Kathy sat back, feeling as if she'd been unexpectedly slapped.

'Oh, I'm sorry,' Suzanne said. 'I've upset you. Please, forget it. I've had so much on my mind and I-'

'Do you really think that's true?'

'About him, yes. Maybe not about you. Maybe you've just been unlucky with your men. What happened to the one who went to the Middle East?'

'He's moved on to Shanghai.'

'Oh, that is rather inconvenient.' She took another sip of her wine and then said, 'That Canadian you're working with obviously thinks the world of you.'

'What? John Greenslade? You've met him?'

'Yes. He came to the hospital a few days ago, Friday I think, with a beautiful bunch of spring flowers. He said he'd never met Brock, but just wanted to pay his respects. And then we had quite a conversation about you and the work he's helping you with. Quite star-struck, he was.'

Kathy felt a blush creeping up her neck, and was saved from replying by the arrival of their vitello tonnato, the speciality of the house.

TWENTY-ONE.

'Listen, I'm goin' f.u.c.kin' mad. Everybody wants me. I'm gettin' out of here.'

Kathy listened to her ranting down the phone, about being cooped up in quarantine with her mother-in-law, about the press hounding her, about the stupid rumours they were printing, then said, conciliatory, 'It must be terrible for you, Shaka, and I wouldn't bother you again if I could avoid it. Are you at home in Chelsea now?'

'No way. I'm goin' crazy in that house. I'm at Derek's office. The little s.h.i.t's home in his bed, thinks he's sick now, so I'm hidin' out in his office.'

'I'll come and see you there.'

'I told you, I'm leavin'. Today.'

'Just stay there. I'll be with you in a few minutes. I won't take up much of your time.'

The agent's office was in Golden Square in Soho. In the taxi over there Kathy thought about the plight of Shaka, one of the most beautiful and admired women in the country who was being driven mad by the constant gaze of rapt attention. It was another paradox for Suzanne, she thought. They had parted the previous night on good terms, happy to have renewed their friendship, promising to keep in touch, and there had been a text message from her that morning, thanking Kathy for the meal.

Shaka answered Kathy's ring on the office door on the third floor. Several expensive-looking suitcases were standing inside.

'Where are you going?' Kathy asked.

'Little Ruby Cay. The driver will be here soon to collect me, so you'd better make it quick.'

'All right. When I spoke to you on the night of Mikhail's murder, you described Freddie Clarke and Nigel Hadden-Vane, who were there in the house, as parasites.'

Shaka shrugged. 'Did I?'

'Did you tell Mikhail how you felt about them? How you didn't trust them?'

'They were useful. He used them.'

'I know how he met Freddie, in Luxembourg, but how about Hadden-Vane?'

'Nigel got his claws into Mikhail as soon as he arrived, gettin' him invitations to the right places, introducing him to the right people. Mikhail needed that. h.e.l.l, he even arranged for us to meet. Mikhail saw a picture of me and said something to Nigel, and the next thing we were being introduced at a party. He was like Mikhail's pimp.'

'He got girls for Mikhail?'

'I didn't mean it literally. It was just the way he acted, like a creepy pimp, b.u.t.tering Mikhail up, arranging favours. I hated the way he flattered Mikhail all the time.'

'And you told Mikhail that.'

'Sure.'

'And Nigel knew how you felt?'

'I didn't try to hide it.'

'That would have made Nigel feel pretty insecure, wouldn't it?'

Shaka's mobile began playing a tune and she turned away to answer it with a few curt words, then said, 'The driver's here in two minutes.'

'How does Nigel get on with the rest of Mikhail's family?'

'All right I suppose, all except his mother. He can't stand Marta.'

'Why not?'

'Because she's a poisonous old witch. "Nigel,"' she whined, '"You get me to meet Queen Elizabeth. Nigel, you get citizenship for Uncle Boris." She's a f.u.c.kin' pain. n.o.body can stand her. Even Mikhail had had enough.'

'How do you mean?'

'Oh, they had a blazin' row.'

'When was this?'

'Not long before Mikhail died. I was away on a shoot. It must have been the Tuesday or Wednesday of that week. He was very upset that evenin' when I got back. The old b.i.t.c.h had been givin' him a hard time about something, he wouldn't say what.'

The buzzer on the office door sounded.

'Okay,' Shaka said. 'Gotta go.'

'Have a nice break.'

'Yeah, thanks. It was our favourite place, Mikhail and me. We were happy there. No paparazzi, no Marta.'

'How about the parasites? Did they go?'

'Oh yeah.'

'Aren't you worried about leaving now, Shaka? Aren't you afraid they may try to rip you off while you're away?'

Shaka gazed at Kathy for a moment, face expressionless, then said, 'Vadim will keep them in line.'

Despite Shaka's vivid impersonation of Marta's spoken English, the old woman refused to speak to Kathy except in Russian, and an interpreter was called in.

