Thunder Point (14 page)

They passed Dillon and went out. Smith and Johnson got up and filed out with the other people while Ferguson busied himself with the Clerk of the Court.

It was sunny outside and yet Jenny shivered slightly and drew her collar about her throat. “It’s cold.”

“You could probably do with a hot drink,” Travers said, concerned.

Dillon was standing on the top step as Ferguson joined him. Smith and Johnson had paused a little distance away by the bus stop for Smith to take out a cigarette and Johnson was lighting it for him.

Dillon said to Ferguson, “Do you know those two?”

“Why, should I?” the Brigadier asked.

At that moment a bus stopped, Smith and Johnson and a couple of other people boarded it and it pulled away. “Brigadier, I’ve lasted all these years by trusting my instincts and they tell me we’ve got a couple of bad guys there. What were they doing at the inquest anyway?”

“Perhaps you’re right, Dillon. On the other hand, there are many people who view Court proceedings of any sort as free entertainment.”

“Is that a fact now?”

The Daimler drew in to the pavement at the bottom of the steps and Jack Lane got out and joined them. “Everything go off all right, sir?”

“Yes, Jack.” Ferguson handed him the Court order. “Give that to old Cox. Tell him we’d like the cremation carried out this afternoon.” He glanced at Jenny. “Three o’clock suit you?”

She nodded, paler than ever now. “No problem.”

Ferguson turned to Lane. “You heard. There were a couple of men in Court, by the way. Dillon had his doubts about them.”

“How could he tell?” Lane asked, ignoring the Irishman. “Were they wearing black hats?”

“Jesus, would you listen to the man?” Dillon said. “Such wit in him.”

Lane scowled, took an envelope from his pocket and held it out to Ferguson. “As you ordered, sir.”

“Give it to him then.”

Lane pushed it into Dillon’s hand. “A damn sight more than you deserve.”

“What have we got here then?” Dillon started to open the envelope.

“You need clothes, don’t you?” Ferguson said. “There’s a charge card for you in there and a thousand pounds.”

Dillon took the rather handsome piece of plastic out. It was an American Express Platinum Card in his own name. “Sweet Joseph and Mary, isn’t this going a little over the top, even for you, Brigadier?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. It’s all part of a new persona I’m creating for you. You’ll be told at the right time.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “Then I’ll be on my way. I’ll get spending.”

“And don’t forget a couple of suitcases, Dillon,” Ferguson said. “You’re going to need them. Lightweight clothing, it’s hot out there at this time of year, and if it’s not too much trouble, try and look like a gentleman.”

“Wait for me,” Jenny called and turned to the other two men. “I’ll go with Dillon. Nothing else to do and it will help me kill time. I’ll see you back at the house, Admiral.”

She went down the steps and hurried after Dillon. “What do you think?” Travers asked.

“Oh, she has depths, that girl, she’ll make out,” Ferguson said. “Now let’s get moving,” and he led the way down to the car.

As the Daimler was driving along Whitehall toward the Ministry of Defence, the car phone sounded. Lane, sitting on the pull-down seat, his back to the chauffeur, answered, then glanced up at Ferguson, a hand over the receiver.

“The Deputy Director, Brigadier. He says he’d like an updating on how things are going. Wonders whether you could meet him and Sir Francis at Parliament. Afternoon tea on the Terrace.”

“The cremation is at three,” Ferguson said.

“You don’t need to be there,” Travers told him. “I’ll see to it.”

“But I’d like to be there,” Ferguson said. “It’s the civilized thing to do. The girl needs our support.” He said to Lane, “Four-thirty to five. Best I can do.”

Lane confirmed the appointment and Travers said, “Very decent of you, Charles.”

“Me, decent?” Ferguson looked positively wicked. “I’ll take Dillon along and introduce him. Just imagine, Sean Dillon, the Carlos of our times, on the Terrace of the Houses of Parliament. I can’t wait to see Simon Carter’s face,” and he started to laugh helplessly.

Dillon and Jenny made for Harrods. “Try and look like a gentleman, that’s what the man said,” he reminded her. “What do you suggest?”

“A decent suit for general purposes, gray flannel perhaps and a blazer. A nice loose linen jacket and slacks, it really does get hot in St. John at this time of the year, really hot.”

