Rough Justice (24 page)

It took only seconds for the implication to strike home to Sean Fahy. “Dear God, no, not that.”

He went back up the cul-de-sac and, in a frenzy of activity, replaced the manhole cover and put everything back in the van. His stomach was burning, the pain terrible, and he turned against the wall and was very sick indeed.

Abdul moved in behind him. “Are you okay, man?”

“No, I’m not.”

“What do I do now?”

“Whatever the hell you want.”

He was in despair as he got in the van, reversed, and turned into Dover Street and passed the house. He didn’t know what to do, but the truth was there was nothing he could do, and he continued to drive slowly through Mayfair.

 
 
SHORTLY AFTERWARD,
Ellis Vaughan drove to the end of a street leading into Park Lane. As he approached, the lights changed to green, so he put his foot on the accelerator to catch the light, braking as he encountered heavy traffic, and in a few desperate and horrific minutes, discovered his brakes no longer worked. It was like gliding on the rain-wet road, and he bounced one car to his left, spun in a half-circle, and ended up pointing the wrong way in the fast lane. The driver of the bus hurtling toward him could do nothing in the heavy traffic conditions of the morning rush hour. The bus plowed into the Amara, hurling it to one side like a toy. Olivia Hunt had barely time to cry out, but Vaughan heard her and then he heard nothing.

 
 
CONGESTION AND THE ENORMOUS
buildup of traffic led Fahy in the right direction. He left his van in a courtyard and proceeded on foot. The police were there in force, had closed that side of the dual carriageway. There were three ambulances already, a Fire Service recovery vehicle, men working on the wreckage. Fahy joined the onlookers on the pavement and watched as what looked like the driver was pulled out. There was more work going on at the back of the car.

A police motorcyclist in black leathers came across. “Come on, folks, you’re blocking the pavement, keep moving.”

“Anyone dead?” a middle-aged woman asked.

“Don’t know. They’ve pulled out a chauffeur and he’s on his way to hospital. There’s a woman in the back, and getting her out is awkward. If you want to know any more, you’ll have to buy an
Evening Standard.
”

People started to move, but Fahy lingered, watching, as they finally got Olivia Hunt out and onto a board and into an ambulance. He turned away slowly and went back to the van, left it where it was, and returned to Kilburn.

 
 
MILLER DECIDED
to stay home for a while that morning. He’d brought plenty of papers home from the Cabinet Office. It was just nine forty-five when the front doorbell sounded. He was whistling cheerfully as he moved along the hall, dodged into the sitting room, and glanced out through the window to see who it was. A police car was parked beside the Mini Cooper, and two officers, a man and a woman sergeant, were at the door. He frowned and opened the door.

“Major Miller, sir?” the sergeant asked. “I wonder if we could speak to you?”

“Yes, what’s it about?”

At the same moment, his phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said to the police. “Do come in.”

It was Henry Frankel, the Cabinet Secretary, at the other end. “My God, Harry, this is so terrible. I don’t know how to tell you.”

“What’s so terrible, Henry, what on earth are you talking about?” And then he saw the distress on the woman police sergeant’s face and she put a hand on his arm.

“Please sit down, sir. I really think it would be best.”

And somehow he knew; the police always sent a man and a woman when it was the worst of bad news. He stepped into the sitting room and sat on a chair very carefully, and she took his phone and said, “Sergeant Bell here, sir, we’re just breaking the bad news to Major Miller now. Yes, I’ll tell him that.”

She put the phone on the small table beside Miller and nodded to her colleague. “George?”

He went to the drinks sideboard, poured a brandy, handed it to Miller. “It was Mr. Frankel from Downing Street, sir. He said the Prime Minister is devastated.”

“About what?” Miller asked with a strange kind of patience.

“Your wife. I’m afraid there’s been a dreadful accident on Park Lane.”

“How bad?” Miller asked.

The sergeant was actually crying. “She was dead when they took her out.”

Miller’s face was wiped clean of any kind of emotion. “And the chauffeur?”

“He’s still with us, but dreadfully injured. They’ve taken them both to Guy’s Hospital.” Miller took the brandy down in one swallow. “Tell me, is it five hours backward to American time or six?” he asked.

