Chelsea Mansions by Barry Maitland Page B

river.

    There was no response when she let herself into Brock’s house in Warren Lane and called up the stairs. She had stopped at a Sainsbury’s on the way, and put the bags on the kitchen table before going through to his darkened bedroom. All she could make out of him was a tuft of white hair above the blankets, and for a moment she had the terrible thought that he might be dead. ‘Brock?’
    The figure stirred, grunted and whispered, ‘Kathy? That you?’
    ‘Yes. Sorry to wake you.’
    ‘No, no . . .’ He struggled to sit up. ‘Needn’t have bothered.’
    ‘Has anyone else been in?’
    ‘The doc. Dot rang him. He thinks it’s swine flu.’ He swallowed, breathing heavily. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
    ‘I’d have got it by now. Anyway, I’ve had the jab.’
    ‘Good.’ He sank back against the pillows. ‘Feels like I’ve done fifteen rounds with . . .’
    She couldn’t make out the rest. ‘What can I get you?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘Soup? Hot drink?’
    ‘Water,’ he croaked. ‘Then sit down and tell me . . .’
    So she told him about her day. When she got to the end she was convinced he’d fallen asleep, and was just getting to her feet, when he muttered, ‘Or he’s staying in the square.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Could see Moszynski go out, from a window overlooking the square.’
    He was right of course. They would have to trace everybody who could do that. But someone immediately sprang to mind. She thought of John Greenslade’s comment, I just look out of my window. How could I not?
    She began to tell Brock about him, but then stopped, listening to his breathing. This time he really was asleep.
    Later, sitting at home in front of the blank TV, nursing a glass of wine, Kathy was glad he hadn’t heard her account of John Greenslade. It hadn’t been quite right, betraying the lack of resolution in her own mind. Her first impression of him on Friday morning, when she’d come upon him talking to Emerson in the hotel lounge, was almost of recognition, as if she’d met him before or seen his picture somewhere. She’d liked the look of him, his intelligent eyes and pleasant smile. She’d found him attractive, and perhaps he’d realised it and had tried to use it against her. For after that first meeting he had behaved like one of those murderers she’d heard about but never really encountered before, haunting the scene of the crime, trying to insinuate himself into the investigation, eager to help. Or was she reading too much into it? Was he just naturally curious and, as he’d claimed, interested in her? Either way, she thought she was going to have to find out more about him.
    He’d described himself on his entry card as a university professor, so she googled Montreal University and came up blank. Then she looked for other Quebec universities and found him at McGill, where there was an associate professor in the field of Renaissance philology by the name of John Greenslade. Renaissance philology—what the hell was that? There was no photograph.

ELEVEN
    T owards noon the following day, Tuesday, the first day of June, Toby Beaumont and Deb Collins were standing in the bay window of their office, watching the police activity in the square. Behind them, John put his head around the office door.
    ‘What’s all the excitement?’ he asked.
    ‘Police,’ Deb said. ‘At it again.’
    ‘What are they up to now?’
    ‘Goodness knows,’ she replied, and turned back to her accounts. ‘The woman inspector, Kolla, has been next door at the Moszynskis’ for a couple of hours now with some other serious-looking types. I suppose she’ll be calling in here again.’
    ‘Mm. Makes the day interesting, I suppose.’ John glanced at the photographs on the wall. ‘Don’t you miss the excitement of the old days, Toby?’
    ‘No, old son,’ Toby said, with such a tone of weary resignation that both John and Deb shot him a cautious look. ‘Too old for that now.’
    John pointed to one of