“God save us, what a woman, but as it happens I’m not.” Dillon turned to the barman. “Another Bushmills while the going’s good.”

A moment later the five-minute warning sounded over the tannoy and everyone crowded in. They found their table and settled, the lights dimmed, and a moment later Grace Browning came on stage to strong applause.

When the intermission lights went up Ferguson said, “She is really quite remarkable. All that talent. What a pity.”

Dillon stood up. “I’m going to go round and speak to her.”

“No you’re bloody well not. I mean, what for?” Ferguson demanded.

“Because I bloody well feel like it.”

Hannah stood up. “Then if you go, I do.”

“Suit yourself.”

Grace Browning’s dressing room was cramped and untidy. She was drinking a glass of white wine when Dillon knocked and entered.

“Why, Dillon!” She looked genuinely pleased. “Was I any good?”

“Bloody marvelous and you know it. This, by the way, is Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, one of Scotland Yard’s finest.”

“What a pleasure,” Grace said.

“We will be expecting you to accompany us after the finish of the play,” Hannah said. “I hope you understand that.”

“Oh, I do.” Grace poured another glass of white wine. “Sorry how things worked out, Dillon. I think you and I could have been friends.”

He smiled and gave her the time-honored good wish from one actor to another. “Break a leg, my love,” he said, pushed Hannah Bernstein out of the door, and closed it.

At the play’s end, the applause was tumultuous, and when Grace Browning came on she received a standing ovation. She bowed, linked hands with other members of the cast, glanced toward Dillon and Ferguson and gave them an extra bow. When she went off she found Hannah in the corridor being jostled by members of the cast and stage crew.

“Ah, there you are, Chief Inspector. I must change.”

“Yes, you do that,” Hannah said. “I’ll wait for you here.”

In the dressing room Grace stripped, then pulled on her leathers. The one change from usual was that instead of wearing heavy leather boots she wore a pair of black dancer’s pumps. She went out, gloves in one hand and helmet in the other.

“You won’t need that,” Hannah said, nodding at the helmet.

“Oh, dear.” Grace Browning smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something if you’re going to charge me?” She smiled. “Not that it matters. You’ll have to excuse me. Call of nature.”

She had the door of the toilet on the right side of the corridor open and closed again in a second, the bolt rammed home. She’d checked the window earlier and now she stood on the toilet bowl as Hannah thundered on the door. Grace got the window open and dropped her gloves and helmet into the yard.

“Bye-bye, Chief Inspector,” she called and climbed through.

Outside in the corridor Hannah turned and ran into the theatre, where she found Ferguson and Dillon at the bar entrance.

“She’s done a runner,” Hannah called.

Dillon actually laughed. “Jesus, girl, that was careless of you,” and he turned and hurled his way through the crowded bar.

He arrived on the pavement, Hannah close behind, and there was a roaring in the night as Grace Browning exploded on the BMW. She skidded to a halt, caught for a moment by heavy traffic, and Hannah got the door of her car open and slid behind the wheel.

“In, Dillon, in!” she called and switched on her engine.

Ferguson shouted, “I’ll follow in the Daimler.”

Grace moved out into the traffic, turned to look at Hannah Bernstein’s car, and raised her arm in that inimitable salute to Dillon, then she was away. Hannah pulled a blue police reflecting light from under her seat, slammed it through the open window onto the roof, and went after her.

Grace sped down Upper Street, turned left at The Angel, and took the City Road, weaving in and out of heavy traffic, but Hannah, driving brilliantly and with the help of her police warning light, managed to stay on her tail.

Ferguson ’s voice came through on the police radio she had fitted in her car. “What’s the position, Chief Inspector, we’re well behind.”

“Way down the City Road, sir,” she replied. “I’d say making for the City now.”

Grace turned off the road, moving from one street to another. Hannah said into the radio, “She seems to be aiming for the Tower of London.”

“All right, enough is enough,” Ferguson replied. “Put out a general alarm. I want her stopped.”

As Grace Browning reached St. Katherine’s Way, a police car moved to block her. She swerved around it and carried on. Hannah mounted the pavement to pass the police car and went after her.

They were into Wapping High Street now, and on the other side of the road, bearing down on her, Grace saw two police cars. One of them edged out to block her way and she put a foot down like a dirt rider, broadsided, and disappeared into a narrow side road. Hannah turned after her and the two police cars followed.

They twisted from one narrow street to another, passing between tall, decaying warehouses, old-fashioned street lamps on the corners, and finally turned into a slightly broader street, the lights of boats on the river beyond. She roared to the end of the street and stopped. Hannah braked to a halt, the two police cars behind her. The four uniformed men in them jumped out and ran forward.

“Detective Chief Inspector Bernstein,” Hannah told them.

“Is this important, ma’am?” a young sergeant asked.

“Very much so. The target is also highly dangerous. Are any of you armed?”

“Only me, ma’am,” the sergeant said and produced a Smith & Wesson.

At that moment the Daimler arrived with Ferguson, who got out and hurried forward. “This is Brigadier Ferguson, my boss,” Hannah said.

“What the hell is going on?” Ferguson demanded. “What’s she playing at?”

Grace Browning sat astride the motorcycle, the engine turning over as she looked toward them, anonymous in the dark helmet.

“She, sir?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes,” Ferguson told him, “but don’t let that deter you.”

“He’s right, son,” Dillon cut in. “You’ve never faced a harder prospect.” At the moment, Grace Browning raised her arm. “She’s coming!” Dillon cried.

She revved the engine and roared down the street toward them, putting a foot down at the last minute and sliding round, pointing the other way.

“What’s she playing at?” the sergeant asked. “No way out. A dead end. That’s Samson’s Wharf.”

Grace Browning increased her speed and at the last moment raised the front wheel and lifted off high over the edge of the Wharf, pausing for a moment, then plunging down into the Thames.

They all ran along the street and stood at the edge of the wharf looking down at the swirling water, but nothing showed except white foam in the murky yellow light from the street lamps and then the black helmet bobbed to the surface.

“Jesus!” the sergeant said. “Why did she do that?”

“Because, as you said, sergeant, it was a dead end, no way out,” Charles Ferguson told him. “Better call in the River Police and all the usual services, we’ll leave it in your hands.” He turned to Hannah and Dillon. “One person who won’t be too displeased at this outcome will be the Prime Minister,” he said as they walked to the cars. “Lang, Curry, and now the woman, all dead. Easy to say none of it ever happened. Rupert Lang can have an honorable funeral as befits a Minister of the Crown.”

“And Belov, sir?” Hannah asked.

“No problem, Chief Inspector. Just leave him to me.”

Fog rolled across the river, rain drifting in, and something washed in through the shadows by St. James’s Stairs. Grace Browning surfaced and hauled herself up a ladder onto a wharf. Her leathers were wet and she unzipped the jacket and tossed it into the river, then turned and ran along the deserted waterfront, a shadowy figure moving from one patch of light to the next.