Rain on the Dead (23 page)

Sara had quieted her mare and sat there high in the saddle, looking down as Guido scrambled to his feet and stood there, clutching his right hand with his left, blood pumping through.

“How bad is it?” she demanded.

“Billy the Kid here shot me in the hand, ma’am, it went right through.”

There was that army thing again, like the night before. In a way, it irritated her, and she said, “You’ve served in Afghanistan, haven’t you? Which regiment?”

“Rifles, ma’am, Corporal Guido Pirelli, and my mate there is Private Bruno Malone. Helmand Province was our second home for nearly five years. Just like you, ma’am.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I know all about you, killing all them Taliban at Abusan, getting the Military Cross and all.”

Bruno got up and went and slumped down on a park bench. “I don’t feel so good, that damn horse hit me like a tank.”

Sara ignored him and said to Guido, “Your hand must be hurting.”

“Not yet, ma’am. It will later when the shock wears off, but I’ve been shot before.”

She used her teeth to pull off her right glove and tossed it to him. “Put that on, it will help until you see a doctor. Search them both.”

Cazalet chose Bruno. Dillon took Guido, with no success except for the Walther, which Dillon found where Guido had dropped it.

“Just the weapon,” Dillon said. “And a car ignition key and what looks like a key for a house.”

“Where’s the house?” Sara demanded.

“Why should we tell you?” said Guido.

“Because I’ll shoot your other hand if you don’t!”

Guido hung his head and muttered, “A flat by Cannon Wharf. And we’ve got a car parked in Upper Grosvenor Street. Nothing in it to trace us. We work clean.”

“I just bet you do,” Sara told him. “Are those the instructions of the Master when you go on a job for him?”

Bruno looked puzzled. “Who’s this Master she’s talking about, Guido?”

“Search me,” Guido said, and shrugged. “I don’t know anything about a Master.”

“Really?” Sara said. “So who the hell were you attacking these gentlemen for?”

“Just tell her, for Christ’s sake,” Bruno moaned. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Guido shrugged. “We were doing a job for a friend. Terry Harker runs a pub in Wapping for a bird named Myra Tully. A real bitch. Told us he was acting for a client who wanted someone to give Mr. Cazalet here a going-over.”

Cazalet said, “Did he, now. Are you sure he didn’t tell you to kill me?”

“Absolutely not, which our friend, Terry, couldn’t understand. He emphasized we were to give you a thorough battering, but no more than that.”

Dillon shook his head. “So crazy, it’s got to be true. So what do we do with them, Sara?”

“Upper Grosvenor Street is only a little way up Park Lane. Run them to Rosedene to have Guido’s wound treated—we can’t have him go to A & E at an ordinary hospital, because that would involve the police—then, let them drive home themselves. But get their address and telephone number.” Sara glared down at them. “You’re a disgrace to the British Army. God knows how you survived Afghanistan. You just sit and behave yourselves until I confirm what’s to happen to you.”

“We were due in the Ukraine in two weeks,” Guido said. “Can’t go now with this bloody hand.”

Sara shook her head, her mare standing. “Oh, get them out of here, Sean, I’ll see you at the hotel later.”

“I’ll go with them,” Cazalet told her. “I’d really like to.”

“Somebody at Rosedene will run you to the Dorchester, sir. A strange morning.”

“No, a memorable one,” Cazalet said, and they all dispersed.

—

There was a fountain on Lovers’ Walk
not too far from where the whole affair had taken place. From there the Master, dressed in raincoat and cap and clutching an unfurled umbrella, had witnessed everything that had taken place, had even achieved a closer inspection with a pair of sporting binoculars. Not that he could hear what they were saying, but then he didn’t need to. As the old saying had it, every picture told a story. What idiots Pirelli and Malone had turned out to be. Something could be done about that, but what about Terry Harker, previously so reliable? Perhaps something was
needed there also? There was much to be done, but he liked to keep busy, and as the rain increased with sudden force, he put up his umbrella and walked away.

—

At the Sash and in Myra’s bed, Terry was awake early and lay there for an hour, ignoring her heavy breathing as he realized he hadn’t the slightest idea what he was going to do when he got to Highfield Court except clean windows.

