Angel Of Death

FOURTEEN

The untimely death of Rupert Lang, Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office, was featured on television news as early as one o’clock. Tom Curry, preparing a sandwich in the kitchen at Dean Close, had the television on and could not believe what he had heard. He felt himself start to shake with emotion, stumbled across to the dresser, and got a bottle of Scotch open and spilled about three fingers into a glass. He swallowed it down, then went into the drawing room and sat on the couch, hugging himself.

“Rupert! Oh, God, Rupert! What happened?” He started to cry and then the phone rang. He let it ring for a while, then picked it up reluctantly.

Grace said, “Are you there, Tom?”

“Rupert,” he said brokenly. “Rupert is dead.”

“Yes, I know. Now just hang on. I’m on my way,” and she put down the phone.

But he couldn’t do as she asked, because there was nothing to hang on to. He had never felt so totally desolate in his life. Rupert was gone, and in that moment he realized that the most important reason for his existence had gone forever. This time he poured an even larger whisky and swallowed it down quickly, then he went and got his raincoat and let himself out of the front door.

It was raining quite hard, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered now. It was as if his whole life had been for nothing and he kept on going in the general direction of the Houses of Parliament.

Grace, driving along Millbank, was astonished to see him walking along the pavement. She tried to pull in, but the traffic was extremely heavy, and then he crossed the road to the other side and there was nothing she could do, stuck for a moment in a long jam of traffic.

He was some distance ahead now and she tapped the wheel nervously and then the traffic started to move. At the same time a delivery van moved out of a parking space and she swerved into it. She locked the car hurriedly and ran along St. Margaret’s Street and entered Parliament Square.

She paused, looking everywhere desperately, then saw him on the corner of Bridge Street. She ran even faster now and reached the corner to see him on the other side of the street approaching Westminster Underground Station. He entered with a number of other people and she dodged her way through traffic and crossed the road.

Curry didn’t have a destination. He simply took a pound coin from his pocket, put it in the appropriate slot, took the ticket that came up, and went through the barrier. He went down the escalator with a large queue of people, walked along the corridors below, just another face in the crowd until he came out onto the station platform. There was quite a crowd, people standing shoulder-to-shoulder, and he pushed his way through to the front and stood at the edge of the platform.

The whisky had done its work now. It was not that he was drunk, just totally numb, no feeling at all. There was the roar of a train approaching, a blast of air, and then a voice calling.

“Tom! Wait for me!”

He half-turned and saw Grace Browning trying to push through the crowd toward him and then he turned back and as the train emerged from the tunnel, stepped off the platform in front of it.

It was no more than forty minutes later that Hannah Bernstein’s computer buzzed in her office at the Ministry of Defence. She got up from her desk, crossed to the printer, and tore off the strip of paper and read it.

“My God!” she said and called, “Dillon? Where are you?” Then she knocked on Ferguson ’s door and went in.

Ferguson, at his desk, looked up. “What is it?”

At that moment Dillon joined them. “It’s the professor, Tom Curry,” Hannah said. “I had a general call out to Central Records Office to update me if anything new turned up on him as I did with the others. It seems he just stepped in front of a train at Westminster Underground Station.”

“Dead, presumably?” Ferguson asked.

“Oh yes. Immediate identification from the wallet in his jacket. The police officer in charge radioed it in to CRO. When it entered their computer, it referenced to my inquiry.”

“Sweet Mother of God.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “And why would he do that?”

“Rupert Lang, perhaps,” Ferguson said. “They lived together for years, Dillon. Perhaps Lang’s death was a blow he simply couldn’t take.”

“So where does it leave us, sir?” Hannah asked.

“Two down, one to go,” Dillon said.

“Two,” Ferguson told him. “There’s Belov at the Embassy, remember.”

“What will you do about him, sir?” Hannah asked.

“Leave him to stew for a while. Always difficult, this diplomatic immunity business.”

“And Grace Browning?”

“Whichever way you look at it, she’s on her own now,” Dillon put in.

“I’m afraid so,” Ferguson said. “I almost feel sorry for her.”

“Jesus, you old sod,” Dillon said. “You never felt sorry for anyone in your life.”

Ferguson ignored the remark. “She won’t have heard about Curry yet. Of course, the media will catch on to the fact that he lived with Lang for years and draw their own conclusions.”

“Very convenient when you think of it,” Dillon said. “Now if only Grace Browning would break her neck on that motorcycle, everything would be wrapped up nice and quiet. You could invite Yuri Belov to come over instead of going home to bread queues in Moscow. Lots of juicy information to be obtained there.”

“You’re a callous bastard, Dillon,” Hannah told him.

