Chelsea Mansions (47 page)

Sharpe called him in the following morning. ‘This reads like some kind of bizarre crime novel,’ Sharpe said, tapping his report. ‘You sure you hadn’t been drinking when you wrote it?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ Brock said.

‘Amazing. And he really is your son?’

‘It seems so.’

‘Good grief.’ Sharpe gave a rumbling laugh. ‘Well, I should congratulate you. I’ll have to buy you a cigar.’ He seemed to find the situation highly amusing. ‘So, a very satisfactory result all round . . .’

That’s what Toby Beaumont said, Brock thought.

‘. . . Marta Moszynski persuaded or forced Hadden-Vane to organise the killing of this embarrassing offspring of her dead husband, and Beaumont killed Mikhail Moszynski in a quite unrelated act of retaliation for the Russian’s threatening behaviour.’

‘Mm.’ Brock nodded doubtfully.

‘Come on, Brock, it may not be exactly what you expected, but it’s an excellent result. No grand conspiracy, no involvement of the FSB. The Foreign Office and MI5 will be delighted. They’ve been keeping a very close eye on us, demanding daily updates. I’ll pass your report by them before we go public on anything.’

‘It’s only a preliminary report, sir. We’ll start interviewing Beaumont and his crew this morning, and I’ve ordered a forensic search of the hotel. There are many other details that need following up.’

‘Fair enough, but the main thing is that the documents and DVD you found should allow the fraud boys to track down the money. I’m sure everyone’s going to be very happy to hear that.’

‘Beaumont was probably able to squeeze other information out of Freddie Clarke. He’d certainly found out how to requisition the company helicopter and jet.’

‘Yes. Waterboarding is a horrifying experience, I understand. I imagine Clarke would have told them anything they wanted to know. Is he still alive, do you think?’

‘Well, he certainly boarded that Athens flight. My guess is that Toby would have left him access to enough of Moszynski’s cash to keep him quiet for a long time.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘The only jarring element is these damn bones in Beaumont’s suitcase. What the hell is that all about?’

‘We don’t know. I’ll be interested to hear his explanation.’

‘Yes, well, until we do find out I think we might take that out of the report.’

Garry and Jacko refused to speak. Deb said only that she had nothing to add to whatever Toby said.

‘Toby has confessed to us that he murdered Mikhail Moszynski,’ Brock said. ‘That puts you in the position of an accessory, Deb, liable to the same punishment as him. You’ve just spent one night in gaol, and it’s going to be like that for the rest of your life. Do you really owe him that much? He’s told us his version, now we’d like to hear yours.’

She flushed slightly and said, ‘Toby speaks for all of us, Chief Inspector. I have nothing more to say.’

Toby himself was quite willing to talk. He sat there facing Brock, looking defiant.

‘Well, you kept your nerve, Brock, I’ll grant you that, but you put your son in jeopardy. You gambled with his life. How do you feel about that?’

‘I did what you did, Toby,’ Brock said.

‘Oh no, not the same at all. I gave my son a chance at glory, you just didn’t care.’

‘Glory? Not much glory in all this, is there? You stab an unarmed man to death, try to take off with his cash, and end up putting your three loyal companions in gaol for the rest of their lives.’

Toby flared, his face turning puce. ‘They had nothing to do with this. I did it alone. They are innocent!’

‘They were in the plane with you, and now they refuse to talk—they say you speak for them. Only one way a jury’s going to interpret that. They were after the cash, just like you.’

‘I couldn’t leave them behind, with no future . . .’

‘Well, they certainly haven’t got one now.’

‘Perhaps . . . perhaps if I agreed to cooperate fully with you, you might be more sympathetic to their position.’

‘I don’t think you’ve got much to negotiate with, but you can start by telling us about the skull and bones in your luggage.’

‘Ha!’ Toby sat back with a grim smile, his composure returning. ‘I thought that would set the cat among the pigeons. You’ve probably been wondering about that all night, eh?’

Brock folded his arms and stared at him. ‘Let’s have it then.’

‘My grandfather was an officer in the Fourth Army in the First Battle of the Somme, in the First World War. In July 1916 his company was involved in a frontal attack on the German lines, from which he was the only survivor. He was never quite the same after that. When he next returned home on leave, my grandmother came into the dining room one day and found a centrepiece on the dining table comprising a human head and pair of severed hands. She summoned my grandfather and asked him what it meant, and he explained that it was a souvenir he had brought home from the front, comprising the remaining body parts of a young German infantryman he’d killed.’

He paused. He was enjoying himself, Brock thought, enjoying the looks on their faces. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘Grandma instructed their butler to dispose of the remains, and called the family doctor. Grandpa ended up being treated for shell shock at Craiglockhart Hospital in Scotland, and the butler buried the remains in the cellar. This became a family legend, as you can imagine, passed on from generation to generation of children under the covers after lights-out. According to the legend, the ghost of the dead German still haunts number eight, Chelsea Mansions.’ Toby gave them a toothy grin.

‘So what was he doing in your bag?’

