Thunder Point (11 page)

Once inside they worked their way methodically through the Admiral’s study, searching every drawer, pulling the books from the shelves, checking for signs of a safe and finding none.

Finally, Smith said, “Waste of time. It isn’t here. Go and get the van open.”

He unplugged the Admiral’s word processor and followed Johnson out, putting it in the back of the van. They went back inside and Johnson said, “What else?”

“See if there’s a television or video in the living room, then take this typewriter.”

Johnson did as he was told. When he returned to the living room Smith was screwing the head of the telephone back into place.

“You’re tapping the phone?”

“Why not? We might hear something to our advantage.”

“Is that smart? I mean, the kind of people we’re dealing with, Intelligence people, they’re not rubbish.”

“Look, to all intents and purposes this is just another hit-and-run burglary,” Smith told him. “Anyway, Mr. Santiago wants a result on this one and you don’t screw around with him, believe me. Now let’s get moving.”

Mrs. Mishra, the Admiral’s housekeeper, didn’t normally arrive until nine o’clock, but the fact that she’d had the previous day off meant there was laundry to take care of so she had decided to make an early start. As she turned the corner of Lord North Street and walked toward the house, an overcoat over her sari against the early morning chill, she saw the two men come out of the house.

She hurried forward. “Is there a problem?”

They turned toward her. Smith said urbanely, “Not that I know of. Who are you, love?”

“Mrs. Mishra, the housekeeper.”

“Problem with one of the telephones. We’ve taken care of it. You’ll find everything’s fine now.”

They got in the van, Johnson behind the wheel, and drove away. Johnson said, “Unfortunate that.”

“No big deal. She’s Indian, isn’t she? We’re just another couple of white faces to her.”

Smith lit a cigarette and leaned back, enjoying the view of the river as they turned into Millbank.

Mrs. Mishra didn’t notice anything was amiss because the study door was half-closed. She went into the kitchen, put her bag on the table and saw the Admiral’s note. As she was reading it she became aware of a draft, turned and saw the broken pane in the door.

“Oh my God!” she said in horror.

She quickly went back along the passage and checked the living room, noticed the absence of the television and video at once. The state of the study confirmed her worst fears and she immediately picked up the phone and dialed 999 for the police emergency service.

Travers recognized Jenny Grant at once as she emerged into the arrival hall at Gatwick pushing her suitcase on a trolley. She wore a three-quarter-length tweed coat over a white blouse and jeans and she looked tired and strained, dark circles under her eyes.

“Jenny?” he said as he approached. “Do you remember me? Garth Travers?”

“Of course I do, Admiral.” She tried a smile and failed miserably.

He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You look bushed, my dear. Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve got a car waiting. Let me take your case.”

The driver put the case in the boot of the Daimler and Travers joined her in the rear. As they drove away he said, “I expect you to stay with me, naturally, if that’s all right?”

“You’re very kind. Will you do something for me?” She was almost pleading. “Will you tell me exactly what happened?”

“From what witnesses have told the police he simply looked the wrong way and stepped in front of a bus.”

“What a bloody stupid way to go.” There was a kind of anger in her voice now. “I mean, here we had a sixty-three-year-old man who insisted on diving every day, sometimes to a hundred and thirty feet in hazardous conditions, and he has to die in such a stupid and trivial way.”

“I know. Life’s a bit of a bad joke sometimes. Would you care for a cigarette?”

“As a matter of fact, I would. I gave up six months ago, started again on the plane coming over last night.” She took one from the packet he offered and accepted a light. “There’s something else I’d like, and before we do anything else.”

“What’s that?”

“To see him,” she said simply.

“I thought you might,” Garth Travers said. “That’s where we’re going now.”

The undertaker’s was a pleasant enough place, considering what it was. The waiting room was panelled and banked with flowers. An old man in black suit and a tie entered.

“May I help you?”

“Mr. Cox? I’m Admiral Travers and this is Miss Grant. You were expecting us, I believe?”

“Of course.” His voice was a whisper. “If you would come this way.”

