Angel of Death (26 page)

“Good God!” he said. “Tell me.”

So she did.

She found a large plastic bag in the kitchen and put in it an old navy-blue tracksuit, a light raincoat, some trainers, and a pair of black leather, flat-heeled shoes. She went to her safe, opened it, and took out two bundles of ten-pound notes, a thousand pounds in each. She placed a bundle in each of the black shoes, thought about things for a while, then rolled up a kitchen towel and added that also.

When she left the house fifteen minutes later, she wore an old Burberry and carried an umbrella against the rain. She turned along the pavement to where she had parked her red Mini, opened it, and got in.

Hannah, parked farther along on the other side of the road, watched all this with interest, following her as Grace Browning pulled out into the heavy traffic, driving toward Westminster, skirting the Tower of London until she reached Wapping High Street, finally parking close to a department store. There was room a couple of cars behind and Hannah pulled in and switched off her engine.

Grace got out the plastic bag, locked her car, then paused to put money into the parking meter. She turned and made for the main entrance of the department store and went inside. Hannah went after her, but when she went into the store, it was crowded with shoppers and no way of knowing which department her quarry had gone to, and there was also the chance that if she went walk-about looking for her she might miss Grace leaving. She decided to take a chance and returned to her car.

Grace Browning at that moment was visiting the toilet and rest room at the bottom of a short flight of steps at the rear of the building. There was a door which said Staff Only. She’d used it once out of curiosity and had discovered that it led into an alley at the side of the store. She hurried along to the end and came out onto the waterfront.

She walked quickly to an area of decaying warehouses, St. James’s Stairs, not too far away. She knew this place well, had once done an episode for a television thriller here. There was a narrow alley called Dock Street, nothing but boarded-up windows and several old dustbins. She was taking a chance, but there was a risk in everything now. She pushed the plastic bag down behind the dustbins, pulled a dirty old sack over it, turned, and hurried back.

She was entering the staff door at the department store five minutes after exiting from it, went up the stairs, walked to an area displaying bedding and towels, chose a couple of towels at random, paid for them, and waited while the assistant packed them into a white plastic bag similar to the one she had entered the store with.

Hannah saw her at once as she came out of the entrance and walked to her Mini. Grace opened the door, tossed the plastic bag in the rear, and slid behind the wheel. If she was being followed, she’d fooled them nicely, she was certain of that, and she pulled into the traffic, followed by Hannah.

A little while later she approached Wapping Underground Station and turned into the multi-story car park that was close by. She drove into the basement and pulled up at the car valeting service. Hannah followed, taking a vacant parking spot, and watched.

Grace smiled at the young black man in overalls who came out of the office. “A wash and wax would be fine. Can you manage that?”

“No problem. When do you want it?”

“The fact is I’m doing a show tonight and I might be late. Ten o’clock, something like that.”

“We close at seven.”

“Couldn’t you leave the keys under the mat for me?”

“Well we aren’t supposed to do that, lady.”

She opened her purse. “How much will it be?”

“Twenty pounds.”

“That’s fine.” She handed him a twenty-pound note and gave him her most dazzling smile as she also produced a five-pound note. “Perhaps you’d make an exception. I’d really be very grateful.”

He smiled. “I could never resist a beautiful woman. You’ll find it over there on that yellow section.”

“Bless you,” she said, turned and walked down the ramp, passing Hannah, who watched her go, then pulled out and followed.

Grace walked along the pavement until she saw an approaching black cab. She hailed it and got inside. Hannah followed and fifteen minutes later found herself once again in Cheyne Walk, where Grace paid off her taxi driver and went inside.

Hannah called in to the office and spoke to Ferguson. “She took a drive to Wapping High Street, did some shopping at a department store, then she left her car with a valeting service next to Wapping Underground Station and caught a taxi home.”

“As I told you, Chief Inspector, there was no need for surveillance. She’ll be there tonight, I’m sure of it. However, if it gives you peace of mind to stay and keep watch, do so. Dillon and I will see you at the theatre. I must go now. I’m due at Downing Street.”

