He wondered if he had missed something, and remembered Toby’s comment about moving the records out of the basement where they had originally been stored. Perhaps some had been left behind, he thought. He should ask.

By the time he’d come to this conclusion the hotel was silent, the lights out. He decided to wait till morning, and to consult Toby first about his father. But he couldn’t settle, and after an hour of restless turning back and forth on his bed he got up, dressed, and padded silently downstairs.

The door to the cellar was unlocked, and he felt inside for the switch for the light on the stairs and went down. He felt the sudden chill radiating from the rough old concrete columns and slabs that had been built down there in 1939 to protect its occupants from a direct hit on the house above. There was a smell of damp, and something else, something sour like old drains recently disturbed. There were a couple of tea-chests standing against the far wall. He went over to investigate their contents and found that they were full of old china, wrapped in ancient newspapers. Nearby was a bench with a few tools and boxes of rusty old nails, and beside it a rack of industrial shelving next to a solid door set flush in the wall. It had a large handle and two heavy bolts set in its steel face, as if it were the entrance to a bank vault or, more likely, a blast-proof inner shelter. And he noticed that the floor in front of the door was streaked with smears of muddy footprints.

He took hold of the handle, turned it and pulled. The heavy door creaked open, and a stronger smell of fetid air gusted out. The room inside was in pitch darkness, and it took him a moment to find the light switch on the wall outside, by the shelving. He turned it on and peered back into the chamber. The first thing he saw was a pick and shovel leaning against a side wall, next to a section of the brick-paved floor that had been dug up, with a pile of rubble and earth heaped beside the hole. The room was like a cell, he thought, imagining how claustrophobic it would have felt to be inside, feeling the thud and tremble of the building around you as the bombs fell.

Beyond the hole, on the far side of the room, was something else, a piece of gym equipment perhaps, and John went in to investigate, skirting around the diggings. It looked like a bench that was higher at one end than the other, to form a sloping platform, and next to it were coiled several thick leather belts and lengths of rope, and a bucket containing a damp cloth. An unpleasant memory stirred in his head, a TV film of the torture of prisoners in Iraq, and an image of a man stretched out on such a contraption, feet up, head down, his face covered by a wet cloth onto which water was being poured to induce the sensation of being drowned. Waterboarding, he thought. But why would—?