There were several rooms off a rear corridor with sliding doors open revealing coffins standing on trestles and flowers everywhere, the smell quite overpowering. Mr. Cox led the way into the end one. The coffin was quite simple, made of mahogany.

“As I had no instructions I had to do the best I could,” Cox said. “The fittings are gold plastic as I assumed cremation would be the intention.”

He slid back the lid and eased the gauze from the face. Henry Baker looked very calm in death, eyes closed, face pale. Jenny put a hand to his face, slightly dislodging the gauze.

Cox carefully rearranged the gauze. “I wouldn’t, miss.”

She was bewildered for a moment and Travers said, “There was an autopsy, my dear, had to be, it’s a court requirement. They’ll be holding a coroner’s inquest, you see. Day after tomorrow.”

She nodded. “It doesn’t matter, he’s gone now. Can we leave, please?”

In the car he gave her another cigarette. “Are you all right?”

“Absolutely.” She smiled suddenly. “He was a smashing fella, Admiral, isn’t that what they say in England? The dearest, kindest man I ever knew.” She took a deep breath.

“Where to now?”

“My house in Lord North Street. You’d probably like a bath, rest up a little and so on.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes.

The surprise at Lord North Street was the police car. The front door stood open and Travers hurried up the steps, Jenny behind him. He went into the hall and found the chaos in his study instantly, followed the sounds of voices and found Mrs. Mishra and a young policewoman in the kitchen.

“Oh, Admiral,” Mrs. Mishra said as he entered. “Such a terrible thing. They have stolen many things. The television, your word processor and typewriter. The study is such a mess, but I saw their names on their overalls.”

“Admiral Travers?” the policewoman said. “Typical daytime robbery, I’m afraid, sir. They gained access through that door.”

She indicated the hole in the glass. Travers said, “The bloody swine.”

“They were in a Telecom van,” Mrs. Mishra said. “Telephone engineers. I saw them leave. Imagine such a thing.”

“That’s a common ploy during the day, sir,” the policewoman said, “to pass themselves off as some kind of workmen.”

“I don’t suppose there’s much chance of catching them either?” Travers inquired.

“I doubt it, sir, I really do. Now if I could have full details about what’s missing.”

“Yes, of course, just give me a moment.” He turned to Jenny. “Sorry about this. Mrs. Mishra, this is Miss Grant. She’ll be staying for a while. Tell the driver to take her case up and show her to her room.”

“Of course, Admiral.”

Mrs. Mishra ushered Jenny out and Travers said to the policewoman, “There’s a chance there could be more to this than meets the eye, officer. I’ll just make a phone call and I’ll be with you directly.”

“Smith and Johnson,” Ferguson said. “That’s a good one.”

“Seems like a run-of-the-mill daytime robbery, sir,” Lane said. “All the usual hallmarks. They only took the kind of portable items that convert to quick cash. The television, video and the rest.”

“Rather sophisticated, I would have thought, having their very own Telecom van.”

“Probably stolen, sir. We’ll run a check.”

“Rather fortunate I relieved Travers of the diary and the translation software he’d made from it if they were looking for something more important than television sets.”

“You really think it could have been that, sir?”

“All I know is that I learned a long time ago to suspect coincidence, Jack. I mean, how often does Garth Travers leave the house at seven-thirty in the morning? They must have seen him go.”

“And you think taking the run-of-the-mill kind of stuff was just a blind?”

“Perhaps.”

“But how would they know about the existence of the diary, sir?”

“Yes, well that is the interesting point.” Ferguson frowned. “I’ve had a thought, Jack. Go to Lord North Street. Get one of your old friends from Special Branch, someone who specializes in bugging devices, to do a sweep.”

“You really think . . . ?”

“I don’t think anything, Jack, I’m merely considering all the options. Now on your way.”

Lane went out and Ferguson picked up the phone and rang Lord North Street and spoke to Travers. “How’s your guest?”

“Fine. Bearing up remarkably well.”

Ferguson looked at his watch. “Bring her to my place in Cavendish Square at about twelve-thirty. We might as well get on with it, but don’t say a word. Leave it all to me.”

“You can rely on me.”

Travers put the phone down and went into the living room, where Jenny sat by the fire drinking coffee. “Sorry about all this,” he said, “a hell of an introduction.”

