Two shots fired simultaneously.
The gun pointing at Rosemary fell, blood-spattered, to the floor. Another, still directed at Patrick, was re-aligned for a second shot.
I hit Emma Hartland on the back of the head with the barrel of the sub-machine gun I was holding and then let go of both weapons, staring at Patrick as he lay on the floor.
“No! No! No!” I heard someone scream. Perhaps it was me.
I got to him first and pulled the hood off his head.
“Where is he hit?” Hudson said, picking himself up.
“Get to the child!” Patrick shouted at him. “There might be others.”
We were all stunned, I think, and when a small person presented herself in the doorway, sleep ruffled, her dressing gown on inside out, nobody moved.
“There’s a lot of noise,” said Rachel.
This observation was quite unanswerable.
“Why are you lying down there?” she said commandingly to Patrick, seemingly oblivious to everyone else.
“I fell over that stool,” he told her.
“There’s a nice man upstairs who’s been telling me stories. He said we could go home soon. Can we? He made me promise to stay in bed when he went away but I wanted to know what was happening. Will he be cross?”
Rosemary went to her and hugged her, controlling her emotion in a way I was quite unable to emulate. Then she took her upstairs to get her dressed.
The storyteller appeared in the hall, giving the man I had shot, who was moaning loudly, a cursory glance. “I’ve called in, sir,” he said to Hudson. And then, with a darting glance in the direction of the stairs, “Himself’s on his way. Can’t say he’s too pleased.”
Grunting, Patrick got to his feet and slid the stool over which he had tripped beneath a table.
I stepped over Emma Hartland who was not unconscious but pretending she was hurt, and went into the hall. The wounded man when he saw me clutched at his right leg and recovered sufficiently to call me several names. But in the end he saw the folly of kicking in the teeth a potential lady with the lamp and became sullenly co-operative as I bound up the flesh wounds in his legs with clean tea towels from the kitchen.
Whilst thus engaged, and thinking of a small girl with freckles, a snub nose and fiercely spiky plaits, I became aware of a proprietorial presence slowly descending the stairs. He came, monacle screwed into place, sparse white hair standing on end and a vivid blue dressing gown combining to remind me of a variety of crested cockatoo.
“What the deuce is going on down here?” roared this feast for the eyes. “Are you in charge here?” he bellowed to Patrick, glimpsing him through the open door.
Patrick glanced at Hudson who remained tongue-tied. “It would appear so, Your Grace,” he murmured, doffing an imaginary hat in a courtly bow.
It was not the first time his phenomenal memory for names and faces has got us out of trouble.
Chapter 23
“The Hartland woman’s dotty if you ask me,” said Colonel Daws. “She said she despises everything her husband’s doing — thinks it’s a huge joke that she was running her own little counter-network right under his nose.”
“Only someone a little mad would have risked everything by coming to this country to finish off the job,” I said.
We were in Daws’ elegant living room, as before with the sun streaming through the windows, a glass of whisky in Patrick’s hand as he lounged on the Chesterfield. But this time he wasn’t in uniform nor even wearing a formal suit, he was on holiday and attired accordingly. So was I. We had brought Rachel to London with us for the day.
She sat at Patrick’s side, carefully sipping orange juice. I found it absolutely right that so far she had resisted every attempt to remove her from her new best friend’s side. When they walked her hand slipped into his; if they sat down then she made sure she was close without actually touching. For Rachel was a lady in the making, not one to romp, fidget, or climb on people.
Patrick was utterly captivated.
“There’s a little cat over there,” she said suddenly, pointing.
“It’s made of jade,” Patrick said. “Very old and precious.”
“You can go and look at them,” Daws told her.
A peremptory hand was held out. “You come.”
“I’m tired,” Patrick said, yawning. “Count them and tell me how many there are.”
“It’s actually a tiger,” Daws said eagerly, jumping up and acting as escort. “If you look very closely you can see the stripes.”
I could not imagine the collection ever having been subjected to such a close scrutiny.
“That’s the wonderful thing about jade,” said the Colonel, reseating himself. “You don’t have to be a collector or even an expert to enjoy it.” And then, more quietly, “Has Fraser recovered?”
“He wasn’t really hurt,” Patrick replied. “Even the nasty bit of work who made them do it knew they were pulling their punches. It was most peculiar how his nose got broken while he was waiting for an ambulance. No one saw it happen.”
“I’m sure they didn’t,” Daws said with a thin smile. “Especially after he’d pistol whipped that constable across the face.”
I thought about the various modes of leadership. How Hudson had proffered his handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood to a man too shocked to take it from him, only to have Patrick snatch it and soak it with vodka from a bottle on a nearby trolley. After a mouthful from the same bottle, his face swiftly swabbed and cleaned to reveal a small but deep cut, the patient was laughing at himself with his colleagues because of the way he had yelped when the spirit bit into the wound.
“Exactly who was this character Emma had hired?” I asked.
