Rain on the Dead (24 page)

There was a disturbance outside, the door opened, and Myra came in and didn’t help the situation by saying, “My God, Terry, you look awful. I thought you’d be here.”

“Where the hell have you come from?” he demanded.

“I followed you, Terry, I was so worried.”

He glanced at Malik. “Give us a minute, Doc.”

Malik departed, and Terry said, “What do you mean, you followed me?”

“To Highfield Court. I just wanted to know what you were doing there. I was jealous.”

He made a quick adjustment to his story. “You’ve got to understand. The Master wanted a close watch on the place because he wanted to know how the Flynn girl was getting on in there with the Gideons. I did a deal with their window cleaner to get me inside, but the housekeeper recognized me from some photos they have. The Flynn girl pulled a gun on me.”

“I know what I’d like to do to that little bitch.”

“Forget that. Ferguson won’t want me in a police cell, he’ll want me shooting my mouth off about the Master, which I’m not about to do. I’ll have to drop out of sight for a while.”

“Will you go abroad?”

“That’s what you can tell people if you’re asked, but I’ve had a bolt-hole for a few years that no one else in the world knows about, so you go back to the Sash
and forget about me for a while.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” she said.

“Do you want me to get nicked and end up in Belmarsh Prison with your husband?”

“Of course not.”

“Then leave now and keep your head down. If the going gets rough, turn to Eric.”

“The barman? Are you sure about that?”

“I haven’t told you about him, because he prefers it that way. He was a sergeant in the Yorkshire Regiment in Afghanistan when I met him, in the BRF, the Brigade Reconnaissance Force, a special ops outfit of men from many regiments. According to a lot of people, they seemed to spend their time looking for death.”

“And you were one of them?” She was shocked.

“Never mind that,” he told her. “He’s got a brain, Eric, and he’s topped more men than you’ve had hot dinners. They gave him a Queen’s Gallantry Medal.”

“I don’t know, bloody Afghanistan again. It seems to pop up everywhere. What’s so special about it?”

“It’s a very exclusive club, Myra, that you can’t buy your way into, only experience. A season in hell that’s touched the lives of all of its members from the Royal Family on.” He reached up, pulled her head down, and kissed her. “Get the hell out of here, and if Ferguson or his people want you to talk, tell them to get stuffed and send for your lawyer.”

—

Ferguson called a council of war upon hearing of the incident, and they assembled at Highfield Court—Hannah and Cazalet, Roper and Dillon and the Salters, holding the meeting in the library. Tony Doyle, Hannah, and Sadie sat in.

“Let me say straightaway that Staff Sergeant Doyle was not in any way at fault for leaving the house to go and shop for Sadie. It was within his remit,” Ferguson told them.

“I should think so,” Sadie said. “The poor man has been stricken by guilt about the whole business.”

“Well, he doesn’t need to be,” Dillon said. “Sara and I questioned Roberto, the window cleaner, extremely closely. He’s a simple man who fell for Harker’s story. He shouldn’t have taken the money, but he’s no criminal.”

“I agree,” Ferguson said. “Just as I do that although Captain
Gideon broke standing orders by passing a Colt .25 with hollow points to a civilian, I thank God that she did.”

“And so say all of us,” Roper added cheerfully. “Terry Harker has been a busy boy, not only this, but those two characters who ambushed you in the park,” he said to Cazalet. “What’s to be done with them?

“Well, if I’m allowed a view here,” Cazalet said, “they aren’t even worth throwing to the cops. It might make a colorful story for the press, but one I could do without.”

“I agree with you, sir,” Ferguson said. “But we can’t ignore Harker’s activities.”

“I’ve checked him out,” said Roper. “He has an excellent army record, served in special ops in Afghanistan. And interestingly, so did the head barman at the Sash, one Eric Logan. He even sports a Queen’s Gallantry Medal.”

“What did he do to earn that?” Cazalet asked.

“He was guarding some civilians with kids when one of them discovered an explosive device. Logan ran off with it, threw it away just in time.”

“Splendid,” Ferguson said. “Guaranteed to earn him a considerably lighter sentence from some benign old Tory judge the next time he’s in court.”

“That’s a bit cynical, General,” Hannah told him.

