influence of drugs and alcohol.’
‘That’s right.’
‘His body, Mrs Talbot, was a considerable convenience to those who used it. It occurs to me that it might have been more than a convenience that it was available at all.’
She said flatly, ‘You’re actually suggesting that there was no accident to any of this?’ It was difficult for her to get the word out, but she forced herself. ‘That he was murdered.’
‘Please. It’s all been very convenient, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t wish to make things worse for you than they already are. I’ve lived in a harsh world for too many years. I tend to suspect the worst.’
‘I didn’t think it could be worse,’ she told him, her voice shaking with anger and the last vestiges of denial.
‘I may be wrong and, in any case, I’m sure the authorities would consider the possibility fully.’ He took out his wallet and extracted a card. ‘This is my grandson, Vito’s, address in London. I’ll speak of you to him. He’ll do anything he can. I myself don’t even leave the airport. I fly straight on to Palermo. I know it is unlikely, but if you are ever in Sicily, you will find me at my villa outside the village of Bellona in the Cammarate.’
He took her hand and kissed it gently. ‘And now, my child, you need sleep.’
She reached and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled, stood up and went back to his own seat. She switched off the light and lay there in the darkness thinking about what he had said. The suggestion that Eric’s death had not been accidental filled her with horror. She refused to accept it, pushed the thought away and after a while she did sleep, head pillowed on her arm as the plane droned on through the night.
A journalist in Kent, alerted by a sympathetic friend in the local police force, sent a brief report of the affair to the Daily Mail in London. It recounted only what he knew. That a hearse had crashed on a Kent country road and had caught fire. There was also the mention that a body was involved. Details being understandably sketchy at that stage, it merited no more than a paragraph at the bottom of page three because of the macabre implication. In any event, the issue of the D-notice Ferguson had authorized meant that the story was deleted in later editions, but not before Eric Talbot’s identity had been revealed to the world.
Jago had flown over on the breakfast plane from Paris and was at the service flat in Connaught Street close to Hyde Park by eleven o’clock. As he was unpacking, the phone rang.
Smith said, ‘There’s a small item in the Daily Mail this morning. It seems the boy wasn’t what he seemed. His real name was Eric Talbot and he was a student at Cambridge.’
‘So he used an alias,’ Jago said. ‘That’s perfectly understandable. Why should it be a problem?’
‘Because he wasn’t a nobody after all,’ Smith told him. ‘I’ve made discreet enquiries with the porter at his college. Pretended to be a journalist. His grandfather’s a baronet, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Oh, dear me,’ Jago said, resisting the impulse to laugh out loud. ‘And who got us into this mess?’
‘A bitch in Cambridge called Greta Markovsky. She was a student too. A pusher. I’ve used her for a year now. I thought she was reliable.’
It was the first hint of weakness Jago had ever noted in Smith. ‘But my experience of this wicked old world is that no one ever is. Where is Miss Markovsky to be found?’
‘It seems she overdosed badly on heroin two nights ago. She’s in some rehabilitation place outside Cambridge called Grantley Hall. A closed unit.’
‘Do you want me to do something about her?’
‘I don’t think it’s necessary, certainly not at this stage, and in any case, she’s never met me.’
‘Who has?’ Jago said.
‘Exactly.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘There’s a coroner’s inquest at Canterbury at two o’clock this afternoon. Be there.’
‘All right. And Bird and his boyfriend?’
‘That can wait. I’ll speak to you later.’
‘Yes, I’d better get moving.’
Jago put down the phone and finished unpacking quickly. He decided against changing. There wasn’t really time, not if he was to be certain of making the inquest by two.
Five minutes later he emerged from the lift into the basement garage. The car he habitually used in London, a silver Alfa-Romeo Spyder, was in its usual place. When he got behind the wheel, he paused only to reach under the dashboard for a hidden catch. A flap dropped down to reveal a Walther PPK, a Browning and a Carswell silencer, all neatly clipped into place. He checked both weapons quickly, just to make sure. Life, as he had found, could be hideously full of surprises. Two minutes later and he was part of the traffic in Park Lane.
Ferguson looked up from his desk as Tony Villiers entered the room. ‘How is she?’
‘I met her at Heathrow. Went to Lord North Street with her. Her company has a house there.’
‘Have you gone into things in any detail with her?’
‘Not really. There wasn’t the need. I sent all the relevant material over to her in New York before she left. French coroner’s report and all the medical stuff. She’s here now. She wants to attend the coroner’s inquest in Canterbury at two o’clock. I said I’d go with her. I’ve warned her that if she puts in an appearance, then as next-of-kin she could be called.’
‘Did you now?’ Ferguson frowned slightly. ‘Is she going to be difficult?’
Villiers managed to restrain his anger. ‘It would be perfectly understandable in the circumstances.’
‘For God’s sake, Tony, you know what I mean. This could be a tricky one for all of us. Anyway, show her in and I’ll see for myself.’
He moved to the window, thinking about how he should handle this distraught woman, and turned as she came into the room with Villiers, to get the surprise of his life. She wore a brown suede jacket belted at the waist and matching slacks. The hair hung to her shoulders, a dark curtain on each side of her face which was calm and determined.
‘Mrs Talbot.’ He came round the desk, at his most charming, and took her hand. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Please sit down.’
She produced Edward’s silver case from her handbag, her one sign of nervousness, and he gave her a light. She said ‘Why am I here, Brigadier?’
He moved round the desk to his chair. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I think you do. When Tony said he was bringing me here, I asked him why. He said you were his boss. That you would tell me.’
‘I see.’
‘Brigadier,
