The Judas gate

R EQUIE M
15

By the good offices of Blake Johnson, Dillon found himself soon after on assignment to the CIA at Langley on an anti-terrorism programme. The principle was 'set a thief to catch a thief', his years on the other side of the fence providing invaluable experience for students.

It was two months before he found himself back at Holland Park, and on the first day Roper said, 'Something that might interest you is taking place tomorrow.'

'What would that be?' Dillon asked.

'Jean Talbot's the new Chairman of Talbot International. The board didn't have much choice, since she owns so much of the firm. She moved back to Marley Court and is back at the Slade as a Visiting Professor in Fine Art, and apparently she's getting an enormous number of portrait assignments. I was reading her up in Tatler magazine. She's got an exhibition in Bond Street.'

'That's nice for her, but what's happening tomorrow?'

'She had a Dutch salvage firm look for Justin and they found him in the Beech Baron. She's burying him tomorrow at St Mary the Virgin Church in Dun Street, Mayfair. I thought you might be interested.'

'Now, do I look like that kind of fella?'

'Actually, I think you do.'

In any event, an assignment for Ferguson got in the way, Dillon got to the church too late for the service, and things had moved out to the churchyard.

Most Roman Catholic churches in London are Victorian, and St Mary the Virgin was a charming example, with a delightfully melancholic feel to it, crowded with Gothic tombs, winged angels and effigies of children who had died far too young.

He stayed back from the crowd of thirty or forty people standing around the grave with bowed heads while the priest read the prayers for the dying. Jean Talbot looked very fine, the veil on her black hat thrown back, smiling at everyone.

She turned to move back towards the church, talking to people close to her, moving directly towards Dillon, then passing without the slightest sign that they had met.

He was surprised to realize how put out he felt, and the following day, being in Bond Street by the Zion Gallery, he went in to have a look at her collection. It was all excellent, more than interesting, but the big surprise was the portrait of her son.

It was incredibly good, a master-work. It was late in the afternoon and the crowd had thinned and he sat on a bench for twenty minutes looking at it, thinking of Lord Byron. Mad, bad and dangerous to know.

'You obviously like it, Mr Dillon.' She appeared from behind him.

'It's a very remarkable painting.'

'Of a very remarkable young man.'

He stood and turned to face her and was amazed that a woman of her age could look so incredibly attractive.

'I tried to make the funeral, but got held up and missed the church. I did manage some of the funeral, though.'

'I saw you.'

'I didn't know that.' He was lying, of course, and she knew it.

She turned to look at the painting again. 'My son was a deeply troubled man and a great deal of it was not his fault. I sometimes think I didn't really know him.'

'Oh, but I think you did,' Dillon told her.

'You think so? Justin once told me about my painting that I was not only good, but I was too good. That I didn't just go for appearance, I got what was inside. Would you agree?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'Of course if I did your portrait, I'd find a lot inside. You see, I know an awful lot about you: I've made it my business to find out. I just want to say I appreciate why you had to shoot my son in the Khufra. After all, he'd shot that wretched Colonel Hakim, so I don't really blame you.'

'That's very decent of you.'

'On the other hand, he was my son, so I can't possibly forgive you, either. So what's to be done?'

'I haven't the slightest idea,' Dillon said.

'Have you killed, I suppose. It's one of the advantages of being so incredibly rich – anything is possible.'

Dillon took a close look at her. She was serious. The woman he was looking at was not the same person she'd been in Kilmartin.

'I suppose it is,' Dillon said.

'So, you have much to look forward to.'

Dillon stood there for a moment, then glanced again at the portrait of Justin Talbot hanging on the wall.

'He was right,' Dillon said. 'You do get beneath the surface. But I just realized something.'

'What is that, Mr Dillon?'

'I thought it was Colonel Henry's mad eyes staring out at me from Justin's portrait. Now I realize they're yours.'

For the first time since he'd known her, that porcelain face cracked. 'I loved him, damn you, more than anything in this life.'

'Yes, I thought it was something like that. Well, ma'am: people have been trying to kill me in one way or another for years. I'm still here. But you're welcome to try.'

He walked away quickly, out into Bond Street. She hurried after him, furious, but when she reached the pavement crowded with people, he was already gone, vanished into thin air, as if he had never been.