A
t Pristina, the first plane out to London was a Royal Air Force Hercules from Transport Command. Word had gone out and the crew was subdued but saw to Quinn's every need. He was sensible enough to eat some food, have a couple of coffees, and allow the RAF Sergeant looking after him to pour a little brandy in each.
The skipper came down to see him, looking absurdly young in spite of being a squadron leader. "Terribly sorry about your great loss, sir. Anything you need, just ask."
"That's kind of you."
Quinn lit a cigarette and thought about it. "Your great loss." How apt that was, how painful. Death was so final; he'd learned that at an early age with the barbarity of Vietnam.
And the one thing that wouldn't go away was this suggestion of a drug connection to the whole rotten business. It couldn't be true. That wasn't the Helen he'd known and loved.
He lay back in the canvas chair in which they'd put him, stretched out his legs, folded his hands, and slept the sleep of exhaustion.
Chapter
10.
C
HARLES FERGUSON WAS ENJOYING BREAKFAST IN FRONT of the fire at Cavendish Place the following morning when Blake Johnson called him. Ferguson listened, his face grave.
"This is a bad one, Blake. What do you want me to do?"
"Daniel Quinn will want answers. The President thinks you can help find them."
"So you don't believe the most obvious explanation? A young woman on the loose, too much to drink, the wrong pill?"
"No. And I think Daniel will find that difficult to believe. Do what you can, Charles. Hannah can help him deal with Scotland Yard and the coroner's court. Dillon's been pretty creative on occasion."
"That's an unusual way of putting it, but, yes, we should be able to do something. Leave it with me, Blake."
He called Hannah Bernstein on her mobile. She was on her way to the office. "Listen carefully." He told her what had happened.
"That's terrible," she said. "What do you want me to do?"
"Talk with your friends in Special Branch. Use your muscle. Find out what the police are doing and what they've got."
"Right, sir."
He clicked off, then tried Dillon, who was running around the streets close to Stable Mews in a blue tracksuit, a towel on his neck. His mobile sounded and he slowed and took it out.
"Where are you?" Ferguson asked.
"Morning run. Where are you?"
"At home. I want you to see Roper."
"Why?"
Ferguson told him.
A
t Regency Square, the buzzer sounded, the door opened, and Dillon went in. Roper was in his wheelchair working at the computer. He turned.
"You want something, I can tell."
"You could say that. Daniel Quinn's daughter, Helen, is dead. The word is that it's drug-related. She was admitted to the St. Mark's Hospital emergency room last night and died there."
"Oh dear." Roper started to hack his way in and very quickly came up with the details. "Helen Quinn, twenty-two, American citizen, address St. Hugh's College, Oxford. Preliminary blood tests show a high alcohol content and traces of Ecstasy. They're doing an autopsy at twelve."
"Dammit to hell," Dillon said. "So it's true. Her father won't like that. What else have you got?"
"I can access her personal records at Oxford."
"Do that."
Dillon lit a cigarette and Roper tapped away. "Here we go. Usual background details. Reading politics, philosophy, and economics. Member of the Oxford Union, Music Society, Oxford Literary Workshop." He frowned. "Well, I'll be damned. Oxford has a branch of Act of Class Warfare. She was a member."
"Helen Quinn was a member of Act of Class Warfare?"
"I'll see if they have a website. Yes, here we are. Huh. Well, now we know why she was in London yesterday. They sent a delegation to that Liberty in Europe fiasco."
"That figures," Dillon said.
Roper sat back. "Yes. Funny, isn't it? Daniel Quinn keeps tabs on Kate Rashid. Rashid funds a bunch of questionable organizations. One of them is Act of Class Warfare, and guess who's a member? Daniel Quinn's daughter."
"Are you suggesting Kate Rashid had something to do with the girl's death?"
"No, no, but still--quite a coincidence. And I abhor coincidence. I like life to be orderly. One and one must always make two."
"This from the man who spent seven hours defusing the largest IRA bomb ever, then put himself in that wheelchair from practically a firecracker."
"All right," Roper shrugged. "Some days one and one make three. Anything else you need?"
"That twelve o'clock autopsy, as soon as you can."
"Fair enough. Do you want me to see what the police are up to?"
"Hannah's working on that, but it can't hurt to see what you can find, too. I've got to get going. Let me know if you turn up anything."
Dillon left and Roper cut into Scotland Yard's Central Records Office. He examined what was there and frowned. There was an ancillary link to the case of one Alan Grant, Canal Street, Wapping, believed drowned and believed to be the person who had delivered Helen Quinn to the hospital. Roper sat back, still frowning again. The name, Alan Grant, was familiar, and then he remembered where he'd seen it. He went back to the Act of Class Warfare website, and there he was: Oxford, a second-year student at St. Hugh's College also, reading physics.
Another coincidence he didn't believe in. He picked up the phone to Ferguson.
A
t Cavendish Place, Dillon looked out of the French window in the drawing room, then turned. Ferguson was sitting by the fire.
"So, we not only know why she went to London, we know that this Grant delivered her to the hospital, did a runner, and ended up dead by drowning."
"And I've got more." Hannah Bernstein bustled in from outside. "Both Quinn and Grant went to London on a special bus hired by a professor named Henry Percy, and guess who came along for the ride?"
"Who?" Ferguson said mildly.
"Would you believe, Rupert Dauncey?"
Dillon laughed harshly and Ferguson said, "What on earth was he doing there?"
"Percy gave Scotland Yard what would usually be termed a full and frank statement. Rashid funds ACW, as we know, and Dauncey came down to try to call off their participation in the rally. Said it was too dangerous. Both he and Percy even made speeches to the busload of students pointing out the dangers of the rally."
