"Charles? He's a friend. You'll be in good hands there. But remember--anything we can do."
"Thank you, Elmer."
Q
uinn's house in Park Place was in a turning off South Audley Street, a pleasant Regency building with a small courtyard. Luke Cornwall, his chauffeur, a large black man from New York, was hosing down a Mercedes town car. He stopped at once, his face grave.
"Senator, what can I say?"
"There's nothing to be said, Luke, but thank you. Right now I feel like shit, though, so I'm going to shower and change, and then I want you to take me to Cavendish Place."
"You've got it, Senator."
Quinn went up the steps, the door opened, and Mary Cornwall appeared. She'd been a maid for years at the Boston house, had seen Helen grow up, and there were tears in her eyes. He kissed her on the cheek.
She was crying. "Sometimes I wonder whether there's a God in heaven."
"Oh, there is, Mary, always hang on to that."
"Can I get you anything to eat?"
"Not now. I'm going to change. I have an appointment."
He went along the paneled hall, hurried upstairs, and opened the door to his bedroom suite. It was light and airy, with maple paneling, his favorite paintings on the walls, and Turkish carpeting. On his return he'd always experienced conscious pleasure on entering this room, but now it meant nothing.
In the bathroom, he stripped, dropping all his clothes to the floor, turned on the shower, and soaped himself all over, trying to wash away the stench of Kosovo and death.
Half an hour later, he came downstairs, perfectly groomed, wearing a brown Armani country suit and brogues. Mary was in the kitchen and he didn't bother her, simply opened the front door and went down the steps to where Luke, in a dark blue chauffeur's uniform, waited.
R
upert Dauncey was waiting, too. He'd calmed Henry Percy when Percy had called him in a panic, but he disliked the idea that Dillon was still on the case. He also wondered where Daniel Quinn was, and he'd checked with a friend at the Embassy, who told him Quinn had arrived and was on his way to Park Place.
Park Place! That was a bit of luck. Dauncey had driven around the corner without knowing the number of the house, but then he had seen Luke standing waiting by the Quinn Mercedes. Rupert pulled in farther along the street and saw Quinn emerge from the house. As Luke drove away, Rupert was already turning and he went after him.
I
t was Hannah Bernstein who answered the door at Cavendish Place and found Quinn standing there. She recognized him from the photo in his file, just as he recognized her from the material Blake Johnson had shown him in Washington.
"Superintendent Bernstein."
"Senator Quinn. Please come in."
She led the way into the sitting room. Dillon was drinking Bushmills by the French windows and Ferguson got up.
"I wish I could say this is a pleasure, Daniel, but it doesn't seem appropriate. We all feel for you."
"That's appreciated."
"Do you know Sean Dillon?"
"Only by reputation." Quinn shook hands. "If you know anything about me, you'll know my grandfather was born in and fought with Michael Collins. He was chased out to the States in 1920."
"So he'd be Irish Republican Brotherhood," Dillon said. "Worse than the mob, that lot."
Quinn managed a smile. "You could say that."
"Will you join me in a Bushmills?" Quinn hesitated, and Dillon added, "I'd recommend a large one. The Superintendent's put a file together that won't exactly cheer you up."
"Then I'll take that as sound advice."
Dillon gave him the whiskey in a shot glass and Quinn drank it in a single swallow. He put the glass on a table and took the file from Hannah.
Ferguson said, "That file gives you a full history of our dealings with the Rashids, and everything we know so far about your daughter's death, including the details of her post-mortem and the police inquiries. In fact, we've just added details of the post-mortem of her boyfriend, too, Alan Grant."
"Who? I've never heard of him." Quinn was astonished. "I didn't know she had a boyfriend."
"I'm afraid she did," Hannah Bernstein said.
"Afraid?"
"It's all there, Senator," she told him quietly.
"Show the Senator into my study," Ferguson told her. "He can read the file in peace."
She led Quinn out. Dillon said, "What a sod."
"I agree, and I'm not looking forward to when he's done. You'd better pour me one of those, too."
Twenty minutes later, Quinn came back into the room. His face was very pale and the right hand shook slightly as he raised the file.
"Can I keep this?"
"Of course," Ferguson said.
Quinn said, "Right, I'll go along to the mortuary now. I'll need to identify her."
"Then drink this." Dillon poured another Bushmills. "Get it down. You're going to need it. In fact, I'll come with you."
"That's kind of you." Quinn turned to Hannah. "What about the inquest?"
"It's tomorrow morning. We managed to get them to bring it forward."
"Good. The sooner the better." He drank the Bushmills and said to Dillon, "Let's get it done."
Rupert had sat patiently in his Mercedes just down the street from the apartment. Finally, Quinn and Dillon came out, got into the limousine, and were driven away.
"Dillon," Rupert said softly, "now, that's interesting." A moment later, he was following them.
T
he mortuary was the sort of aging building that, from the outside, looked more like a warehouse than anything else. Inside, it was different. There was a pleasant reception area, well decorated with fitted carpets. A young woman at a desk looked up and smiled.
"Can I help you?"
"My name is Quinn. I believe you have my daughter here?"
She stopped smiling. "Oh, I'm so sorry. We had a call a short while ago saying you were coming to identify the body. I've notified the local police station. It's only five minutes away."
"Thank you."
"And I've notified Professor George Langley. He's our regular forensic pathologist, and fortunately he's in the building right now. I thought you'd want to speak with him."
"Thank you. We'll wait."
He and Dillon sat down, but only moments later, a small gray-haired, energetic man entered. The girl whispered and he came over.
"George Langley."