“I’m yours to command,” he assured her.

They ended up in the bar upstairs with two suitcases filled with his purchases. “Strange having to buy an entire wardrobe,” she said. “Socks, shirts, underwear. What on earth happened to you?”

“Let’s say I had to leave where I was in a hurry.” He called over a waiter and ordered two glasses of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches.

“You like your champagne,” she said.

Dillon smiled. “As a great man once said, there are only two things that never let you down in this life. Champagne and scrambled eggs.”

“That’s ridiculous, scrambled eggs go off very quickly. Anyway, what about people? Can’t you rely on them?”

“I never had much of a chance of finding out. My mother died giving birth to me and I was her first, so no brothers or sisters. Then I was an actor. Few friends there. Your average actor would shoot his dear old granny if he thought it would get him the part.”

“You haven’t mentioned your father. Is he still around?”

“No, he was killed back in seventy-one in Belfast. He got caught in the cross-fire of a firefight. Shot dead by a British army patrol.”

“So you joined the IRA?”

“Something like that.”

“Guns and bombs, you thought that would be an answer?”

“There was a great Irishman called Michael Collins who led the fight for Irish freedom back in the early twenties. His favorite saying was something Lenin once said: ‘The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize, it’s the only way a small country can hope to take on a great nation and have any chance of winning.’ ”

“There’s got to be a better way,” she said. “People are fundamentally decent. Take Henry. I was a tramp, Dillon, drugged up to my eyeballs and working the streets in Miami. Any man could have me as long as the price was right and then along came Henry Baker, a decent and kindly man. He saw me through the drug unit, helped me rehabilitate, took me to St. John to share his house, set me up in business.” She was close to tears. “And he never asked me for a thing, Dillon, never laid a hand on me. Isn’t that the strangest thing?”

A life spent mainly on the move and one step ahead of trouble had left Dillon with little time for women. They were there on occasions to satisfy an urge, but no more than that and he’d never pretended otherwise, but now, sitting there opposite Jenny Grant, he felt a kind of warmth and sympathy that was new to him.

Jesus, Sean, don’t go falling for her, now there’s a good lad,
he thought, but reached over and put a hand on one of hers. “It will pass, girl, dear, everything does, the one sure thing in this wicked old life. Now have a sandwich, it’ll do you good.”

The crematorium was in Hampstead, a red brick building, reasonably functional looking but surrounded by rather pleasant parkland. There were poplar trees, beds of roses and other flowers of every description. The Daimler arrived with Dillon sitting up front beside the chauffeur, and Ferguson, Travers and the girl in the rear. Old Mr. Cox was waiting for them at the top of the steps, discreetly dressed in black.

“As you’ve asked for no kind of service I’ve already had the coffin taken in,” he said to Ferguson. “Presumably the young lady would like a final look?”

“Thank you,” Jenny said.

She followed him, Travers with a hand on her arm, and Ferguson and Dillon brought up the rear. The chapel was very plain, a few rows of chairs, a lectern, a cross on the wall. The coffin stood on a velvet-draped dais pointing at a curtained section of the wall. Music played faintly from some hidden tape recorder, dreary anodyne stuff. It was all very depressing.

“Would you care to see the deceased again?” Mr. Cox asked Jenny.

“No, thank you. I just wanted to say goodbye. Let him go now.”

She was totally dry-eyed as Cox pressed a button on a box in the wall and the coffin rolled forward, parting the curtains, and disappeared.

“What’s through there?” she asked.

“The furnace room.” Cox seemed embarrassed. “The ovens.”

“When can I have the ashes?”

“Later this afternoon. What would your needs be in that direction? Of course some people prefer to strew the ashes in our beautiful garden, but we do have a columbarium where the urn may be displayed with a suitable plaque.”

“No, I’ll take them with me.”

“That won’t be possible at the moment. It takes time, I’m afraid.”

Travers said, “Perhaps you could have the ashes delivered to my house in Lord North Street in a suitable receptacle.” He was embarrassed.

Cox said, “Of course.” He turned to Jenny. “I presume you’ll be flying back to the Caribbean, Miss Grant? We do provide a suitable container.”

“Thank you. Can we go now?” she asked Ferguson.

