Bad Company

7.

MARCH WEATHER, DUSK falling early, rain drifting in across the Thames, and in the darkness of the porch of the church in Brick Lane, Marco Rossi waited in a black trench coat and rain hat.

Rossi wasn’t sure what he intended to do, and had certainly not mentioned to the Baron what he was up to, and yet there was a certain inevitability to things. He hadn’t driven in his own car and had taken a taxi to Wapping High Street and walked the rest of the way, which perhaps meant something.

He’d been there an hour, watching the house, not sure what he was waiting for, and then a light went on over the door, it creaked open and the old lady appeared with the Scottie on a lead. She was wearing a headscarf and a raincoat and put up an umbrella.

“Good boy, Benny,” she said, and set off down the pavement for the corner shop, whose lights were still on.

Rossi hurried along the other side of the churchyard and paused at the end by the wall opposite the shop where the old jetty jutted out into the river. There was no rail, just a single lamp giving a subdued glow. The old lady turned onto the jetty and walked to the end with Benny. Rossi, seizing his opportunity, darted up behind her as she gazed out at the bright lights of a riverboat passing by, put both hands on her back and pushed her over into the water.

She had released her grip on the lead and the dog barked and ran to the edge of the jetty. Rossi looked down, saw her flounder and go under. He dashed away as quickly as he had come to the shelter of the churchyard, and from there made his way back to Wapping High Street.

It was perhaps twenty minutes later that Mr. Patel, distracted by Benny’s constant barking, went outside and found the little dog, still with his lead on him, at the end of the jetty.

“What is it, Benny?” Patel demanded, retrieved his lead, then looked over and saw her frail body half in the water below.

The following morning, Charles Ferguson was having breakfast when his phone rang.

“Sir, it’s Bernstein.”

“Isn’t this a bit early, even for you, Superintendent?”

“Just listen, sir. I put Mrs. Sara Grant on the Special Branch Priority One list, just to keep an eye on her.”

“And?”

“She was found in the Thames last night, just off that jetty at the end of Brick Lane. The Indian gentleman, Mr. Patel, who owns the store, heard the dog barking and went to investigate. He found it at the end of the jetty with its lead still on and she was in the water.”

“Dear God,” Ferguson said. “Where is she now?”

“Wapping Mortuary.”

“Oh, we’re such idiots, Superintendent. Look, we’ll have to fast-track the postmortem. I’ll telephone Professor George Langley and ask him to do it this morning.”

“That is fast, sir.”

“He’ll do it for me. You will use your authority to take over the case from the Wapping police. It’s a Code One matter from now on. I’ll sign the warrant. Brook no interference from anyone. And notify Dillon.”

Dillon was on his morning run from Stable Mews, the hood of his tracksuit up against a light drizzle, when his mobile sounded and Hannah said, “It’s me, Sean.”

“At this time in the morning. Jesus, girl, am I finally getting through to you?”

“Shut up, Sean, it’s bad news,” and she told him. Dillon stopped in a doorway, stunned. “Are you still there, Sean?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“What do you think?”

“It stinks, that’s what I think.”

The rage was in his voice. She said, “Sean, don’t do anything stupid. We have to be sure. George Langley will do the postmortem later this morning. He’s the best there is. He’s put more murderers behind bars than even you can imagine. If there’s the smallest thing wrong, he’ll find it.”

“He’d better,” Dillon said. “By God, he’d better.”

She rang off and Dillon stayed there for a while in the doorway, then walked away.

He went home and changed, then drove to Roper’s place and found him in the sitting room at the computers. The major said, “You’re early. That means something’s up.”

Dillon told him, then went and found the bottle of Paddy whiskey and poured a glass. “It’s early, even for me, but I need it.” He swallowed it down. “What do you think?”

“She was certainly a mine of information.”

“Which von Berger immediately denied as the fantasy of an aging woman.”

“Who promptly has some sort of accident and ends up in the Thames. Very useful, that happening,” Roper said.