“An East End racketeer down on his luck,” Daws said with disgust. “From what I can gather she just went into a pub somewhere in Bow and recruited her little army. The thugs were his bodyguard and came as a kind of optional extra. Really — this is quite appalling. It’ll be the end of Hartland’s career.”
“Hatred,” Patrick said. “She hates and despises him. He’s receiving treatment for impotence yet there was a family scandal not all that long ago concerning his secretary in Montreal.”
Sitting on the floor, clasping her knees, Emma had said to me, “You amazing creature. You followed him around Canada like a donkey on a piece of string, and yet now you look quite at home with that gun in your hands.”
I hadn’t replied.
“She was recruited last year,” Daws said, reaching for a folder on his desk and opening it. “There was some kind of embassy party and she was approached by a contact …” He whipped off his glasses and surveyed us in some distress. “Dear God, when are some of these folk in Six going to dig a little more deeply into the sexual proclivities of the partners of their staff?” The glasses were slid back on to his nose, long enough a pause for Patrick and I to exchange sideways glances.
“So she wrote two letters to Fraser?” I asked. “One to produce to start a panic and the other for his eyes alone, threatening Rachel?”
“Yes,” Daws said. “It was made quite clear that if he took both letters to the police the child would be killed. Even if she was placed under police protection she would not be safe. It was a threat for life — if he didn’t obey instructions, Rachel’s life was forfeit in perpetuity.”
The young lady in question was carrying on a long conversation with the jade animals.
“Quade was killed to give the threats credibility and Emma Hartland an excuse to get all the DARE engineers under her roof,” Daws continued. “Incidentally she’s volunteered all this information quite readily — there’ll be no need for her to be interrogated by a real professional.” Another thin smile in Patrick’s direction. “I can arrange it though. I’d be interested to know her real mental state.”
Patrick said, “A shrink would probably say she is a manic-depressive. My conclusions are that she hates men but can’t do without them. No, sir, if you don’t mind I’d rather never clap
eyes on the woman again.”
After a short pause Daws said, rather grudgingly I thought, “The case did have its share of red herrings. First of all Rogers ate the clams that almost killed him, and then Margaret Howard was reported to have added something to his coffee.”
“She must have given him a sweetener by mistake,” I said. “According to the same source she hadn’t offered to make the morning coffee before so it was an understandable error. Meanwhile Emma was recruiting the Gaspereau brothers to do her dirty work and one of their arch enemies to murder Lanny after he’d killed Quade. I’m still surprised that David Hartland didn’t suspect what she was up to — especially as she was passing notes to Fraser with instructions.”
“Too trusting, I expect,” Daws commented. “Some of Six’s operatives — how shall I put it? — in a career cul-de-sac are true blue and all that, but a trifle blinkered. Haven’t moved with the times. Still firmly entrenched in the old boy network way of working.”
Somehow I succeeded in concealing my smile.
“He knew that she was carrying on with other men though,” Patrick observed quietly. “The picture you’ve just painted doesn’t represent the man that we came to know in Canada. I’m not altogether happy that he hasn’t been brought in for questioning, even though I can’t see Emma covering up for him.”
“There’s time yet if it’s thought necessary. My guess is that he’ll end up as tea boy at the trade legation in Bolivia. Pity really, a woman bringing a man right down like that.”
“Do we know who sprayed acid over Fraser’s cars?” Patrick asked suddenly. “I’m presuming that Emma only recruited her latest band of thugs since Fraser returned home. And another thing … How did she know that the Duke of Bridestowe lent his home to the police for use as a safe house?”
“It’s one of MI6’s safe houses too, must have heard about it from Hartland,” Daws explained. “The old boy used to work for them — probably commuted on horseback. As to your first question, I’ve no idea. You’d need to ask the local police.”
Patrick’s tendency to frown politely can be more exasperating than downright argument.
“You’re on leave, Major,” Daws reminded him gently. “Enjoy it.”
“I’d like ten minutes alone with that cipher clerk in Six who forgot to clear us with Canadian security,” he said, unrepentant.
The Colonel smiled, humouring him. “He’s already admitted responsibility and is likely to be demoted. What’s the problem?”
“How do they work?” Patrick said. “Would the necessary permission be requested directly from the Canadians or would the message go through the intermediary? Was Hartland that link? Was the clerk bribed to say he’d forgotten?”
“I appreciate your concern for future missions,” Daws told him. “But in the meantime there’s nothing to worry about.” He stood up. “How about lunch? I should imagine that young lady is hungry. My nieces and nephews always are — eat me out of house and home when they come to stay.”
I simply couldn’t believe it when he gave Rachel the jade tiger.
*
I was in euphoric mood as we all walked out into the sunshine. It was one of those late spring days when the sky is really blue, the sun hot and only occasionally disappearing behind small fluffy white clouds. All the blossom trees in London seemed to be in full flower, new leaves on the trees shiny and perfect, as yet untouched by gales and dust. It had rained in the night, washing stone clean so that the buildings glittered in the sunshine.