‘You may know that Moszynski was planning to build a swimming pool in his basement, and started digging up his drains. That caused problems with ours, and we had to look at what was going on. That’s when we found Fritz. Up to then I didn’t really believe he existed. Anyway, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with him, but when we had to leave in a hurry I thought I’d better not leave him there. I was planning to give him a decent burial in our new home.’

‘Which was?’

‘We hadn’t really decided yet.’

‘Hm. You have a long family tradition of service in the army, don’t you, Toby?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Your father?’

‘Oh yes. He was with Special Ops during the war. Did amazing things in Greece, behind enemy lines.’

‘And after the war?’

‘Returned to civvy street, import-export.’

Brock opened his file. ‘Let’s get back to your little adventure, Toby. I want every detail, every nuance. Begin with the arrival of the Russians in Chelsea Mansions.’

When they broke for lunch, Bren joined them for sandwiches.

‘Heavy going?’ he asked. ‘You look knackered.’

‘Beaumont’s going strong,’ Brock said, stretching his shoulders. ‘Only too eager to talk, justify himself. Hasn’t even asked for a lawyer.’

‘How does he explain the skull?’

Brock told him and Bren laughed. ‘What a story, eh?’

‘Yes. We’ll have to see if forensics support it. How have you got on, Bren?’

‘Mixed. We haven’t been able to find a match for Wayne Everett’s fingerprints at Ferncroft Close yet. We’re still waiting for the DNA results. We have tracked down the two women on Toby’s hotel staff. Destiny, the maid, is on holiday in Morocco with a friend, and Julie the cook is staying with her sister in Nottingham. She’s on her way here, expected about two.’

‘Good.’

‘So Beaumont’s story hangs together then?’ Bren asked.

‘Yes,’ Brock reached for a sandwich. ‘It’s consistent. You agree, Kathy?’

‘There’s only one major discrepancy that I can see,’ she said. ‘The report from the forensic linguist.’

‘John Greenslade?’ Bren said, eyes lighting up. ‘There’s a rumour going round about him, Brock . . .’

‘It’s true, Bren. It seems he is my son. We’d never met. Apparently he got himself involved in the investigation so that he could get to meet me.’

‘Blimey. Is it a secret?’

‘Obviously not. But, no, Bren, I’m delighted. Of course I’m happy for everyone to know. If anyone’s interested.’

‘Oh, they’re interested,’ Bren said with a grin.

‘Anyway . . .’ Brock cleared his throat. ‘What about his report, Kathy?’

‘He was convinced that the letter to
The Times
wasn’t composed by Moszynski. If that were true, then presumably it was written by Moszynski’s killer to suggest that the FSB were behind his death. Now we know that Toby could have sent someone—Deb perhaps—into Moszynski’s house to type the letter on his computer, using his letterhead and copying his signature. But if so it means that he didn’t kill Moszynski in a fit of spontaneous anger on the Sunday night—he must have been planning it since at least the Thursday evening.’

‘
If
John is right.’ Brock sighed. ‘It’s not real science, Kathy, it’s intuition, guesswork. It’s too little to turn the case inside out.’

‘Well, I think we should press Toby hard on it. His story seems too self-serving to me. Maybe he saw Nancy’s death as an opportunity to mask his murder of Moszynski.’

They ate for a while, then Brock said, ‘I’d better give Sharpe a ring, bring him up to date. I think we’ll change around this afternoon. Kathy, you talk to the cook when she arrives, find out what you can. Bren, you and I will continue with Beaumont.’

THIRTY-EIGHT

‘So what is this all about?’ Julie said. ‘Everyone’s been so mysterious. They just said it was very urgent.’

A car had been waiting at St Pancras to pick her up from the Nottingham train and speed her to Queen Anne’s Gate, and she looked flustered and slightly disoriented, but not displeased at this unexpected attention.

‘Can you just tell me how you came to be in Nottingham, Julie?’

‘Well, when Toby sprung it on us that he was closing Chelsea Mansions and we didn’t have a job any more, I decided to go and stay with my sister for a while.’

‘When was this?’

‘The day before yesterday, Wednesday evening.’

‘What time, exactly?’

‘Um, about seven, dinner time.’

After Hadden-Vane’s suicide, Kathy thought, but before John had returned to the hotel.

‘Why was he closing the hotel?’

‘Because he’d got a good offer to sell, he said, and the buyers wanted a very quick settlement. He was ever so apologetic about the short notice, but he made up for it handsomely with our severance payout. Very generous he was. And so thoughtful. He bought Destiny two tickets for that Moroccan holiday she’d been going on about, and wanted to give me an overseas trip too, but I said I’d like to spend some time with my sister first. We had to pack up that night and leave first thing Thursday morning.’

‘What about the guests?’

‘Well, they’d all gone, all except Mr Greenslade, who’d returned unexpectedly from America.’

‘When did the others go?’

‘That same day, Wednesday. Toby had to compensate them too. Why, have there been complaints? Is Toby in trouble or something?’

‘He is in trouble, Julie, but not over that. You see, he’s admitted to us that he murdered Mr Moszynski.’

Julie’s jaw dropped, the whites of her eyes growing huge. ‘No! I don’t believe it.’