A Season in Hell, page 7
“It induces a kind of chemical hypnosis, Mrs. Talbot,” Ferguson put in. “Reduces the subject to being a zombie for a while.”
“And that happened to Eric?” she whispered.
“Yes, and during the past year, four members of the IRA executed by Protestant factions in Ulster have had traces of the same drug revealed at their postmortems.”
“And that’s what makes it a Security matter, Mrs. Talbot. It’s a very rare occurrence,” Ferguson said. “Four members of the IRA in Ulster, and now your stepson.”
“And you think there could be a connection?” she said.
“Perhaps the same people were involved,” the brigadier told her. “That’s what we’re getting at. We’ve got a computer hunt on now covering all Western European countries.”
“And what have you found?”
“Several cases in France over the past three years, all rather similar to your stepson’s, actually. Death by drowning under the influence of drugs.”
Barbera’s suggestion could no longer be avoided.
“Which would seem to suggest to me,” she said evenly, “that a number of people have been murdered while in this state of chemical hypnosis you mention.”
“So it would appear,” he said.
“Murdered for one reason only. So that their bodies could be used like some damned suitcase.” She hammered a clenched fist on her knee. “They did that to Eric. Why?”
“Five million pounds a time, Mrs. Talbot, that’s our conservative estimate of each consignment of heroin at street prices.”
She took out the silver case. Villiers gave her a light. The smoking helped to stop her trembling. And it was anger she felt now. No, more than that—rage. They were entering the outskirts of Canterbury, threading their way through the ancient streets. She gazed up at the towering spires of the great cathedral.
“It’s very beautiful.”
“The birthplace of English Christianity,” Ferguson told her. “Founded by Saint Augustine in Saxon times.”
“And bombed by the Nazis in nineteen forty-two.” Villiers shrugged. “Not exactly a military target, but we bombed some of their cathedral towns, so they bombed some of ours.”
The Daimler turned into a quiet square. She said, “So the computer hasn’t thrown up any more cases, then?”
“I’m afraid not,” the brigadier said.
“That’s not quite true,” Villiers put in. “A case came up this morning. I didn’t have a chance to tell you. Eighteen-year-old girl found in the Thames at Wapping a few months ago.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.” Villiers paused. “Actually, she was Egan’s foster sister, sir.”
Ferguson was astonished. “You mean Sean Egan?”
“Yes.”
“Good God.”
Sarah interrupted. “And who would this Sean Egan be?”
“A young sergeant who served with me in the SAS. Badly wounded in the Falklands. He’s just left the Service.”
“Tell me about him,” she demanded, but at that moment they pulled in at the curb at the bottom of a row of steps leading up to an imposing Georgian building.
“No time for that now, my dear,” Ferguson told her as the chauffeur opened the door. “We’re here.”
There were a dozen or so people in court, mostly of the sort who sought free entertainment. Jago sat on the back row and noticed the brigadier, Sarah Talbot and Tony Villiers as they came in—not that it meant anything to him at that precise moment, but Villiers gave him pause for thought. There is a saying in the British Army that it takes an old Academy man to know one, and Jago recognized the young colonel instantly for what he was, civilian clothes or not.
The clerk of the court got the proceedings started. “The court will rise for Her Majesty’s coroner.”
They all stood. The coroner, a tall scholarly-looking man in a dark suit who, to Sarah’s surprise, wore no robes, entered and sat down.
“The court will come to order,” the clerk said. “Normally in an inquest of this kind the presence of a jury would be mandatory. However, this is not a usual case, and the jury procedure will not be necessary.”
The clerk passed the coroner a paper. He examined it, then glanced up. “Is Colonel Villiers in court?”
“Sir.” Villiers stood up.
“I take heed of this D notice served by you on behalf of the Ministry of Defence and accept it. I would make the point to any members of the press present that the issue of the D notice makes it an offense punishable by imprisonment to report any details of these proceedings. Colonel Villiers, you may sit down.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The coroner continued. “The facts of the death of Eric Malcolm Ian Talbot have already been established by the coroner’s court in Paris, where the death took place.”
Sarah wanted to shout out, to stand up and dispute what was being said, and Villiers, as if sensing what she was thinking, took her hand firmly.
The coroner went on. “The lamentable turn events have taken after this unfortunate young man’s death are a matter for investigation by the proper authority. Is the next of kin in court?”
It took a moment for it to sink in, and then she rose. “Here, sir.”
“Take the stand, please.” She went forward, stepped up and stood at the rail. The coroner glanced at the paper before him. “You are Mrs. Sarah Talbot, presently residing in the City of New York in the United States of America?”
It was all so formal—so precise. “That is correct.”
“Please state your relationship to the deceased.”
Sarah moistened dry lips. “I was his stepmother.”
“The body of your stepson is at present in the city mortuary. Have you identified it, Mrs. Talbot?”
“No, sir.”
The clerk passed another paper up. The coroner examined it. “Fingerprint evidence presented to this court makes it possible for me to waive that requirement. I will issue you with a burial order.” He paused. “You have the profound sympathy of this court, Mrs. Talbot.”
“Thank you.”
