Clarke and Hadden-Vane the previous night. Now Shaka was sitting in one of the armchairs and a man was in the other, leaning towards her as if in the middle of some intense debate. Shaka looked up with irritation as Kathy walked in, and as the man turned Kathy recognised Vadim Kuzmin, Moszynski’s son-in-law, from the MI5 photos. He got to his feet and made as if to leave, but Kathy spoke to him.
‘Mr Kuzmin? I’m Detective Inspector Kolla from the Metropolitan Police. I’d like to speak to you too.’
He looked at her suspiciously. ‘How did you know my name?’
‘I was told that you had arrived this morning. Can you tell me when you left on your Russian trip?’
‘Last Wednesday.’
‘And when was the last time you were here in Cunningham Place?’
‘Last Wednesday.’ The suspicious frown was still there, and Kathy wondered if it was a perpetual mask through which he viewed the world. ‘I called in here to talk with my father-in-law before I left.’
‘Are you aware of any threats to Mr Moszynski, from people in Russia, perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘We believe he wrote a letter to The Times newspaper on Friday, suggesting just that.’ Kathy showed them a copy of the letter. ‘Are you aware of this, Mrs Moszynski? Did he discuss it with you?’
Shaka shook her head. ‘But he probably wouldn’t have spoken to me about something like that.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Vadim said. ‘He never mentioned this to me, and I would know if there was a problem in Russia.’
‘The Aleksandrovs,’ Shaka said, ‘at dinner last month, they were going on about the FSB spying on their bank accounts.’
‘Expats!’ Vadim snarled dismissively. ‘The Aleksandrovs are paranoid. It’s nonsense. There was no threat to Mikhail. I tell you, I would know.’
‘Yeah, but maybe he wrote the letter for the sake of his friends, like the Aleksandrovs, that’s what I’m saying, Vadim.’
‘Do you know this woman, Mr Kuzmin?’ Kathy showed him Nancy Haynes’ photograph.
He shook his head.
‘How about you, Mrs Moszynski?’
‘No, I don’t know her. Who is she?’
‘It’s the American woman who was murdered last Thursday. She was staying at the hotel next door.’
‘That dump?’
‘You’re quite sure you’ve never seen or heard of her? Her name was Nancy Haynes.’ Kathy spelled it.
‘No, I told you.’
‘Only someone saw her call in here last Monday or Tuesday, at around one o’clock.’
‘No, you’ve got that wrong. Why would she come here?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like to show your staff the photograph.’
She shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’
‘I also need to ask them and both of you if you can remember any strangers hanging around in the square recently.’
She continued with them for a while without getting anywhere, then went to speak to the staff, beginning with Moszynski’s secretary, a middle-aged woman, elegantly groomed in an inconspicuous way, as if to blend into the greys and beiges of the decor. Her office seemed to be equipped with every latest business machine, yet Kathy had the impression that there was little work for her to do.
‘Ellen Fitzwilliam,’ the woman said, offering her hand. Like the maid, she too looked as if she’d been crying, and there were crumpled tissues in the bin beside her desk. ‘This is so dreadful. I heard it on the radio this morning when I was having breakfast and I still can’t believe it. People are saying that he was killed by the Russians, or by a serial killer.’
‘We really don’t know at the moment, Ellen. You must have spent a lot of time with him. Is there anything that you can tell us?’
‘Me . . .?’ She looked as if she hadn’t expected the question. ‘Well, yes, I’ve worked for Mr Moszynski for almost eight years now, but I can’t think of any reason why someone would want to hurt him. He was a perfect gentleman.’
‘A good boss?’
‘Oh yes. He was firm, very clear about what he wanted, but considerate too.
‘Mr Kuzmin? I’m Detective Inspector Kolla from the Metropolitan Police. I’d like to speak to you too.’
He looked at her suspiciously. ‘How did you know my name?’
‘I was told that you had arrived this morning. Can you tell me when you left on your Russian trip?’
‘Last Wednesday.’
‘And when was the last time you were here in Cunningham Place?’
‘Last Wednesday.’ The suspicious frown was still there, and Kathy wondered if it was a perpetual mask through which he viewed the world. ‘I called in here to talk with my father-in-law before I left.’
‘Are you aware of any threats to Mr Moszynski, from people in Russia, perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘We believe he wrote a letter to The Times newspaper on Friday, suggesting just that.’ Kathy showed them a copy of the letter. ‘Are you aware of this, Mrs Moszynski? Did he discuss it with you?’
Shaka shook her head. ‘But he probably wouldn’t have spoken to me about something like that.’
‘I don’t believe this,’ Vadim said. ‘He never mentioned this to me, and I would know if there was a problem in Russia.’
‘The Aleksandrovs,’ Shaka said, ‘at dinner last month, they were going on about the FSB spying on their bank accounts.’
‘Expats!’ Vadim snarled dismissively. ‘The Aleksandrovs are paranoid. It’s nonsense. There was no threat to Mikhail. I tell you, I would know.’
‘Yeah, but maybe he wrote the letter for the sake of his friends, like the Aleksandrovs, that’s what I’m saying, Vadim.’
‘Do you know this woman, Mr Kuzmin?’ Kathy showed him Nancy Haynes’ photograph.
He shook his head.
‘How about you, Mrs Moszynski?’
‘No, I don’t know her. Who is she?’
‘It’s the American woman who was murdered last Thursday. She was staying at the hotel next door.’
‘That dump?’
‘You’re quite sure you’ve never seen or heard of her? Her name was Nancy Haynes.’ Kathy spelled it.
‘No, I told you.’
‘Only someone saw her call in here last Monday or Tuesday, at around one o’clock.’
‘No, you’ve got that wrong. Why would she come here?’
‘I don’t know. I’d like to show your staff the photograph.’
She shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’
‘I also need to ask them and both of you if you can remember any strangers hanging around in the square recently.’
She continued with them for a while without getting anywhere, then went to speak to the staff, beginning with Moszynski’s secretary, a middle-aged woman, elegantly groomed in an inconspicuous way, as if to blend into the greys and beiges of the decor. Her office seemed to be equipped with every latest business machine, yet Kathy had the impression that there was little work for her to do.
‘Ellen Fitzwilliam,’ the woman said, offering her hand. Like the maid, she too looked as if she’d been crying, and there were crumpled tissues in the bin beside her desk. ‘This is so dreadful. I heard it on the radio this morning when I was having breakfast and I still can’t believe it. People are saying that he was killed by the Russians, or by a serial killer.’
‘We really don’t know at the moment, Ellen. You must have spent a lot of time with him. Is there anything that you can tell us?’
‘Me . . .?’ She looked as if she hadn’t expected the question. ‘Well, yes, I’ve worked for Mr Moszynski for almost eight years now, but I can’t think of any reason why someone would want to hurt him. He was a perfect gentleman.’
‘A good boss?’
‘Oh yes. He was firm, very clear about what he wanted, but considerate too.
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