“Not your fault.”

He sat down. “We’ll go out soon for a spot of lunch, but I’d like to introduce you to an old friend of mine, Brigadier Charles Ferguson.”

She was an astute young woman and sensed something at once. “Did he know Henry?”

“Not directly.”

“But this is something to do with Henry?”

He reached across and patted her hand. “All in good time, my dear, just trust me.”

Santiago was still at his suite at the Ritz when the man who called himself Smith phoned through from London. “Not a thing, guv, certainly nothing like you described.”

“Hardly surprising, but it was worth checking,” Santiago said. “A nice clean job, I trust.”

“Sure, guv, just made it look run-of-the-mill. I tapped the phone, just in case you wanted to listen in.”

“You did what?” Santiago was coldly angry. “I told you, these are Intelligence people involved in this one, the kind of people who check everything.”

“Sorry, guv, I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“Never mind, it’s too late now. Just drop any other commissions you have at the moment and wait to hear from me,” and Santiago put the phone down.

In the living room at Cavendish Square Jenny sat beside the fire opposite Ferguson and Travers stood by the window.

“So you see, Miss Grant,” Ferguson said, “there will have to be a coroner’s inquest, which is set for the day after tomorrow.”

“And I can have the body then?”

“Well that is really a matter for the next of kin.”

She opened her handbag and took out a paper, which she unfolded and passed to him. “Henry took up serious diving a year or so ago.”

“Rather old for that, I should have thought,” Ferguson said.

“Yes, well he had a near-miss one day. Ran out of air at fifty feet. Oh, he made it to the surface okay, but he immediately went to his lawyer and had him draw up a power of attorney in my name.”

Ferguson looked it over. “That seems straightforward enough. I’ll see that it’s passed to the coroner.” He reached down at the side of the sofa and produced Friemel’s aluminium briefcase. “Have you seen this before?”

She looked puzzled. “No.”

“Or this?” He opened it and took out the diary.

“No, never.” She frowned. “What is this?”

Ferguson said, “Did Mr. Baker tell you why he was coming to London?”

She looked at him, then turned to glance at Travers, then she turned back. “Why do you think he came here, Brigadier?”

“Because he discovered the wreck of a German submarine somewhere off St. John, Miss Grant. Did he tell you about that?”

Jenny Grant took a deep breath. “Yes, Brigadier, he did tell me. He said he’d been diving and that he’d discovered a submarine and a briefcase.”

“This case,” he said, “with this diary inside. What else did he tell you?”

“Well, it was in German, which he didn’t understand, but he did recognize the name Martin Bormann and . . .” Here she paused.

Ferguson said gently, “And . . . ?”

“The Duke of Windsor,” she said lamely. “Look, I know it sounds crazy but . . .”

“Not crazy at all, my dear. And where did Mr. Baker find this U-boat?”

“I’ve no idea. He wouldn’t tell me.”

There was a pause while Ferguson glanced at Travers. He sighed. “You are absolutely certain of that, Miss Grant?”

“Of course I am. He said he didn’t want to tell me for the time being. He was very excited about his find.” She paused, frowning. “Look, what are you trying to tell me, Brigadier? What’s going on here? Does this have something to do with Henry’s death?”

“No, not at all,” he said soothingly and nodded to Travers.

The Admiral said, “Jenny, poor old Henry’s death was a complete accident. We have plenty of witnesses. He stepped into the path of a London Transport bus. The driver was a sixty-year-old Cockney who won the Military Medal for Gallantry in the Korean War in nineteen fifty-two as an infantry private. Just an accident, Jenny.”

“So, you’ve no idea where the U-boat lies?” Ferguson asked again.

“Is it important?”

“Yes, it could be.”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. If you want my opinion, it would have to be somewhere far out.”

“Far out? What do you mean?”

“Most of the dive sites that tourists use from St. Thomas and St. John are within reasonable distance. There are plenty of wrecks around, but the idea that a German U-boat had remained undiscovered since the end of the war,” she shook her head, “that’s nonsense. It could only happen if it was somewhere remote and far out.”