Chelsea Mansions Part 17

'What else could it be? Mikhail was a sensitive man. Does that surprise you? Russian oligarchs are just rich thugs, is that what you think? Wrong! Mikhail was a caring man, for his family, for his neighbours, for everyone. You know what he does when he comes here? He counts hedgehogs. That's right! He's worried they will be extinct. He cares about hedgehogs!' He gave a short bark of a laugh. 'Also, people put crazy ideas in his head.'

'How do you mean?'

'Oh, don't get me wrong, Mikhail was a brilliant man, brilliant. But he could also be gullible, with people he trusted.'

'Which people?'

Kuzmin shrugged. 'Rich men attract parasites, Detective, like dogs attract fleas. It's only natural.'

Kathy recalled someone else using the word parasites. It was Shaka, she remembered, on the night of Mikhail's murder, referring to the two men sitting drinking downstairs. 'People close to him, do you mean? Like Freddie Clarke?'

Kuzmin turned away, looking out of the window to the garden, where his wife was crossing the lawn, wearing an old raincoat and hood against the drizzle. 'Freddie's all right. He was dedicated to Mikhail's interests.'

'You're sure about that, are you? From what I hear, Freddie makes a habit of keeping things inside his head, rather than on paper. That must be a problem for you now. How will you know that he's telling you everything about your father-in-law's businesses?'

'If I ever think he's being less than honest, I'll let you know. Now you must leave.'

Kathy stayed sitting. 'Why don't you give me some names of these parasites you mentioned, Mr Kuzmin? Maybe Mr Moszynski was planning to expose someone. That could be a motive for his murder, don't you think?'

'But I thought the FSB did it?' Kuzmin sneered and walked over to the door. 'Christina!'

The maid appeared and he said, 'Please show this lady out,' and walked away.

As Kathy got into her car she noticed Alisa further down the driveway, picking tulips from a bed. She turned at the sound of Kathy's wheels on the gravel, and Kathy pulled over and got out. 'Lovely colours.'

Alisa nodded. 'They are nearly finished now. My father liked them very much. I hope to have some for Tuesday.'

'Tuesday?'

'His funeral, at the Russian Orthodox Cathedral in Knightsbridge, provided the quarantine is lifted.'

'Ah, I hadn't heard. What time will that be?'

'Eleven o'clock. You will be there?'

'I'll make sure I am. You were here at the house with your grandmother on the day he died, weren't you?'

'Yes, I wish so much I'd been with him.'

'Did you speak to him at all that day, on the phone?'

Alisa looked away. 'Yes.'

'How did he sound?'

'All right.'

There was something evasive about her reply. 'Someone told us that he was upset that day about the death of the American woman from the hotel next door. Did he say anything to you about that?'

'No.' She began fiddling with her secateurs. Looking at her, Kathy had the impression of a lost soul, and not just because of the loss of her father. It was as if she were trying very hard to please everyone with her imitation of an English wife, without really believing in it.

'But? Come on, Alisa. Something troubled you, didn't it? It's written all over you.'

'He didn't mention the woman. But . . . he did say something strange. He said that if anything should happen to him I wasn't to worry. I could rely on Freddie to see that I would be all right.'

Kathy got her to repeat the exact words he had used. 'You should have mentioned this to me before, Alisa.'

'Vadim said it wasn't necessary.'

'You think your father knew he was in danger?'

'At the time I didn't think that, but afterwards . . . I wondered.'

'Did he say anything else to you that I should know?'

She shook her head. 'He asked to speak to Baba-my grandmother. They had an argument, I think. I don't know what about.' She checked her watch suddenly. 'It's time to feed baby. I must go.'

Kathy was on the road back to London, mulling over her conversation with Vadim Kuzmin, when a thought struck her. She pulled over into a lay-by and turned it over in her mind, then dialled Sundeep's number.

'Any news, Sundeep?' she asked.

'Nothing, Kathy. No change.'

'Listen, do we know for a fact that Peter Namono was the original carrier?'

'What? Who else?'

'Could it have been Danny Yilmaz? I mean, in theory, can you tell which of them caught it first?'

'Well, probably not. They both seem to be at around the same stage in the progress of the virus, more advanced than Brock. But who could Danny have caught it from?'

'Good question.'

She said goodbye, then rang Sean Ardagh.

'Hi, Kathy. I hear you're in the clear.'

'Yes. Sean, I've just been speaking to Vadim again, and he mentioned that the Russians weaponised the Marburg virus back in the nineties.'

There was a short hesitation. 'Yes?'

'You knew that?'

'I believe I did. Is it significant?'

His smooth tone annoyed Kathy. 'Of course it is. They killed Litvinenko with some exotic radio isotope, so maybe now they're trying out another of their nasty tricks.'

'Oh, come on. You've got the source-that Ugandan, right?'

'Maybe he caught it from Danny Yilmaz, not the other way around.'

The MI5 man gave a soft, condescending chuckle. 'Kathy, Kathy-what would be the point of that?'

'The point,' she said, angry now, 'is that our senior investigator and our only witness are now on the death list and the rest of our team is locked up in quarantine! Just about the most effective way you could dream up to screw an investigation, wouldn't you say?'

She heard him take a deep breath. 'No, that's nonsense.'

