Chelsea Mansions by Barry Maitland Page B

established who was at home and carried out our regular security inspection of the whole house. Mr Moszynski was having dinner with two guests in the dining room, and said that he would be remaining in for the night and wouldn’t need to be disturbed again. After I’d completed my rounds I went down to the basement kitchen where Mrs Truscott, the housekeeper, gave me a cold supper. I had no alcohol with the meal or at any other time in the past twenty-four hours and I request a blood test to confirm that.’
    Brock grunted impatiently. ‘Yes, yes.’
    ‘At ten twenty-five Mrs Truscott returned from upstairs where she’d been checking to see if the dinner party needed anything. She informed me that Mr Moszynski wasn’t there, and had apparently gone outside to the square to smoke a cigar. This was strictly against the protocol we’d agreed with Mr Moszynski, and I immediately took a torch and went out to check on him. The gate to the central gardens was open and I could smell his cigar as I went in. I found him sitting collapsed on the bench in the middle of the gardens. That was at ten thirty-two. I made out extensive bloodstains on his clothes and checked his throat for a pulse. There were no signs of life, and I immediately rang triple nine and our home base. I also rang Mrs Truscott and told her to lock the front door and inform the other guests. I then waited with Mr Moszynski’s body until the police arrived.’
    He took in a deep breath. ‘I should add that Mr Moszynski has done this twice before, to my knowledge, despite our objections. He told me he’s very partial to a cigar after dinner, but Mrs Moszynski won’t allow it in the house or the rear courtyard. Ordinarily I would have been aware of someone opening the front door from the security system, which should have alerted me.’ He showed them a security monitor, like a large mobile phone, attached to his belt. ‘But this didn’t happen. I assume that Mr Moszynski disarmed it before leaving. He told me he didn’t like me fussing over him when he went out for a cigar.’
    ‘I can confirm that,’ his boss said. ‘I had words with Mr Moszynski about it, but he was pretty relaxed about security.’
    ‘What about the murder of the American lady at the end of the block?’ Kathy said. ‘Didn’t that concern him?’
    Wayne Everett frowned at her. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. Why should it?’
    ‘He knew her though, didn’t he?’
    Everett exchanged a glance with his boss. ‘I couldn’t say.’
    ‘He went to Mrs Haynes’ memorial service this morning,’ Kathy insisted. ‘Your colleague was with him. Did he talk to you about that?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Who’s been here in the house this evening?’ Brock said.
    Everett listed them: the cook who’d prepared evening meals for the household had left at nine p.m.; the housekeeper, Mrs Truscott; Mr Moszynski’s wife, Ms Gibbons, who had eaten alone in her suite; Ms Gibbons’ business manager, who’d arrived within the past half hour at Ms Gibbons’ request; and Mr Moszynski’s two guests—his business partner Mr Freddie Clarke and Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane.
    ‘Hadden-Vane?’ Brock stared at him, then at Kathy.
    ‘Yes, he was at the memorial service this morning too. Sir Nigel now, is it?’
    ‘Yes,’ Everett said. ‘He’s the local Member of Parliament.’
    They went to speak to the wife first, in her suite on the first floor. As they mounted the stairs Brock felt oddly disoriented. From the outside the building appeared to be the series of townhouses that it once had been, with individual front doors, but inside the scale expanded, as if he’d drunk from Alice’s magic bottle. They must have ripped out its guts, he realised, to build a palace inside the shell.
    Shaka Gibbons was sitting on an antique chaise longue while a man leaned forward at the other end, whispering urgently into her ear. ‘Sitting’ didn’t really do justice to the elegant way she had arranged herself across the