“I suppose it is, my dear,” he told her. “It’s the fault of the life I lead, which always disappoints. Anyway, I think someone needs to call in on Myra Tully at the Sash. I think that would be better coming from you, Harry.”

“My pleasure,” Salter said. “I’ll take Billy and Sean with me.”

—

Cannon Wharf was in an area of the Thames under development; two-thirds of the wharf itself was missing, leaving a jagged end pushing out over the river forty feet below. It was raining, an old man sitting under the kind of umbrella usually found on seaside beaches. A portable radio was offering him music, and he held a fishing rod out over a broken rail, though no line was suspended on it.

Guido Pirelli stared out at the man from the decaying house where he and Bruno lived for the moment. Bruno was making tea in the kitchen and passed him a cup.

“What the hell is he doing?” Guido asked. “Sitting there for two hours. He must be crazy.”

“Well, living in a dump like this is enough to send anyone crazy,” Bruno said. “We’ve got to find something better.”

“We will,” Bruno said, “But we’re in the hands of that Gideon woman. We can’t just clear off, she’d have the police after us in no time.” He put down his cup, opened a cupboard, and took out a Waitrose shopping bag. “Remember what’s in here, ten thousand pounds in cash. Thank God Dillon and Cazalet didn’t do a house search.”

“I don’t blame them,” Bruno said. “It stinks, this place. This is what they mean by a hovel. I can’t take much more.”

“Okay, so why don’t we take an evening off. Let’s get a drink.”

“That’s a great idea,” Bruno said. “I’ll get ready,” and he turned and ran upstairs.

Within ten minutes, they walked outside, an umbrella raised against the rain, laughing as they moved to their car. The old man
turned and glanced at them, and Guido called, “Caught anything yet?”

He got no response and moved around to the passenger door. “You’ll have to drive,” he told Bruno. “My hand’s killing me, and I need the other to carry the Waitrose bag. I’m not leaving that.”

“I’m a better driver than you anyway,” Bruno told him, got behind the wheel, and switched on, pushing his foot on the accelerator. The engine roared, the car seemed to leap forward, along the wharf past the fisherman, and Bruno stamped on the brake pedal and nothing happened at all. “The brakes!” he shouted. “Something’s wrong!”

Guido reached to switch the engine off, but by then the car was moving too fast, flew over the broken edge of the wharf into space, tipped, and plunged down into the Thames forty feet below.

The fisherman sat there, stunned, then got to his feet and walked slowly to the end of the wharf, held on to a broken rail, and peered over. There was no sign of the car, but detritus had drifted up already, a couple of scarves, some loose cushions. And then a supermarket bag popped up, disgorging a great deal of what looked like paper, though he couldn’t be sure, so he managed to find his mobile phone in his inside pocket and called for the River Police.

—

The moment Myra had left him, Terry had called Eric at the Sash
and quickly told him what had happened.

“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” Eric said. “What a cock-up. What are you going to do? You could make a run for it. What have you heard from Guido and Bruno?”

“Not a thing, but I’m not going on the run, not to start with. I
prefer to see how things turn out. I’ll have to lose myself for a while, but I’m not going to do a runner. I’ll lose myself in the bolt-hole for a while. What condition is it in?”

“You’re in luck—I hadn’t checked it out for ages, but I looked in four weeks ago and was dismayed at what I found, so I’ve been cleaning the place up. You can move straight in. Do I tell Myra?”

“Like hell you do. You’re the only other person in the world who knows my secret, so we keep it that way.”

“On my life, Terry, I’ve just crossed myself. I’ll go now. Myra might arrive and want to know who’s on the phone, but good luck with the bolt-hole.”

—

Terry lay there, thinking about it—it was an old Thames sailing barge named
Arabella
,
and his great-grandfather, Benjamin Harker, had captained her for years. Now she was ending her days by St. Jude’s Dock, not too far from the Tower of London, a houseboat floating beside an old jetty, an electric cable and a water pipe connecting it with the shore. It was a haven from the outside world, and a private one. He couldn’t wait to move in, so he got out of bed and had just finished dressing when his mobile sounded.

“Why, Terry,” the Master said. “What a day this has been. All that nonsense of the morning in Hyde Park with those two clowns you provided. I thought they could only come to a bad end, and I’m not surprised to find they have. It seems they’ve driven straight off a wharf into the Thames, thus proving that as well as all their other flaws, whichever of them was at the wheel couldn’t even drive properly.”

