Rain on the Dead (22 page)

There was a slight pause, and Hannah said, “I spoke to him.”

“What?” said Dillon. “When was this?”

“A few days ago, before—before everything happened. My uncle Tod spoke to him on the phone, but it was on speaker and I heard everything they said. It wasn’t anything you don’t know. They were
just discussing your visit to Drumgoole. But I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“What did
you
say?” Cazalet asked.

“I shouted at him. Told him I knew an evil bastard when I heard one.”

“Did he reply?” Sara asked.

“He asked Uncle Tod if I was going to be a problem. Uncle Tod said no, but—oh, it was awful. He made me feel sick and frightened.”

The anger on Ferguson’s face was plain to see. “My dear girl, you are one of us now. There is no way this creature is going to get anywhere near you, I promise you.”

They all agreed, and then Roper said, “All right, a piece of business. The Syria committee meetings in Paris may have been canceled, but as it happens, the Hope Charity Foundation for orphans of the Syrian war had booked the ballroom at the Dorchester some time ago for a fund-raising evening. It’s now become something much bigger. The Prime Minister and various members of his cabinet are going to attend, and the French Foreign Minister is flying over. The PM would be grateful if you’d join him,” he said to Cazalet.

“We’ll all go,” Ferguson put in. “It’ll be your introduction into London Society, Hannah.”

“And God help you,” Dillon told her. “Is it black tie?”

“We mustn’t be too ostentatious, Dillon,” Ferguson said. “After all, the emphasis
is
on charity. Do you feel up to it, Giles? You could take Colonel Rashid with you. He’s desperate to get out of Rosedene, and it would please the French.”

“I think my chair might get swallowed up in the crowd,” Roper said.

“I’d be happy to help,” Hannah told him.

“That’s kind of you,” he said. “We’ll see.”

Ferguson said to Cazalet, “We’ll make sure you’re well-guarded. Dillon and Captain Gideon will be on duty.”

“Thank you, Charles,” Cazalet said. “Now, can I interest anyone in a little supper at the hotel this evening? I’d welcome the company.”

“We’ll sort something out,” Sara said. “Leave it to me,” and they dispersed.

—

Terry, driving away from Highfield Court, had discovered several text messages on his phone, all from Myra, demanding to know where he was. Their tone ranged from petulance to rage, and for the first time he discovered he didn’t like it. So, when he finally arrived at the Sash,
he was angry more than anything else.

When he entered the pub, it was as dead as was to be expected at that time of day, only Eric, the head barman, checking wines.

“Is she in?” Terry asked.

“Ranting and raving like a loony,” Eric said. “Biting everyone’s head off. She’s not pleased with you at all, so beware. I hope you haven’t been doing anything naughty.”

“Get stuffed, Eric.”

“Not a chance.” Eric poured a large scotch and passed the glass across the bar. “Get that down you, then go and face death bravely. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes, get hold of Guido Pirelli and Bruno Malone.”

“My God, who do you want killing?”

“That’s my affair. Just do it.”

He left Eric, went upstairs two at a time and into his office, where he found Lucy, the accounts clerk, sporting a hunted look and a tearstained face.

“Are you okay, girl?” he demanded, and the door to Myra’s office swung open.

“You bastard,” she shouted. “Where in the hell have you been? I checked the Russian Baths. You left hours ago.” Her face was swollen, makeup smeared. “You’ve been with some woman, haven’t you?”

She slapped him across the face, which he allowed, but when she tried to do it again, he blocked the blow and ran her back into her office and pushed her down into her chair.

“Pull yourself together. So you’re grieving for your da, but something’s going to be done about that. I haven’t been tomming some tart, I’ve been talking to the Master. He calls me now, not you, so you better get used to it. Ferguson, Dillon and company, the Salters, will all be dealt with, only you’ve got to pull yourself together. What you need is a nice hot bath, get your hairdresser to call, so you can face the evening rush as only Myra Tully can. We mustn’t let the punters down.”

