Part 19 (2/2)

Shaka gazed at Kathy for a moment, face expressionless, then said, 'Vadim will keep them in line.'

Despite Shaka's vivid impersonation of Marta's spoken English, the old woman refused to speak to Kathy except in Russian, and an interpreter was called in.

Kathy began with a few words of condolence and a compliment on the dignity of the funeral service, but Marta, draped in a black shawl and wearing a large silver cross around her neck, listened to the translation with all the animation of a rock. A very tough old lady, Kathy thought, watching her. She'd been a teenager through the siege of Leningrad, of course, and had probably seen enough by the time she turned sixteen to harden the softest heart. She had married Gennady in 1950, when she was twenty-two and he forty-seven and already an important figure in Leningrad politics. Kathy wondered what had drawn the pair together. Was Marta once beautiful? Had she captivated the older man with her sparkling eyes and flas.h.i.+ng smile? It was impossible to imagine now.

She had been hardened by tragedy, she said, in a growling Russian that sounded as if she were reciting some ancient saga, but nothing could prepare her for the loss of her son. He was a lion, a genius, a saint. Her only consolation was that he had left her a granddaughter and a great-grandson.

Kathy asked if she had any idea who might be responsible for her son's death.

Criminals, she said. English criminals. They were everywhere in the streets. You had only to look at television to know this.

'Could there have been anyone close to Mikhail who might want him dead?' Kathy asked.

Impossible. To know Mikhail was to love him, as a brother, as a father, as a son.

Kathy persisted. Did she trust Mikhail's friends? Freddie Clarke and Nigel Hadden-Vane, for instance?

Freddie was a genius and Sir Nigel a true English gentleman. They loved Mikhail and he loved them.

After a quarter of an hour of this, Kathy gave up. She thanked Marta, took the interpreter to the door and asked to see Ellen Fitzwilliam again.

Mikhail's secretary was feeding a paper shredder when Kathy was shown into the office at the far end of the building.

'Getting rid of the evidence?' Kathy said.

The woman looked at her in consternation, but then Kathy smiled. 'Just joking. How are things going?'

'I'm just trying to tidy things up while Freddie-that's Mr Clarke, Mr Moszynski's accountant-while Mr Clarke sorts out what's to be done.'

'I've spoken to Freddie. I got the impression that Mr Moszynski's business affairs were complicated.'

'Freddie deals with all the financial matters. I mainly concentrate on social and charitable affairs, and his travel arrangements.'

'I believe that one of our consultants, Mr Greenslade, was in touch with you.'

'Oh yes. I hope I was able to help.'

'Certainly. He wondered if you had any more letters written by Mr Moszynski, for comparison.'

'I think he had copies of all the ones to newspapers . . .'

'Anything similar would do, provided it was composed entirely by himself.'

The secretary frowned. 'Then you do suspect that he didn't write the one to The Times?'

'Perhaps Mr Greenslade didn't explain,' Kathy said. 'Both the coroner's and the criminal courts are very particular about the integrity of evidence, and we have to be meticulous.'

'I see. Well, I'm sure I can find something.'

As she began to scan through her computer, Kathy said, 'Has Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane been keeping in touch since Mr Moszynski died?'

'I haven't seen him here lately, but he was at the funeral.'

'They had some disagreements recently, didn't they?'

Ellen looked surprised. 'I was never aware of this.'

'Wasn't Mrs Marta Moszynski giving Sir Nigel a hard time?'

'Oh . . .' Ellen chuckled. 'You've heard about that. Yes, she can be, well, difficult. I heard her . . . No, I shouldn't gossip.'

'Ellen, this is a murder inquiry. You have to help me understand the dynamics here so that I don't go off on the wrong track.'

'Of course. It's just that Marta can be quite imperious. She sometimes speaks to people as if they're her servants.'

'Especially Sir Nigel.'

'Yes, he does seem to cop it. I was shocked sometimes.'

'What sort of things?'

Ellen dropped her voice. 'Once I overheard him objecting to something she'd asked him to do for them, I don't know what, and she said that if she told him to lick her . . .'

Kathy watched Ellen's face go bright pink. 'Yes?'

'. . . her fat Russian a.r.s.e, then he'd b.l.o.o.d.y well do it. Those were her words, Inspector, not mine.'

Kathy laughed, and Ellen joined in, with a look of relief.

'Marta's got a pretty good command of English when she needs it,' Kathy said.

'Oh yes. You don't want to get on the wrong side of her tongue.'

'And she could be hard on Mikhail too, couldn't she? That Monday before he was killed, I believe they had a big row.'

'Really? Monday . . . No, I don't remember that. But later that week, it must have been the Friday, the day after the American lady was killed, I know he was very upset about that, and she made some remark to him that made him angry.'

'What sort of remark?'

'Oh, she came in here to get the newspaper, and it was open to the report of the woman's death-Mikhail had been reading it-and she made a rude comment about Americans, and he got angry with her.'

Kathy waited while the secretary printed off half a dozen more letters that Mikhail had composed, then thanked her and left.

It was raining when she stepped out into Cunningham Place, and she hesitated for a moment, pulling the collar of her coat up, before running to the end of the block and up the steps of the hotel. Deb, leaning on the counter reading the morning paper, gave her a broad smile.

<script>