Rough Justice (25 page)

“Would you care to join your brother?” Langley asked.

She turned to Miller, crying. “I can’t, Harry, I’m such a coward.”

“No, you’re not.” He turned to Dillon. “Sean?”

Dillon moved in and put an arm around her. “You get on with it, Harry.”

Langley led him into a white-tiled room with fluorescent lights. There was a row of stainless-steel operating tables and Olivia Hunt lay on one of them. She was completely naked, obviously injured, although the body had been cleaned as much as possible. There was the Y cut of the preliminary, the top of her head covered by a rubber skullcap, blood seeping through, and the neck was terribly bruised.

Two nurses waited, and one of them pulled surgical gloves on Langley’s hands. Nearby was a cart with the instruments of the trade and a video recorder. One of the nurses switched it on, and Langley said: “Resuming postmortem, Mrs. Olivia Hunt Miller, 15 Dover Street, London.” He paused. “And do you, Major Harry Miller of the same address, confirm this is your wife?”

“I do.”

Langley nodded to one of the nurses, who switched off the video. He said, “Major, in a moment I will request a DeSoutter saw to take off the top of the skull so that your wife’s brain may be removed to be weighed. I will then have to break her ribs and open her up for the removal of bodily organs. You don’t want to see this, believe me. Better, by far, to remember her as she was.”

Miller’s eyes seemed to be burning. He took the deepest breath he had ever taken in his life and then nodded. “Very civil of you, Professor, sound advice,” and he went out.

 
 
THE BROKER CAUGHT VOLKOV
at the Kremlin and broke the news. Volkov received it wearily. “It seems to me impossible to complete an operation against these people with any kind of success.”

“With the greatest respect, you’re missing the point,” the Broker told him. “Fahy’s attempt was totally successful—it just couldn’t have been foreseen that Miller would let his wife have the car.”

“I suppose so,” Volkov said grudgingly. “What about Quinn? Have you told him?”

“No.”

“He’ll be warier than ever of turning up in London now. After all, what if Miller thinks the accident too much of a coincidence? What if it leads him to ask questions?”

“He can ask. An accident is an accident, and there’s no proof to the contrary. If the chauffeur was able to say that his brakes failed, that might cause a question, but it’s unlikely he’ll survive the coma he’s in.”

“How do you know?”

“Hassim’s Brotherhood has many members who are nurses. Trust me. I’ll speak to Quinn.”

“And keep an eye on this Fahy.”

“He won’t cause any trouble, why should he? If he does, I’ll have him killed.”

 
 
AT DRUMORE PLACE,
Quinn listened in horror to the Broker’s account. “What in the hell are we going to do? If Miller finds out what really happened, he’ll be after the lot of us.”

“You give him too much credit. He’s not invincible. I’ve spoken to Volkov, by the way, who’s not happy you still haven’t gone to London.”

“Maybe so, but I think I’ll just stay where I am until we see which way the wind’s blowing.”

“Surrounded by your old comrades from the glory days? At the end of the day, you’re just a coward, Quinn,” and the Broker cut him off.

 
 
AT THE HOSPITAL,
Ferguson took a call from Downing Street. “The Prime Minister would like to see you, Harry.”

“All right, I’ll come.”

Monica said, “I’d rather go to Dover Street, but I’m not sure I can be on my own.”

“You won’t be,” Dillon told her. “You two go. I’ll take Monica to your place and stay with her.”

“Speak to Aunt Mary,” Miller told Monica. “She must be told, and the vicar, Mark Bond. She’s going to need him.”

So it was resolved. Hawkins delivered Miller and Ferguson to Downing Street, where they were met by Henry Frankel coming out of the Cabinet Office. He was very distressed.

“I don’t know what to say, Harry.”

“Then best to say nothing, old lad.”

“Is the PM busy?” Ferguson asked.

“He called Simon Carter for a quick chat, something that came in about these wretched voting problems in Kosovo. Anything I can do, Harry, just say the word. I’ve spoken to your secretary at the party office in Stokely, told her the worst. She was very upset and said she would go straight round to your aunt.”

“That was kind of you.”

The door of the Prime Minister’s study opened and Simon Carter emerged and saw them immediately and looked wary. “Look, Miller, we’ve had our differences in the past, God knows, but I wouldn’t wish what’s happened to you on any man’s shoulders.” He was stiff and uncertain, his gray face tight, and in a way, Miller felt sorry for him.

