They took two unmarked cars, arriving at the riverside development at three minutes to four. Kathy went to the entrance door and spoke on the intercom to a resident caretaker, who let her into the lobby, a place of glass and marble that might have served as an upmarket art gallery.
‘We’ve had reports of a serial rapist operating in the area,’ Kathy said. ‘Targeting young women living alone. We’re checking possible people at risk.’
He took her into his office and gave her the names of three single women residents of the block, one of whom was a Ms Abi Tierney.
‘Do you know if any of them are at home at the moment?’ Kathy asked.
A check of the security system showed that the alarms in two of the apartments were activated, whereas that in Ms Tierney’s apartment was switched off.
‘I saw her come in half an hour ago,’ the caretaker said.
‘Alone?’
‘That’s right. Lovely young lady. She’s a model. You want to speak to her?’
‘No, we don’t want to cause panic. This may be nothing. Do any of these women bring men back here, do you know?’
‘Well, I don’t spy on them, but no, not really. Even Ms Tierney, attractive as she is, doesn’t have a boyfriend to my knowledge.’
‘Right. I noticed you’ve got a camera at the front door. I’d like to check your recordings if that’s okay. Say the last couple of weeks?’
‘Not a problem.’
Kathy returned to the car with the disks and they settled down to wait. By five p.m. the only people to enter or leave the building were a young woman with two small children.
When they got back to Queen Anne’s Gate they ran the CCTV images for the previous Monday afternoon. Once again, Abi Tierney had returned to the block mid-afternoon and not left again until seven that evening. But on the following day she had done the opposite, leaving her apartment at three thirty and returning at eight.
‘That makes sense, doesn’t it?’ Kathy said. ‘If he wants a particular girl, it would be a bit late to phone up that same afternoon and hope she’d be free. Maybe he phones the day before the meeting. We’d better go through all of this footage and get a timetable of her movements last week. The appointment could be for four o’clock two days later, or three.’
‘If that’s what “four” means,’ Bren grumbled. ‘And if Abi Tierney is Chloe.’
‘Come on, Bren,’ Kathy urged. ‘Abi didn’t get herself a luxury Thames-side apartment by shoplifting.’
After an hour they had established that, as far as they could tell from the CCTV records, Abi could have kept a four p.m. appointment elsewhere on any day of the previous week apart from the Monday.
‘Then we put a tail on her,’ Kathy said, ‘and identify all of her clients until we find something.’
TWENTY
T he Cathedral of the Dormition of the Mother of God and All Saints looked to Kathy more Italian than Russian. With its basilican front flanked by a stone campanile and not an onion dome in sight, it looked like a Tuscan hill town church that had inexplicably found itself dropped at the end of a London cul-de-sac beside a small park. When she arrived, the end of the street was crowded with mourners in dark suits and darker glasses, conferring together with that sombre camaraderie that funerals inspire. She looked around and caught sight of one of her team standing discreetly to one side, taking photographs of them all.
Inside, the atmosphere was more as Kathy had expected, the dark interior glittering with the light of candles, perfumed by clouds of incense and reverberating with the deep mournful sound of a male choir. There were no seats, the mourners standing packed together in the nave, overlooked on three sides by a balcony. Kathy took an order of service sheet, printed in English and Russian, and found the stairs to the upper level from which she could get a view across the congregation towards the east end, where three bearded priests, wearing heavy silver and gold robes, stood in front of an altar and a panelled screen hung with icons. They faced Mikhail Moszynski’s coffin, around which his family clustered.
The harmonies of the choir subsided into an expectant silence, broken at last by the voice of one of the priests. ‘Blessed is our God,’ he chanted, ‘now and forever and to the ages of ages.’ There was a murmur from some of the crowd, and the priest continued, alternating between English and Russian.
It was an impressive service, Kathy thought, with its sense of ancient ritual, and most of all the spine- shivering voices of the choir, unaccompanied by any instrument, whose deep chords throbbed through the whole building and every body inside it. There was only one discordant moment, when the priest gestured to the family and both Mikhail’s mother and wife got to their feet. Marta tottered and Shaka made to take hold of her arm, but the old woman shook her off with a hoarse cry, clearly audible in the silent cathedral, that sounded very like a curse.
Afterwards, blinking outside in the sunlight, Kathy watched the people queuing to pay their respects to the bereaved family, all except Shaka, who was somewhere among a mob of photographers heading towards a limo. As Kathy wove her way through the crowd her ears were straining for voices, hoping to catch something.
‘Inspector.’
She turned to see John Greenslade at her elbow. Toby and Deb from the hotel were standing behind him, all three beaming at Kathy, like the best of friends, out for the day to see the sights.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’
Toby’s smile widened. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. What about that singing, eh?’
‘Yes.’ She turned to John and said quickly, ‘I’m getting some more letters for you.’
‘Great.’
‘See you.’
She moved off to the edge of the crowd, where chauffeured cars were picking people up. From somewhere behind her she heard a woman’s voice, flirtatious.
‘And what about you, Nigel? Can we offer you a lift?’
And the reply, ‘If you please, darling. If you please.’
Kathy held her breath and turned slowly around. An elegant female leg was disappearing into the rear door of a car, and following it, leaning forward as if he might pounce on it, was the bulky figure of Sir Nigel Hadden- Vane.
Kathy pulled out her radio and spoke rapidly to Pip Gallagher, who she knew was sitting in a car further down the street. ‘There’s a black Mercedes coming your way,’ she said, and gave the registration number. ‘See where it goes.’ Then she made a call on her mobile to Bren, back at Queen Anne’s Gate. ‘I think I’ve got him, Bren, our Mr X. It’s Hadden-Vane.’
‘Bloody hell. You sure?’
‘Not a hundred per cent. I think he’s on his way to the function for invited mourners. It’s in a club in Kensington. Pip’s on his tail. I’m coming back.’
The private function centre was on a rooftop, landscaped with pergolas, pools and groves of trees, and with sweeping views across the city. In the streets below, unmarked police cars took up position and waited for the MP to reappear, which he did at three thirty p.m., bustling out of the front door as the taxi he’d ordered drew up at the kerb. At the same time a call came through from the car waiting outside the riverside apartments in Battersea. ‘Chloe’s on the move,’ the officer reported. ‘Catching a cab.’
At Queen Anne’s Gate Kathy and Bren watched the routes of the two taxis converge on West Kensington. Almost simultaneously the following cars reported their destination: the Wintergarden Hotel.
‘I want pictures of them together in the lobby, if you can,’ Kathy said. ‘But don’t let anyone see you doing it.’
Bren swore under his breath. ‘You were right, Kathy. It is him. This is going to put one hell of a cat among the pigeons. I want to see Sharpe’s face when we tell him. But even more, I want to see Hadden-Vane’s face when we knock on that hotel room door.’
Kathy shook her head. ‘No, Bren. We need more, much more. And he mustn’t know we’re on to him while we
