Midnight Runner Part 16

"Thank G.o.d it's not me. How do we handle it?"

"He'll want to be in London as soon as possible. Using Presidential authority, how soon can that be arranged?"

"A helicopter north from Prizren to Pristina. Then a direct flight to the U.K. I should have it arranged within an hour."

"Do it then. But first get him on the phone for me."

Quinn was outside Prizren with a small detachment of French paratroopers, part of the multinational force. Four Serbs had been killed, and they waited in their body bags in the village square for a helicopter to arrive.

One of the men gave Quinn a cup of coffee, and their captain, a young man named Michel, was on a mobile. Quinn was drinking his coffee when his own special mobile sounded and he switched on.

"Quinn."

"Daniel? Jake Cazalet."

Quinn was astonished. "What can I do for you, Mr. President?"

Cazalet hesitated. "What are you up to now?"

"Oh, sheltering from heavy rain at the a.r.s.ehole of the world outside Prizren. I'm with the French. We've got a few Serbs in body bags to get out of here, and we're just waiting for a helicopter. What's this about, sir?"

Cazalet said, "Daniel, I've got heartbreaking news for you."

Quinn said, "What would that be, Mr. President?"

And Cazalet told him.

A short while later, Quinn switched off the phone, experiencing a feeling he had never known before in his life. Michel clicked off his mobile and came to him.

"Hey, mon ami, mon ami, I'm told they're diverting another helicopter to here just for you. It's taking you to Pristina. You really must have some kind of influence, eh?" I'm told they're diverting another helicopter to here just for you. It's taking you to Pristina. You really must have some kind of influence, eh?"

"No. It's a personal thing." He stared almost blindly at the Frenchman. "My daughter, Helen. I've just been told she's dead."

"Mon Dieu," Michel said. Michel said.

"Twenty-two years old, Michel. I mean, who dies at twenty-two years old?" He buried his head in his hands and wept.

Michel snapped his fingers at his Sergeant, a half bottle of cognac was produced, and Michel unscrewed the cap. "You'd better take a large one, and another if you need it, mon ami. mon ami. Just take your time." There was the sound of a helicopter in the distance. Just take your time." There was the sound of a helicopter in the distance.

"They're coming for you now."

The President spoke to the chief of staff at the London Emba.s.sy, who was eager to please. They spoke in conference, Blake listening.

"You're an old London hand and you're also a lawyer, Frobisher," the President said. "You've looked at the facts in the case. How will it be handled?"

"It's a police matter, Mr. President, because of the drug connection and the fact that the young man who delivered her ran away. Someone got the license number of his car, though-one of the nurses who followed him out."

"So the police will run him down?"

"Absolutely. The license number will lead to the owner's address."

"Then what?"

"There'll be an autopsy, followed by a coroner's inquest. Once that's over, the body will be released."

"Right," Cazalet said. "I've arranged to get Senator Quinn to the U.K. as soon as possible. I'll have Blake Johnson liaise with you on this. The Senator gets our best shot. Anything he wants. If there are any roadblocks with the British police or legal system, use all your Emba.s.sy's muscle to overcome them."

"At your command, Mr. President."

"Fine. I know you'll do your best."

"Of course, sir."

Blake cut in. "h.e.l.lo, Mark, Blake here. I'll notify you when and where Daniel will get in and you can arrange to pick him up."

"I'll do it myself. Leave it with me, Blake."

The line went dead and Cazalet drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. Finally, he said, "Listen, whatever Frobisher is able to do, he's still at a disadvantage. It's a different country, different police procedures, different legal system."

"So what are you saying?"

"I think we need Charles Ferguson on this."

"I'll speak to him at once."

When the news reached Henry Percy, he was horrified. Dauncey's accusation about the funds had been true enough. He'd been mesmerized by the sums pa.s.sing through his hands, and then temptation had set in. A few thousand here, a few thousand there. Who would notice? But the chickens had come home to roost. Now this.

He telephoned Rupert Dauncey in London. "Thank G.o.d you're there. Something terrible has happened."

"And what's that?" Dauncey said, pretending ignorance.

Percy told him. "Such a nice girl. She's the last one I'd have suspected of being on drugs. And what worries me, too, is the position of our organization. That dreadful riot, the violence."

"Yes, it spoils all our good work," Rupert said. "But no one can fault the Trust, Professor. You behaved with great responsibility when you warned the students on the bus and tried to dissuade them."

"That's true." Percy hesitated. "And, of course, so did you, Mr. Dauncey. No one could have done more."

"Yes, and if the matter is raised at the inquest, any student who was present would have to confirm what we both said."

Suddenly, Percy felt much brighter. "Of course."

"You have my personal support. As to the other matter, I've spoken to the Countess, who feels there may have been a genuine error on your part."

"That's very kind of her." Percy was overjoyed.

"We'll speak again," and Rupert smiled as he put the phone down.

A police car was outside the Ca.n.a.l Street house, two constables, a man and a woman. They checked the Escort and found the keys inside.

"That's a trifle careless these days," the woman officer said.

"Still, it's the right car," her colleague replied, as he checked the license plate.

There was a dim light at the back of the hall. They tried the doorbell but got no response, then went up a narrow footpath to the rear and found the kitchen light on. The man tried the door, but it was locked.

Two young men turned the corner at the end of Ca.n.a.l Wharf by the wharf itself. They stopped at the railing to urinate and, in the same moment, looked down to where the tide was receding and saw Alan Grant's body, half in the water, half out.

"Jesus Christ," one of them said, just as the two police officers returned to their car. The young man saw them. "Down here," he called. "There's a body on the beach," and the police hurried toward him.

At 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." "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. 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.

10.

CHARLES 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.

At 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 h.e.l.l," 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 d.a.m.ned. Oxford has a branch of Act of Cla.s.s Warfare. She was a member."

"Helen Quinn Quinn was a member of Act of Cla.s.s Warfare?" was a member of Act of Cla.s.s 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 Ras.h.i.+d. Ras.h.i.+d funds a bunch of questionable organizations. One of them is Act of Cla.s.s Warfare, and guess who's a member? Daniel Quinn's daughter."

"Are you suggesting Kate Ras.h.i.+d 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, Ca.n.a.l 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 Cla.s.s Warfare website, and there he was: Oxford, a second-year student at St. Hugh's College also, reading physics.