Chelsea Mansions Part 3

'Yes, I'm fine.' Brock went over to the sink and ran the tap while one of the local cops behind him said, 'This isn't Danny Yilmaz.'

According to the Ugandan driver's licence they found in the man's pocket, he was Peter Namono, a resident of Kampala, though he seemed unable or unwilling to confirm this as he sat moaning on the floor, clutching his b.l.o.o.d.y nose. One of the locals took a call on his radio and turned to Brock. 'Our lads have picked up Danny Yilmaz. They spotted his bike outside the Haringey Sport and Social Club. They're taking him to the station.'

Brock dabbed at the bloodstain on his shirt with a grubby cloth. 'I'm getting too old for this. Next time I'll leave the exciting bits to you lot.'

They all laughed.

Danny Yilmaz was waiting in an interview room when they arrived at Tottenham police station.

Kathy conducted the interview with one of the local detectives while Brock watched on a screen in an adjoining room. Danny was small, wiry, dark, with curly black hair that covered much of his face, which appeared prematurely aged. He appeared to be mystified by why he was there. Kathy cautioned him and asked him if he had given a lift to a man in Sloane Street the previous day. Sure, Danny said, it was all perfectly straightforward. He had his own courier services company, Shazam Limited.

'Shazam,' Kathy repeated.

'Like in Captain Marvel, yeah?'

'Go on.'

'This bloke hired me to give him a lift. Said he'd need me to be available for the whole day Thursday, from Chelsea, to run him around. I spent the day hanging out down by the river, waiting for him to call, dead boring, but he'd paid in advance. Then, about four he gives me a ring, tells me where to wait for him on Sloane Street, and to call him when I get there. Soon after he comes running out of nowhere, hops on the bike and tells me to get going, up to Camden Town tube station, where I drop him off. That was it.'

'What did he look like?'

'Couldn't tell you. He had his own helmet in his backpack. I'd brought one for him, but he didn't need it.'

'What else?'

'Um, dark grey shirt, jeans . . . oh, and gloves. He was wearing black gloves.'

'But you'd seen him before, when he hired you, gave you the money.'

'No, no, that was somebody else.'

Something changed in Danny's posture and appearance. His expression of helpfulness became brighter.

'Who?'

'No idea. I only spoke to him on the phone. He said he had a friend coming to London, needed someone to drive him around for the day. Offered me twice my going rate, so I wasn't complaining.'

'What name did he give you?'

'He didn't.'

'How did he know about you?'

Danny looked mildly offended. 'I have a website, don't I?'

'So you made yourself available for a whole day on the strength of a phone call from a man who didn't even tell you his name?'

'He paid in advance, didn't he? What else could I do? The cash came round by courier that afternoon.'

'When did this happen?' Kathy asked.

Danny ruffled his hair, pondering. 'Monday? Tuesday? Tuesday, I think.'

'Two days before the job.'

'Yes, that'd be about right.'

'And you had a contact number for this client?'

'Yes, sure!' All eagerness, Danny pulled a phone out of his pocket and handed it over.

'This is bulls.h.i.t.' The CID detective at Kathy's side glared at Danny. 'You'd better wipe that smile off your face and start telling us the truth, Danny. Who set this up? Was it your cousin Barbaros?'

'No, no, it's nothing to do with Barbaros. What's this all about anyway? What's this guy supposed to have done?'

The two police stared at him for a moment, incredulous, then Kathy spread some photographs of Sloane Street out on the table. 'Whereabouts did you wait for the man yesterday afternoon?'

Danny looked at the pictures, then pointed at one, builder's scaffolding erected on the footpath. 'That would be the place, I reckon. I pulled in between the poles.'

'And how long were you waiting there?'

'Ten, fifteen minutes?'

'So you witnessed the murder.'

'Murder?'

Kathy leaned across the table. 'Not a hundred yards from where you were waiting, your mystery client grabbed a woman and threw her under a bus. That murder.'