She gazed at him in astonishment and then nodded. “You’re right, Terry, I’ve been very silly.”

He took her to the door. “Off you go, girl, we’ll have a lovely dinner later, but I’ve got important business to see to right now. You understand.”

“Of course, Terry. I’m so sorry.”

“You go and run your bath, and I’ll have Eric bring you up a nice bottle of champagne.”

“You’re so good to me, Terry. I don’t deserve you.”

She went out through the office, and Lucy stared at him in amazement. “Don’t say a word,” he told her. “She’s a monster, that’s the truth of it. We need a new regime round here and I’m it. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

—

Myra undressed, put on a robe, sat down at her dressing table and ran a comb through her hair, her face like stone, thinking about Terry, the new model.
Face the evening as only Myra Tully can and don’t let the punters down.
What a load of crap, which meant he was up to something and the sooner she found out what that was, the better.

—

Guido Pirelli and Bruno Malone looked relatively ordinary for contract killers. At the age of eighteen, they’d met as infantry recruits in the British Army, from which they’d been discharged five years later after time in Afghanistan. Employment in various so-called security firms abroad had followed, which gave them a reputation for succeeding when others failed. They never killed in England, however, for a practical reason. If you got caught, it was a life sentence for murder. But if you got caught for beating the hell out of somebody, and then you turned out to be a gallant soldier who’d suffered in Afghanistan, well, that was a different story. The “gallant soldier” plea never failed to soften the heart of any British judge.

They sat and listened on one side of Terry’s desk, while he explained from the other what he wanted and showed them pictures of Cazalet and Sara and Dillon.

“So you’re quite clear,” Guido said. “Your client doesn’t want Cazalet dead?”

“I’ll be honest with you, he’s surprised me, but when I put it to him, he backed off, so for the moment, he seems to be happy with the idea of him getting a bloody good hiding. That’s what made me think of you guys,” Terry said. “So what do you think? Chances are he’ll have a morning run tomorrow. I’m told he likes to leave by the ballroom entrance of the hotel into Park Lane and cross to Hyde Park from there. Are you up for it?”

Guido looked at Bruno. “We’re due in the Ukraine in two weeks, so it would give us something to do.”

“Spending-money job, really,” Bruno said. “And after all, the big money’s due for Ukraine.” He nodded to Terry. “Ten grand, five thousand each, but cash.”

“Done,” Terry said. “I’ve got that kind of money in the safe, so you can take it with you. Nice doing business with you.”

“One soldier to another,” Guido told him. “Always makes a difference, old son,” and they exchanged handshakes.

—

Later that evening at the Dorchester, close to the bar at the ballroom end of the Promenade, Cazalet, Sara, and Dillon were seated at a banquette, sharing a bottle of champagne before going up to the Grill for dinner.

“How was Hannah?” Cazalet asked.

“She’s got Tony Doyle and Sadie tonight, because my grandfather is making a speech at the Reform Club,” Sara told him. “I didn’t like to leave her. I’m beginning to feel she’s the sister I never had, if you know what I mean.”

“She’s a wonderful girl,” Cazalet said.

“Well, remember these hotel beds unscrew into two singles
when they’re needed,” Dillon said. “That might be a good idea for the function tomorrow night.”

“That sounds an excellent idea to me,” Cazalet said.

From a few yards away, Ali and Khalid were watching them, drinking martini cocktails, twins in their navy blue blazers and white shirts of the finest Egyptian linen.

“My goodness, she’s a handsome woman,” Khalid said, but before Ali could reply, his mobile trembled in his pocket.

The Master said, “Where are you?”

“At the Dorchester watching Cazalet, Sara Gideon, and Dillon enjoying themselves.”

“Well, you’ll be watching them even closer tomorrow night.”

“And why is that?” Ali asked.

“There’s a big charity function in the ballroom there. The Prime Minister is coming, and a few cabinet members, plus the French Foreign Minister. He’s asked Cazalet to join him, and I understand Ferguson and his people will be with him. So will you.”

“May I ask why?” Ali asked.

