'God save the good work,' Dillon said cheerfully. 'There's hope for the world yet. You can actually read.'
Ryan's face was like stone. 'What do you want, Dillon?'
' "God save you kindly" was the answer to that,' Dillon said. 'And you an Irishman and not knowing.'
'You've no right to be here. I'm clean.'
'Never in a thousand years.'
Ryan stood and opened his jacket. 'Try me. I'm not carrying.'
'I know. You're too clever for that.'
'You've no right to be here. You're not even Scotland Yard.'
'Granted, but I'm something more. Your own worst nightmare.'
'Get out now.'
'Before you throw me out? I don't think so.' Dillon lifted the bar flap, went behind, reached for a bottle of Bushmills and a glass and filled it. 'I won't drink with a piece of dung like you, but I'll have one for myself. It's cold outside.'
Without a flicker of emotion, Ryan said, 'I could call the police.'
'What for? I'm not carrying myself,' Dillon smiled as he lied. 'You see, old son, this is a new agenda, what with the Northern Ireland Secretary, Sinn Fein and the Loyalists with their heads together in Belfast working away at the peace process. I mean, who needs guns any more? My boss wouldn't like it.'
'What do you want?' Ryan asked. 'What is this? You've been on my back for years.'
'Just making my rounds,' Dillon said. 'Just to let you know I'm still on your case. The Semtex you supplied the Birmingham and London units - how many bombings was it used for? Three? Four housewives in that shopping mall in Birmingham. We know it was you, we just can't prove it. Yet.'
'You can talk. How many did you kill for the cause? For nearly twenty years, Dillon, until you turned traitor.'
'But I never sold drugs or used young girls for prostitution,' Dillon said. 'There's a difference.' He swallowed the rest of the Bushmills and put the glass down. 'It's cold outside and dark and I'll always be there in the shadows. To vary an old IRA saying, my day will come.'
He turned and walked to the kitchen door and Ryan exploded. 'Fuck you, Dillon, fuck you. I'm Tim Pat Ryan. I'm the man. You can't treat me like this,' but the kitchen door was already closing softly.
Ryan, beside himself with rage now, hurled back the flap, opened the old-fashioned cash register, fumbled at the back of the drawer and found the Smith & Wesson.38 pistol he always kept there fully loaded, turned and headed for the kitchen.
Lady Helen Lang had paid off the cab outside the George Hotel in Wapping High Street. Remembering the street map, she crossed the road and turned into a narrow lane. Hedley, caught behind two cars at a red light, saw her go. He swore softly, took off on the green and moved into the same lane. But there was
no sign of her, even when he turned his lights on fully. It was a maze of decaying warehouses and narrow criss-crossing streets. What in the hell was she playing at in a place like this? Frantic with worry, he started to cruise slowly.
Lady Helen, her umbrella high against the teeming rain, found China Wharf with no trouble. There was a light at the pub window and an old-fashioned gas lamp bracketed to the wall above the painted sign that said the Sailor. It threw a diffused light to the edge of the wharf, the river black beyond, lights on the far side. She hesitated, uncertain now. A large Range Rover was parked close to the pub entrance, Ryan's, probably.
She stood in the umbrella's shelter and the kitchen door opened and Dillon came out. She recognized him at once from the file, and, surprised, she drew back. She watched him walk across the wharf and light a cigarette, then the kitchen door opened again and Tim Pat Ryan, also unmistakable, rushed out.
'Dillon, you bastard,' he called, and in the light she saw the Smith & Wesson. 'Here's for you.'
Dillon laughed. 'You couldn't hit a barn door, you never could. Someone always had to do it for you.'
His hand found the butt of the Walther and he drew it, crouching as Ryan fired wildly. Dillon put a foot forward to steady himself, but there was a puddle of spilled oil there, and he slipped, falling headlong, the Walther skidding away.
Ryan laughed triumphantly. 'I've got you now,' and he fired again.
Dillon rolled frantically and went over the edge of the wharf, plunging into the dark waters below. It was bitterly cold and he surfaced to find Ryan peering down.
'So there you are.'
He raised his Smith & Wesson, and then Dillon heard a voice call: 'Mr Ryan.'
Ryan turned. Dillon heard a muted cough that he recognized as the sound of a silenced pistol, then Ryan came backwards over the edge of the wharf, hit the water beside Dillon and surfaced with a hole between his eyes. Dillon pushed him away and grabbed for a ring bolt. There was a footfall above, but no one looked over. When the voice spoke again, it was with an
Irish accent.
'Are you all right, Mr Dillon?'
'As ever was, ma'am, and who in God's name might you be?'
'Your guardian angel. Take care, my friend.'
He heard her walk away, as he swam to a wooden ladder and climbed up. As his head rose above the edge of the wharf, he caught a brief glimpse of her disappearing into the shadows, a dark shape under an umbrella that was gone in a moment.
He pulled himself over and stood up, streaming water. His Walther lay where it had fallen and Ryan's weapon was close by. He pushed the Walther into his waistband and picked up the Smith & Wesson, went to the edge of the wharf, looked down at Ryan's half-submerged body, then hurled the gun far out into the river.
'And you can chew on that, you bastard,' he said, and hurried back to the Mini Cooper.
He had a mobile phone in the glove compartment, got it out and dialled Cavendish Square. Ferguson sounded irate. 'Who is this?'
'It's me,' Dillon told him.
'Good God, do you know what time it is? I'm in bed. Can't it wait until the morning?'
'Not really. An old friend just passed on.'
Ferguson's voice changed. 'Permanently?'
'Very much so.'
'You'd better come round then.'
'I need to go home first.'
'What on earth for?'