Danny looked shocked. 'You're kidding me.'

'And then he ran up to you and jumped on the back of your bike and you drove him away from the scene, making yourself an accessory to murder. That murder, Danny, the murder that's going to put you inside for twenty years.'

Danny's jaw dropped, he shook his head. 'Swear to G.o.d . . . I had my helmet on, didn't hear or see nothing.'

The CID man gave a snort of disgust and half turned away, as if he couldn't stand much more of this.

Kathy said, 'Who's the man in your flat?'

Danny shrugged. 'Dunno. Friend of mine asked me to let him sleep on my floor for a couple of days, till he gets a lift up north.'

'What do you know about him?'

'Nothing. He doesn't say much. I reckon he's African, the way he talks.'

'He doesn't seem to have any papers.'

Danny rolled his eyes. 'I don't know nothing about that.'

'Give me the name and address of this friend.'

He wrote it down and Kathy took this and his phone out to Brock. 'What do you think?'

'He's giving us a highly edited version. He's scared, don't you think? More scared of his client than of us. Keep at him, Kathy. Charge him as an accessory to murder, that should focus his mind. And meanwhile, let's hope we can lift some of his client's DNA from his bike.'

On their way back to the interview room the CID man told Kathy about Danny's cousin Barbaros Kaya, a more serious villain with a web of local connections. 'I reckon he's got to be involved.'

They charged Danny under the Accessories and Abettors Act and explained that, under the terms of the act, an accessory is liable to the same penalty as the perpetrator.

'Murder, Danny, that's what you're up for.'

Danny demanded a brief.

The solicitor came quickly, almost as if he'd been waiting for the call. He had a short conversation with his client and they resumed the interview, going back over the ground, point by point, detail by detail.

'You said the man on the phone was arranging this for a friend coming to London,' Kathy said. 'Coming from where?'

'Dunno, he didn't say.'

'What were his exact words?'

He couldn't remember, not really. The money? In used twenties, gone now to pay off some debts. The bag they were in? Who knows.

Four weary hours later Kathy brought the interview to an end. Danny had made only one slip, when Kathy pressed him about his pa.s.senger's exact words. Hard to say, Danny said, they were hard to make out, what with the helmet and his accent. He blinked as the word came out, realising his mistake. What accent? Kathy pressed. British? Foreign? Danny shook his head but she detected a flicker on the second option. Foreign then, she insisted, and saw him go a little paler. What kind of foreign? But he bl.u.s.tered. He really couldn't say, it might have been Irish, Welsh, Pakistani, he had no idea.

He had given them nothing more of substance. The client's number on his phone proved to be unlisted and inoperative. Peter Namono was unknown to UK databases and there was no record of him entering the country. The local detectives were trying to trace the man who had arranged his stay with Danny Yilmaz and promised to talk to Danny's known friends and a.s.sociates. Phone records for Danny and for Barbaros Kaya would be obtained. A team was checking CCTV cameras on all the stations of the Northern underground line serving Camden Town station.

Later, towards eight, back at Queen Anne's Gate, Brock put his head around the door of Kathy's office.

'Time to go home,' he said. 'Fancy a drink?' The fact was that he couldn't get rid of the taste of that man's blood. He'd brushed his teeth and swallowed numerous cups of strong coffee, but it was still there, a faint noxious taint. Maybe Scotch would clear it.

The Two Chairmen at the end of the street was quiet when they arrived, a couple of women on stools at the bar and a lone drinker in the far corner. Kathy sat at a table while Brock went to order, returning with a Scotch for himself and a gla.s.s of white wine for Kathy.

'Cheers.' He felt the cleansing spirit burn down his throat and sank back into his chair with a sigh.

She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

'Wine no good?'

'Oh, it's fine, just what I needed. But I should have nailed Captain Marvel.'

'Whoever he's protecting is a lot more scary than you or me, Kathy.'