"Daniel Quinn, and this is Sean Dillon, a friend."
"You have my deepest sympathy."
"May I see my daughter?"
"Of course." He said to the woman, "Send in the police officer when he arrives."
The room into which he led them was walled with white tiles, with fluorescent lighting and a line of modern-looking steel operating tables. Two bodies were covered with some sort of white rubber sheets.
"Are you ready?" Langley asked.
"As I ever will be."
Helen Quinn looked very calm, her eyes closed. A kind of plastic hood was on her head and a little blood seeped through. Quinn leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.
"Thank you."
Langley replaced the sheet and Quinn said, "I've seen your report to the coroner. The alcohol, the drug? There's absolutely no doubt?"
"I'm afraid not."
"It's so unlike her. That's just not the girl I knew."
"That's sometimes the way of it," Langley said gently.
"And the boy? Is that him?" He nodded to the other body. "I didn't even know he existed."
"Well, yes, that is Alan Grant." Langley hesitated, then said, "I shouldn't do this, but it's an unusual business."
He lifted the sheet and Quinn looked down at Grant, who seemed even younger in death. "Thank you." Langley replaced the sheet. "And do you think he committed suicide, the way the police are hinting?"
"I only deal in certainties, sir. He had consumed a vast amount of vodka, but there was no trace of Ecstasy. No sign of any kind of bruising. Did he fall by accident off that wharf, did he jump? I can't help you there."
There was a knock at the door and a uniformed police officer appeared. "Ah, there you are, Professor."
The Sergeant had a form on a clipboard. "I regret the circumstances, Senator, but would you please formally identify the deceased?"
"She is my daughter, Helen Quinn."
"Thank you, sir. If you'd sign the form," and he nodded to Dillon. "Perhaps you'd be kind enough to witness it."
They did as they were asked and he withdrew. Langley said, "I'll see you at the inquest."
"Of course. Many thanks," and Quinn led the way out.
They got in the Mercedes, and as Luke drove away, Dillon said, "A hell of a business."
Quinn said, "We'll drop you off," then leaned back and closed his eyes.
And Dauncey followed.
Chapter
11.
Q
UINN ARRIVED AT THE CORONER'S COURT AT TEN THE following morning. There were few people about, the odd police officer passing through. A young man was sitting on one of the benches, wearing a trench coat, a traveling bag on the floor beside him. He looked tired and unshaven.
Quinn shook a cigarette from a packet of Marlboros and lit it. The young man seemed to wince. Quinn held out the pack. "Can I offer you one?"
"I'm supposed to have stopped, but what the hell." He took a cigarette, fingers shaking, and accepted the light. "I'm knackered. I just flew in from Berlin and there was a delay at Templehof. You know what airports can be like when you're sitting around for four or five hours. I thought I'd miss the hearing."
And Quinn, having gone through Hannah Bernstein's file several times now, knew instinctively who he was.
"Is your name Grant?"
"That's right, Fergus Grant."
"Alan Grant's brother."
Grant looked bewildered. "Who are you?"
"Daniel Quinn. Helen Quinn's father."
Grant looked dismayed. "Oh, my God. Look, I know almost nothing about any of this, except that they're both dead. The police spoke to me by phone and just gave me the bare facts. That he was found drowned, that his girlfriend was dead. I never even knew he had a relationship."
"And I didn't know she did. What about your parents?"
"My old man cleared off when I was twelve and Mum died of cancer five years ago."
"I'm sorry."
Grant shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. "They've told me hardly anything."
"Well, this inquest should cover it all." At that moment, Hannah Bernstein came in, followed by Ferguson and Dillon, and Quinn said to Grant, "Excuse me," and joined them.
"The man I've been talking to is young Grant's brother, Fergus. Just in from Berlin."
"Yes," Hannah said. "I heard this morning that this was to be a joint hearing."
Before she could elaborate, the doors opened and an usher appeared. "Court Three is now in session."
They filed in, followed by Grant and half a dozen members of the public, the kind of people who came for the entertainment value more than anything else. There were several functionaries, a Police Sergeant in uniform, and the Clerk of the Court. Hannah went and spoke to him, then returned to the others and joined them at the benches.
A moment later, George Langley came in and reported to the Clerk of the Court. Dillon said to Ferguson, "The pathologist."
Rupert Dauncey and Henry Percy came in right afterwards, with an usher who escorted them to the Clerk. As they turned away, Dauncey looked directly at Quinn and his friends, smiled slightly, and sat down on the other side of the aisle with Percy.
The Clerk of the Court got things moving. "The Court will rise for Her Majesty's Coroner."
The Coroner, a scholarly-looking man with white hair, came in and sat high above the Court on the bench, the officials below. A door opened to one side and an usher led in the jurors, who squeezed in along their benches. The Clerk of the Court administered the oath and the proceedings got started.
The Coroner had a dry and precise voice. He said, "Before we begin, I wish to make a statement. Circumstances being what they are, and with the permission of the Lord Chancellor's Office, this inquest will consider the facts surrounding the deaths of both Helen Quinn and Alan Grant, each appearing to have a bearing on the other." He nodded to the Clerk. "We'll start with the police evidence."
The uniformed Sergeant was called and quickly went through the basic facts, how Helen Quinn was delivered to the hospital, how Alan Grant was traced to Canal Street, and then the discovery of his body. The Sergeant was dismissed and the Clerk called Henry Percy, who went to the stand nervously and confirmed his identity.
The Coroner picked up a paper from the stack in front of him. "So, Professor, you knew Helen Quinn and Alan Grant well?"
"Oh, yes."
"And can you confirm they had a relationship?"