“He’s right, of course,” Ferguson observed. “In the circumstances, I think I’ll turn the screw on her,” and he picked up the phone.

Grace Browning, back at Cheyne Walk was drinking a cup of hot and very sweet tea, sitting at the table, trying in the most cold-blooded way to assess the situation. The phone rang and she picked it up.

Ferguson said, “Brigadier Charles Ferguson here, my dear. I think you know who I am.”

“What do you want?” she said calmly.

“I’m sure you’re aware, as it has been prominently featured in all news bulletins, that your good friend Rupert Lang died earlier today in a tragic accident.”

“Yes, I know about that.”

“What you won’t yet know is that your other good friend, Professor Tom Curry, died under the wheels of a train at Westminster Underground Station within the past hour.”

Grace took a deep breath. “That’s shocking news.”

“Yuri Belov is, in effect, locked up at the Soviet Embassy, which leaves only you. The game’s over, I’m afraid.”

“And what game would that be, Brigadier?”

“I always did say you were a brilliant actress. That’s why I got my aide, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, to get us tickets for the King’s Head tonight. You will be appearing, I take it?”

“I’ve never missed a performance in my life, Brigadier.”

“I’m looking forward to it. I’ll tell you what I think of it afterwards.”

Hannah said, “She could decide to run.”

“I don’t think so,” Ferguson said, “but if you want to keep a discreet eye on her, do so. She knows Dillon, so you’ll have to take care of it yourself.”

“I’m on my way,” Hannah said, picked up her shoulder bag, and went out.

“Full of enthusiasm,” Dillon said. “That’s what I like. God save us, but the women are taking over the world.”

No alcohol, she needed a clear head. She made another very hot cup of tea, went into the drawing room, and looked out at Cheyne Walk. Lots of traffic and plenty of cars parked. Somebody out there would be keeping an eye on her, she took that for granted now, so she would have to be very, very clever. The one important thing was her firm intention of still keeping her date with destiny at Drumgoole Abbey. She owed it to Tom and Rupert if for no other reason. She lit one of her rare cigarettes, pacing up and down, and then it came to her, the perfect solution and devastatingly simple.

Yuri Belov was in his office at the Soviet Embassy when the phone rang. Grace said, “Yuri, it’s me. You’ve heard about Rupert?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

“I’ve more bad news. Tom flung himself under a train at Westminster Underground Station this afternoon.”

“Dear God!” Belov said.

“And they’re definitely onto me,” Grace said. “I had a cryptic phone call from Ferguson. He’s coming to my final performance at the King’s Head tonight with Dillon and this Bernstein woman.”

“Get out, Grace, while you can,” he said urgently.

“No way. I’m sticking to the plan. You see, I’m taking a chance. I’m betting on the fact that they don’t know anything about Sunday. Rupert could have told them – although I’m sure he wouldn’t have – Tom’s dead. That means it’s all still in place, Carson at the airfield at Coldwater, the flight to Kilbeg. Will your people definitely leave a car there?”

“All taken care of, but Grace, this is madness.”

“Not really, I’ve worked it out very carefully. There is one thing I need to know. There’s no chance of Ferguson ringing you up to offer you a deal? I mean, some of your people have come over in the past. Lots of information in return for a comfortable asylum.”

“He’ll offer, I’m sure of it, but not yet.”

“But if you’re shipped back to Moscow as a failure, wouldn’t that be rather unpleasant?”

“But I won’t be a failure if you succeed in shooting Patrick Keogh.” Belov laughed. “Of course, if you fail, I can always do a deal with Ferguson then.”

She laughed back at him. “That’s my Yuri.”

“But tell me,” he said, “what’s your plan?”

“It’s really quite simple. I’m going to die.”

“Good God!” he said. “Tell me.”

So she did.

She found a large plastic bag in the kitchen and put in it an old navy-blue tracksuit, a light raincoat, some trainers, and a pair of black leather, flat-heeled shoes. She went to her safe, opened it, and took out two bundles of ten-pound notes, a thousand pounds in each. She placed a bundle in each of the black shoes, thought about things for a while, then rolled up a kitchen towel and added that also.

When she left the house fifteen minutes later, she wore an old Burberry and carried an umbrella against the rain. She turned along the pavement to where she had parked her red Mini, opened it, and got in.

Hannah, parked farther along on the other side of the road, watched all this with interest, following her as Grace Browning pulled out into the heavy traffic, driving toward Westminster, skirting the Tower of London until she reached Wapping High Street, finally parking close to a department store. There was room a couple of cars behind and Hannah pulled in and switched off her engine.