“I think you’ll find it’s six, sir.” She hesitated. “Can we take you to the hospital?”

“That’s very kind, but I’ve just got a couple of calls to make. Why don’t you and your friend make a nice cup of tea in the kitchen.”

She nodded and they went out. It was four o’clock in the morning in Washington, but what were friends for?

Blake Johnson was aroused from a deep sleep by the call. Codex orientated, he knew it must be important, but he was totally shocked by Miller’s news and was instantly fully alert.

“What can I do, Harry? Anything!”

“Her father, Senator George Hunt, lives in Georgetown. The President said he knew him.”

“We all do.”

“He lives alone, a widower. Olivia was his only child, the apple of his eye. It’s an imposition, but could you possibly find it in yourself to be the one to break the news? I would just be a voice on the phone, and I think he’s going to need more.”

“I’ll handle it, I promise, and I’ll make sure he has an early flight.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Next he phoned Roper. “Have you heard?” he asked when Roper answered.

“I’ve just been watching the morning program on television. There’s been a news flash. What can I say? I’m very sorry. Ellis Vaughan seems to be in a coma. And you know about Olivia?”

“Yes. What happens now?”

“There’ll be an autopsy, that’s the law, Harry.”

“Of course. It’s unpleasant to think about what that means. I’m going to Guy’s now. I’ll let you know when I have more information.”

He phoned Monica but got only her housekeeper. “She’s lecturing, Major. Was it important?”

“Yes, Mrs. Jones. My wife has just been killed in London in a car accident. Tell her to contact me when she can.”

He took the mug the sergeant offered and drank about half. He forced a smile. “You’ve been very kind. Let’s go now.”

And at Cambridge, Mrs. Jones ventured onto the stage where Monica stood at the lectern addressing a hundred students. To those watching, Monica seemed to stagger, then held on to the lectern tightly.

“My dear friends,” she said. “I’ve just received the most distressing family news. I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.”

 
 
AT GUY’S HOSPITAL,
Miller was taken through to a private reception area, where he discovered Ferguson and Dillon.

Ferguson said, “A terrible business, Harry.”

Dillon simply gripped his hand tightly for a moment, and Miller said, “What’s happening?”

“We’ve got the best two men in London here,” Ferguson told him. “Professor Henry Bellamy, a great surgeon, who was here to meet the arrival of both ambulances. Also, Professor George Langley, our foremost forensic pathologist. They’ll be with us soon.”

At that moment, Henry Bellamy came in wearing theater greens. “Major Miller, I’m so dreadfully sorry, but there was absolutely nothing we could do to save your wife.”

Miller took a deep breath. “Can you be more specific?”

“She had massive internal injuries, a huge shock to the heart.” He paused. “The scan shows a broken neck. If it’s of any comfort to you at all, it all would have killed her instantly. There would have been no pain.”

Miller said calmly, “May I see her?”

“Of course, she’s being prepared now for autopsy. You do realize we need to do that?”

“Certainly. I’ve been familiar with the death business for some years now.”

“I’ll mention it to my colleague, Professor Langley.” At that moment, the man in question entered reception. He wore a tweed suit, an open-necked shirt. “Here he is,” Bellamy said. “Henry, you know Ferguson and Dillon, of course. This is Major Harry Miller.”

“Sorry for the delay,” Langley said, and shook Miller’s hand. “I’ve been visiting the site in Park Lane. This must be a coroner’s inquest, of course, and an autopsy. A dreadful business for you, Major.”

“I would like to see my wife as soon as possible.”

“You shall.”

“How long?”

“An hour to an hour and a half.”

“I think I’d like to look at the accident site myself.” He turned to Ferguson. “Charles?”

“Of course. We’ll go with you.”

Miller nodded. “And how is Ellis Vaughan?”

“Massive internal injuries, fractured pelvis, fractured skull. I will be commencing serious surgery soon,” Bellamy told him. “He is unconscious, and I suspect traumatic coma.”

“So there’s no chance of us knowing what went wrong?”

“Certainly not at the moment.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you again later.”

