Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  “Of course.”

  OUTSIDE, Henry Frankel appeared again with a couple of typed sheets. “Some stuff from the Cabinet Office on what to do. Legal requirements, a few good funeral directors. I’m sorry to sound so horribly practical.”

  “Not a bit of it, Henry, you’re a star. Could you choose the funeral director for me? I’ve a lot to sort out. We’ll bury her at Stokely Parish Church. The vicar is Mark Bond. I’m Catholic, of course, but she wasn’t.”

  “I’ll see to all that for you.”

  Ferguson looked at his watch. “So much has happened and yet it’s only two o’clock. We could still catch a decent pub lunch. We’ll go to the Dark Man. You need friends at a time like this.”

  Driving along in the Daimler, Miller got a call from Dillon. “Your father-in-law has turned up. I feel I’m in the way. They’re crying all over each other.”

  “Get a taxi and meet us at the Dark Man,” Miller said.

  “I’ll see you there.”

  They found Harry and Billy with their heads together in the corner booth, looking grim. Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were at the bar, with Ruby on the other side.

  “Major, what can I say?” Harry Salter spread his arms. “It’s a vale of tears sometimes.”

  Ruby came across, dabbing her eyes, and kissed Miller on the cheek. “It’s so cruel. What can I do?”

  “Open a bottle of champagne so we can toast a great lady, and then give us some shepherd’s pie,” Ferguson told her. “We’ve still got to eat.”

  Everyone had a drink, then two. Gradually there was less awkwardness, the food came, and then Dillon turned up. “Everything okay at Dover Street?” Miller asked.

  “Oh, yes, the Senator’s a nice guy. He’s looking forward to meeting with you. The champagne looks good, and the pie. I’ll have both.”

  AT GUY’S HOSPITAL, Ellis Vaughan jerked a little, his head moved, and there was a strange hoarse sigh. A nurse, who had just checked his many tubes and was about to leave, was nearest as the alarm sounded. Within seconds, the entire crash team swung into action, Bellamy appearing no more than two minutes later to join in the fight. None of it was any good, and Bellamy’s face was sad as they switched off.

  “Time of death three-fifteen, is everyone agreed?” They all nodded. “I’d better call Major Miller.”

  THE PARTY at the Dark Man sank into depression again at the news, and Ferguson shook his head. “No way of finding out what went wrong for him now.”

  “He was a good man,” Miller said. “Survived the Iraq War and two tours in Afghanistan.”

  “And dies after being hit by a London bus,” Billy Salter said. “It doesn’t seem right, does it?”

  IN DR. SMITH’S OFFICE, Fahy was dressing behind a screen after a searching examination. The pain had become unbearable and he had to accept that simply pouring Bushmills down him was not the answer. He’d come in the hope of finding some really powerful painkillers. He put on his jacket and went and sat opposite the doctor.

  Smith looked grave. “I won’t beat about the bush. There’s a marked deterioration in your condition. You’re obviously drinking a great deal, you reek of it.”

  “It helps, Doctor, it really does.”

  “But only for a while, so you have to take another and another.”

  “Haven’t you got some really strong pills?”

  “It’s gone too far for that.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I want you admitted today. Only in hospital can the pain therapy you need be administered.”

  “So that I can die easier.” Fahy shook his head. “That would mean I couldn’t see my Maggie. She’s not fit to visit me, nobody knows that better than you.”

  “I’m truly sorry, but you’ve progressed faster than we thought you would. I can only suggest what I have.”

  “No way, Doc.” Fahy got up. “I’ve come into money, so I’m in the middle of arranging Maggie’s future at St. Joseph’s. Things to do, you see, as well as dying.” He gave Smith a ghastly smile. “Thank you for your time.”

  He went around the corner to the City of Derry, sat in the corner of the bar, forced himself to eat a hot Cornish pastry, and washed it down with a double Bushmills, when he got a call on his mobile. It was the Broker.