Kathy began with a few words of condolence and a compliment on the dignity of the funeral service, but Marta, draped in a black shawl and wearing a large silver cross around her neck, listened to the translation with all the animation of a rock. A very tough old lady, Kathy thought, watching her. She'd been a teenager through the siege of Leningrad, of course, and had probably seen enough by the time she turned sixteen to harden the softest heart. She had married Gennady in 1950, when she was twenty-two and he forty-seven and already an important figure in Leningrad politics. Kathy wondered what had drawn the pair together. Was Marta once beautiful? Had she captivated the older man with her sparkling eyes and flashing smile? It was impossible to imagine now.

She had been hardened by tragedy, she said, in a growling Russian that sounded as if she were reciting some ancient saga, but nothing could prepare her for the loss of her son. He was a lion, a genius, a saint. Her only consolation was that he had left her a granddaughter and a great-grandson.

Kathy asked if she had any idea who might be responsible for her son's death.

Criminals, she said. English criminals. They were everywhere in the streets. You had only to look at television to know this.

'Could there have been anyone close to Mikhail who might want him dead?' Kathy asked.

Impossible. To know Mikhail was to love him, as a brother, as a father, as a son.

Kathy persisted. Did she trust Mikhail's friends? Freddie Clarke and Nigel Hadden-Vane, for instance?

Freddie was a genius and Sir Nigel a true English gentleman. They loved Mikhail and he loved them.

After a quarter of an hour of this, Kathy gave up. She thanked Marta, took the interpreter to the door and asked to see Ellen Fitzwilliam again.

Mikhail's secretary was feeding a paper shredder when Kathy was shown into the office at the far end of the building.

'Getting rid of the evidence?' Kathy said.

The woman looked at her in consternation, but then Kathy smiled. 'Just joking. How are things going?'

'I'm just trying to tidy things up while Freddie-that's Mr Clarke, Mr Moszynski's accountant-while Mr Clarke sorts out what's to be done.'

'I've spoken to Freddie. I got the impression that Mr Moszynski's business affairs were complicated.'

'Freddie deals with all the financial matters. I mainly concentrate on social and charitable affairs, and his travel arrangements.'

'I believe that one of our consultants, Mr Greenslade, was in touch with you.'

'Oh yes. I hope I was able to help.'

'Certainly. He wondered if you had any more letters written by Mr Moszynski, for comparison.'

'I think he had copies of all the ones to newspapers . . .'

'Anything similar would do, provided it was composed entirely by himself.'

The secretary frowned. 'Then you do suspect that he didn't write the one to The Times?'

'Perhaps Mr Greenslade didn't explain,' Kathy said. 'Both the coroner's and the criminal courts are very particular about the integrity of evidence, and we have to be meticulous.'

'I see. Well, I'm sure I can find something.'

As she began to scan through her computer, Kathy said, 'Has Sir Nigel Hadden-Vane been keeping in touch since Mr Moszynski died?'

'I haven't seen him here lately, but he was at the funeral.'

'They had some disagreements recently, didn't they?'

Ellen looked surprised. 'I was never aware of this.'

'Wasn't Mrs Marta Moszynski giving Sir Nigel a hard time?'

'Oh . . .' Ellen chuckled. 'You've heard about that. Yes, she can be, well, difficult. I heard her . . . No, I shouldn't gossip.'

'Ellen, this is a murder inquiry. You have to help me understand the dynamics here so that I don't go off on the wrong track.'

'Of course. It's just that Marta can be quite imperious. She sometimes speaks to people as if they're her servants.'

'Especially Sir Nigel.'

'Yes, he does seem to cop it. I was shocked sometimes.'

'What sort of things?'

Ellen dropped her voice. 'Once I overheard him objecting to something she'd asked him to do for them, I don't know what, and she said that if she told him to lick her . . .'

Kathy watched Ellen's face go bright pink. 'Yes?'

'. . . her fat Russian a.r.s.e, then he'd b.l.o.o.d.y well do it. Those were her words, Inspector, not mine.'

Kathy laughed, and Ellen joined in, with a look of relief.

'Marta's got a pretty good command of English when she needs it,' Kathy said.

'Oh yes. You don't want to get on the wrong side of her tongue.'

'And she could be hard on Mikhail too, couldn't she? That Monday before he was killed, I believe they had a big row.'

'Really? Monday . . . No, I don't remember that. But later that week, it must have been the Friday, the day after the American lady was killed, I know he was very upset about that, and she made some remark to him that made him angry.'

'What sort of remark?'

'Oh, she came in here to get the newspaper, and it was open to the report of the woman's death-Mikhail had been reading it-and she made a rude comment about Americans, and he got angry with her.'

Kathy waited while the secretary printed off half a dozen more letters that Mikhail had composed, then thanked her and left.

It was raining when she stepped out into Cunningham Place, and she hesitated for a moment, pulling the collar of her coat up, before running to the end of the block and up the steps of the hotel. Deb, leaning on the counter reading the morning paper, gave her a broad smile.