'It's frustrating.' She looked up and noticed the single drinker in the far corner get to his feet and head towards the rear door. She had a brief glimpse of his face before he was gone and she frowned. He looked very like the Canadian from the hotel.

Brock, seeing her expression, said, 'Had an idea?'

'No, I just . . . No, it's nothing.'

Later, when she got home, still troubled by the thought of the man in the pub, she phoned the duty officer at headquarters and asked for a check on the Police National Computer and the Interpol databases. He rang back as she was reheating a Thai takeaway in her microwave. John Greenslade was not a name known to either system. She asked him to check the Home Office UK Border Agency. This time she did get a result. John Greenslade, a Canadian citizen with a Montreal address, had entered the country through Heathrow ten days previously as a visitor. His occupation was given as 'university professor'.

Restless now, she played with her meal without really tasting it and turned on her laptop. There was only one email of interest, from Guy, a short message that looked as if it had been written in a hurry.

Hi Kathy, Hope all goes well with you. I'm okay, but the job has gone pear-shaped. Work has stopped, and they're moving me on, to Shanghai would you believe, where we've got a big project on the go. Sorry about the trip. Maybe we can meet up on the Bund. I think of you a lot. Stay safe.

Love, Guy She looked up at the envelope that had been sitting on her mantelpiece for quite a while now, containing a first-cla.s.s air ticket to Dubai, and felt sad, thinking of lost opportunities and roads not taken. Then she roused herself and got up to take a shower. It would never have worked out with Guy anyway.

FIVE.

On Sat.u.r.day morning John Greenslade made his way down to breakfast in the dining room at the back of the hotel, overlooking a courtyard garden. He had learned from Deb that there were only seven guest rooms in the hotel, and three of those were occupied by semi-permanent residents: a young Australian woman lawyer, an elderly English woman who had been there since the hotel opened in 1996 and who was now rarely seen outside of her room, and a retired man originally from Nepal. Apart from Emerson Merckle and himself, the short-stay guests were two couples from Leeds, who came every year at this time for the flower show. They were in the dining room now, and gave him a cheery greeting. Once they picked up his accent they told him they'd done Canada, and described their trip there at some considerable length.

After breakfast he went back up to his room and worked on his laptop for a while. The BBC had a clip of the police press conference on Thursday night, and he downloaded this. After a while he got up and stood by the window overlooking the square. The Maybach had gone, its place taken by a red sports car. He peered down at it, trying to figure out what it was. A Ferrari Spider, perhaps.

Across the road he saw a figure sitting beneath the trees in the central gardens, and recognised Emerson's thatch of grey hair. He closed his laptop, picked up his keys and went out. At the front desk he asked Deb about the gardens and she explained that they were available for the use of guests by means of a key for the gate that the hotel could provide.

'Emerson's got it at the moment, John,' she said.

'Oh, fine. I might go and say h.e.l.lo. It looks pretty nice over there.'

As he went down the front steps he took a close look at the sports car. He was right, an F430 Spider, a beauty. He looked back up at the windows of the property next door, and saw an old woman glowering down at him from behind a curtain. John turned, crossed the street and pushed open the gate in the cast-iron railings.

Emerson didn't appear to have moved, hunched over something on his knees. As he got closer John saw that it was a pouch of photographs.

'Hi, Emerson,' he called out, and the other man looked up, blinking to focus. 'Am I interrupting?'

'What? Oh, no, John. h.e.l.lo.'

'It looked so pleasant in here. Private and secluded.'

'Yes, it is.'

'Are you sure I'm not intruding?'

'Not at all. Come and sit down.'

John nodded at the photographs. 'Nancy's?'

'Yes. She brought these with her. I was just . . . well, you know. I guess I'll have to give these back to her family, but I wanted to remember them.'

'Is that her? She was an attractive woman, Emerson.'

'Very.' He said it with some feeling. 'When she was younger she turned a few heads, I can tell you.'