Travers and Jenny got into the Daimler and Dillon paused at the top of the steps. There was a car parked close to the entrance to the drive and Smith was standing beside it, looking across at them. Dillon recognized him instantly, but in the same moment, Smith got in the car and it shot away.

As Ferguson emerged from the chapel Dillon said, “One of those two men I saw at the inquest was standing over there a moment ago. Just driven away.”

“Really? Did you get the number?”

“Didn’t have a chance to see it, the angle the car was at. Blue Renault, I think. You don’t seem too worried.”

“Why should I be, I’ve got you, haven’t I? Now get in the car, there’s a good chap.” As they drove away he patted Jenny’s hand. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Ferguson told her. “If Henry didn’t tell you the exact location of the submarine, can you think of anyone else he might have spoken to?”

“No,” she said firmly. “If he didn’t tell me, then he didn’t tell anyone.”

“No other diver maybe, I mean, he must have friends who dive as well, or another diver who might be able to help.”

“Well there’s always Bob Carney,” she said, “the diver I told you about. He knows the Virgin Isles like the back of his hand.”

“So, if anybody could help it would most likely be he?” Ferguson asked.

“I suppose so, but I wouldn’t count on it. There’s a lot of water out there.”

The Daimler turned into Lord North Street and stopped. Travers got out first and reached a hand to Jenny. Ferguson said, “Dillon and I have work to do. We’ll see you later.”

Dillon turned in surprise. “What’s this?”

“I’ve an appointment to meet the Deputy Director of the Security Services, Simon Carter, and a Junior Minister called Sir Francis Pamer on the Terrace at the Houses of Parliament. I’m supposed to keep them informed of my plans and I thought it might be amusing to take you along. After all, Dillon, Simon Carter’s been trying to get his hands on you for years.”

“Holy Mother of God,” Dillon said, “but you’re a wicked man, Brigadier.”

Ferguson picked up the car phone and dialed Lane at the Ministry of Defence. “Jack, American called Bob Carney, resident St. John, presently a diver. Everything you can get. The CIA should help.”

He put the phone down and Dillon said, “And what are you up to now, you old fox?”

But Ferguson made no reply, simply folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes.

The House of Commons has sometimes been referred to as the most exclusive club in London, mainly because of the amenities which, together with the upper chamber, the House of Lords, include twenty-six restaurants and bars each providing subsidized food and drinks.

There is always a queue waiting to get in, supervised by policemen, composed not only of tourists, but of constituents with appointments to see their Members of Parliament and everyone has to take their turn, no matter who, which explained why Ferguson and Dillon waited in line, moving forward slowly.

“At least you look respectable,” Ferguson said, taking in Dillon’s double-breasted blazer and gray flannels.

“Thanks to your Amex card,” Dillon told him. “They treated me like a millionaire in Harrods.”

“Really?” Ferguson said dryly. “You do realize that’s a Guard’s Brigade tie you’re wearing?”

“Sure and I didn’t want to let you down, Brigadier. Wasn’t the Grenadiers your regiment?”

“Cheeky bastard!” Ferguson said as he reached the security checkpoint.

It was manned not by the security guards usually found at such places, but by very large policemen whose efficiency was in no doubt. Ferguson stated his business and produced his security card.

“Wonderful,” Dillon said. “They all looked about seven feet tall, just like coppers used to do.”

They came to the Central Lobby where people with an appointment to see their MP waited. It was extremely busy and Ferguson moved on, through a further corridor and down more stairs, finally leading the way out through an entrance on to the Terrace overlooking the Thames.

Once again, there were lots of people about, some with a glass in their hand enjoying a drink, Westminster Bridge to the left, the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall, rather Victorian-looking lamps ran along the parapet. The synthetic carpetlike covering on the ground was green, but further along it changed to red, a distinct line marking the difference.

“Why the change in color?” Dillon asked.

“Everything in the Commons is green,” Ferguson said. “The carpets, the leather of the chairs. Red for the House of Lords. That part of the Terrace up there is the Lords’.”

“Jesus, but you English do love your class distinction, Brigadier.”

As Dillon lit a cigarette with his Zippo, Ferguson said, “Here they are now. Behave yourself, there’s a good chap.”