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  PRAISE FOR BARRY MAITLAND’S BROCK AND KOLLA SERIES

  ‘There is no doubt about it, if you are a serious lover of crime fiction, ensure Maitland’s Brock and Kolla series takes pride of place in your collection.’—Weekend Australian

  ‘Barry Maitland is one of Australia’s finest crime writers.’ —The Sunday Tasmanian

  ‘Comparable to the psychological crime novelists, such as Ruth Rendell … tight plots, great dialogue, very atmospheric.’ —Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Maitland is a consummate plotter, steadily complicating an already complex narrative while artfully managing the relationships of his characters.’—The Age

  ‘Perfect for a night at home severing red herrings from clues, sorting outright lies from half-truths and separating suspicious felons from felonious suspects.’—Herald Sun

  ‘A leading practitioner of the detective writers’ craft.’—Canberra Times

  ‘Maitland does a masterly job keeping so many balls in the air while sustaining an atmosphere of genuine intrigue, suspense and, ultimately, dread. He is right up there with Ruth Rendell.’—Australian Book Review

  ‘Forget the stamps, start collecting Maitlands now.’—Morning Star

  ‘Maitland gets better and better, and Brock and Kolla are an impressive team who deserve to become household names.’—Publishing News

  ‘Maitland stacks his characters in interesting piles, and lets his mystery burn busily and bright.’—Courier-Mail

  Barry Maitland is the author of the acclaimed Brock and Kolla series of crime mystery novels set in London, where Barry grew up after his family moved there from Paisley in Scotland where he was born. He studied architecture at Cambridge University and worked as an architect in the UK before taking a PhD in urban design at the University of Sheffield, where he also taught and wrote a number of books on architecture and urban design. In 1984 he moved to Australia to head the architecture school at the University of Newcastle in New South Wales, and held that position until 2000.

  The first Brock and Kolla novel, The Marx Sisters, was published in Australia and the UK in 1994, and subsequently in the USA and in translation in a number of other countries, including Germany, Italy, France and Japan. It was shortlisted for the UK Crime Writers’ Association John Creasey Award for best new fiction, and featured the central two characters of the series, Detective Chief Inspector David Brock, and his younger colleague, Detective Sergeant Kathy Kolla. The sequel, The Malcontenta, was first published in 1995 and was joint winner of the inaugural Ned Kelly Award for best crime fiction by an Australian author. The books have been described as whydunits as much as whodunits, concerned with the devious histories and motivations of their characters. Barry’s background in architecture drew him to the structured character of the mystery novel, and his books are notable for their ingenious plots as well as for their atmospheric settings, each in a different intriguing corner of London. In 2008 he published Bright Air, his first novel set in Australia.

  Barry Maitland now writes fiction full time, and lives in the Hunter Valley. The full list of his books follows: The Marx Sisters, The Malcontenta, All My Enemies, The Chalon Heads, Silvermeadow, Babel, The Verge Practice, No Trace, Spider Trap, Bright Air and Dark Mirror.

  The characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  First published in 2011

  Copyright © Barry Maitland 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

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  Australia

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  from the National Library of Australia

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  ISBN 978 1 74237 638 7

  Typeset and eBook production by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  To Margaret

  With grateful thanks to all those who have helped me in the writing of this novel, especially Margaret my wife, Dr Tim Lyons, Lyn Tranter, and Ali Lavau and the team at Allen & Unwin.

  We blinked into the bright sunlight, posing on the steps in front of the house, putting on big smiles for the camera. It was a perfect day, my sixteenth birthday, and in my beautiful party dress I felt like a butterfly newly born from the chrysalis of my old life. I had just made my first flight in an airplane, and was for the first time in a foreign country, and was meeting such fascinating people, who spoke to me as an adult.

  ‘Say cheese,’ said the man holding the camera, a very distinguished-looking English gentleman, and we did. I was clutching the posy of flowers that Uncle Gennady had presented to me, with much ceremony, and as I stared at the camera I felt a hand squeeze my arm. I thought it was Mom or Pop, but when the picture was taken I turned and saw that it was Uncle Gennady. He was such a formidable man, his gaze so dark and brooding, that I felt a sudden chill, as if a wind had blown across the steppes and into the square.

  ONE

  The grey-haired man made his way slowly through the crowd, frowning with concentration, careful not to spill the two plastic flutes of champagne. A band was playing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan on the sunlit lawn ahead, surrounded by hundreds of people sitting on white plastic seats. It took him a moment to make out his friend among them.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, handing her a precious drink and sinking with a sigh of relief onto the seat beside her.

  ‘Dear Emerson.’ She smiled at him, noticing the flush on his face. ‘Was there a huge line?’

  ‘Not when they saw the prices. These cost more than our flights.’

  She patted his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I think you’ve had enough of this, haven’t you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. We’ll stay as long as you want.’

  ‘I’ve had a wonderful day, but my feet are getting tired and I’d be happy to wander back.’

