Free Chelsea Mansions by Barry Maitland

won’t be our case any more.’
    He watched her thinking about that. Would it matter to her? He had seen the look of distaste on her face as they’d been confronted by the gaudy opulence of the Russian’s house. Perhaps she’d be happy to let Chivers have it. But I wouldn’t, he thought.
    There was a long silence as they drove on into South London. They were skirting Clapham Common when Brock spoke again. ‘It would only be for a day or two.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘The Tamiflu will sort me out in a couple of days. If we can hold them off until then . . .’
    ‘How could we do that?’
    ‘Nancy was going up to Scotland, wasn’t she?’
    ‘Yes, to Angus.’
    ‘Then an urgent lead has taken me away to Angus.’
    Kathy laughed in a way that suggested he was joking, or mildly delirious.
    ‘It’ll be all right,’ he insisted. ‘You can tell them I’ll be back tomorrow night, then put them off till the next night . . .’
    ‘You’re not serious, Brock! Commander Sharpe would have kittens.’
    ‘You and I would be in constant touch.’ Then he sighed and closed his eyes again. ‘No, you’re right, it wouldn’t be easy, especially for you. Forget it.’
    There was a long silence.
    ‘It’d be like sabotage, telling lies, undermining the system.’
    ‘Mm.’
    She was driving down his high street now, slowing for the turning beneath the archway into Warren Lane, and then he heard the tyres drumming on cobblestones. They passed under the horse chestnut tree, huge in her headlights, and came to a stop outside his front door.
    He staggered inside, up the book-lined staircase to the rooms on the first floor, and Kathy helped him to his bedroom.
    ‘Thanks, Kathy. Too far for you to go home tonight. The spare bed’s made up.’
    ‘Yes, sounds good. I’ll ring Suzanne tomorrow, let her know.’
    ‘No, don’t do that. She’s gone to the West Country for an antiques sale.’ He could hardly get the words out now. ‘There are things she wants for the shop. I don’t want her charging back here just for this.’
    All the same, Kathy thought. She’d probably get in trouble either way from one of them. The terms of Brock and Suzanne’s relationship remained unclear to her. They loved each other yet preferred to live separate lives.
    There was an alarm clock in the spare room, which Kathy set for five a.m., three hours away, wanting to be back in Cunningham Place at dawn, when the detailed search of the square would begin.

EIGHT
    B y eight the next morning it was becoming clear that they were unlikely to find any traces of the killer in the garden. A German shepherd from the Dog Support Unit had followed a trail out of the garden gate and across the street, but no further, and it was probably Moszynski’s own. They would have to hope for fingerprint or DNA evidence that forensics may have picked up on the gate or bench, or on Moszynski himself. Another detective from the borough command, a DI, had taken charge of the scene, and briefed Kathy on the search that had been going on through the night for possible CCTV sightings, so far without a firm result.
    Kathy phoned Dot at Queen Anne’s Gate and told her about Brock’s illness, and his plan to keep control of the investigation. She seemed unfazed by his Scottish deception, which, in the light of a new day, seemed increasingly unrealistic to Kathy. Together they went over the most urgent administrative tasks that would need to be covered, and Kathy asked her to send Phil, her usual case action manager, and DC Pip Gallagher, now permanently attached to the team, to meet her at the Chelsea police station as soon as they arrived.
    They gathered there with borough command officers to plan the next stages of the investigation and allocate manpower. The steps were familiar and predictable, everyone busy, but as the time passed and no tangible leads to the killer emerged, Kathy began to feel the same nagging sense of frustration that she’d been feeling about Nancy’s