“Yes. It’s all true, everything she told us. Von Berger’s mission from Hitler, his final flight out of Berlin, the diary – all true.”

“And now the source of that information is dead,” Roper said.

Dillon’s face was drawn. “I told her to trust me. I swore no harm would come to her. You know what she said to me? ‘You’re a good man, Mr. Dillon, in spite of yourself.’”

“I’m sorry, Sean.”

“I know somebody who’ll be a damn sight sorrier when I’ve finished with them.”

“Wait for the postmortem.”

“Of course I will.” Dillon looked like the Devil himself as he left.

It was the middle of the afternoon when Ferguson, Hannah and Dillon arrived at Wapping Mortuary, in response to Professor Langley’s call. The reception area was pleasant enough, and Hannah went to the desk and spoke to a young woman, who picked up a phone.

“I’m sorry, Professor Langley is just cleaning up. He’ll be with you shortly.”

Ferguson and Hannah sat down, Dillon lit a cigarette and stood looking out the window. Ferguson said, “You seem restless, Dillon.”

“No, angry.”

“Calm yourself, we’ll have the result soon.”

“We have that now. The only result was her death and don’t tell me it could have been a coincidence. Neither you nor I believe in them very much, not in our business.”

Before Ferguson could reply, a small gray-haired, energetic man entered. “Hello, Charles.”

Ferguson shook hands. “Thanks for rushing this through, George. Detective Superintendent Bernstein here is the case officer. Sean Dillon is a colleague.”

“Sorry about the delay. Would you care to see the body?”

It was Dillon who cut in. “Yes, very much.”

Ferguson nodded and Langley said, “This way, then.”

The room he led them to was lined with white tiles. The fluorescent lighting was strangely harsh, and several steel operating tables stood in a line. There was a body on the first one, covered with a white rubber sheet.

“Mrs. Sara Grant. Do you know this woman personally, Charles?”

“We all do.”

“I’ll just show you her face, then. The rest is rather unpleasant. Autopsies usually are.”

She looked surprisingly calm, even the lines on her face seemingly smoothed, at peace in a way.

“Not a mark on her,” Langley said. “Nor anywhere. There was no fight here, no blows or wounds. The only reason for death was drowning.”

Dillon said, “You’re certain of that?”

“Absolutely. I noticed in the police report that the local shopkeeper who found her regularly saw her at night walking her dog along the jetty. She liked to stand at the end and watch the boats. I’ve visited the spot myself. There’s no handrail and a thirty-foot drop into the river.”

“You’re sure there were no marks at all, Professor?” Hannah said. “No indication of any kind of a struggle?”

“Not even bruising from the fall into the water. Of course, she was wearing a trouser suit and a heavy overcoat.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Only that she had lung cancer. Wouldn’t have lasted more than a few months, anyway. Death by drowning, Charles, that’s the best I can do.”

“Dammit,” Dillon said. “There has to be more.”

“No, Mr. Dillon, she fell from the end of the jetty and drowned. Now, as to whether she had any help – which I know is what you’re wondering about – I couldn’t possibly comment on that. All I can say is that there are no signs of bruising, which on a woman as old and frail as she was means no violence of even the mildest kind.” He turned to Ferguson. “Charles, I realize that this is probably some sort of intelligence matter and no doubt classified. I’m happy not to know any more.”

“Many thanks, George.” Ferguson shook hands.

Dillon said, “That’s it then, nothing?”

“Sorry, Mr. Dillon.” Langley walked to the door with them. “Oh, wait a minute, there was something else.”

“And what would that be?” Ferguson demanded.

“I’ve done thousands of postmortems over the years and this was a first for me. The number tattooed in her left armpit. Not on the arm, like in the concentration camps, but in the armpit. It means she served in the SS.” He smiled. “But then you would know more about that than me, Charles.”

In the back of the Daimler, Dillon pulled the glass screen across, cutting off the chauffeur.

“They did it, General, the bastards took her out.”

“But how?” Hannah said. “We never mentioned any address.”

“Oh, come on, Hannah. Once they knew she existed, how long do you think it took Rossi to trace her?”

