Chelsea Mansions Read Online Free

simple.’
    ‘Yes, yes. I’ve been talking to the Press Bureau about that, and they’re anxious for us to hold a press conference immediately to contain rumours. Let’s get Marilyn in.’
    Marilyn was the senior media strategist with the MPS Press Bureau, and a woman of swift and decisive opinions. She came in and eyed Brock and Kathy for a moment, then nodded.
    ‘Yes, just you two.’
    Brock said, ‘Wouldn’t a senior figure, an AC, or Commander Sharpe, lend weight?’
    She shook her head. ‘At this stage it would smack of panic. We’re treating this as a highly professional but essentially routine response, right?’
    Sharpe nodded.
    ‘Do you really need me?’ Kathy said.
    ‘Absolutely. Bad news comes best from an attractive young woman.’ She gave Kathy a humourless smile that might have been ironic or sarcastic. ‘Brock, you first, with an outline of the facts and the police response. Rigorous, dedicated, no stone unturned. Gravitas . For Christ’s sake nothing about Americans being safer in London than Boston, or Chelsea crime statistics or anything like that—it sounds defensive. You, Kathy, the human side—sympathy for the family, appeal for support from the public. Brief response to questions. We’ll plant a final one for you to end on a positive note.’

THREE
    T he following morning a young man sat in a café in Edgeware Road reading a newspaper report of the murder in Sloane Street. At that moment a TV mounted up in the corner of the room began showing highlights of the police press conference on the same subject. He watched with a particular intensity as first Brock and then Kathy spoke to the camera. The waitress, approaching him with his order of bacon and eggs, put him in his late twenties. He had a rather serious, studious air about him with the glasses and the way he rubbed his jaw, studying the screen. Tall, dark, quite nice, but not her type.
    ‘Fancy her then, do you?’ she asked, thumping the plate down in front of him.
    ‘Sorry?’ The news moved on to something else and he turned his attention to her.
    ‘The blonde cop. Reckon she’s attractive?’
    ‘Oh . . . yeah, I guess so.’
    ‘American, are you?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    ‘They always put a blonde on to tell bad news.’
    ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re probably right.’
    ‘I like the other one, with the beard.’
    ‘He’s way too old for you.’
    ‘Yeah, but he’s got a twinkle in his eye, don’t you reckon?’
    The man frowned, as if he found the idea mildly disturbing.
    ‘Anyway, I’ll let you eat your breakfast.’
    After he’d finished he walked down to Marble Arch and crossed into Hyde Park. It was a fine May day, a cool breeze sending puffy white clouds scudding across a pale blue sky, and as he made his way deeper into the park, the grass as high as his knees, it seemed as if he might be far away in the countryside. Then he was crossing the broad path of Rotten Row, its sandy surface stamped with horses’ hooves, and was plunged back into the city, making his way across Knightsbridge into Sloane Street before turning off into the side streets to reach the relative stillness of Cunningham Place.
    A bell on the front door tinkled as he stepped inside, and a mature, rather intimidating-looking woman straightened up from a computer behind the counter and gave him the once-over.
    ‘Good morning,’ she said.
    ‘Good morning. I wonder if you have a room?’
    ‘I’m afraid not. We’re full.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘Four-oh-two’s free.’ The voice came from behind the woman, and a man, previously hidden, appeared around her shoulder and peered at the stranger through darkened round glasses. ‘Canadian?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Yes, I can usually tell the difference.’
    ‘But four-oh-two . . .’ the woman began to object, then shrugged. ‘Fourth floor. We don’t have a lift, I’m afraid, but you’re young and fit. How long for?’
    ‘I’m not sure. A week? Maybe more.