Grace got out the plastic bag, locked her car, then paused to put money into the parking meter. She turned and made for the main entrance of the department store and went inside. Hannah went after her, but when she went into the store, it was crowded with shoppers and no way of knowing which department her quarry had gone to, and there was also the chance that if she went walk-about looking for her she might miss Grace leaving. She decided to take a chance and returned to her car.

Grace Browning at that moment was visiting the toilet and rest room at the bottom of a short flight of steps at the rear of the building. There was a door which said Staff Only. She’d used it once out of curiosity and had discovered that it led into an alley at the side of the store. She hurried along to the end and came out onto the waterfront.

She walked quickly to an area of decaying warehouses, St. James’s Stairs, not too far away. She knew this place well, had once done an episode for a television thriller here. There was a narrow alley called Dock Street, nothing but boarded-up windows and several old dustbins. She was taking a chance, but there was a risk in everything now. She pushed the plastic bag down behind the dustbins, pulled a dirty old sack over it, turned, and hurried back.

She was entering the staff door at the department store five minutes after exiting from it, went up the stairs, walked to an area displaying bedding and towels, chose a couple of towels at random, paid for them, and waited while the assistant packed them into a white plastic bag similar to the one she had entered the store with.

Hannah saw her at once as she came out of the entrance and walked to her Mini. Grace opened the door, tossed the plastic bag in the rear, and slid behind the wheel. If she was being followed, she’d fooled them nicely, she was certain of that, and she pulled into the traffic, followed by Hannah.

A little while later she approached Wapping Underground Station and turned into the multi-story car park that was close by. She drove into the basement and pulled up at the car valeting service. Hannah followed, taking a vacant parking spot, and watched.

Grace smiled at the young black man in overalls who came out of the office. “A wash and wax would be fine. Can you manage that?”

“No problem. When do you want it?”

“The fact is I’m doing a show tonight and I might be late. Ten o’clock, something like that.”

“We close at seven.”

“Couldn’t you leave the keys under the mat for me?”

“Well we aren’t supposed to do that, lady.”

She opened her purse. “How much will it be?”

“Twenty pounds.”

“That’s fine.” She handed him a twenty-pound note and gave him her most dazzling smile as she also produced a five-pound note. “Perhaps you’d make an exception. I’d really be very grateful.”

He smiled. “I could never resist a beautiful woman. You’ll find it over there on that yellow section.”

“Bless you,” she said, turned and walked down the ramp, passing Hannah, who watched her go, then pulled out and followed.

Grace walked along the pavement until she saw an approaching black cab. She hailed it and got inside. Hannah followed and fifteen minutes later found herself once again in Cheyne Walk, where Grace paid off her taxi driver and went inside.

Hannah called in to the office and spoke to Ferguson. “She took a drive to Wapping High Street, did some shopping at a department store, then she left her car with a valeting service next to Wapping Underground Station and caught a taxi home.”

“As I told you, Chief Inspector, there was no need for surveillance. She’ll be there tonight, I’m sure of it. However, if it gives you peace of mind to stay and keep watch, do so. Dillon and I will see you at the theatre. I must go now. I’m due at Downing Street.”

Simon Carter was already seated in the Prime Minister’s study when Ferguson was shown in.

“Ah, there you are, Brigadier. We’ve just been discussing those two extraordinary deaths. Fill us in as much as you can.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

Ferguson described in detail the events in Devon which had led to Rupert Lang’s death. He also told them as much as he knew about Tom Curry’s suicide.

“Strange,” Carter said when he’d finished. “That remark Rupert Lang made about another Bloody Sunday. What in hell was that supposed to mean? Is Keogh at risk? Is that the reference to a Sunday? Do you think there is a threat of some sort?”

“Was a threat,” Ferguson said. “Certainly there is no threat now. Two dead, Belov trapped in the Soviet Embassy.”

“And the woman?” Carter demanded.

“We’ll pick her up after her show tonight. My Chief Inspector is on her tail. She isn’t going anywhere.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “I wish we could keep this whole damn thing under wraps. My God, a Minister of the Crown a traitor.” He smiled ruefully. “And I’m not just thinking of the welfare of the Conservative Party, though there would be those who think so.”

“We’ll have to see, Prime Minister, but there is a legal difficulty. Many murders have been committed by January 30, and we know now that Grace Browning was responsible for a number of them. Rather difficult to get round that.”

“God help us all then,” the Prime Minister said.

It was about six forty-five when Grace Browning appeared from the side of the house in Cheyne Walk on the BMW. She sat astride it wearing her usual black leathers and adjusted her helmet so that anyone watching could be sure it was her, then she rode away and Hannah pulled out and followed her.

