London

Chapter Seven

At Compton Place, it was raining. Lady Helen Lang was out riding, heavily protected by storm coat and rain hat. The wind blew in across the North Sea all the way from Holland, churning the waves into surf that pounded on the shingle beaches. She cantered through pine woods down to the sand dunes of the estuary, reined in her mare and let the rain bring her to life.

'Come on, Dolly.' She patted the mare's neck. 'Let's go home.'

She didn't need to dig her heels in. Dolly took off like a rocket and galloped through the pine woods, swerving at a touch of the rein and taking a two-bar gate as if she were in the Grand National. Helen cantered into the stable yard at the house and found Wood there. The chief groom at a racing stable close by, he looked in by arrangement, not so much for the money, but mainly because, like everyone else, he felt protective of Lady Helen.

He held Dolly as she dismounted. 'A good run, milady?'

'Excellent.'

'I'll give her a rub down and some oats, then.'

'I'm very grateful.'

She moved to the kitchen door and Hedley opened it. 'You've been galloping again.'

'What do you want me to do, roll over and die?' She smiled. 'Don't be an old fuddy-duddy. I'll go and shower and then you can take me to the village for a pub lunch.'

After she'd gone, Hedley made himself a cup of coffee. He heard Wood drive off, went and opened the kitchen door and stood looking out at the rain. It was like a dream, everything that had happened since that night in Wapping, since she had killed Ryan. And then New York. Brady, Kelly, Cassidy.

He shuddered. What could he do? As she had once said: go to Scotland Yard? And what would he say? My mistress has murdered four men who had some sort of responsibility for the butchery of her son and the assassination of four others in Ulster? On top of that, she shot two lowlifes trying to rape a girl in Manhattan? No, even thinking along those lines was a waste of time.

There was no way he could ever do anything to harm her. She simply meant too much to him. And there was another thing, too. He had killed many people in Vietnam, some for good reasons, some for bad, and he knew one thing beyond dispute. If he ever had the mysterious Connection in his sights, he would kill the man himself without compunction.

Showered and changed, Helen Lang went into her study and sat before the computer. She really was very expert now, and soon had Senator Cohan's travel arrangements on her screen, including his date of arrival, and, even, in a bit of luck, the number of his suite at the Dorchester Hotel. Apparently, he reserved the same one every time he was there. She considered all the facts, then went down to the kitchen, where she found Hedley.

She took her sheepskin down from behind the door. 'All right, Hedley, food awaits. Let's be off,' and she opened the door, went out into the courtyard and walked to the Mercedes parked in the open barn.

The pub, as usual at that time of year, was quiet. It was very old England in the saloon bar, great stone flags for a floor, a low, beamed ceiling. There was a log fire burning in the open hearth and the long bar was made of oak, with beer pumps and a range of bottles behind. There were only four locals at the bar, the usual gnarled old straw dogs. She was greeted with enthusiasm. One man even doffed his cap. Hedley was just as well received.

The barmaid was a middle-aged woman called Hetty Armsby, and the eighty-five-year-old man sitting on the end stool reading the London Times was her father, Tom.

' The Times, is it?' Helen asked.

'I like to keep up to date,' he said. 'Keep my brain active. The Times gives you the facts. For instance, all this Irish business at the moment, though why the Yanks are involved I'll never know.'

'Pint for Hedley and your dad and a gin and tonic for me,' she said to Hetty.

'And you'll be wanting food?'

'Shepherd's pie and that bread you bake yourself.' Helen took out a cigarette and Hedley gave her a light. 'Oh, I don't know, Tom. I'm a Yank, remember.'

'Well, that isn't your fault, Lady Helen,' and he cackled.

'You old rogue. Just look at the wall.'

Hanging there was a series of framed black-and-white pictures of aeroplanes. Several were of German Dorniers, and two were of American B 17 bombers, one in the surf off Horseshoe Bay, the other nose down where it had crash-landed, the crew standing beside it in flying gear.

'True enough,' Tom told her. 'A grand bunch of lads, that. We got them in here while they were waiting for trucks from their base. Drunk out of their minds, they were, by the time those trucks came. We've had one or two back over the years. Mind you, a long time ago. Mostly passed on, I reckon.'

Hetty appeared with a tray. 'Over here, Lady Helen. Nice table by the fire.'

She laid everything out. Lady Helen and Hedley sat down and ate. 'Good, Hedley?'

'You know it's good,' he told her. 'Sometimes it's still hard for me to fathom. I was a kid in Harlem, scratching a living, on hard times, then there was 'Nam, and all those years later, I live in one of the most ancient parts of England and sit in a pub like it's out of a Jane Austen novel, eating a thing called shepherd's pie.'

'And you like it.'

'Love it, Lady Helen, and I love these crazy people.'

'Well, they love you,' she said. 'So that's okay.'

They finished the meal and she ordered a pot of English Breakfast tea. 'Much better for you than coffee, Hedley, and I want your brain clear.'

'And why would that be?'

'Senator Cohan arrives at the Dorchester the day after tomorrow.'

He took a deep breath. 'You really mean it, don't you?'

'Of course.' She took a small plastic bag from her pocket, opened it and produced a key. 'Remember when they were fitting the new stove in the kitchen in South Audley Street, and they were making such a racket, and I stayed overnight at the Dorchester?' She smiled. 'I'm just a weak woman who enjoys luxury. Well, that's the key to the suite.'

Hedley took it. 'So?'

'You've often boasted of your wide range of rather dubious friends. When we lost those keys for the old stables, the deadlocks, you produced one that opened all of them. Said you'd got it from a friend in London. I asked you if he was a locksmith. You said not exactly.'

'That's true.'

'Well, we're leaving for South Audley Street tomorrow. One of the joys of the English aristocratic system, as you well know,

Hedley, is that one gets invited to everything, and I'm due at the Dorchester ballroom the day after tomorrow.'

He was resigned to it by now. 'So what do you need?'

'This friend of yours to have a look at that key. I know it's computer-coded, and won't open a thing now, but based on something dear Roper once told me – well, I'm sure if your friend is as good as I think he is, he can produce a passkey.'

Hedley sighed. 'If you say so.'

'Oh, but I do. Don't let me down. Now finish your beer and we'll go.'

It was the following afternoon when Hedley came up from Covent Garden tube station. It was, as always, one of the most crowded parts of London. Hedley worked his way through the crowds until he came to Crown Court, a narrow little alley with four or five shops. One of them said: Jacko – Locksmith. The bell tinkled as Hedley went in.

A curtain at the rear parted and an old white-haired black man came through. 'Damn my eyes, it's you, Hedley.'

'That it is, Jacko.'

'We'll have a drink on it.' Jacko produced a half-bottle of Scotch from under the counter, then two paper cups, and poured. 'Isn't life the damnedest thing? You and my Bobby get posted on Embassy Guard here, so he sends for me to come to live in London. Then they pull him away to that stinking Gulf War and he gets wasted.'