“The expression is ‘know thy enemy.’ Do I have to explain?”

“No, sir,” Ali told him.

“Good. I’ll say good night.”

Khalid had been watching patiently. “What did he want?” Ali told him and Khalid smiled. “It’s as good a way of spending an evening as any. Now, let’s go and find a table for supper.”

At almost the same moment, Cazalet said to the others, “Who’s for dinner? I’m starving.”

Sara stood up, almost colliding with Khalid, and he eased back. “I’m terribly sorry, ma’am, that was really rather stupid of me.”

“Not at all,” she said, smiling, and then frowned ever so slightly, as if puzzled.

Ali and Khalid walked away, and Dillon said, “Are you all right? Is there a problem?”

“That young man,” she said.

Cazalet groaned. “Quite the charmer, I’d say.”

“He called me ma’am,” Sara told him. “It’s a greeting my rank entitles me to, but how did he know I was an army officer?”

“Oh, he was probably just being polite, Sara,” Cazalet told her.

“I suppose,” she said, and sighed. “I’m seeing plots everywhere.” She smiled. “I’m sorry I can’t go running with you tomorrow. That’s out for me after I took that bullet in the leg at Abusan.”

“Well, you rode a horse at Drumgoole as well as any Grand National jockey I’ve ever seen,” Dillon told her. “I’ve had words with the concierge, and somebody will pick you up at six and drive you up to the stables. Then you can come galloping down to the Park and meet Jake and me.”

“Sounds lovely.”

“I must say you’ve covered all the bases,” Cazalet said. “Now, let’s
eat.”

Six in the morning, traffic already flowing down Park Lane as a hotel car took Sara up toward Marble Arch and the Stables. At the hotel, riding apparel had appeared from nowhere, including the ever-popular Australian drover’s coat, which, from a somber hint in the sky, seemed as if it might be needed. Sara was looking forward to it; her only regret was that Hannah wasn’t with her, but perhaps something could be done about that on another morning.

It was about half past six when a porter let Cazalet and Dillon out of the ballroom entrance into Park Lane. They wore black anoraks, hooded and rainproof, waited at the side of the pavement for a gap in the traffic, and then ran across to the other side, where there was a small gate in the ironwork fence.

Guido Pirelli and Bruno Malone had stayed back, blending where they could in the trees close to Broad Walk,
where riders could circle around into
Rotten Row
and see the Household Cavalry at exercise if they were lucky, but not today, although there were plenty of tracksuited runners at various places in the distance.

Cazalet and Dillon paused on the edge of Broad Walk
.
“She should be belting round here soon enough,” Dillon said. “A cracking rider, believe me.”

Cazalet held out his hand. “It’s starting to rain, I thought it would. Let’s cut through the trees, then run along the track in the direction she’s coming from.”

“Okay, that sounds good to me,” Dillon said.

On the right of the track, the rain came slashing down, and Guido and Bruno came running out of the trees, slanting toward them.

“Could you help us?” Guido called. “Does this take us to Rotten Row? We were told you can see the Cavalry exercising sometimes.”

Which could have been true enough, except for the fact that Bruno was holding a baseball bat against his right leg, hardly the usual equipment for somebody out for a morning run, and the fact that Dillon’s inner voice, the product of years of hard living, had told him instantly that they were up to no good.

“We’ve got trouble,” he said.

“So it would appear,” Cazalet said. “Increase the pace.”

Which they did, pulling ahead, and Guido produced a Walther, firing a single shot into the air. “I’ll cut you both down, I mean it.”

Dillon instantly produced his silenced Colt .25 and shot him. Guido stumbled and went flying, dropping the Walther. Bruno roared like an animal, moved in, the baseball bat raised ready to strike.

In the same moment, Sara arrived on the gallop, her mount
barreling into Bruno and bouncing him to one side, and he dropped the baseball bat and went down. He tried to pick it up again, and Cazalet raised a knee under his chin, sent him flat on his back, then picked up the baseball bat himself.