Chelsea Mansions
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
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Cataloguing-in-publication details are available
from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
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
T
he 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 crowd. ‘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.
