have it faxed to you. Give me your number.’
‘It’s at the foot of the sheet. Also, I’d like to arrange for an officer to come and take your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA.’
‘What?’ Hadden-Vane seemed to focus on Kathy for the first time.
‘For elimination. There were a number of traces on and around Mr Moszynski’s body in the gardens, and we need to eliminate the ones that may have been picked up from people he’d been in contact with.’
‘But you have the killer’s body, don’t you? You know which traces are his.’
‘We have to be sure he didn’t have an accomplice.’
He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘If there was an accomplice who has a police record, you’ll know who he is. If he doesn’t, the unidentified traces won’t help you identify him, will they?’
Kathy began to argue but he shook his head abruptly and got to his feet. ‘No, sorry. Many of us are concerned about the indiscriminate taking and retaining of DNA by the police from innocent people, Inspector. I’ll pass on that one. Now you must excuse me.’ He held the door open for her. ‘You can remember the way out?’
As she made her way across Parliament Square towards Queen Anne’s Gate, Kathy pondered on the statues of famous men that she passed: Churchill, Lincoln, Mandela. She paused for a moment at the figure of Robert Peel, who had established the modern police force. All these men were remembered because they had successfully weathered crises of one kind or another, survived trials by fire. In comparison, nailing Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane was pretty small beer, only it didn’t feel like that. She knew that a lot of people would be watching her closely once she declared her hand, some of them hoping she would make a mess of it, just as Tom Reeves had done. Taking on Hadden-Vane had cost him just about everything. She allowed herself a moment of weakness, to wish that Brock were there, then took a deep breath and made a phone call. When it was done she changed course towards Victoria Street and the headquarters building of New Scotland Yard.
On the sixth floor she made her way to room 632, where Commander Sharpe’s secretary showed her straight into his office. He looked up from the report he was reading.
‘Ah, Kolla. Take a seat.’
That was the phrase Hadden-Vane had used, and she had a sudden chilling thought that all these important men were alike and would protect each other.
‘Urgent, you said?’
‘Yes, sir. I need to advise you of a development in the Moszynski murder case.’
‘Good, good.’
‘You may not think so, sir.’
He arched an eyebrow at her. ‘Let’s have it then.’
So she did, and watched the eyebrows on his stern beaky face drop from surprise to foreboding as she described what had been discovered about Hadden-Vane.
‘That man again,’ he growled at last. ‘But murder! You really think he’d go that far?’
‘It depends on how desperate he was. At the moment we don’t understand the motive. It may have been financial, and that might be hard to uncover without the cooperation of Moszynski’s accountant, who seems to be rather secretive.’
‘So what can we do?’
‘It would be helpful if we could establish whether his DNA or fingerprints were present in the Hackney house where Harry Peebles was staying. Unfortunately he has refused to volunteer samples. So I’d like to arrest him on suspicion of involvement in the murder of Mikhail Moszynski, so that we can insist on him providing them.’
‘You can’t just go around arresting people so as to get their DNA.’
‘I think we have reasonable grounds for suspicion, sir.’
‘It’s all circumstantial, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but from several independent circumstances.’
Sharpe hesitated, unhappiness all over his face. ‘Leave it with me, Inspector. I’ll consult a few people and let you know my decision.’
Kathy bought a sandwich on the way back to her office and ate it while she dealt with some of the paperwork that had been building up.
After a couple of hours Sharpe got back to her.
‘You won’t get a decision until tomorrow, Inspector. In the meantime you might think about some other way of getting your evidence.’
She talked it over with Bren and they decided that they would approach the Economic and Specialist Crime Command to request an investigation into Moszynski’s financial affairs. The superintendent Kathy spoke to didn’t sound surprised by the request and said he’d put a fraud team together, but warned that an investigation might take considerable time.
Rain was splattering against the darkened windows and Kathy could hear the sounds of people leaving for the night when her phone rang. It was Suzanne, sounding both anxious and excited.
‘There’s been some change, Kathy. It seems that the fever has eased. I’m waiting to see the doctor to find out what happens next.’
‘I’ll come straight over.’
The cab made slow progress through the choked streets up to St Giles’ Circus. Beyond, traffic in Tottenham Court Road was hardly moving. Finally, itching with frustration, Kathy paid the driver and set off on foot. She was wet and panting from the exertion when she finally ran into the hospital and made her way to the isolation wards, where Suzanne was still waiting for the doctor.
The doctor looked sombre and preoccupied when she finally came to see them. ‘The fever has subsided and his temperature is almost normal. He has regained consciousness and is breathing normally. Having survived thus far, we would expect recovery to be prompt and complete, but there is still the risk of further inflammation or secondary infections. We also have to carry out more tests to see if there’s been any permanent damage to his organs, particularly his liver and eyes. We shall be monitoring this very closely. He is no longer infectious, and you can go in to see him, but please remember that he’s lost a lot of weight and is very weak.’
‘Thank you, Doctor,’ Suzanne said, and then, as they made their way to the door of Brock’s room, she turned to Kathy and whispered, ‘His eyes?’
They blinked open, pink-rimmed and bleary, when Suzanne touched his hand.
‘Hello,’ he croaked, and Suzanne, overcome, burst into tears. ‘They tell me I’ve been ill.’
‘Of course you’ve been ill. You’ve worried us to death this past week.’
‘A week?’ He gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘Can’t remember.’
Looking at the hollow temples and sunken cheeks, the skin as white as his hair and beard, Kathy thought of King Lear.
‘How are you, Kathy?’
‘Good.’ She pulled up a seat.
‘Things are going well?’
‘Absolutely. Everything’s just fine.’
The dark eyes regarded her for a moment, then he said, ‘You must tell me everything that’s been happening.’
‘But not until you’ve got your strength back,’ Suzanne broke in.
He smiled at her and said, ‘How was Cornwall?’
After ten minutes his eyes closed and a nurse came and asked them to leave.
Outside in the waiting room a dozen people sat in various stages of agitation or resignation, some staring up at a TV monitor mounted on the wall. Suzanne began to ask what Kathy’s impression had been when she stopped suddenly and pointed up at the screen.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that you?’
Kathy turned and saw a clip from the press conference they’d given the previous week, the camera focusing in close on her face. The sound was inaudible, but a ribbon of text scrolling across the bottom of the screen read: police accused of incompetence and ‘campaign of vilification’. mp admits using prostitutes. The picture had switched to Hadden-Vane, looking angry, then again to an image of a reporter beneath a dripping umbrella, talking to camera in front of the Houses of Parliament.
‘I’d better find out what this is all about, Suzanne,’ Kathy said, feeling a small hard lump of anxiety forming in
