with that?’
‘Sure.’
She asked him his full name, age, address, employer and mobile phone number. ‘What are you doing here in London?’
‘I’m attending a conference at University College on classical philology.’
‘Which is?’
‘It’s about the interpretation of old texts.’ He saw the doubt on her face. ‘Renaissance texts mainly.’ Then he added, ‘Quattrocento.’
‘Quattrocento,’ she repeated slowly, writing it down, making the word sound pretentious. He took a breath, wanting to explain, but she moved on abruptly. ‘And when did you arrive in London?’
‘Monday the twenty-fourth, a week ago yesterday.’
‘How did you choose this hotel?’
‘Well, I was booked into some place off the Edgeware Road that was one of the conference organisers’ recommendations, but I didn’t like it very much, so after a few days I moved here.’
‘When exactly?’
‘Um… Friday it would have been. Yes, Friday.’
‘Why here?’
‘Well, I read about Nancy Haynes’ death and I was curious. The newspaper report mentioned where she was staying, and I wandered over to take a look, and thought, this is nicer than where I am, and asked if they had a free room, which they did.’
‘And it was free because it was Nancy Haynes’ room.’
‘I guess so.’
She let that hang for a moment, and he began to feel uncomfortable.
‘Why were you curious about Nancy Haynes’ death?’
‘It just struck me as rather odd, I suppose.’
‘So you wanted to sleep in her bed?’
He felt a little jolt of shock. ‘No! Now you’re looking at me the way I look at a student who’s been caught plagiarising or something. There was nothing macabre about it. I told you before, I’ve had a bit to do with the Montreal police.’
‘Yes, you did say that. What exactly have you had to do with them?’
‘You don’t believe me, do you? Look, why don’t I give you the name of someone to call, and they can vouch for me, okay?’
He took out his phone and scrolled through his address book and handed it to her. ‘Paul Ledoux is a lieutenant in the Montreal Police Service, that’s his office number.’ She wrote it down and handed back the phone.
‘The conference has been a bit of a disappointment, not really my period, and I was looking for a distraction. I thought it might be interesting to be in the middle of a murder investigation.’
‘And is it?’
‘Well, right at the moment it’s a little uncomfortable, to tell the truth.’
‘Maybe that’s because you’re not being completely open with me, Mr Greenslade.’
He sighed, lowered his eyes from that accusing glare of hers and said, ‘Can I make a suggestion? Phone Paul Ledoux in a couple of hours when he gets in to work, and if you’re not completely satisfied you can get out the thumbscrews. But if you are satisfied-’
He was interrupted by the sound of Kathy’s phone. She glanced at the number and winced. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Better take this.’
She got to her feet and walked over to the window, her back to him. ‘Sir?’ He watched her listen, motionless, then shake her head and say, ‘I’m afraid he’s still in Scotland, sir… Yes, I did tell him about the meeting, but he wanted to complete his inquiries… No, sir… Probably this evening, or tomorrow…’ She took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, the phone clamped to her ear. Eventually she said, ‘Absolutely, sir, I…’ She fell silent, snapped the phone shut and put it back in her pocket.
‘Where were we?’ she said.
‘We were agreeing that you’d phone Montreal, after which if you weren’t satisfied you would haul me in for further questioning, but if you were satisfied you’d have dinner with me tonight.’
Kathy shook her head. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve, John.’
At least she’d called him John. ‘Yes, well, time is short. They’re having a conference dinner tonight and I need an excuse not to go. I’d much prefer to eat somewhere nice with somebody who wouldn’t want to talk about classical philology.’
She nodded. ‘I can understand that.’
‘And I’ve had an idea about your case that I’d like to put to you. I thought of Frazer’s in the King’s Road.’
‘Frazer’s?’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘You’ve heard of it?’
‘Yes. I’m told it’s expensive.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘I’d rather have a sandwich at the Red Lion.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, and I’ll pay for my own. Say six o’clock?’
‘You are serious. Where is this Red Lion?’
‘Parliament Street, not far from the Two Chairmen, which you know so well.’
John left her to interview the next resident of the hotel. In the hall Deb called to him that she’d tried Frazer’s and it was booked out. Did he want her to try somewhere else? He thanked her and told her not to bother.
When she’d finished at the hotel Kathy checked the progress of the others in the square, and went through the lists they were working from. Several people had not yet been reinterviewed: Vadim and Alisa Kuzmin had returned to their home in Surrey and apparently Shaka had gone with them; Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane was tied up with parliamentary business in Westminster; and Mikhail Moszynski’s financial adviser, Freddie Clarke, was working at his office in Mayfair. Kathy decided to start with him.
The place was hard to find, an inconspicuous door in a tiny square tucked away behind Curzon Street. The name on the small brass plate said Truscott Orr. It wasn’t apparent what Truscott Orr did. The voice on the intercom was guarded, and when Kathy mounted the stairs to the small reception area she was confronted by a severe, smartly dressed woman who gave the strong impression that Kathy was intruding. Through an open door she caught a glimpse of two young men, not long out of school by the look of them, staring at computer screens. The woman spoke into a phone and led Kathy to another door.
Clarke had his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. His striped shirt was enlivened by a colourful pair of braces, decorated with bears on one side and bulls on the other. Kathy wondered if you could tell which way the market was heading by watching which side he tugged.
‘Ah, hello again. Er…’ He glanced at the secretary who was hovering at the door as if reluctant to leave him alone with the detective. Rather as if she’s his mother, Kathy thought. Clarke said, ‘Coffee, Renee? Thanks.’
‘Thank you for seeing me at short notice, Mr Clarke,’ Kathy began. ‘There are a few points I need to clarify. First of all, can you just explain to me again exactly what your relationship was with Mr Moszynski?’
He inserted a thumb under the bulls and said, ‘I advised him on his financial affairs.’
‘You are a financial adviser, then?’
‘Yeah. Specialist in tax law.’
A smart cockney spiv, Kathy thought. ‘So you weren’t business partners, as such?’
‘That too, but on a modest scale. I have investments in some of Mr Moszynski’s companies.’ He smiled encouragingly, as if to suggest he was an open book.
‘Who are Truscott and Orr?’
‘Founders of the firm, back in the seventies. I’m the sole director now.’
‘So you’re familiar with all of Mr Moszynski’s business affairs?’
‘I couldn’t claim that.’
‘Could you describe them to me?’