She stepped down, stunned that it was over so quickly, and the clerk cried, “The court will rise for Her Majesty’s coroner.”
Everyone stood, and there was a general move to the exit. Villiers said, “It could have been worse. You did well, Sarah.”
Jago, crowding in behind, heard her say, “Far worse to come, but it can’t be avoided.”
“What on earth could that be?” Ferguson asked.
“Eric,” she said simply. “I want to see him.”
Villiers put an arm around her shoulders. “No need for that, Sarah. No need to go through it. I’ve seen him and it isn’t Eric any more. I’ve got everything arranged. They’ll bring him up to London this afternoon, service at Greenhill Crematorium, ten o’clock in the morning. All taken care of.”
“I need to see him,” she said firmly. He looked at Ferguson; the brigadier nodded. Wearily Villiers said, “All right, let’s get it over with.”
He was right, of course. It wasn’t Eric, the blackened, twisted creature revealed when the attendant pulled out the drawer and removed the white rubber sheet, and yet she stood there for a long, long moment remembering his hand in hers at the wedding, full of happiness, full of trust. Finally she nodded to the attendant and walked away, followed by the two men.
They got into the Daimler, and as it drove away Ferguson said, “Are you all right, Mrs. Talbot?”
She turned to him, eyes burning. “All my life I’ve been what they describe as a good person. Your average decent citizen. Three cheers for the American way and the rule of law. Well, I’ve got news for you, Brigadier. I don’t feel quite so well disposed today. I want the bastards who did that to him. I want them to pay.”
Villiers’s face was white. “Sarah!”
“That’s how I feel, Tony. That’s exactly how I feel.” And she turned away and stared out the window.
Jago made a call to the usual number from a phone box at a service station outside Canterbury, and Smith rang him back within a couple of minutes.
“He’s getting worried,” Jago told himself, and proceeded to fill Smith in with what had happened.
“What did you think of her?” Smith asked.
“I liked her. A real lady. Lots of style and balls of brass, that’s my opinion.”
“I’ve been doing some checking. Her old man left her a few millions when he died. On top of that she’s a hotshot broker on Wall Street. She’s staying at a house her company keeps for visitors on Lord North Street.”
“I’m impressed,” Jago said.
“But the two men with her, Villiers and Ferguson—what in the hell goes on?”
“If you want my opinion, based on my seven years serving Her Gracious Majesty, I’d say they were Intelligence.”
“But why? It doesn’t make sense.” There was a pause. “Get back to London fast. I’ll phone you at your flat at six. Be there.”
They dropped Ferguson off, and Villiers went on to Lord North Street with Sarah. The house was a pleasant, tall narrow building of the Regency period. The only staff employed was a maid who came in the mornings, so they had the place to themselves.
There were two packing cases in the hall, and Sarah said, “What’s this?”
“Eric’s effects. I had them clear his room at Trinity College. I thought you’d like to sort through them.”
“Oh, thank you so much, Tony. It was a kind thought.”
She was into the first packing case instantly, and Villiers said, “I’ll make some tea.”
He was standing at the stove waiting for the kettle to boil when she came in carrying a large book bound in blue Moroccan leather. “Look what I’ve found.”
“What is it?” Villiers asked.
“Some sort of diary he kept.”
He glanced over her shoulder as she opened it and sat at the table. “Good heavens, it’s in Latin,” he said.
“Eric’s favorite subject. Something else we had in common. I majored in classical languages at Radcliffe. Latin and Greek. My father thought it was a terrible waste of time.”
Villiers poured the tea. “What’s it say?”
She started on the first page, translating fluently and with obvious ease. “ ‘Today, I arrived at Trinity. So exciting. Cambridge is wonderful, Sarah came for the weekend to settle me in. We went on the river in a punt and afterwards sat under the mulberry tree that Milton planted in the Fellows Garden at Christ’s College. She returns to New York tomorrow. I’ll miss her like hell.’ ”
She stopped reading, closed the book and clasped it to her. “Tony, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to go now because I think I’m going to cry, and I don’t think I’ll be able to stop for quite some time.”
He put a hand briefly on her shoulder. “All right, Sarah, I’ll see you in the morning,” he said and went out, closing the door softly behind him.
Smith said, “Right, this is what happens. I’ve managed to get an apartment on the top floor of a house on the opposite side of the street from where the Talbot woman is staying. Had to pay a year’s lease, but there it is.”
“Is it directly opposite?”
“Almost. Two doors down. Sufficient for our purposes. The porter is expecting you to move in tonight. Your name is James Mackenzie. You’ll have a delivery at nine o’clock.”
“We’re going to do a little eavesdropping, I presume?”
“Exactly. There’s a directional microphone which can pick up every word spoken in that house, no trouble. It has an ultrafrequency function that picks up telephone conversations. The whole thing will be linked to a recorder. I want to know what goes on over there.”
“All right, you’ve got it.”
“There’s also a new laser-orientated directional microphone for your car. I want to cover every possibility.”
“Fine,” Jago told him. “Taken care of, I guarantee it.”
He put the phone down and went into the kitchen, whistling, realizing that he was actually beginning to enjoy himself.