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the King’s Head. Grace Browning parked the BMW and got off. Hannah pulled up and watched her take off her helmet and enter. When she was satisfied that Grace was safely in, she found a parking space herself.

She saw Ferguson ’s Daimler with his chauffeur at the wheel a few vehicles away, crossed the pavement and went into the King’s Head, which was crowded as usual just before a show started. Ferguson and Dillon were at the far end of the bar and Dillon called to her.

As she approached he said, “Jesus, woman, a fine boring day you’ve given yourself.”

“Never mind, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “Have a drink.”

“No, thank you, sir, I’m driving.”

“God save us, what a woman, but as it happens I’m not.” Dillon turned to the barman. “Another Bushmills while the going’s good.”

A moment later the five-minute warning sounded over the tannoy and everyone crowded in. They found their table and settled, the lights dimmed, and a moment later Grace Browning came on stage to strong applause.

When the intermission lights went up Ferguson said, “She is really quite remarkable. All that talent. What a pity.”

Dillon stood up. “I’m going to go round and speak to her.”

“No you’re bloody well not. I mean, what for?” Ferguson demanded.

“Because I bloody well feel like it.”

Hannah stood up. “Then if you go, I do.”

“Suit yourself.”

Grace Browning’s dressing room was cramped and untidy. She was drinking a glass of white wine when Dillon knocked and entered.

“Why, Dillon!” She looked genuinely pleased. “Was I any good?”

“Bloody marvelous and you know it. This, by the way, is Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, one of Scotland Yard’s finest.”

“What a pleasure,” Grace said.

“We will be expecting you to accompany us after the finish of the play,” Hannah said. “I hope you understand that.”

“Oh, I do.” Grace poured another glass of white wine. “Sorry how things worked out, Dillon. I think you and I could have been friends.”

He smiled and gave her the time-honored good wish from one actor to another. “Break a leg, my love,” he said, pushed Hannah Bernstein out of the door, and closed it.

At the play’s end, the applause was tumultuous, and when Grace Browning came on she received a standing ovation. She bowed, linked hands with other members of the cast, glanced toward Dillon and Ferguson and gave them an extra bow. When she went off she found Hannah in the corridor being jostled by members of the cast and stage crew.

“Ah, there you are, Chief Inspector. I must change.”

“Yes, you do that,” Hannah said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

In the dressing room Grace stripped, then pulled on her leathers. The one change from usual was that instead of wearing heavy leather boots she wore a pair of black dancer’s pumps. She went out, gloves in one hand and helmet in the other.

“You won’t need that,” Hannah said, nodding at the helmet.

“Oh, dear.” Grace Browning smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something if you’re going to charge me?” She smiled. “Not that it matters. You’ll have to excuse me. Call of nature.”

She had the door of the toilet on the right side of the corridor open and closed again in a second, the bolt rammed home. She’d checked the window earlier and now she stood on the toilet bowl as Hannah thundered on the door. Grace got the window open and dropped her gloves and helmet into the yard.

“Bye-bye, Chief Inspector,” she called and climbed through.

Outside in the corridor Hannah turned and ran into the theatre, where she found Ferguson and Dillon at the bar entrance.

“She’s done a runner,” Hannah called.

Dillon actually laughed. “Jesus, girl, that was careless of you,” and he turned and hurled his way through the crowded bar.

He arrived on the pavement, Hannah close behind, and there was a roaring in the night as Grace Browning exploded on the BMW. She skidded to a halt, caught for a moment by heavy traffic, and Hannah got the door of her car open and slid behind the wheel.

“In, Dillon, in!” she called and switched on her engine.

Ferguson shouted, “I’ll follow in the Daimler.”

Grace moved out into the traffic, turned to look at Hannah Bernstein’s car, and raised her arm in that inimitable salute to Dillon, then she was away. Hannah pulled a blue police reflecting light from under her seat, slammed it through the open window onto the roof, and went after her.

Grace sped down Upper Street, turned left at The Angel, and took the City Road, weaving in and out of heavy traffic, but Hannah, driving brilliantly and with the help of her police warning light, managed to stay on her tail.

Ferguson ’s voice came through on the police radio she had fitted in her car. “What’s the position, Chief Inspector, we’re well behind.”

“Way down the City Road, sir,” she replied. “I’d say making for the City now.”

Grace turned off the road, moving from one street to another. Hannah said into the radio, “She seems to be aiming for the Tower of London.”

“All right, enough is enough,” Ferguson replied. “Put out a general alarm. I want her stopped.”

As Grace Browning reached St. Katherine’s Way, a police car moved to block her. She swerved around it and carried on. Hannah mounted the pavement to pass the police car and went after her.

