The White House Connection

Epilogue

They drove up from London to Compton Place a week later, Ferguson , Hannah and Dillon, in the Daimler. The weather was terrible, heavy, driving rain.

'What did the Prime Minister have to say at the end of the day?' Dillon asked.

'Extremely sorry about Lady Helen, of course.'

'Aren't we all?'

'But content with the outcome. I mean, it could have been bloody awful.'

'Instead of which, it didn't happen, sir, is that what we're saying?' Hannah Bernstein, in black coat and trouser suit, sounded cold, forbidding.

'Now look, Superintendent, sometimes we have to think of the good of the cause.'

'That's what the IRA say,' Dillon told him. 'Drummed into me from the age of nineteen.' He put the window down and lit a cigarette. 'Sorry, my love,' he said to Hannah.

She put a hand on his knee. 'Feel free, Sean.'

He said, 'So, the Prime Minister and the President heave a heavy sigh of relief and thank God for the foot soldiers. You appointed me public executioner again, only this time Hannah and Blake had to play their part.'

'It's the name of the game, Dillon,' Ferguson said.

Dillon turned to Hannah. 'Do you ever wonder what it's all about? Because I do.'

They were entering the village now. The parking lot of St Mary and All the Saints was almost full, and there were cars parked along the village street.

'My goodness, but they are giving her a send-off,' Ferguson said.

'Well, they would. I've learned enough about her to know she was greatly loved.' Dillon checked his watch. 'Forty minutes to the service. I don't know about you, but I need a drink. Pull in at the pub. If you don't want to join me, I'll see you at the church.'

'No, I think a drink might be appropriate.' Ferguson glanced at Hannah. 'If you agree, Superintendent.'

'Of course, sir.'

The Daimler dropped them at the pub entrance and drove away. They moved inside and found it already full, not only with villagers in their best suits and dresses, but many visitors. Hetty Armsby in a black suit served the bar, helped by two village girls. Old Armsby sat on the end stool, also in black suit, neck scrawny in a stiff collar.

'Good Lord,' Ferguson said. 'Two Earls, a Duchess, and damn me if that's not the Commanding Officer of the Scots Guards over there and the Commanding General of the Household Brigade. I'd better say hello.'

'Good old British class system,' Dillon said, turning to Hannah. 'I'm going to force my way to the bar. Wait for me here.'

He made it and said to Hetty, 'Would you happen to have any champagne in your fridge there?'

'There might be a half-bottle.' She frowned. ' Champagne?'

'At a funeral?' He lit a cigarette. 'I want to drink a toast to probably the greatest lady I've ever known.'

Her smile was instant and, impulsively, she reached over and kissed him on the cheek and there were tears in her eyes. 'She was the best, right enough.'

She produced the champagne. 'Two glasses,' he said.

A familiar voice said, 'Make that three.'

Dillon turned and there was Blake Johnson, his left arm in a sling. 'My God,' Dillon said. 'Where in the hell did you spring from?'

'There's still an American air base up here at Crockley. It was a last-minute decision of the President's. Sent me over to carry his personal wreath.'

He took one of the glasses of champagne and Dillon carried the other two. Blake kissed Hannah on the cheek. 'Superintendent, as always, a pleasure.'

'Nice to see you, and very gracious, but that's not why we're here. To Helen Lang, a great lady.' She raised her glass and they all touched before drinking.

From behind, Charles Ferguson said, 'And so say all of us.'

The Church of St Mary and All the Saints was so crowded that they had to queue to get in the door. There was a man in his forties with a woman of the same age, Hedley Jackson beside them. Hedley whispered something, the couple glanced across and the men held back.

'Brigadier Ferguson? I'm George Harrison, Lady Helen's nephew.'

'Of course. You're taking over as chief executive of all the family business interests?'

Harrison was actually crying. 'She was a great woman, just great. She used to come over to Boston when I was a kid. We all loved her.'

'These are colleagues of mine, Superintendent Bernstein, Sean Dillon and Blake Johnson from the White House.'

Harrison stared. 'The White House?'

'I'm here as the President's personal representative,' Blake said. 'He's sent a wreath.'

'My God, I don't know what to say.' Harrison got his handkerchief out. 'I guess I'd better get back to my wife.'

Dillon was not a religious man. He remembered the Roman Catholic church in County Down in Ulster as a boy – incense, candles and the holy water, the uncle he'd had who was a priest and too good for this world – but standing at the back of that old English church, the service meant very little to him. The hymns, the organ music, the eulogy on Helen Lang's life by the clergyman seemed to make no sense. Strange, like Dillon, she was a Catholic, but the Lang family was not. Yet at the end, what difference did it make?

He was happy to get out, stood at the side of the path in the rain and lit a cigarette. For the moment, he'd lost the others and Hedley appeared with a large black umbrella.

'Another cliche, Hedley,' Dillon told him. 'A funeral and the rain pouring down.'

'You sound angry, Mr Dillon.'

'I just feel she deserved better.'

'You got that bastard for her.'

'The one good thing.'

They stood to one side as the bearers emerged from the church with the coffin and moved towards the part of the churchyard where the Lang family mausoleum was.

'A hell of a woman,' Hedley said. 'You know what she did for me?'

'Tell me.'

'The lawyer phoned this week. One million pounds in her will and her house in South Audley Street.'

Dillon tried to find the right words. 'She loved you, Hedley, she wanted to take care of you.'

'It's only money, Mr Dillon.' There were tears in Hedley's eyes. 'Only money, and what good is that, when you come down to it?'

Dillon patted his shoulder as the coffin moved on and they followed with the crowd, and when he turned, Ferguson, Bernstein and Blake were with them.

The coffin went into the mausoleum, the vicar spoke, the bronze doors closed, the rain was relentless. Already a new plaque was here beneath the one that said, Major Peter Lang, MC, Scots Guards, Special Air Service Regiment 1966-1996. Rest in Peace. It said, Helen Lang, Greatly Loved, Died 1999.

Hedley said to Dillon, 'I suggested that, as there was no one else here. I knew she wouldn't want anything fancy.'

'Remarkable,' Ferguson said. 'A wreath from both the British Prime Minister and the President of the United States. You don't see that every day.'

The crowd started to disperse, they walked down to the church parking lot. There was an American Air Force limousine there, a uniformed sergeant at the wheel.

'Straight back, Blake?' Dillon asked.

'I've got work to do, my fine Irish friend, you know how it is.'

'Oh, I do.'

'Goodbye, Brigadier.' Blake shook hands, kissed Hannah, got in the rear of the limousine and was driven away.

People dispersed, the cars drove away. Ferguson said, 'That's it, then.'

They walked to the Daimler, the driver opened the rear door and they got in, Dillon taking a jump seat opposite Hannah and Ferguson. He pulled the glass panel behind him closed.

'Do you ever feel tired, my love?' he asked Hannah. 'Really tired?'

'I know, Sean, I know.'

The Daimler moved away. 'So now what?' Dillon asked.

'There are still problems, Dillon,' Ferguson told him. 'The Middle East, Africa, Bosnia.' He shrugged. 'Only the Irish dimension has changed, with the peace process working.'

'Brigadier, if you believe that, you'll believe anything.'

Dillon leaned back, folded his arms and closed his eyes.