“You fucking bastard,” Terry said.

“Come now, Terry, what on earth were you playing at in Highfield Court?”

“I was trying to show that security there was capable of being breached,” Terry lied hoarsely. “Who could have known that an eighteen-year-old girl would be so good with a pistol?”

“Where are you going now?”

“You know something,” Terry said. “I’m not going to tell you, so you can stew on that,” and he clicked off.

Dr. Malik walked in at that moment with a small parcel. “I see you’re ready to leave.” He offered the parcel. “There are antibiotics in here, be sensible and take all of them. If you’re still ahead of whatever game you’re playing, see me in seven days. If you feel feverish at all, call me at once. No rush to pay me, I know you’re good for it. One of the porters has cleaned the blood off your car seat.”

“You’re a diamond,” Terry said, and left.

—

Earlier, when Myra had got back to the Sash,
Eric was in the cellar, opening cases of wine that had just been delivered.

She called down to him, “Can I have a word?”

He went up and found her seated on a bar stool. “Eric, I need a really decent drink, because I’ve been having a terrible time. Could you manage one of those special martini cocktails of yours?”

“Of course I can, anything for you, Myra. What’s been going on, then?”

As he mixed, he listened to her version of events, which was a dramatic one to say the least.

When she was finished, he said, “Bloody incredible, the whole thing. I was wondering why I hadn’t heard anything from Terry. So he’s cleared off, has he? France maybe?”

“No, all I can say is that he’s going to ground. He wants me to take over, be strong and take charge of everything. He says if Ferguson and his people want to question me, I should tell them to get stuffed and call in my lawyers.”

“Well, I’d agree with him there, Myra. You’ve got to stand up tall in this life, that’s what I say.”

“I’m glad you feel like that, because if I need help, he wants me to turn to you.”

Eric tried to look modest. “Why, Myra, I’m touched, but any idea that I can stand in for Terry is a bit strong.”

“He thinks the world of you, Eric. I’d no idea you were such a hero in Afghanistan. They even gave you a medal.”

“I wouldn’t make a big deal out of that, Myra. Lots of people got medals. It was that kind of war.”

“Never mind that. I’ve been thinking of Ferguson, but also the Salters. That idea I had of giving them some grief at the Dark Man or even Harry’s Place? Terry seemed to agree with me. What about you?”

Eric was saved by the bell on that one, because just as he started to say, “Well, Myra, the way I see it . . .” there was the sound of a vehicle arriving outside.

“Who have we got here?” he said, then Sean Dillon and Harry and Billy Salter came down the entrance and approached the bar.

Myra exploded. “What the hell do you bastards want in here? Go on, get out!”

“Why, Myra,” Harry Salter told her, “I’m overwhelmed by the
warmth of your greeting, and may I say you look even more ravishing when you’re angry. And Eric Logan, as I live and breathe.”

Before she could answer, Eric said, “Look, Mr. Salter, you can see you’re not welcome here. Unless you have a search warrant, I suggest you leave.”

“Can’t do that, Eric,” Billy told him. “I don’t need one. I’m an officer of MI5 who has reason to believe that Terry Harker may be on these premises, an individual believed to have committed acts unlawful under a range of antiterrorism laws.”

“Why, Billy,” Eric said. “I’m impressed, but can you spell all that?”

Myra exploded. “You’ve got a nerve, after what that little Taig bitch did to my Terry. Shot him, she did. You should see his ear.”

Eric put a hand on her shoulder. “Just cool it, girl, you’re digging yourself in deep here.”

“I’d listen to him if I were you, Myra,” Dillon said. “I can’t say I care for him, but he means well.”

“And you’re another Taig bastard, Sean Dillon, just like that Flynn bitch. She deserved what she got.”

“Deserved getting crippled at fourteen, her parents killed by a Protestant bomb left in their car by Frank Bell and your wonderful da?” Dillon turned to Eric. “I’d like to get out of here before I do this creature an injury. Has Harker been here?”

Eric shook his head, his lies were perfect. “No, but he phoned from Syon Clinic, where he got his ear patched up, and asked Myra to go bring him his passport. Said he was going to leave the country, France or Spain, as I understand it.” He turned to Myra as if apologizing. “Sorry, love, it’s better to tell the truth and get them off your back.”