Simon Carter was already seated in the Prime Minister’s study when Ferguson was shown in.

“Ah, there you are, Brigadier. We’ve just been discussing those two extraordinary deaths. Fill us in as much as you can.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

Ferguson described in detail the events in Devon which had led to Rupert Lang’s death. He also told them as much as he knew about Tom Curry’s suicide.

“Strange,” Carter said when he’d finished. “That remark Rupert Lang made about another Bloody Sunday. What in hell was that supposed to mean? Is Keogh at risk? Is that the reference to a Sunday? Do you think there is a threat of some sort?”

“
Was
a threat,” Ferguson said. “Certainly there is no threat now. Two dead, Belov trapped in the Soviet Embassy.”

“And the woman?” Carter demanded.

“We’ll pick her up after her show tonight. My Chief Inspector is on her tail. She isn’t going anywhere.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “I wish we could keep this whole damn thing under wraps. My God, a Minister of the Crown a traitor.” He smiled ruefully. “And I’m not just thinking of the welfare of the Conservative Party, though there would be those who think so.”

“We’ll have to see, Prime Minister, but there is a legal difficulty. Many murders have been committed by January 30, and we know now that Grace Browning was responsible for a number of them. Rather difficult to get round that.”

“God help us all then,” the Prime Minister said.

It was about six forty-five when Grace Browning appeared from the side of the house in Cheyne Walk on the BMW. She sat astride it wearing her usual black leathers and adjusted her helmet so that anyone watching could be sure it was her, then she rode away and Hannah pulled out and followed her.

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the King’s Head. Grace Browning parked the BMW and got off. Hannah pulled up and watched her take off her helmet and enter. When she was satisfied that Grace was safely in, she found a parking space herself.

She saw Ferguson’s Daimler with his chauffeur at the wheel a few vehicles away, crossed the pavement and went into the King’s Head, which was crowded as usual just before a show started. Ferguson and Dillon were at the far end of the bar and Dillon called to her.

As she approached he said, “Jesus, woman, a fine boring day you’ve given yourself.”

“Never mind, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “Have a drink.”

“No, thank you, sir, I’m driving.”

“God save us, what a woman, but as it happens I’m not.” Dillon turned to the barman. “Another Bushmills while the going’s good.”

A moment later the five-minute warning sounded over the tannoy and everyone crowded in. They found their table and settled, the lights dimmed, and a moment later Grace Browning came on stage to strong applause.

When the intermission lights went up Ferguson said, “She is really quite remarkable. All that talent. What a pity.”

Dillon stood up. “I’m going to go round and speak to her.”

“No you’re bloody well not. I mean, what for?” Ferguson demanded.

“Because I bloody well feel like it.”

Hannah stood up. “Then if you go, I do.”

“Suit yourself.”

Grace Browning’s dressing room was cramped and untidy. She was drinking a glass of white wine when Dillon knocked and entered.

“Why, Dillon!” She looked genuinely pleased. “Was I any good?”

“Bloody marvelous and you know it. This, by the way, is Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, one of Scotland Yard’s finest.”

“What a pleasure,” Grace said.

“We will be expecting you to accompany us after the finish of the play,” Hannah said. “I hope you understand that.”

“Oh, I do.” Grace poured another glass of white wine. “Sorry how things worked out, Dillon. I think you and I could have been friends.”

He smiled and gave her the time-honored good wish from one actor to another. “Break a leg, my love,” he said, pushed Hannah Bernstein out of the door, and closed it.

At the play’s end, the applause was tumultuous, and when Grace Browning came on she received a standing ovation. She bowed, linked hands with other members of the cast, glanced toward Dillon and Ferguson and gave them an extra bow. When she went off she found Hannah in the corridor being jostled by members of the cast and stage crew.

“Ah, there you are, Chief Inspector. I must change.”

“Yes, you do that,” Hannah said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

In the dressing room Grace stripped, then pulled on her leathers. The one change from usual was that instead of wearing heavy leather boots she wore a pair of black dancer’s pumps. She went out, gloves in one hand and helmet in the other.