The whole thing had been a whim of the moment and sparked by the great music Hannah Flynn had played, which had brought memories of his sister to the surface. On the other hand, perhaps poor old Roberto’s number-two guy wouldn’t turn up, and a promise was a promise, as Terry’s mum used to tell him when he was a kid. So he smiled, eased out of bed, grabbed for his robe, and went down the hall to his own room.

Myra’s eyes opened the minute he left, and as the door clicked behind him, she lay there, frowning. She knew about Highfield Court, the Rabbi and Sara Gideon, the fact that she had brought Tod Flynn’s niece back from Drumgoole with her, and that Tony Doyle was living in as house guard. All this had been confirmed by searching Terry’s desk when he was out and discovering the information the Master had sent him.

Which meant she was angry at Terry for not having discussed these things with her, or letting her know where he was and why. She was aware that control was slipping away from her, her personality such that she was unable to deal with secrets in a rational manner, especially when it involved Terry. She just had to know.

To that end, she had checked the sat-nav on his Mini Cooper and had immediately discovered details of his trip to Highfield Court. Not a word about that, so why? It was as if she was being kept out of something, and she wasn’t having that, so she got out of bed, went into the bathroom, and started to get ready for the fray.

—

Eric Logan drove up as Terry came out of the pub wearing jeans and anorak and a cloth cap. What didn’t show was a two-shot derringer with hollow points, carried in a spring clip at the small of his back.

“You’re out early,” Eric said. “Where are you going?”

“Oh, I’ll get a café breakfast somewhere, then Billingsgate for fish.”

“Don’t forget some lobsters,” Eric said.

“Done. I’ll see you later,” Terry said, got behind the wheel of the Cooper, and drove away.

Myra appeared not long after that, wearing an Oxford blue trouser suit, everything neat and tidy. “Have you seen Terry?” she asked Eric.

“Sorry, Myra, you’ve just missed him. He was going to do the markets.” He smiled. “You look good. All dressed up for Harrods, are we?”

“And others,” she said. “I get sick of hanging around for taxis, Eric. Would you mind if I borrowed that old Ford of yours?”

“Whatever turns you on, Myra, be my guest.”

“You’re a love,” she said, then jumped in and drove away.

—

The half-hour drive it took to get to Highfield Court calmed her down. She had no way of knowing if Terry would turn up here again. If he came, he came. She found a space in the line of parked cars, picked up a couple of magazines, plus a large coffee and a couple of croissants from the café, returned to the Ford, and waited.

—

In Highfield Court, Rabbi Gideon joined Sadie and Tony Doyle for breakfast. Shortly afterward a car turned up to take the rabbi down to Brighton University for a day of seminars and an overnight stay as guest of honor at the faculty dinner. In the afternoon, Sara was to pick up Hannah and take her shopping for a suitable dress to wear at the Hope Charity function at the Dorchester, where she was to stay overnight, sharing Sara’s room.

“It’s all a bit unfair,” Hannah said to Sadie. “You and Staff Sergeant Doyle seem to be missing all the fun.”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll get by,” Sadie said. “There’s always the television.”

Tony Doyle, who was clearing the table, said, “Don’t you worry about me, Hannah, I’ve got a new occupation. Sadie is teaching me Yiddish.”

“Is he any good?” Hannah asked.

“Let’s say he’s surprised me,” Sadie told her. “But enough, it’s time for your piano practice. As for you, Staff Sergeant, I’ve got a list as long as your arm of items we need from the supermarket.”

“Sooner rather than later, Mrs. Cohen,” he said. “It’s best to get
in that place early, and I’m not supposed to leave you for longer than half an hour.”

“Well, get started as soon as you like,” she said. “And that applies to you as well, Hannah, off you go.”

—

Myra wore her Cartier sunglasses and kept well down behind the wheel of the Ford and almost missed the Cooper as it passed and pulled in beside Roberto’s van, which was parked outside the general store. Terry, in his cap and anorak, and especially the Ray-Bans, looked more interesting than he should have as he joined Roberto in the van.

At that moment, the security gates of the house opened and Tony Doyle drove out, turned into Grosvenor Square, and vanished.

