Part 24 (2/2)

'What's that?'

'One of your neighbours told us that he'd seen Nancy calling at the Moszynskis' front door on the Monday or Tuesday, a few days after she arrived. We weren't sure how credible this was, but it raises the possibility that she might have had some connection with them that we don't know about.'

'Oh, I don't know about a connection.' Deb frowned. 'She never mentioned anything like that to us.'

'Which neighbour was this?' Toby asked.

'A Dr Stewart, on the east side of the square.'

'Oh, of course.' Toby chuckled. 'Did he tell you he writes murder mysteries? Never had one published. Gave me one to read once. Agatha Christie on steroids. He'd be lapping up the attention you gave him.'

'You don't think he's a credible witness?'

'Let's just say that he's a lonely old man who would just love to be able to offer you a juicy clue. But can you seriously see him in a courtroom under cross-examination?'

Toby's face lit up as their lunches arrived and the towering confection of his knickerbocker glory was placed in front of him. 'Wonderful,' he breathed. 'I can remember the first and last time I had one of these. I hadn't been in the army very long, and I'd been on some G.o.dawful training course and was home on leave, and Ma brought me here. I can still taste that first mouthful. Just before they sent me off to my first war. The end of innocence.'

'Which war was that?' John asked.

'Suez. A shambles.'

'You were there? I was reading a book about it recently. It was such an interesting time, 1956-the Cambridge spies, the Russian invasion of Hungary, Castro landing in Cuba . . .'

Toby cut in, 'Ancient history, old chap, best forgotten. I prefer to remember the knickerbocker glories.' He paused for a moment to taste and approve the wine, and they raised their gla.s.ses. 'To justice,' he murmured. 'So, Kathy, anything else we can help you with?'

'Let's go back to the beginning. When did Nancy first contact you?'

'That was last autumn, as I recall,' Deb said. 'She wrote this extremely enthusiastic email about how she very much wanted to stay with us and hoped we could oblige.'

'Would you still have a copy?'

'Should do, on file somewhere.'

'Did she say why she picked Chelsea Mansions? Was it recommended by someone?'

'I don't think she said, just that she was dead set on staying with us. We could hardly refuse, she sounded so keen.'

'And when she arrived, did she say anything?'

Toby shook his head. 'Don't remember anything special.' He spooned another dollop of ice-cream into his mouth.

'I think she said something about loving that part of London,' Deb said. 'She said it made her feel at home.'

'Do you think she might have been there before?'

Deb shrugged and took a bite of her smoked salmon sandwich. 'No, I think it was just a general statement. I think the real reason was that we were handy for the flower show and not too expensive.'

'How about the neighbours? Did she know about the Moszynskis?'

'I think we did talk about them, didn't we, Toby? Or was that with the Leeds people? Someone had read about Shaka's wedding.'

'That wouldn't have made the American news, would it?' Kathy said doubtfully.

'Oh, I don't know,' John said. 'We got it in Canada. One of those juicy news bites, ”Glamorous model weds Russian billionaire”, you know, like beauty and the beast.

'But I was thinking,' he went on, 'Toby, you mentioned that your aunt ran a hotel next door to your house at Chelsea Mansions. Is it possible that Nancy, or her parents maybe, once stayed there, and met the people down the street, and maybe Nancy thought she might try to trace them?'

Toby looked at Deb and they both frowned. 'She didn't mention anything like that.'

'Would it be worth seeing if you have any old records or photographs that might tell us something?'

'We had boxes of old family papers, but they got damaged by damp, down in the shelter.'

'The shelter?' John asked.

'Our cellar. Pa built a bomb shelter for us in the cellar in '39, before he went off to France with the BEF. d.a.m.n stupid idea really-if the house had been hit we'd all have been buried alive. But it's damp down there so we took what we could salvage up to the attic, next to your room, John. You're welcome to have a look if you want.'

'Perhaps I might,' John said. 'History was originally my subject. If you really wouldn't mind, Toby?'

'Be my guest, old son. If you find any worthwhile photos, we might get them framed.'

After they finished their lunch they lingered for a while in the food hall, and John took hold of Kathy's arm and steered her away.

'You think there might be some connection between Nancy and Chelsea Mansions?'

'I've really no idea, John, but it's an intriguing thought.'

'It does kind of make sense. The holiday was a bit of a nostalgia trip for her-tracing the lost relatives in Scotland, that kind of thing. And she had brought old photographs with her. Emerson showed me.'

'Yes, I saw those. I didn't take much notice at the time.'

'I don't remember seeing any of Chelsea Mansions. They were mainly pictures of people. It would be interesting if any of those faces are up in Toby's attic, wouldn't it?'

'It might explain why she came to the hotel.'

But not much else, she thought, as she waved them off in a taxi, the three of them looking like an affectionate family group, the elderly couple and their deferential, grown-up son, indulging the old man's pa.s.sion for knickerbocker glories. The sight of them together filled Kathy with a sense of futility. They hadn't been able to help, although they'd obviously wanted to, and the failure wasn't theirs, it was hers. She had been in a kind of shock since being dumped from the case, wasting time, clutching at straws like this, when the real questions lay elsewhere.

And the real questions were why Nigel Hadden-Vane had done it and how he'd managed it. They had caught sight of a couple of his connections to the killer and his accomplice, and sketched out a circ.u.mstantial case, but nothing more. How had he arranged it, making contact with the son of his old chauffeur in Barlinnie Prison to recruit Harry Peebles? How had he made contact with Peebles, given his instructions, paid the cash? The only person who might have given them an inkling was Danny Yilmaz, and he was dead.

On the way home she went over again in her mind that first interview with Danny. She remembered a slight change in his manner, an apparent eagerness to cooperate, when she began to question him about the man who had made the arrangements for the job over the phone. Did he know the caller? Was it Hadden-Vane himself, or had he worked through some other acquaintance of Danny's?

When she got back to her flat she went through the case files on her computer once again, searching for the newspaper photograph that Bren had shown her, of Hadden-Vane at the Haringey Sport and Social Club, handing out certificates. When she found it she stared at the faces, a dozen of them watching the ceremony. The quality was poor, the features grainy, but there was one other that seemed familiar. It took her a moment to place him, then she remembered. In the back row, face partially obscured, stood a man who looked very like Wayne Everett, the security man on duty the night Moszynski died.

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