“That’s damn nice of you. I appreciate it.” He walked into the Prime Minister’s study, followed by Ferguson.

“A rotten business, Harry.” The PM gave him a hug. “You’ll need some time off. You’ll bury her at Stokely?”

“Of course. Her father, Senator George Hunt, is on his way.”

“I’d be privileged to attend the funeral with my wife.”

“You’ll be more than welcome, Prime Minister.”

“Fine, so just do what you have to do for the next few days.”

“Of course.”

 
 
OUTSIDE,
Henry Frankel appeared again with a couple of typed sheets. “Some stuff from the Cabinet Office on what to do. Legal requirements, a few good funeral directors. I’m sorry to sound so horribly practical.”

“Not a bit of it, Henry, you’re a star. Could you choose the funeral director for me? I’ve a lot to sort out. We’ll bury her at Stokely Parish Church. The vicar is Mark Bond. I’m Catholic, of course, but she wasn’t.”

“I’ll see to all that for you.”

Ferguson looked at his watch. “So much has happened and yet it’s only two o’clock. We could still catch a decent pub lunch. We’ll go to the Dark Man. You need friends at a time like this.”

Driving along in the Daimler, Miller got a call from Dillon. “Your father-in-law has turned up. I feel I’m in the way. They’re crying all over each other.”

“Get a taxi and meet us at the Dark Man,” Miller said.

“I’ll see you there.”

They found Harry and Billy with their heads together in the corner booth, looking grim. Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were at the bar, with Ruby on the other side.

“Major, what can I say?” Harry Salter spread his arms. “It’s a vale of tears sometimes.”

Ruby came across, dabbing her eyes, and kissed Miller on the cheek. “It’s so cruel. What can I do?”

“Open a bottle of champagne so we can toast a great lady, and then give us some shepherd’s pie,” Ferguson told her. “We’ve still got to eat.”

Everyone had a drink, then two. Gradually there was less awkwardness, the food came, and then Dillon turned up. “Everything okay at Dover Street?” Miller asked.

“Oh, yes, the Senator’s a nice guy. He’s looking forward to meeting with you. The champagne looks good, and the pie. I’ll have both.”

 
 
AT GUY’S HOSPITAL,
Ellis Vaughan jerked a little, his head moved, and there was a strange hoarse sigh. A nurse, who had just checked his many tubes and was about to leave, was nearest as the alarm sounded. Within seconds, the entire crash team swung into action, Bellamy appearing no more than two minutes later to join in the fight. None of it was any good, and Bellamy’s face was sad as they switched off.

“Time of death three-fifteen, is everyone agreed?” They all nodded. “I’d better call Major Miller.”

 
 
THE PARTY
at the Dark Man sank into depression again at the news, and Ferguson shook his head. “No way of finding out what went wrong for him now.”

“He was a good man,” Miller said. “Survived the Iraq War and two tours in Afghanistan.”

“And dies after being hit by a London bus,” Billy Salter said. “It doesn’t seem right, does it?”

 
 
IN DR. SMITH’S OFFICE,
Fahy was dressing behind a screen after a searching examination. The pain had become unbearable and he had to accept that simply pouring Bushmills down him was not the answer. He’d come in the hope of finding some really powerful painkillers. He put on his jacket and went and sat opposite the doctor.

Smith looked grave. “I won’t beat about the bush. There’s a marked deterioration in your condition. You’re obviously drinking a great deal, you reek of it.”

“It helps, Doctor, it really does.”

“But only for a while, so you have to take another and another.”

“Haven’t you got some really strong pills?”

“It’s gone too far for that.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I want you admitted today. Only in hospital can the pain therapy you need be administered.”

“So that I can die easier.” Fahy shook his head. “That would mean I couldn’t see my Maggie. She’s not fit to visit me, nobody knows that better than you.”

“I’m truly sorry, but you’ve progressed faster than we thought you would. I can only suggest what I have.”

“No way, Doc.” Fahy got up. “I’ve come into money, so I’m in the middle of arranging Maggie’s future at St. Joseph’s. Things to do, you see, as well as dying.” He gave Smith a ghastly smile. “Thank you for your time.”