'Why?'

'They just wouldn't do a thing like that. Believe me, I know.'

'It strikes me, Sean, that you know a lot more about this case than you're telling us.'

'I know that there's absolutely no way that the Russians would release some indiscriminate biological weapon in the streets of London just to cover up Mikhail Moszynski's death. The idea is absurd. It would be tantamount to an act of war. It's just one of those unfortunate things that happen, Kathy, sod's law, a bit of bad luck. Now I have to go.'

She hung up and thought about it. He was probably right, but his indifference still made her angry. This was Brock they were talking about, lying unconscious in an isolation ward.

NINETEEN.

It was Sunday afternoon before she got the call from Bren that all of the laboratory tests had been completed, and everyone except Brock, Yilmaz and Namono was in the clear.

'I'm going home for a long hot bath and bit of home cooking, Kath,' he said. 'You've no idea how wonderful that sounds.'

'You should take tomorrow off.'

'No way,' he said. 'I want to be there when Gloria gets the call from Mr X. I've told everyone to be there for a morning briefing.'

'Okay, see you then.'

She put the phone down and set off for the hospital again, but still there was no change in Brock's condition; he was feverish and looped up to a drip, oxygen and monitors.

At the Monday morning meeting Kathy had a long list of actions that she wanted taken to cover gaps that she'd identified in their investigation so far. She wanted the complete phone records of all the main players for the past two weeks re-examined, cross-referenced and a.n.a.lysed. She also wanted the CCTV footage from Hackney, Tottenham and Chelsea searched once again for any third-party contacts that Harry Peebles and Danny Yilmaz may have had. There were a number of people to be reinterviewed, including the head of Shere Security, who had told her on the night of Mikhail's murder that they would be carrying out an internal review of what had happened. There were also family members to talk to again, but she wanted this left until after Mikhail's funeral, the arrangements for which they discussed.

'Oh and Pip,' she added, 'see if you can get some more samples of letters composed by Moszynski. Not necessarily to newspapers.'

All of this was routine and background to the main event that they were all antic.i.p.ating that afternoon. Bren confirmed that the tap on Gloria's phone had been authorised and established, and that they had been monitoring a stream of conversations from her business address in a small house in a quiet Chelsea mews.

'As far as we can gather, there are no girls at that address,' Bren said. 'It all seems to be done by phones and the internet. Gloria is the point of contact between the punters, who get to hear of her by word of mouth or through her website, and the stable of girls that she contacts and sends out to mutually acceptable addresses. She handles all the financial transactions electronically, and keeps tabs on the girls while they're working to make sure they're okay. She also handles their HRM issues.'

'HRM?' Kathy queried. 'What, pension plan, insurance?'

'Yes, exactly; their private health cover, gym, hair and beauty treatments, transport, security. She's got it all covered. We were working on building up a profile last week. It's an expensive operation, catering mainly to wealthy foreigners visiting or temporarily resident in London.'

'How does Harry Peebles qualify?'

'He doesn't,' Bren said. 'I can only a.s.sume he was a favour for a friend.'

'Well, let's hope we find out who this friend is this afternoon.'

Despite the mult.i.tude of tasks, the time dragged until two fifteen, when the sound of an incoming call came over the speakers. A small crowd had gathered in the incident room to listen in, including a phonetics expert, Dr Jenny Doyle, whom Kathy had arranged to be present.

'h.e.l.lo, this is Gloria's Parlour.' Gloria's voice was warm and seductive, just this side of a pastiche of a s.e.xy callgirl.

'h.e.l.lo, Gloria.'

Bren and Kathy exchanged a frown, trying to identify the wolfish growl.

Gloria chuckled. 'h.e.l.lo, darling. Thought it might be you. Same as usual?'

'Four, if you please. Chloe free?'

'Let me check . . . Yes, that'll be fine.'

'Excellent.'

'Bye, darling.'

The line went dead.

There was an expectant hush, then Zack spoke. 'Yes, that was the mobile number all right.'

'Where was he calling from?' Kathy asked.

Another long pause, then Zack said, 'SW7 or SW3.'

'Kensington and Chelsea,' Kathy said. 'Can you get a closer fix?'

'Give us a moment.'

'Okay.' Kathy looked up. 'Back to work everyone. Bren, Mickey, Pip, Jenny, gather round. Let's see what we've got.'

They sat around a table and listened several times to the recording of the telephone conversation, each making notes. Then Kathy said, 'What do you think, Jenny? What can you tell us about him?'

'Hm, nine words, that's all. Not much to go on.'

'Best guess.'

'Well, on the face of it it's Standard English RP-Received p.r.o.nunciation. Probably what we'd call Conservative RP, a.s.sociated with older speakers of certain backgrounds, such as Home Counties, upper middle cla.s.s. But it sounded to me like he wasn't using his usual voice. Did you get that impression? Like he was playing the part of a roguish Don Juan, for her benefit, as if this was a game they'd played before.'

'Yes.' Kathy nodded. 'She seemed to respond in the same way once she recognised him. But you think he's a native English speaker?'

'Rather than Russian, you mean? The trouble is, RP is what's usually taught to people learning British English, and there's so little to go on with accent and register. That phrase "if you please" sounds to me like a native speaker. But he may just be a good mimic.'