At Greenhill Crematorium the following morning there were just Sarah, Villiers, Ferguson and the minister, of course. The whole thing was as bad as it could be. Background choir music played on a tape, and the minister spoke with a parsonical whine to his voice like a music-hall comedian’s joke.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.”
She stifled an insane impulse to laugh. Why not she that believeth in me? Why was everything he?
The taped music swelled, the coffin moved out of sight on the conveyor belt through the dark opening to the oven beyond. The minister shook Sarah’s hand. She was aware of his mouth opening, but didn’t hear a word, and then they were outside.
Ferguson said, “I’ll be on my way. You’ll see Mrs. Talbot home, Tony?”
“Of course, sir.”
He took her hand. “I may not see you again. I suppose you’ll be going back to New York.”
“No, I don’t think so, Brigadier,” she said.
“Oh, dear, I hope you’re not going to be awkward, Mrs. Talbot,” Ferguson said.
“Most American citizens having a problem in London would contact our embassy,” she told him. “Not me, Brigadier. You see, my father was one of the President’s oldest friends. All I have to do is pick up the phone and call the White House. Would you rather I did that, Brigadier?”
Ferguson was angry, but managed a smile. “I don’t really think that will be necessary, Mrs. Talbot.”
She walked to the waiting car. A moment later Villiers got in beside her.
“Would you do that, Sarah?” he said as the car drove away. “Would you really drag the President into this?”
“Tony, I’d shake hands with the Devil himself on this one if I had to.” She took out Edward’s silver case and selected a cigarette. “But that may not be necessary if you’re sensible. Now, tell me about Sean Egan.”
FIVE
The London Associates had arranged a car for her, a black Mercedes sedan. The driver was a middle-aged cockney called George, who drove with incredible skill, pushing his way through the heavy afternoon traffic from Westminster along Victoria Embankment.
“You really seem to know how to handle the traffic, George.”
“You’ve got to, Mrs. Talbot, or you’d never bleeding well get anywhere these days. All right for me though. I was a cabby for twenty-six years.”
“So you know the city then.”
“I should do. Can’t go on the road in a London cab until you’ve done the Knowledge.”
“The Knowledge? What’s that mean?”
“Knowing the city backwards, that’s what it means, Mrs. Talbot. Now where did you want to go first. The Tower?”
“No,” she said. “A place called Wapping. Do you know it?”
“Stone me, I should do. That’s my patch. I was born in Cable Street. God, I could tell you some stories. Mind you, I live in Camden now, but it’s not the same.”
“So you’re a cockney then?”
“Too bleeding true, Mrs. Talbot. A genuine East Ender. What was it you wanted exactly?”
She produced the envelope Villiers had reluctantly given her from her handbag and took out the contents. There was a photo of Egan in service dress, just head and shoulders, the blank face giving nothing away. A couple of sheets of paper provided all she needed to know. Then there were the things that Villiers had said about Egan, some of which had shocked her. So much violence in one so young. It was difficult to grasp.
She said, “I want to go to a place called Jordan Lane. Do you know it?”
He glanced sideways in surprise. “Jordan Lane? That’s not far from the old London docks. Next to Hangman’s Wharf. That’s no place for you.”
“Why not?”
“They’re all just a little bit wicked round there.” It was her first example of the cockney tendency to understatement. “I mean, it’s still a bit like the old days.”
“In what way?”
“The Pool of London and the Thames used to be the biggest port in the world, then things went sour. The unions got it wrong, and everybody turned to Amsterdam. A year or two back you could have walked down through Wapping and found nothing but rusting cranes, empty docks, and warehouses boarded up.”
“And now?”
“There’s a lot happening. New housing, warehouse developments. You see it’s very convenient for the City so all these flash young kids, brokers and bankers, with a hundred grand a year and a Porsche, are moving into the area and squeezing the locals out.”
“But not at Hangman’s Wharf.”
“No.” He seemed evasive now. “Things are still pretty much the same down there.”
She consulted the sheet of paper in front of her again. “Do you know a man called Jack Shelley?”
The car swerved slightly, but he regained control. “Everybody in Wapping knows Jack Shelley, Mrs. Talbot. What would you want to know about him for?”
“I understood he was a famous gangster.”
“In his day, but not any more. Now he’s legit. He owns Hangman’s Wharf itself and the whole river frontage, and what he doesn’t own, he controls.”
“And do people like that?”
“The locals do. He doesn’t go in for developments. Doesn’t throw people out on the street. Mind you, he’s got millions these days. Electronics, computers, couple of casinos.”
“A respectable businessman in fact?”
“Not like the old days.” George chuckled. “He was a right villain. Smash and grab, robberies. Then there was the Darley Warehouse job. A million in gold bullion and that was real money in those days.”
“And he never went to jail?”
“Six months when he was a kid. That’s all he ever did. He was a legend in the East End. The Kray Brothers and the Richardsons, people were scared to death of them, but not Jack Shelley. If you were in trouble you went to Jack. If you needed a couple of quid he’d probably give you a pony.”
“A pony?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Talbot, the cockney in me again. Twenty-five pounds to you.”