 
 
STRANGE HOW QUICKLY
life moved on in a great city. There was virtually no sign of what had happened. Ferguson, Dillon, and Miller got out and stood on the curb.

“You’d never know anything had happened,” Miller said. “Were there any casualties on the bus?”

“I spoke to the superintendent at Traffic,” Ferguson said. “People were thrown from their seats, five had to be taken to A and E. I believe a woman had a broken arm. The bus, of course, is in a traffic impound, along with the Amara, or what’s left of it.”

“Could we go there?”

“Of course. You know where, don’t you, Hawkins?”

“I certainly do, General.”

 
 
THERE WAS AN ENORMOUS GARAGE,
many vehicles there and all the worse for wear. A police sergeant in an oil-stained white overall took them to the Amara. They stood looking at it in silence. Finally, Miller said, “It’s difficult to imagine anyone surviving.”

The limousine was an absolute wreck, the engine cover torn away, the engine itself smashed to pieces, oil, petrol, and brake fluid everywhere.

“How can you ever tell what happened when you look at a mess like that?”

“With great difficulty, sir, and possibly never. We have another problem. With the chauffeur in the state he is, we’ve no means of knowing what went wrong. Statements from many people say that he emerged from the side street at some speed into the congestion of the morning rush hour.”

“It baffles me, Sergeant. He’s been my chauffeur for some time. A thoroughly competent driver, an ex-paratrooper.”

“Well, only he can tell us. We’ll just have to pray he pulls through.”

Miller’s phone sounded and he answered. “Dreadful, Harry, dreadful, what can I say?” It was the director of the play. “Colin Carlton is distraught, positively suicidal.”

“I expect he’ll get over it,” Miller commented. “Did you want something?”

“Just to say we’re going dark for the rest of the week as a mark of respect. We’ll spend the time bringing the understudy up to speed and open again next week.”

“Well, you know what they say, Roger, the show must go on.”

He cut him off and turned to the others. “I’ve seen enough. Thanks a lot, Sergeant.”

“I’ll do my best, sir, terrible business.”

And to that there was no answer, for it would be said by one person after another as a constant.

 
 
BACK IN DERRY STREET,
Fahy sat at the desk in the garage, stomach burning, and poured the Bushmills down, as close to despair as he had ever been. Strange when one considered the deaths at his hands over the years, and yet this was different and he knew why. Maggie was a part of it. Her new situation had been bought at a terrible price.

The phone rang and the Broker said, “What went wrong?”

“Not a thing. Everything worked perfectly, except for the woman coming out of the front door and jumping in the Amara. One minute, the chauffeur was having breakfast and waiting for Miller, the next it was all hurry.”

“Are you certain a police examination of the wreckage won’t discover the cause?”

“Nothing’s absolute in this life, but it’s very unlikely.”

“I hear the chauffeur is doing very poorly, may never come out of his coma. We’ll just have to hope he dies.”

“My God,” Fahy said. “What kind of man are we? You’ll be suggesting next that we’ll send someone in the hospital to pull out his tubes or something.”

“It’s a thought. Desperate measures are sometimes necessary, my friend. You would do well to remember that.”

 
 
SAM BOLTON
caught it on television in his office and phoned Hassim angrily.

“You bastard,” he said. “I knew there was more to this when you sent me to Folly’s End to check on Miller. You were planning a contract on him then.”

“Careful what you say,” Hassim told him.

“Obviously, whatever happened was intended for him. His wife was just in the car at the wrong time.”

“Keep your tongue still, Selim,” Hassim told him. “It can easily be cut off.”

“Why don’t you go and fuck yourself,” Bolton told him, and slammed the phone down.

 
 
BACK AT THE HOSPITAL,
they found Monica waiting, looking terrible, quite distraught. She ran into Miller’s arms. “What are we going to do, Harry? It’s unbelievable. I was only on the phone with her yesterday.”

“Nothing to be done, love, except lay her to rest as best we can.”

At that moment, George Langley appeared in green theater overalls. “There you are, Major. I’ve had things prepared, now I’m ready to proceed. Do you still wish to come in?”

“Yes, I think I would. This is my sister, Lady Starling.”