  “I’ve just had news that the chauffeur, Vaughan, has died.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “Obviously, anything he knew has died with him. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Not really. I’ve got other things to worry about.”

  “Anything I can help with?” Once again, the Broker sounded kind and considerate, and for some reason Fahy responded. “My wife’s in the local hospice, St. Joseph’s—Alzheimer’s.”

  “My dear chap, I’m so sorry.” The Broker sounded genuine.

  Fahy said, “Nothing to be done. At least I can now afford to keep her going with the nuns instead of some National Health Service dump.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” the other man said again.

  “You’ve done enough helping to put me back to work again. I’ll go now. I’ve got to visit.”

  The Broker sat at his desk, thinking about it. He liked to know everything he could about people, and he savored the irony of two deaths paying for the support of Fahy’s ailing wife, who wouldn’t know what was going on around her anyway.

  He called Quinn at Drumore Place and told him about Vaughan. “So, you see, any worries you have about Miller finding out have been taken care of.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. When is the funeral?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “I’ll be a lot happier when it’s all over, and that’s a fact.”

  “My dear Quinn, we all will. Keep in touch.”

  Finally, he called Ali Hassim. “You’ve heard about the chauffeur?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which wraps it up nicely.”

  “I have one anxiety.”

  “Tell me.”

  “My most important sleeper, Selim Bolton.”

  “The one who works in the City? The man you sent down to this Folly’s End place to see what he could find out about Miller?”

  “Yes. I told him I only wished for general information, didn’t hint there was more to my interest in Miller.”

  “So?”

  “He’s been to see me, has worked out the whole plot. A very clever young man. We had words and he left very angry. He doesn’t approve of his part in what he sees as the accidental death of the woman.”

  “It’s not worth arguing about,” the Broker said. “Kill him before his conscience gets the better of him.”

  “I’ve already put a Brotherhood member as an agency temp in his offices. She may come up with something useful.”

  WHICH SHE DID. As with most high-powered financial houses, people worked staggered hours. The girl in question was a young Muslim named Ayesha, and keeping an eye on Bolton, she noticed the desk behind him had been vacated early, so she moved to it and made herself look busy. It was close to seven and darkness falling, still many people working away at their desks. Bolton had made the odd business call and she had heard him clearly.

  Finally, he sat there for a while, as if thinking, then made another call, obviously got an answering machine, and started to speak. “Major Miller, I’m sorry to hear about your wife. This is Sam Bolton calling. I gave you my card when we met at Folly’s End. I’ll speak to you again. There’s something you need to know about this morning’s events.”

  She kept her head down as he got up and moved away, then followed him, calling Ali Hassim as she did so on her mobile, repeating the message she had heard Bolton deliver.

  Hassim said, “Don’t lose him. At this time of the evening, he’ll probably go for a meal.”

  Next, he called Abdul in the garage at the back of the shop. “Get ready quickly, motorcycle and leathers. I’ve got a hit for you, top priority.”

  BOLTON TURNED into a one-way street between old buildings an
d went into a simple café called The Kitchen. He took a corner table, ordered a glass of red wine and a ham salad, and outside, Ayesha stood in a shadowed doorway and called Hassim.

  “The Kitchen, Brook Street, quite close to the office.”

  “Can vehicles negotiate it?”

  “It’s one-way.”

  “Wait until a motorcycle passes you, then go away.”

  She did exactly as she was told, staying in the shadowed doorway. She could see Bolton through the window eating, and then a BMW coasted past her, stopped at the end of the street, and pulled into an entrance. The driver dismounted, supremely menacing in his leathers and black helmet, and she stepped out of the doorway and darted away.

  BOLTON FINISHED HIS SALAD and drank his wine, thinking about what he intended. That there was some connection between what he had been sent to do at Folly’s End and the events of the morning leading to the death of Miller’s wife seemed obvious. He tried calling again, and once more got the answering machine and repeated his message. He got up, paid his bill, and went out, deeply disturbed about the whole thing. What had he been thinking about to get so involved with Hassim and his people in the first place? he asked himself as he walked down the street. He wasn’t a religious fanatic. In fact, he wasn’t religious at all.