He went around the corner to the City of Derry, sat in the corner of the bar, forced himself to eat a hot Cornish pastry, and washed it down with a double Bushmills, when he got a call on his mobile. It was the Broker.

“I’ve just had news that the chauffeur, Vaughan, has died.”

“So what are you saying?”

“Obviously, anything he knew has died with him. I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Not really. I’ve got other things to worry about.”

“Anything I can help with?” Once again, the Broker sounded kind and considerate, and for some reason Fahy responded. “My wife’s in the local hospice, St. Joseph’s—Alzheimer’s.”

“My dear chap, I’m so sorry.” The Broker sounded genuine.

Fahy said, “Nothing to be done. At least I can now afford to keep her going with the nuns instead of some National Health Service dump.”

“Is there anything I can do?” the other man said again.

“You’ve done enough helping to put me back to work again. I’ll go now. I’ve got to visit.”

The Broker sat at his desk, thinking about it. He liked to know everything he could about people, and he savored the irony of two deaths paying for the support of Fahy’s ailing wife, who wouldn’t know what was going on around her anyway.

He called Quinn at Drumore Place and told him about Vaughan. “So, you see, any worries you have about Miller finding out have been taken care of.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. When is the funeral?”

“Wednesday.”

“I’ll be a lot happier when it’s all over, and that’s a fact.”

“My dear Quinn, we all will. Keep in touch.”

Finally, he called Ali Hassim. “You’ve heard about the chauffeur?”

“Yes.”

“Which wraps it up nicely.”

“I have one anxiety.”

“Tell me.”

“My most important sleeper, Selim Bolton.”

“The one who works in the City? The man you sent down to this Folly’s End place to see what he could find out about Miller?”

“Yes. I told him I only wished for general information, didn’t hint there was more to my interest in Miller.”

“So?”

“He’s been to see me, has worked out the whole plot. A very clever young man. We had words and he left very angry. He doesn’t approve of his part in what he sees as the accidental death of the woman.”

“It’s not worth arguing about,” the Broker said. “Kill him before his conscience gets the better of him.”

“I’ve already put a Brotherhood member as an agency temp in his offices. She may come up with something useful.”

 
 
WHICH SHE DID.
As with most high-powered financial houses, people worked staggered hours. The girl in question was a young Muslim named Ayesha, and keeping an eye on Bolton, she noticed the desk behind him had been vacated early, so she moved to it and made herself look busy. It was close to seven and darkness falling, still many people working away at their desks. Bolton had made the odd business call and she had heard him clearly.

Finally, he sat there for a while, as if thinking, then made another call, obviously got an answering machine, and started to speak. “Major Miller, I’m sorry to hear about your wife. This is Sam Bolton calling. I gave you my card when we met at Folly’s End. I’ll speak to you again. There’s something you need to know about this morning’s events.”

She kept her head down as he got up and moved away, then followed him, calling Ali Hassim as she did so on her mobile, repeating the message she had heard Bolton deliver.

Hassim said, “Don’t lose him. At this time of the evening, he’ll probably go for a meal.”

Next, he called Abdul in the garage at the back of the shop. “Get ready quickly, motorcycle and leathers. I’ve got a hit for you, top priority.”

 
 
BOLTON TURNED
into a one-way street between old buildings and went into a simple café called The Kitchen. He took a corner table, ordered a glass of red wine and a ham salad, and outside, Ayesha stood in a shadowed doorway and called Hassim.

“The Kitchen, Brook Street, quite close to the office.”

“Can vehicles negotiate it?”

“It’s one-way.”

“Wait until a motorcycle passes you, then go away.”

She did exactly as she was told, staying in the shadowed doorway. She could see Bolton through the window eating, and then a BMW coasted past her, stopped at the end of the street, and pulled into an entrance. The driver dismounted, supremely menacing in his leathers and black helmet, and she stepped out of the doorway and darted away.

 
 
BOLTON FINISHED HIS SALAD
and drank his wine, thinking about what he intended. That there was some connection between what he had been sent to do at Folly’s End and the events of the morning leading to the death of Miller’s wife seemed obvious. He tried calling again, and once more got the answering machine and repeated his message. He got up, paid his bill, and went out, deeply disturbed about the whole thing. What had he been thinking about to get so involved with Hassim and his people in the first place? he asked himself as he walked down the street. He wasn’t a religious fanatic. In fact, he wasn’t religious at all.