  He nodded, hiding his relief. He’d seen more than enough blooms to last the rest of his lifetime. A kind of numbness had set in somewhere inside the vast central marquee in front of yet another spectacular cascade of white or pink or purple flowers, and the rising temperature and crowd numbers had made him feel increasingly uncomfortable.

  ‘You’re not sorry I dragged you over here?’ she asked.

  ‘You know I’m not. I’ve enjoyed every minute. Though I do think you might have let me book us in at the Hilton.’

  She laughed. ‘But our place has so much more character.’

  ‘Oh, it’s got character, all right—a manager who can’t see, a concierge who can’t speak, and a bellboy who can’t walk.’

  ‘That’s cruel, Emerson.’

  ‘But true. And you still haven’t told me why you picked it.’

  ‘It’s a secret, but I will tell you, when I’m good and ready.’

  ‘A mystery, eh? Won’t you give me a clue?’

  ‘It’s a ghost story, but I won’t say any more than that.’

  He laughed, then sat up and peered out over the heads of the seated c
rowd. ‘I thought I saw your admirer again back there. I took a picture, here.’

  She peered at the image on his camera, and made out the man in the dark glasses, taller than the people around him, with black hair slicked back. ‘Oh yes, that’s him. He’s rather sinister, isn’t he?’

  ‘Like a Mexican gangster. Can’t see him now though.’

  ‘He’s probably gone home to his luxury penthouse, which is what we should be doing. Come on.’

  They finished their drinks and got to their feet, feeling stiff now and tired, and threaded their way down the row of chairs and through the trees onto the avenue leading back to the entrance gates, becoming part of a solid stream of people making their way out onto Lower Sloane Street.

  ‘No sign of a cab,’ he muttered.

  ‘Doesn’t matter. It isn’t far. Do us good.’

  He doubted that. The question was whether they would have enough energy left to climb all those stairs at the hotel when they got back.

  They crossed Sloane Square and continued up Sloane Street. There were fewer people on the footpath now and they walked at a steady pace together, her arm in his. Once, he recalled, a couple of decades ago, he had harboured fantasies about doing just this, running off to London or Paris with Nancy, their spouses none the wiser. He had never asked her. Would she have agreed? It was an intriguing question and one that he might put to her, late one evening over a bottle of wine. But now those spouses had passed away, and so had the lustful impulse. Now she was just a very good friend, as agreeable a travelling companion as anyone might wish for.

  And as he formed that thought, a massive blow on his right shoulder sent him crashing to the ground. Dazed, head crackling with confusion, he lay on the concrete pavement aware of a harsh squealing noise that filled the air, and then abrupt silence. He tried to push himself upright but his arm and shoulder seemed to have no strength. He heard screams, human ones this time, and the sound of running feet. Someone was bending over him, asking if he was all right.

  The first police at the scene were two officers from Chelsea police station in Lucan Place, who arrived at the same time as the ambulance. While one heard a confusing mixture of contradictory accounts from bystanders, staring with hands over their mouths, or talking into their mobile phones, the other spoke to the driver of the number 22 double-decker bus that was pulled into the kerb. White-faced and jerky in his gestures, the driver was in absolutely no doubt about what had happened.

  ‘After the Sloane Square stop the road ahead was clear. I crossed Cadogan Gate and noticed this bloke up ahead turn and see me coming, then start running, and I thought, you’d better get a move on if you want to catch us at Pont Street, mate.’

  ‘How fast were you going?’

  ‘Twenty, twenty-five, no more, God’s my witness.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘This runner dodged around the people on the footpath, then as I got closer he charged straight into this old couple. I saw one of them, the bloke, go flying, and I thought, you stupid bugger, look what you’ve done. Then . . .’ The driver hesitated and stared for a moment at the policeman’s chest, as if he could see a film unreeling in front of him there on the black protective vest. ‘Then the runner grabbed the other one, the woman, and lifted her up in his arms, like she was a baby, and spun her around and threw her in front of my bus.’

  ‘Hang on,’ the officer began, but the driver had buckled and was being sick over his boots.

  TWO

  ‘Nancy Haynes, American tourist, age seventy.’ The constable handed the passport to DI Kathy Kolla. Around them, the lobby of the casualty department was crowded, staff hurrying around members of the public seated in glum ranks.

  ‘She died at the scene, yes?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Um . . .’ He consulted his notebook. ‘On holiday with a friend, Mr Emerson Merckle, both from the Boston area. The doctor’s looking at him now. He was knocked to the ground in the assault and maybe dislocated his shoulder.’

  ‘We’re quite sure it was an assault, not an accident?’

  ‘Talk to the bus driver, he’s here too. He described it vividly.’ The cop repeated the driver’s story. ‘Two other eyewitnesses support his account.’

