Part 35 (1/2)

THIRTY-SEVEN.

They stood on the hotel steps and watched the stretcher with John, wrapped in a silver thermal blanket, face covered with an oxygen mask, being wheeled to the ambulance.

'Are you sure it's true, Kathy?' Brock said. 'He wasn't just shooting you a line, was he?'

'About being your son? No, it's true all right. I'd bet Moszynski's millions on it.'

And it was only then, in the strange aftermath of frenzied action, that the impact of Toby Beaumont's revelation fully struck him. John Greenslade was his son. It had always been there, in the back of his mind, wondering if this day would come, and how it might happen, but he could hardly have imagined this.

His mind went back to a nightmarish day in April 1981, the day his wife Alice left him and the day Brixton, down the road, exploded in flaming anarchy. Neither event had really surprised him. It was almost a month after that before he discovered that Alice had gone to Canada to stay with her sister Tess, although even then Tess had been reluctant to admit it. 'She just wants to be left alone, David,' Tess had said. 'She's terrified.' But that was absurd, just histrionics, he'd told himself. It was many years before he discovered that Spider Roach had been threatening her. She had left without a word, and he'd had no inkling she was pregnant. It wasn't until after he had signed the divorce papers Tess pa.s.sed on to him three years later that she finally let him know that Alice had had a baby boy.

And now what?

He reached for the phone and dialled Suzanne's number. She was astonished, then delighted by his news, and wanted to jump in her car and drive straight up to London to be with him, but there was so much to do now, and he needed time to think, and they agreed in the end that they would get together at the weekend.

When they finally let them in to see John, he was sitting up in bed, his head bandaged and a drip in his arm, but his expression was alert.

'John, how are you?' Brock said, going to the side of the bed, and something in his manner must have alerted John because he shot Kathy a quick, uncertain glance, and Brock said, 'Yes, Kathy told me. You really are Alice's son?'

'Yes, and yours I believe.'

Brock was lost for words for a moment, then he growled, 'h.e.l.l of a way to find out.'

There was an awkward silence, and then they both began to laugh.

'We'll have time to talk later, but right now you'd better tell us what happened to you.'

So John told them the story. 'I really did think I was going to die down there,' he said finally. 'It was the skull that really freaked me out. I thought, someone else died here, and now it's my turn.'

'There's no skull down there, John. We both had a good look around the cellar before we left, and the sloping plank you mention, that you thought might be for waterboarding, that was there, but no skull and no bones.'

John looked at Kathy, who nodded in agreement.

'There was a smooth lump of stone among the debris,' Brock said. 'Perhaps that's what you felt.'

'No! Look, I saw it, when they returned and there was light. It was a grinning skull, with eye sockets and a row of rotten teeth.'

Brock shrugged. 'Well, the main thing is that you're alive and reasonably okay. I'd have hated to have to tell your mother that I'd got you killed on our first encounter.'

John smiled. 'She'd have said it was only to be expected. But there was a skull, Brock . . . Kathy, don't you believe me?'

She shrugged. 'We'll get a thorough forensic search made. If there was anything there we'll find traces.'

On the way out Brock said, 'It's amazing what the human mind comes up with under extreme stress.'

They decided to wait until the next day to interview Beaumont and his team. There had been four of them on the plane-Toby and Deb, and the two men, Garry and Jacko. There was no sign of the two other women members of their staff, Julie the cook and Destiny the maid, and Brock ordered a search for them. From the bomb squad they learned that the cardboard box had contained nails and a lump of clay, the 'bomb' no more than a dummy, presumably intended to delay any possible searchers.

Brock arranged for the luggage on the plane to be taken to Queen Anne's Gate and a room cleared for the contents to be laid out and thoroughly searched. Apart from clothes and toiletries, they found a number of those things that people might take with them when leaving for an uncertain future from which they don't expect to be coming back any time soon. They all had photographs of family and friends; Deb had an embroidered sampler that looked quite old, a locket of what looked like baby's hair, a collection of letters and a can of mace; Garry and Jacko had both taken pistols and ammunition, and Toby his swordstick. They were all carrying a great a.s.sortment of medications.

Of more pressing interest was a pouch in Toby's luggage containing fifteen pages of typed notes with bank account details, access codes and balances, together with two copies of a DVD of Freddie Clarke's interrogation, uncut and almost three hours long.

And in the middle of Toby's suitcase, packed between the neatly folded tropical suit, s.h.i.+rts and regimental tie, was a striped plastic beach bag containing one human skull, the bones of two hands and pieces of perished black fabric.

'Oh,' Brock said.

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 embarra.s.sing 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 pa.s.s 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 doc.u.ments 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 d.a.m.n bones in Beaumont's suitcase. What the h.e.l.l 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.