“But-”

“That’s enough,” said Ferguson. “Squabbling won’t bring her back. Superintendent, get von Berger on the line for me.”

It was Marco who answered the phone and passed it to his father. “General,” the Baron said. “What now?”

“Fräulein Sara Hesser has turned up in the Thames. It’s time for us to talk – now.”

“Why?”

“Would you prefer me to present a warrant and make it official?”

“There’s no need for the crudities, General. I’ll tell you what – let’s make it civilized. The Piano Bar at the Dorchester. Let’s say seven?”

“All right. And bring your thug with you.”

He hung up.

The Baron handed the phone back to Rossi. “He doesn’t seem to like you much. Marco – Sara Hesser was discovered in the Thames today.”

“My God.” Rossi managed to sound horrified.

“Do you know anything about this?”

“Father, on my life, I swear to you…”

The Baron raised a hand. “Well, Ferguson obviously thinks we do. It should be an interesting evening. And just to make sure, remember this: Newton and Cook don’t exist and we’ve never heard of Brick Lane.”

Only half a dozen people were in the Piano Bar when Ferguson arrived with Dillon and Hannah. Dillon wandered over to the piano, as he often did, and began to play: “A Foggy Day in London Town.” Hannah came and leaned on the piano. “I’ve never understood this, Sean, the piano. You seem to be good at so many things.”

“You mean like killing people?” He smiled. “Don’t be deceived, Hannah, good barroom piano is all.”

“You’re angry. That always worries me.”

“Yes, good and angry. I’m a bad man, Hannah. I’ve walked over plenty of corpses, but there’s something about Sara Hesser’s death that grinds at me. She deserved better.”

The waiter was pouring champagne when Max von Berger and Rossi appeared at the top of the steps by the bar.

The Baron sat opposite Ferguson and Hannah. Rossi and Dillon stood, in a way confronting each other.

“So what is this about, General?”

“Tell him, Superintendent.”

When she was finished, the Baron sighed. “So this poor lady falls off the jetty and your Professor Langley confirms she died of drowning, with no suspicious circumstances. So what does this have to do with me?”

“The fact that she died at all is a suspicious circumstance,” Dillon said.

Marco Rossi said, “You don’t have a leg to stand on, Dillon. This meeting is not only futile, it’s offensive.”

“Enough,” Ferguson said. “We’re not talking legalities, we’re talking truth. We may not be able to arrest you, but you know and we know what happened.”

“I know no such thing,” said the Baron. “Really, Marco is right. This is most offensive.” The Baron stood.

Dillon said to Rossi, “What did you do, push her over?”

Rossi took a step toward him and Hannah grabbed Sean’s arm. “Let it go.”

The Baron’s face was grim. “I think we’ll leave now,” and he walked out, followed by his son.

In the car outside, he said quietly, “You had nothing to do with this? Swear it to me.”

“On my life. She was an old woman who had a tragic accident. That’s all.”

“But, as Ferguson puts it, most fortunate for us.”

That his son was lying naturally occurred to him, but he pushed the thought away and leaned back.

In his own car, Ferguson clicked off his phone and immediately dialed again, his direct Codex Four line to the Basement office at the White House. Johnson, at his desk, answered at once.

“Yes?”

“Ferguson.”

“Charles, how goes it?”

“Rather badly. I’ve just talked to the Prime Minister. He wants me to go to Washington immediately and speak to the President personally. I’ll bring Dillon with me.”

“Sorry, Charles, but the President’s gone to his house on Nantucket for the weekend. Can I do anything?”

“It’s a very grave matter that affects him personally.”

There was a pause. “All right, go straight to Andrews Air Force Base. They’ll take you there by helicopter and make a beach landing. I’ll arrange it.” He hesitated. “This is a bad one, Charles?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I’ll get down there myself.”

“I think that would be wise, old boy. You’ll be going to war again, I assure you.” He hung up.

Johnson sat at his desk, frowning, then picked up the phone and rang the President on his direct line.