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 pull 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.”
“The Broker?”
“Exactly.”
Miller nodded. “One way or another, I’ll have them all. But there’s the inquest first, and then Stokely, to see to my wife in the most fitting way possible.”
Roper nodded. “I’ll be there, old son, we all will.”
11
THE CABINET OFFICE HAD ARRANGED A LIMOUSINE FOR MILLER, A MERCEDES,
with a driver named Arthur Fox, also an ex-soldier, Blues & Royals this time. Miller sat up front with him, and Monica and Senator Hunt were in the rear.
A scattering of people were sitting on the benches outside the inquest room, along with police officers, the odd person in legal robes passing through. A woman in her thirties, from the look of her, got up and came forward uncertainly.
“Major Miller? It is you, isn’t it? I’m Ellis Vaughan’s sister, Jean.” She had obviously been crying.
“Of course,” Miller said. “I arranged for you to go to the Buckingham Palace garden party two years ago. This is my sister, Lady Starling.”
Monica came and put an arm around her. Jean burst into tears. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him. My husband, Tony, was killed in Iraq last year. My mother married again and lives in New Zealand.”
Monica sat her down and tried to comfort her, and at that moment the double doors opened and an usher called, “Court now in session.”
They filed in, along with half a dozen members of the public, and took seats. Already present were two or three people in legal gowns, a burly police sergeant, and the clerk of the court at a desk below the bench. George Langley walked in and reported to him.
Miller said to Senator Hunt, “That’s the pathologist, the one who did the autopsy.”
The clerk of the court called, “Rise for Her Majesty’s coroner,” and the coroner came in, looking about seventy with white hair. A little later, an official opened a door and the jury entered and took their seats.
The coroner said, “This hearing is a little unusual. Mrs. Olivia Miller and her chauffeur, Mr. Ellis Vaughan, died in the same unfortunate accident. The Lord Chancellor’s Office has given me permission to consider the cases together. Police evidence, please.”
A police sergeant read a long statement, pointing out the facts in the matter, and entered in five sworn statements from witnesses to the fact that the Amara had jumped the lights. The coroner had them accepted by his clerk and said, “Could there have been any mechanical reason for what happened?”
The sergeant produced another sworn statement from the police sergeant who had examined the Amara at the pound. So badly had the engine been damaged that there was no possibility of reaching a conclusion. The coroner ordered his clerk to accept that statement also.
The clerk then called George Langley, who took the stand under oath. The coroner said, “Professor Langley, I have the two autopsy reports on the matter. Did you perform them yourself?”
The clerk of the court passed copies to the jury, as Langley said, “Yes.”
“Have you any particular observation to make?”
“Both of the deceased had massive injuries sustained in the crash, which I’ve detailed in my reports. If you will permit me, there is one thing worth mentioning regarding the point that the vehicle was driven at speed through lights into rush-hour traffic?”
“Please, Professor.”
“There was no evidence of alcohol in the driver’s system, nor the slightest trace of drugs of any description.”
There was a slight pause, then the coroner said, “Over a long and distinguished career, you’ve had experience of similar cases?”
“Yes, many times.”
“So what conclusion would you draw?”
“That some kind of mechanical failure took place beyond the driver’s control, although I have no hard evidence to support that view.”
“Please accept the court’s thanks and step down, Professor.”
The coroner shuffled his papers, then started his address to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, facts are what we must consider, not conjecture, facts alone. The tragedy speaks for itself. A brilliant and talented lady at the height of her powers cruelly snatched away, as well as a young man with a gallant service record behind him.”
He put his fingers together as if thinking. “I appreciate the point Professor Langley makes and thank him for it, but we cannot say it is factual, only supposition. He is right, however, to point to the fact that Vaughan was not driving under the influence. We have a mystery here. In the circumstances, I would suggest an open verdict. You are, of course, at liberty to retire.”
They muttered to each other, heads bobbed, and the foreman stood. “The open verdict seems sensible to us.”
“Let it be so entered. Now we come to the question of next of kin. If Jean Marlowe is in court, please stand.” Jean, sitting next to Monica, did. The coroner said, “I will now issue you with a burial order as Ellis Vaughan’s sister. You have my sympathy. You may retrieve the body at your convenience.”
Jean slumped down, and Monica put an arm around her.
“Major Harry Miller.” Miller stood. “I will issue you with a burial order. You also have my sympathy.”
The clerk cried, “The court will rise for Her Majesty’s coroner.”
Everything was suddenly in motion; the jury shuffled out and the court started to clear. Miller went to the clerk of the court’s desk and Jean followed him, bewildered. They were each given a burial order. They walked out and paused beside the Mercedes.