  He passed a dark doorway, sensed someone move in behind him and then the needle point of a knife nudging through his clothes. He’d been mugged before, it went with the territory in London, so he raised his hands.

  “Okay, okay. Wallet and cards inside my left pocket, a hundred and ten pounds inside right. Seiko watch, left wrist. Mobile phone, left trouser pocket. Is that enough?”

  “Not for offending Allah so grossly,” Abdul told him, and the knife sliced up expertly and found the heart.

  Bolton died instantly, and Abdul cleared his pockets and took the watch and left him in the doorway, another crime statistic, another mugging. A moment later, he rode off and, some distance away, stopped and called Hassim.

  “It’s done.”

  “Excellent. Come home.”

  He had Miller’s home number listed and called it now. It was still on the answering machine, which meant that all Miller had to go on was the message Bolton had left, which told him absolutely nothing. All in all, very satisfactory. A pity about Bolton, though, who had obviously had more of a conscience than he had realized.

  MILLER HAD SPENT that part of the evening at the French restaurant in Shepherd’s Market with Monica and his father-in-law. He’d always got on with the Senator, who was not only a distinguished attorney in Boston but as a young man had been in the infantry in the Vietnam War.

  They had a pleasant, but sad, evening reminiscing about Olivia, each one of them with his or her stories. It was obvious to Miller that Olivia’s untimely death was a blow from which the Senator would probably never truly recover. He kept gripping Monica’s hand, and there was an anxious and hunted look on his face.

  Speaking now, he said, “It was a kind thought, Harry, to ask Blake Johnson to break the bad news to me. To have another human being with me, and a friend, was a wonderful support. I’d no idea you knew him.”

  “He’s a good man,” Miller said.

  “And then the President coming on the phone. So kind, and authorizing the Gulfstream like that.”

  “Yes, well, there are some good people in the world,” Harry told him. “But you need a decent night’s sleep, George, so let’s get you home.”

  MONICA SAW the Senator up to his room and Miller went into the sitting room and punched the phone for messages. They were numerous, expressions of sympathy and so forth, and then Bolton, and it wasn’t just what he’d said that was interesting, but that he’d called twice. He was listening again, a frown on his face, when Monica entered.

  “Poor old boy, he’s shattered.”

  “I know. I doubt whether he’ll ever get over it.”

  “Or me. I could do with a stiff drink and bed. How about you?”

  “I’d join you, but actually I’ve got to go out.”

  “Have you, Harry? I mean, after everything?”

  “It could be important.” He took the tape out of the answering machine and put it in his pocket, and then went into the kitchen and called Roper on the extension.

  “Something interesting’s come up. Can you send Sergeant Doyle to get me? I’ve been drinking.”

  “Of course. What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you when I see you.”

  He went back to the sitting room and joined Monica, who had his drink ready. “Well, here’s to us, my love.”

  “What’s left of us.”

  “Stokely tomorrow afternoon. Did you phone Aunt Mary again?”

  Monica nodded. “I doubt whether she’ll ever recover also.”

  The front doorbell rang. She said, “Is it important, Harry?”

  “What I’m doing now? Yes—very.” He kissed her cheek. “Get a good night’s sleep.

  He let himself out, got in beside Doyle and was driven away, and what he didn’t know was that almost three miles away in the City, two police officers were examining Sam Bolton’s body, having been alerted by a member of the public.

  “Cleaned out totally,” one policeman said. “Wallet, credit cards, watch, mobile phone, all gone. Typical mugging. No identity.”

  “I’ll give you a little tip,” his friend said. “The handkerchief pocket. Amazing what people slip in there.” He tried his luck and held up a business card. “There you go. All you have to do is live right.”