"Did Dauncey end up going?"
"With Percy, but they left when it got rough. Percy went back to the bus and Dauncey said he was going home."
"Very convenient, Dauncey just showing up like that," said Dillon. "Making noble speeches."
"And get this," said Bernstein. "Percy actually introduced Dauncey to Helen Quinn. Said he wanted to meet a fellow American. Percy says he heard him urging her not to go to the rally but that her boyfriend, this Alan Grant, mocked him in front of everybody. They ended up going to the rally, but then people lost sight of each other, and that was the last Percy saw of either of them."
"Hmm," Ferguson said. "So on the face of it, they went to Canal Street after the riot, probably for sex, had a few drinks, some drugs, and she had an adverse reaction. Grant takes her to the hospital, she dies on the instant, and he runs for it, doesn't know which way to turn...and commits suicide."
"Which might be believable...if it weren't for the damn smell of the Rashids."
The phone rang. Hannah answered it and found Roper on the other end. "I'm faxing the autopsy through now. They're doing Grant next. I'll send those details when they come in."
She got the fax from Ferguson's study and read it as she went back to the living room. She looked up. "Confirmed, sir. She was heavily over the line on alcohol, had certainly taken Ecstasy. Otherwise healthy, well nourished. Not a virgin, but no evidence of sex before her death."
She handed the fax to Ferguson, who read it through. "Poor girl. God knows what her father will make of it." He looked up. "I still don't know what I make of it."
"Well, I do," Dillon said. "If you'll excuse me, I've got things to do."
"Such as?" demanded Hannah.
"That's my business. Talk to you later, Charles."
He left, got a taxi to the Ministry of Defence, booked a limousine, and told the driver to take him to Oxford. There was something he wanted to check.
Traffic was light and they were there in one and a half hours. As they reached the outskirts, he called Roper on his mobile.
"Can you pull me in Henry Percy's address from that police report perhaps?"
"Hang on." He was back in two minutes. "Has an apartment, 10B Kaiser Lane. What are you up to?"
"I'll let you know later."
They found Kaiser Lane with no trouble; 10B was at the top of a gloomy stairway in a Victorian semi-detached. Dillon pulled a cord and an old-fashioned bell jangled. After a while, he heard the shuffle of steps, the door opened, and Percy appeared. He was bleary-eyed and looked as if he'd been sleeping.
"Professor Percy?"
"Yes."
"I was asked to call on you by a Rupert Dauncey."
Percy managed a smile. "I see. You'd better come in." He led the way along the corridor and entered a parlor. "Now what can I do for you?"
"First of all, I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine, my Walther PPK." He took it from his special pocket. "And this is his friend. He's called a Carswell silencer." He screwed it on the muzzle of the Walther. "Now I can shoot you through the kneecap and nobody will hear a thing."
Percy was terrified. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I've seen your statement to the police about Helen Quinn's death. You say Rupert Dauncey was against the students going to the rally because he anticipated violence?"
"Yes."
"And that you both made it clear on the bus that you were against going?"
"Yes, yes. There were over forty students there. They can confirm it. The Oxford police have interviewed some of them."
Dillon grabbed him, pushed him back over a table, and rammed the Walther into his knee. "So you're telling me Dauncey's as pure as the driven snow, is that it?"
Percy totally freaked. "No, no, no. I mean, yes, but--it's just that he changed his attitude."
"What do you mean?"
"At first, he was all for positive action. He thought it good for the students." He hesitated and carried on. "He arranged for some of them to go to training courses in Scotland."
"Did Helen Quinn go?"
"No, but her boyfriend did, Alan Grant."
"You know he's dead."
"Yes, the police have been in touch. They said he committed suicide."
Dillon stood back. "Don't believe everything you hear. So that's all you can tell me, is it? Dauncey used to be blood-thirsty, but now he's changed."
"That's right."
Dillon rammed the Walther in again. "And you expect me to believe that fairy tale? When did you last see him?"
"We spoke on the phone late last night."
"What did he say?"
"That it was a good thing he and I had spoken to the students as we had, since we'd probably be called to the inquest."
"Yes, that was very convenient, wasn't it, Henry?" Dillon stood there for a moment, looking at him, then he began to unscrew his silencer. "You're not leaving anything out now, are you, Henry? Anything that might change this little tale of yours?"
Percy thought about the fifty thousand but decided on discretion. "I've told you the truth, as God is my witness," he said piously.
"Yes, well, I wouldn't call God into this if I were you, Professor. I'll see you at the inquest. And when you speak to Dauncey next--tell him Sean Dillon was here."
He walked into the hall. Percy hesitated, then picked up the phone. "Dauncey? It's Percy."
In the hall, Sean Dillon smiled softly and let himself out.
D
aniel Quinn had Frobisher take him to the American Embassy first, and wait. He went up the steps and identified himself to the security guards. In two minutes, a Marine Captain in uniform was greeting him.
"My name's Davies, Senator. It's a privilege to meet you. Ambassador Begley is waiting." Quinn, unshaven and still in combat gear, shook hands with him.
"If I may say so, you look as though you've had a hard time out there."
"Well, I wouldn't recommend Kosovo for your next vacation, Captain."
"This way, Senator."
A couple of minutes later, he opened the door to the Ambassador's office and ushered Quinn in.
"Hello, Elmer."
Begley was wearing a Savile Row suit, his gray hair perfectly groomed. There couldn't have been a greater contrast. He came round the desk and took Quinn's hand. "Daniel, I'm so sorry. If there's anything we can do--anything--the resources of the Embassy are at your disposal. Sit down."
"If you don't mind, I won't, Elmer. I just wanted to touch base. I'd like to get to my house, shower and change, then I have an appointment with General Ferguson."