  He showed Kathy a diagram he’d made. ‘This one was walking southward on Sloane Street, towards the scene, twenty yards away, and had a clear view. Seemed reliable. The other was coming out of Grosvenor Court, standing on the steps, and happened to look in that direction. Again a clear view. The other pedestrians, and the people on the bus, were more confused. It all happened very fast.’

  ‘The assailant?’

  ‘Tall man, according to the bus driver, maybe six-two or three, well built, IC1 or 2, black hair, dark glasses, dark clothes, black backpack. Could be a body builder—the driver said he picked up Mrs Haynes like she weighed nothing. He kept running, up Sloane Street heading north.’

  ‘Not a bag-snatch?’

  ‘No. Her bag fell onto the pavement. He didn’t pick it up.’

  The bus driver was sitting hunched in the far corner, a plastic cup of tea on the floor at his feet. Kathy introduced herself and took him through his account once again. She was impressed by his conviction, but she’d heard many convincing but mistaken witness accounts before and so she pressed him. Surely the man might simply have pushed the woman aside, or stumbled against her by mistake? But he was unshakeable, speaking as if he still couldn’t quite believe it had happened. ‘No, no, he threw her. The bastard picked her up and spun her around and threw her in front of me. I couldn’t do a bloody thing.’ He shook his head.

  When the doctors had finished with Emerson Merckle a nurse took Kathy in to see him. His left arm was in a sling, he had a large dressing on his forehead and he looked groggy.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Kathy Kolla from the Metropolitan Police, Mr Merckle. How are you feeling?’

  He lifted his eyes to her with a bleak expression, unable to find the words to answer that. ‘The other officer said it was possible that Nancy was deliberately killed. Tell me that isn’t true.’

  A retired businessman or professional, Kathy guessed.

  ‘It sounds improbable, but several witnesses interpreted what happened in that way. We’re doing all we can to find the man who ran into you.’

  ‘I thought that nothing could shock me any more. How wrong I was.’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about him?’

  ‘Not a thing. One minute I was walking along the street, the next I was face down on the sidewalk. I heard the bus braking, but I didn’t see anything of what happened.’

  ‘Okay. Can you give me some background, about Nancy and your trip over here?’

  He shrugged wearily. ‘Nancy and I have known each other for many years. I was her accountant until I retired ten years ago. We both live in Boston, and since we lost our partners we’ve been travelling companions, going for weekend visits to shows in New York, or further afield, a couple of times overseas. This was our first trip to the UK together, although we’ve both been here separately in the past. We decided to have a week in London before going up north. Nancy was interested in her family history, and wanted to visit the place in Scotland where her mother’s great-grandparents came from. That’s where we were going tomorrow.’

  For a moment he lost his train of thought, derailed by some memory, before he roused himself with a cough and went on. ‘This was our day to visit the Chelsea Flower Show, which was the main reason for the timing of our visit. Nancy is . . . was a great gardener. She’d been really looking forward to this. We were at the gates when they opened at eight this morning, and spent the whole day there until we left at around four. We were both pretty tired, but we couldn’t find a cab and decided to walk back to our hotel.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  ‘Cunningham Place, the Chelsea Mansions Hotel. Nancy said it has character . . .’ He stopped, swallowed and snatched a tissue from the box beside him and presse
d it to his eyes. After a moment he sucked in a breath and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I, Mr Merckle. I should let you rest.’

  ‘No, no. I just want to get out of this place.’

  ‘They’ve said you can go. Shall I take you back to your hotel?’

  He nodded. ‘I feel numb, like I just want to go to sleep and wake up and discover it was all a terrible nightmare.’ He looked at her. ‘How could somebody do a thing like that? There’s no reason.’

  As they walked to her car, Kathy put a call through to the Chelsea police to check on progress in the hunt for the man. They had nothing new to report.

  Cunningham Place was a small square in the area where the three golden postcodes, SW1, SW3 and SW7—of Belgravia, Chelsea and Knightsbridge—converge in inner west London. Despite the impeccable real estate location, Kathy thought it a rather gloomy place, its leafy central gardens overwhelmed by the six- and seven-storey red brick terraces that surrounded it. The grandest of these was Chelsea Mansions, forming one side of the square, its bulk enlivened by Dutch gables, decorative terracotta panels, white balcony trim and an impressive central portico. Most of it appeared to be taken up by private residences, but the end bay, sporting geranium baskets and a large Union Jack from its upper balcony, had an inconspicuous brass plate by its front door announcing Chelsea Mansions Hotel, AA and RAC Approved.

  Kathy helped Emerson up the steps and opened the door, to be greeted by a strong smell of fried onions. A large woman was at the front desk, peering at a computer screen through glasses perched on the end of her nose.

  ‘He-llo,’ she boomed, looking up, then her smile turned to a frown. ‘Emerson? Good heavens, what happened to you? Toby! Emerson’s been hurt.’

  A figure hunched at her side turned around and peered up through opaque-looking circular dark glasses. ‘What’s that, Deb?’

  ‘His arm’s in a sling. And he’s hurt his head.’