“You won’t need that,” Hannah said, nodding at the helmet.

“Oh, dear.” Grace Browning smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something if you’re going to charge me?” She smiled. “Not that it matters. You’ll have to excuse me. Call of nature.”

She had the door of the toilet on the right side of the corridor open and closed again in a second, the bolt rammed home. She’d checked the window earlier and now she stood on the toilet bowl as Hannah thundered on the door. Grace got the window open and dropped her gloves and helmet into the yard.

“Bye-bye, Chief Inspector,” she called and climbed through.

Outside in the corridor Hannah turned and ran into the theatre, where she found Ferguson and Dillon at the bar entrance.

“She’s done a runner,” Hannah called.

Dillon actually laughed. “Jesus, girl, that was careless of you,” and he turned and hurled his way through the crowded bar.

He arrived on the pavement, Hannah close behind, and there was a roaring in the night as Grace Browning exploded on the BMW. She skidded to a halt, caught for a moment by heavy traffic, and Hannah got the door of her car open and slid behind the wheel.

“In, Dillon, in!” she called and switched on her engine.

Ferguson shouted, “I’ll follow in the Daimler.”

Grace moved out into the traffic, turned to look at Hannah Bernstein’s car, and raised her arm in that inimitable salute to Dillon, then she was away. Hannah pulled a blue police reflecting light from under her seat, slammed it through the open window onto the roof, and went after her.

Grace sped down Upper Street, turned left at The Angel, and took the City Road, weaving in and out of heavy traffic, but Hannah, driving brilliantly and with the help of her police warning light, managed to stay on her tail.

Ferguson’s voice came through on the police radio she had fitted in her car. “What’s the position, Chief Inspector, we’re well behind.”

“Way down the City Road, sir,” she replied. “I’d say making for the City now.”

Grace turned off the road, moving from one street to another. Hannah said into the radio, “She seems to be aiming for the Tower of London.”

“All right, enough is enough,” Ferguson replied. “Put out a general alarm. I want her stopped.”

As Grace Browning reached St. Katherine’s Way, a police car moved to block her. She swerved around it and carried on. Hannah mounted the pavement to pass the police car and went after her.

They were into Wapping High Street now, and on the other side of the road, bearing down on her, Grace saw two police cars. One of them edged out to block her way and she put a foot down like a dirt rider, broadsided, and disappeared into a narrow side road. Hannah turned after her and the two police cars followed.

They twisted from one narrow street to another, passing between tall, decaying warehouses, old-fashioned street lamps on the corners, and finally turned into a slightly broader street, the lights of boats on the river beyond. She roared to the end of the street and stopped. Hannah braked to a halt, the two police cars behind her. The four uniformed men in them jumped out and ran forward.

“Detective Chief Inspector Bernstein,” Hannah told them.

“Is this important, ma’am?” a young sergeant asked.

“Very much so. The target is also highly dangerous. Are any of you armed?”

“Only me, ma’am,” the sergeant said and produced a Smith & Wesson.

At that moment the Daimler arrived with Ferguson, who got out and hurried forward. “This is Brigadier Ferguson, my boss,” Hannah said.

“What the hell is going on?” Ferguson demanded. “What’s she playing at?”

Grace Browning sat astride the motorcycle, the engine turning over as she looked toward them, anonymous in the dark helmet.

“She, sir?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes,” Ferguson told him, “but don’t let that deter you.”

“He’s right, son,” Dillon cut in. “You’ve never faced a harder prospect.” At the moment, Grace Browning raised her arm. “She’s coming!” Dillon cried.

She revved the engine and roared down the street toward them, putting a foot down at the last minute and sliding round, pointing the other way.

“What’s she playing at?” the sergeant asked. “No way out. A dead end. That’s Samson’s Wharf.”

Grace Browning increased her speed and at the last moment raised the front wheel and lifted off high over the edge of the Wharf, pausing for a moment, then plunging down into the Thames.

They all ran along the street and stood at the edge of the wharf looking down at the swirling water, but nothing showed except white foam in the murky yellow light from the street lamps and then the black helmet bobbed to the surface.