  WHEN MILLER went into the computer room at Holland Park, Roper said, “You’ve saved me phoning you. Ferguson’s just been on. The inquest is at the coroner’s court in Westminster tomorrow by special arrangement with the Lord Chancellor’s Office. They’re going to do Ellis Vaughan at the same time.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because it’s sensible and practical, and you’re who you are and you’ve got friends in high places. It’s the great and the good doing what’s fitting and looking after each other in the process. Ten o’clock in the morning. There’s a jury because that’s the law, but it should go through without fuss. Now, what’s the mystery?”

  “Listen to that. It’s the tape from my answering machine. The two most recent ones are the same.”

  Roper listened, then said, “‘There’s something you need to know about this morning’s events.’ That’s the intriguing phrase.”

  Miller looked in a pocket in his wallet and found the business card that Bolton had given him at Folly’s End. “There you are. I was convinced he was involved with Army of God. It was your check which told us he was half-Muslim. Run him through again, put a general trace on the name, see if anything comes up.”

  Which Roper did, and the screen rippled and Metropolitan Police came on and various statistics, and it was still rattling through before their eyes.

  “What the hell is going on?” Miller asked.

  “Give me a chance.” Roper worked at his keyboard and came up with London Area, Serious Crime and there it was. “Samuel Bolton, 5 Belsize Park Mansions, dead on arrival at Kensington Mortuary.”

  “It can’t be him,” Miller said. “Look at the arrival time. The body was only received there an hour or so ago.”

  “Murdered, knife wound in the heart, and pointing to a street mugging,” Roper said. “God knows that’s common enough these days. Everything of value taken. Identity confirmed by a business card found in his hanky pocket.” A facsimile of the card was shown.

  “Exactly the same as this.” Miller held up the card Bolton had given him. “The first call on my tape was six forty-five, the second at seven thirty-five.”

  “He was found in Martins Lane at eight-thirty by a passerby who called in the police.”

  “So what do we have here? A guy with some sort of connection to the Army of God, which could mean the Brotherhood?”

  “Of which you don’t have the slightest proof,” Roper said. “Say you tried to pu
ll in the organizer, this Ali Hassim—he’d be out so fast you’d be reeling. Crown Prosecution Service wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole. The usual organizations would be screaming human rights instantly.”

  “There’s something you need to know about this morning’s events.” Miller was quite calm, totally in control. “This morning’s events, the death of my wife and my chauffeur in a car crash, were so unusual, we can’t work out how it happened. Now, you are one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met in my life. What’s your opinion?”

  “I’d say it’s fairly obvious. The Amara was rigged in some way, an accident waiting to happen, but meant to happen to you, Harry. Olivia just got in the way, wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Exactly.” Miller was still incredibly calm. “I’ll find who was responsible if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “The man who did it would be a pro. The more important question is who paid him.” Roper’s face contorted, and he grasped his arm and then reached for the whiskey. “Sorry, Harry, I hurt like hell tonight. This is all that helps.”

  “I’ll have one, too.” Miller took one himself.

  “Let’s see who we’re dealing with.” Roper’s fingers danced over the keys. “The Russians, for starters.” Vladimir Putin appeared on the screen; Volkov joined him, and then Max Chekhov. “All three controlling Belov International.”

  “So?”

  The screen changed and Michael Quinn appeared. “I can’t say the IRA, because we’re at peace and it isn’t supposed to be a problem anymore, but that bastard isn’t at peace.”

  The screen changed again, to Osama Bin Laden. “I only show him because he invented Al Qaeda, and the movers and shakers in this thing seem to be Drecq Khan, who founded Army of God with Al Qaeda money, and his organizer Ali Hassim.” Miller looked up at both of them.

  “So?”

  “You want the assassin, and I can’t show you his face, because we don’t know who the hell he is. There’s someone else I can’t show, too—in my opinion, the most important of the lot.”