“Here we go, Signori,” Roberto said, and he drove across the road to the entrance, causing the gates to open again. A few moments only and they were into the drive, the gates closing behind them. Up at the front door, Sadie was cleaning glass panels with a chamois leather. “Ah, it’s you, Roberto. Who’s your friend?”

“This is Terence,” Roberto told her. “He’s here to help me do the conservatory. It will look beautiful again.”

“Well, I look forward to that. I’ll bring you some coffee and biscuits at eleven o’clock.”

—

After Hannah had practiced for a while, Sadie came in with a mug of tea in each hand and offered her one.

“There you go, love, I know how you Irish love your tea. Dillon
taught me that, though it’s true of many Jewish people, particularly anyone with Russian ancestry.”

“But without milk.” Hannah laughed, and led the way out of the music room and into the tropical splendor of the conservatory.

There was a man outside, standing on the terrace, holding a hose, spraying the windows and moving along to the glass door that gave access to the gardens. He was looking at Hannah.

Sadie said, “Roberto says he’s here to help him today. His name’s Terence.”

Hannah said nothing, just looked at him curiously, then when she’d finished her tea, went back to the conservatory and started to play an old jazz number, “Fascinating Rhythm,”
very fast indeed, head down, her fingers dancing over the keys at a considerable speed. As she finished, there was applause. She looked up and saw that the glass door was open and Terry was standing inside, clapping.

“Bloody marvelous,” he said, a huge smile on his face. “I’ve never heard the like. I used to have a sister named Hannah. She’s dead now, but she was learning to play the piano.”

Sadie came into the music room behind Hannah. She was holding a sawn-off shotgun. “We thought there was something odd about you as a window cleaner. I’ve just had a look at some photos we were given of people who are a danger to us.”

“Come off it, love, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Terry was still smiling.

Sadie walked right past the Schiedmayer to confront him, and Hannah rose, lifted up the lid of the piano stool, reached inside, eased the Dickens box open, found the butt of the Colt .25 and took it out with her right hand.

Sadie was very close to him now. “Terry Harker,” she said.
“That’s your name, and I’ve just looked at three separate photos of you.”

He moved incredibly fast, brushing the shotgun to one side, his other hand grabbing and turning her against him, half choking her as she struggled, dropping the gun to the floor. His right hand produced the derringer and held it up so that Hannah could see.

“You won’t be familiar with this, Hannah. It’s a two-shot derringer, hollow-point cartridges. Could blow her head open.”

“Oh, dear, we can’t have that,” she told him, and shot him, removing the lower half of his left ear. He cried out, pushing Sadie away, staggered back, clutching what was left of his ear, turned and lurched outside and down the steps, where he ran past Roberto and his van and disappeared into South Audley Street.

He’d managed to produce a handkerchief from his pocket, which he crushed against his ear as he ran toward the Cooper, got the door open and scrambled inside, driving off one-handed. Myra had seen all this, had been frozen in place by the shock of it, but when she saw Hannah and Sadie appear in the entrance to the house, realized that something catastrophic had taken place, started her car, and went after Terry.

Minutes later, Tony Doyle appeared in his army Land Rover, drove into the drive, smiling for the ladies. “Well, here we are, the supplies got through. We can fort up for another week.” Sadie and Hannah looked at each other, and he frowned. “What’s up, has something happened?”

“Well, you could say that,” Sadie said. “Hannah just shot Terry Harker, Myra Tully’s boyfriend. He was threatening to kill me, and she saved my life. You’ll want to get in touch with the general and see what he wants to do about it.”

Doyle turned to Hannah, feeling strangely helpless. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I am, Tony,” Hannah said. “He was a piece of shite who got what he deserved. Wouldn’t have lasted more than half an hour on a wet Saturday night in Belfast City.” There was contempt in her voice. “I don’t know what you two want to do, but I’m going inside for another cup of tea,” and she went up the steps to the front door.

—

The private health clinic Terry used specialized in women’s problems and plastic surgery, also anything that the London criminal fraternity came up with. Terry Harker had used their Dr. Malik personally on a number of occasions, and had driven straight there.

Morphine had dulled his pain, but he was an angry man. “What’s the verdict, Doc?” he asked Malik.

“I don’t think plastic surgery would do any good.”

“So I’ll be left with half an ear?”

“Yes, but we’ll have to see how it heals. It might not be as bad as you think.”