We had decided to walk to the restaurant where Daws was taking us to lunch, a short journey across St. James’ Park. There was a lake with hundreds of water birds, flowers and a man selling balloons. Patrick bought Rachel a silver heart-shaped one and suggested that he look after the tiny jade tiger which she was holding in one hand. She entrusted him with it without hesitating and I wondered, briefly, how old she would be when she realized its value.
Slightly overawed by the Colonel, she chose to hold my hand and the men went in front. Watching them — Daws unmistakably from the military even in a neat pinstriped suit, Patrick strolling with his arms loose at his sides, always careful never to look like a soldier when not in uniform — I was struck by the fact that this was only the second time we had met Daws socially. In actual fact I knew very little about him other than that he was a widower, was in his early fifties, and played squash and swam to keep fit.
From what I could hear of their conversation they were talking about gardening.
The feeling of being out in the open, naked and unprotected, came from nowhere. It was as unwelcome as it seemed to be unwarranted, and to banish it I drew Rachel’s attention to a swan stretching its neck to take bread from a child’s hand. “You’re just pregnant,” said my sensible inner voice, “pull yourself together.”
Ostensibly looking at the flowers, I gazed around. There was nothing upon which I could hang my nameless fears. Londoners were enjoying the sunshine, lying on the smooth grass, sitting on the seats eating sandwiches and feeding the sparrows and pigeons. Someone was buying a balloon from the balloon man.
We turned on to a patch that led in the direction of Birdcage Walk. A hundred yards further on this merged with a wide road — one of several that are restricted to parks department traffic only — that led to the western entrance. The wrought iron gates were open, no doubt to admit the lorry we had seen carrying grass cutting equipment.
The balloon man was still walking behind us.
My lips were suddenly dry and wouldn’t whistle but I achieved the first few bars of Colonel Bogey, our warning signal, swung Rachel up in my arms and then saw a car swerve widely into the park entrance and speed in our direction. I ran, not looking at Patrick but aware of him grabbing for his gun.
I had almost reached the comparative safety of the ladies toilet when I was knocked over. By a miracle Rachel landed on her feet, stumbled and tottered into the arms of a park attendant.
“Hide her!” I yelled at the startled man. “In the gents. Anywhere! Get her away from here!”
I couldn’t get up and the sky was full of coloured balloons.
For the first time I became aware of shots being fired. I twisted round, noticed with total disbelief a small pool of blood on the ground, and then my attention was caught by what was happening behind me.
The balloon seller was dead, flung backwards like a starfish, his wares caught in trees or going skywards. The Colonel, flat on his front on the pavement, gun gripped in both hands, seemed to have just shot him. There was blood on one of his sleeves. Patrick was down on one knee, also holding his Smith and Wesson two-handed, aiming at the car which had mounted the pavement and stopped, the driver slumped over the wheel. Getting out of the car, his hands making peculiar snatching movements in the air, was David Hartland.
Coldly, calmly, Patrick put three bullets in him.
Then he came over to me, slowly, and I have never seen such fear on a man’s face. I sat up, wondering vaguely how I could stop the thick rope of blood that was running down from a hole in my calf. I conjured up a smile for him. Behind him Daws was getting to his feet.
“We’re a good pair now,” I said. “We’ll both dot and carry on the right leg.”
“Is that the only place you’re hurt?” He was so tense he could hardly speak. “When I saw you fall …”
“Yes. Perhaps if you tie your hankie round it I won’t need a gallon of blood.”
He swore, half in tears, half laughing, applying a tourniquet and kissing me all at once.
The police were arriving.
Daws approached, brushing himself down, and then winced as he moved his left arm. “So Hartland was in it as well,” he said softly.
“He was surrendering,” Patrick said, equally quietly. “I murdered him.”
A few seconds went by during which I saw Rachel being given into the care of a policewoman. She did not seem to be unduly upset.
“I murdered him,” Patrick repeated.
Daws p
ondered for a moment and then went over to where the balloon man lay sprawled on the pavement. He gazed down at him briefly before stepping into the road and giving David Hartland’s body the same scrutiny. On the way back to us he paused to show his ID card and speak to a police sergeant with electric effect.
“I dropped the balloon seller before he had the chance to fire again the Mauser he had pulled from his pocket,” he said regarding us both carefully. “Luckily for everyone the pin stayed in the grenade Hartland was holding. Luckily for you Major,” he added.
The numbness was wearing off in my leg to be replaced by something quite excruciating. I began to shiver.
“Otherwise I might have been forced to lie and say that I’d killed him,” the Colonel observed, his tone severe.
“Surely I shouldn’t have to lecture you of all people on allowing your feelings to take control.”
Kneeling beside me on the pavement, Patrick also shivered.
*
It was another week before I found out where Patrick had been during those two lost weeks at the beginning of April. He had flown to the States and visited the clinic where he had been fitted with his artificial leg for a minor repair. Also, in his other rôle as my agent, he had purloined the rough draft of A Man Called Celeste from my desk and sold the film rights.
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