'Because I've been swimming in the Thames, that's why,' and Dillon switched off and drove away.
Ferguson thought about it and then phoned Hannah Bernstein.
She answered at once. 'Are you in bed?'
'No, reading actually. One of those nights. Can't sleep.' 'Phone through for one of the emergency cars and get round
here. It would appear our Sean has been involved in some sort
of mischief.' 'Oh, dear, bad?'
'The graveyard variety, or so it would seem. I'll see you soon.' He put down the phone, got out of bed and pulled on a robe,
then he phoned through to Kim, his Ghurka manservant, woke
him up and ordered tea.
Hedley had almost given up when he saw her at the end of the sidewalk in front of him, and as he coasted towards her, three youths came round the corner wearing bomber jackets and jeans, young animals of the kind to be found anywhere in the world, from New York to London. Hedley heard the ugly laughter and then they were on to her, one of them yanking her purse away. His anger was instant, he braked at the kerb and jumped out.
'Leave it.'
One of them pushed Helen against the wall and they all turned. The one with the purse said, 'Hey, nigger, get out of here, this is none of your business.'
They moved in on him and it all came back: 'Nam, the Delta, every dirty trick he'd ever learned. He grabbed the wrist of the one holding the purse, twisted the arm straight, and delivered a hammer blow that snapped the bone. His right elbow went back into the face of the one behind, breaking the nose, and his left foot scraped down the leg of the third, dislodging the kneecap.
They were on the sidewalk, crying in pain. He picked up the purse and took her arm. 'Can we go now?'
'My God, Hedley, you don't take prisoners.'
'Never could see the point.'
'What are you doing here?'
'I heard you leave, so I followed. Then I lost you when you went on foot.'
He held the door for her, she slipped in and he got in behind the wheel. Sounding a little breathless, she opened her purse, took out a bottle and shook a couple of pills into her palm.
'The flask, Hedley.'
'Lady Helen, you shouldn't.'
'The flask.' Her voice was insistent and he passed the flask over reluctantly. She drank, washing the pills down, a warm glow spreading through her. 'We'll go back to South Audley Street now and pack. Compton Place in the morning.'
As he pulled away, he said anxiously, 'Are you okay?'
'Never better. You see, I just executed Tim Pat Ryan.'
He swerved slightly, then regained control. 'You've got to be kidding me.'
'Not at all. Let me tell you about it.'
Kim opened the door to let Dillon in, and when the Irishman went into the drawing room, he found Hannah Bernstein, wearing a track suit, opposite Ferguson, who wore a robe over his pyjamas.
'God bless all here,' Dillon said.
'Enough of the stage Irishman, Dillon. Just tell us the worst,' Ferguson said wearily.
Dillon did, in a few brief sentences, then went and helped himself to the Bushmills.
'For God's sake, what am I to do with you?' Ferguson demanded. 'You know the present political situation. Hands off,
no trouble, and yet out of some strange perversity, you went looking for it.'
'I only intended to lean on the bastard.'
For once it was Hannah Bernstein who spoke up.
'It's no great loss, sir. Ryan was like something from under a stone.'
'Yes, I admit to a certain satisfaction,' the Brigadier told her. 'But how does that fine Special Branch mind intend to handle it?'
'By leaving it alone, sir. Someone will find Ryan down there by the wharf soon enough. That leaves Scotland Yard and a Murder Squad investigation. Let's face it, a piece of filth like Ryan had more enemies than you could count. It's not our problem, sir.'
'I agree,' Ferguson said.
Dillon shook his head. 'Jesus, 'tis the hard woman you are. Whatever happened to that nice Jewish girl I fell in love with?'
'Comes of working with you.' She turned to Ferguson. 'To business, sir, our business. This woman with the Irish accent may have done us a favour, but I'd like to know who she is. With your permission, I'll trawl all intelligence sources on the computer at the Ministry of Defence and see what I can see.'
'Be my guest, Chief Inspector. There may be a Loyalist link here.'
'I don't think so,' Dillon said. 'Most Loyalists have the Ulster accent like my own. Hers was different.'
'No matter.' Ferguson stood. 'You can stay in one of the spare bedrooms, Chief Inspector, I don't want to turn you out again in the rain at this time in the morning.'
'Thank you, sir.'
He turned. 'You, of course, can walk home, Dillon. I mean, you Irish are used to the rain, aren't you?'
'God save your honour, 'tis the grand man you are. I'll take
my shoes off at your door, tie them round my neck and walk barefoot to Stable Mews to save the leather.'
Ferguson laughed out loud. 'Just go, you rogue, go,' and Dillon went out.
In the study at South Audley Street, Lady Helen sat at the desk examining the file, and Hedley came in with tea on a tray. He put the tray down and poured tea into a cup.
She added milk, English style, and sipped it. 'Lovely.' She leaned over the file. 'Strange. Tim Pat Ryan was the last on the list, but the first to go.'
'Lady Helen, this can't go on.'
'Oh, yes, it damn well can. What's my money buy me that's worth anything, Hedley? Those bastards, all of them, were directly responsible for the butchery of my son. As a result, my husband died an early and unnecessary death, and I'll tell you another thing, old friend. I don't have much time. The pills I've been taking — I have a damaged heart.'
He was deeply shocked and sat down. 'I didn't realize.'
'You do now, so are you with me or against me? You could phone Dr Ingram and tell him I've gone mad. You could call Scotland Yard and they'd arrest me for murder. It's up to you, isn't it?'
He stood up. 'You've been good to me, more than anyone else in my life.' He sighed. 'I still don't like it, but one thing's for sure. You need someone you can count on, and I'll be there for you, just like you were there for me.'