They were into Wapping High Street now, and on the other side of the road, bearing down on her, Grace saw two police cars. One of them edged out to block her way and she put a foot down like a dirt rider, broadsided, and disappeared into a narrow side road. Hannah turned after her and the two police cars followed.

They twisted from one narrow street to another, passing between tall, decaying warehouses, old-fashioned street lamps on the corners, and finally turned into a slightly broader street, the lights of boats on the river beyond. She roared to the end of the street and stopped. Hannah braked to a halt, the two police cars behind her. The four uniformed men in them jumped out and ran forward.

“Detective Chief Inspector Bernstein,” Hannah told them.

“Is this important, ma’am?” a young sergeant asked.

“Very much so. The target is also highly dangerous. Are any of you armed?”

“Only me, ma’am,” the sergeant said and produced a Smith & Wesson.

At that moment the Daimler arrived with Ferguson, who got out and hurried forward. “This is Brigadier Ferguson, my boss,” Hannah said.

“What the hell is going on?” Ferguson demanded. “What’s she playing at?”

Grace Browning sat astride the motorcycle, the engine turning over as she looked toward them, anonymous in the dark helmet.

“She, sir?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes,” Ferguson told him, “but don’t let that deter you.”

“He’s right, son,” Dillon cut in. “You’ve never faced a harder prospect.” At the moment, Grace Browning raised her arm. “She’s coming!” Dillon cried.

She revved the engine and roared down the street toward them, putting a foot down at the last minute and sliding round, pointing the other way.

“What’s she playing at?” the sergeant asked. “No way out. A dead end. That’s Samson’s Wharf.”

Grace Browning increased her speed and at the last moment raised the front wheel and lifted off high over the edge of the Wharf, pausing for a moment, then plunging down into the Thames.

They all ran along the street and stood at the edge of the wharf looking down at the swirling water, but nothing showed except white foam in the murky yellow light from the street lamps and then the black helmet bobbed to the surface.

“Jesus!” the sergeant said. “Why did she do that?”

“Because, as you said, sergeant, it was a dead end, no way out,” Charles Ferguson told him. “Better call in the River Police and all the usual services, we’ll leave it in your hands.” He turned to Hannah and Dillon. “One person who won’t be too displeased at this outcome will be the Prime Minister,” he said as they walked to the cars. “Lang, Curry, and now the woman, all dead. Easy to say none of it ever happened. Rupert Lang can have an honorable funeral as befits a Minister of the Crown.”

“And Belov, sir?” Hannah asked.

“No problem, Chief Inspector. Just leave him to me.”

Fog rolled across the river, rain drifting in, and something washed in through the shadows by St. James’s Stairs. Grace Browning surfaced and hauled herself up a ladder onto a wharf. Her leathers were wet and she unzipped the jacket and tossed it into the river, then turned and ran along the deserted waterfront, a shadowy figure moving from one patch of light to the next.

She reached Dock Street within ten minutes, scrabbled behind the old dustbins and found her plastic bag under the sack. There was no one about and she stood under a street lamp bracketed to the wall above, stripped off her pumps, the leather pants, and soaking tee shirt. She stood there quite naked for a moment, toweling her hair and body, then pulled on the tracksuit and trainers. She put the raincoat on, took the two black shoes from the bag, each with a thousand pounds inside, and put them in the raincoat pockets. Then she started to walk.

Fifteen minutes later, she reached the multi-storey car park next to Wapping Underground Station. When she went down into the basement it was a place of shadows, cold and damp, but her Mini car was waiting in the yellow area. She opened the car, got inside, found the keys under the mat, then she found a comb, put her hair into some sort of order, and tied it back. A few moments later she drove out of the car park, turned into the main road, and was on her way.

In his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson spoke to the Prime Minister on the red phone, giving him an account of the night’s proceedings.

When the Brigadier was finished, the Prime Minister said, “I don’t want to sound callous, but a rather satisfactory end to the whole saga. Lang, Curry, and now this Browning woman, all gone. Only Belov left, and I’m sure you’ll sort him. I presume you’ll have no difficulty in treating her unfortunate death as accidental?”

“You may rely on it, Prime Minister.”

“Good. All good fortune in Ireland tomorrow.”

The Prime Minister put down the phone.

At that precise moment in time, Grace Browning was coming out of a motorway service restaurant on the outskirts of London, a bacon sandwich and two coffees inside her. She felt warm again, the chill of the River Thames long gone. She got behind the wheel of the Mini, pulled out onto the motorway, and started on the next stage of her journey to Coldwater.