“He uses an air-taxi firm in Surrey. We’ve checked and he flew down there during the late afternoon in a Navajo Chieftain. The pilot has not yet returned.”
“I see.” Ferguson looked out at the gathering gloom. “Too late to do anything now. We’ll fly down in the morning. Use the same firm. He won’t be going anywhere and he knows it. Make the booking, Chief Inspector.”
“Do you want the Okehampton police involved, sir?”
“No. Just tell the air-taxi people to arrange to have a car waiting to take us to Lang Place. Tell them we’re expected.”
“And the Browning woman, sir?” Hannah asked. “And Curry?”
“Oh, he’ll have tipped them off and Belov. Unless I’m mistaken, our Russian friend will have headed straight for sanctuary at the Soviet Embassy, but to a certain extent they’re in the dark. All they know for certain is that I asked for Lang’s Beretta to see if it had any connection with the January 30 killings. He knew it damn well had, which is why he did a runner, but there was no mention of any connection with the others. They may even be banking on the fact that there is no connection.”
“Well all I can say is that if it was me, I’d smell a very large rat,” Dillon said.
“Yes, very probably.”
“Shall I have Curry and the Browning woman put under surveillance, then?” Hannah Bernstein asked.
“From the facts you’ve put before me of this young woman’s life and background, I’ve formed certain opinions about her,” Ferguson said. “Something went very obviously wrong in her head a long time ago. Possibly the trauma of her parents being murdered in Washington. A hell of a thing for a child to see. I suspect there may be more to it than that. We’ll probably never know the whole truth.”
“But what if they decide to run, sir?” Hannah asked.
“Why should they? Lang and Curry lived together. What does that prove? They were friendly with Grace Browning. So what? Yuri Belov exchanged pleasantries with them at a drinks party. He also probably spoke to at least fifty people. Now your fine police mind knows that everything about this case is circumstantial.”
“Except for Lang’s Beretta. Once that’s tested, it’s curtains for him and he knows it,” she said.
“And if he disposes of it, where’s your evidence then?” Dillon asked. “Another thing. Even under interrogation, would he be likely to shop his friends? He doesn’t seem the sort to me.”
“I agree,” Ferguson said. “The blunt truth is we know what these people are and what they have done. Proving it will be another matter. In my opinion they’ll sit tight for the moment and await developments.”
“So no surveillance?” Hannah said.
“She won’t be going anywhere and neither will Curry. She’s got a show to give. Last performance to-morrow night. She wouldn’t walk out on that, would she, Dillon?” He smiled. “Why not see if you can get us some tickets, Chief Inspector?”
Hannah gave Dillon a lift home and it was six-thirty as they drove out of the Ministry of Defence car park.
Dillon checked his watch. “She’ll be leaving for the theatre soon. Let’s drive past her house.”
“Have you something in mind?”
“Not really, just idle curiosity.”
It was raining slightly as they turned along Cheyne Walk and slowed as they approached the house. “Shall I stop?” Hannah asked.
“Just for a minute.”
At that moment she emerged from the side entrance on her BMW motorcycle. She wore black leathers and a dark helmet. She paused, legs astride, and pushed up the dark visor and checked the traffic. In the light of the street lamp they saw her face clearly. She pulled the visor down and rode away.
“My God!” Hannah breathed. “The final proof.”
“So it would seem,” Dillon said. “So it would seem.”
Rupert Lang was sitting by the fire in the drawing room at Lang Place, Danger lying in front of the fire, when the phone rang. It was the Navajo pilot, Alan Smith, calling from Surrey.
“That you, Mr. Lang? Alan Smith here. About the flight in the morning.”
“Which flight would that be?” Lang asked.
“A Brigadier Ferguson, a lady, a Miss Bernstein, who made the booking, and a man called Dillon. She said you were expecting them.”
“Ah, yes,” Lang said. “What time will you drop in?”
“Nine-thirty start. A little wind forecast, but we should do it in an hour. They asked for a taxi.”
“No need. I’ll have George Farne pick them up in the Range Rover. Thanks, Alan, and good night.”
He sat there thinking about it, then went and poured a Scotch. Finally he picked up the phone and called Dean Close. Curry answered at once.
“I’ve just heard they’re flying in tomorrow,” Rupert told him. “ Ferguson, Bernstein, and Dillon.”
“How did you find out?”
“The pilot rang me. Said he’d been told I was expecting them.”
“Strange, that. Ferguson must have known the pilot might do that.”
“Of course he did. Maybe he wants to give me a chance to do the decent thing and put a bullet through my head. Honor of the Regiment and all that.”
“For God’s sake, Rupert.” There was panic in Curry’s voice.
“Don’t worry, old sport, I’ve no intention of doing any such thing. I’ll hear what he has to say. I want to know how close they are to the rest of you, if at all.”
“And the Beretta? What will you say when he asks for it?”
“Found it had been stolen from my desk. I panicked, shocked by the appalling suggestions made at that meeting with the PM, so I cleared off down here to think.”
“Rather weak, old lad.”
“Of course it is.” Lang laughed out loud. “You know that and so does Ferguson, but let’s see what he comes up with. You’d better phone Yuri at the Embassy and bring him up to date.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good night, old sport.”
Lang put the phone down, reached for his glass, and sat staring into the fire while he stroked the wolfhound’s head.
The weather was wretched the following morning when the Daimler turned into the entrance of the small airfield in Surrey and pulled up on the concrete apron. The doors of one of the hangars stood open and they saw the Navajo standing inside, the pilot beside it talking to an engineer in overalls. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah got out and ran through the rain.
“Brigadier Ferguson? Alan Smith,” the pilot said. He nodded out at the curtain of rain. “Not too good.”
“Are you saying we can’t go?”
“It’s up to you. Could be rough.”
“My friend here is a pilot.” Ferguson turned to Dillon. “What’s your opinion?”
“I wouldn’t dream of interfering.” Dillon smiled and gave Smith his hand. “Sean Dillon. I’ve got a commercial license, so it will comfort you to know that if you have a heart attack I can take over.”
Smith laughed. “All right then, if you folks are game, so am I. Let’s climb aboard and get on with it.”
It was raining steadily in Devon as Rupert Lang rode one of the Montesa dirt bikes along the track above the forest, Danger running alongside. Lang wore riding breeches and boots and an old paratrooper’s camouflaged smock. Instead of a helmet he wore a tweed cap.
He paused beside a low wall. There were sheep over there, crowding round Sam Lee the shepherd, and Danger went over the wall and ran to them, barking. Sam Lee struck out at him with his shepherd’s crook.
“Damn your eyes, Lee, I’ve told you before,” Lang called. “Do that again and I’ll break that thing over your head.”
“It’s the sheep, Mr. Lang, he won’t leave them alone.”
“Damn the sheep!” Lang paused, looking up into the rain, aware of the sound of an aircraft in the distance. He whistled to the dog. “Come on, boy,” started the Montesa, and rode away.
When the Range Rover entered the courtyard at Lang Place Rupert was standing at the front door, still wearing the old cap and the paratrooper’s smock, a curiously debonair figure.