Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  “Oh, that’s wonderful.” She was obviously thrilled.

  “Have it down on paper for me to see the next time I’m in.”

  “I will, Sean, I will.”

  He left, got in the Triumph, and sat there for a moment and thought about Miller. “Well, I’m sorry, me auld son, but I’d no choice, you see. You’ll just have to take your chances.”

  WHEN HE GOT BACK to the garage, a green old Morris van with London Water Board painted on the side stood inside. He checked it out quickly. An ignition key was in place, and a neatly folded green boiler suit lay on the passenger seat, with London Water Board printed on the back. When he opened the rear door, he unveiled a small workshop and the wooden bollards necessary to guard an open manhole.

  All this would be the cover for him to appear to be working down the manhole at the end of the cul-de-sac. In the best of all possible worlds, Miller’s chauffeur would park the limousine, whichever it was, and go to Chico’s for his coffee while waiting for Miller. That would give Fahy time to place underneath the engine a lethal contraption he was about to make involving electronics and nitric acid. Once in place, within fifteen minutes of starting, the car would experience a catastrophic loss of fluid, leaving its brakes totally useless. It had worked before, a long time ago, resulting in the death of an Army colonel on leave from Ulster, the long hand of the IRA reaching out to punish, even in London. Of course, it might be that the chauffeur didn’t have time to visit the café. That was all right. If it didn’t work one day, it would another.

  PRESSURES AT WORK had kept Miller busy and he hadn’t seen much of his wife. Relations between them were perfectly pleasant, and yet she seemed to have developed a kind of studied indifference to their relationship. He had seen photos of her in the media with Colin Carlton. Miller wasn’t aware of any feeling of jealousy on his part, although remarks in the gossip columns were already hinting that there could be more to it.

  He was changing his shirt in the spare bedroom when she opened the door and glanced in. “There you are. Are you coming tonight?”

  “It’s not possible, I’m afraid. Important debate on Kosovo. There might be trouble again, and a lot of people want to make sure we don’t go poking our nose in. The PM wants me to do my bit.”

  “What a bore,” she said. “The producers are throwing a hell of a good party at Annabel’s. I’ll just have to go with Colin.”

  “It’s the price of fame, my love. The paparazzi and the gossip columns will love it. You might even make Hello magazine. It’s a damn sight more entertaining than a debate on Britain’s foreign policy in countries about which the average voter doesn’t have the slightest interest.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him fix his tie and pull on the jacket of a navy blue suit.

  “I haven’t seen that.”

  “No, I was passing through Harrods and they were having a sale. I thought it might give me a serious man-of-purpose look coupled with a crisp white shirt with good cuffs, regimental tie. I’m performing tonight, too, remember.”

  “You old fool. On the other hand, you do look seriously good, Harry. The Prime Minister might have you in the cabinet yet.”

  “Over my dead body.” He combed his hair and glanced in the mirror. “Not bad.”

  She got a white handkerchief and arranged it in his breast pocket. “What’s happened to us, Harry?” There was a slight edge of despair there, and he smiled, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her forehead.

  “It’s called marriage, love. You think it’s going to last forever, but nothing does. Nothing stays the same. Take you. You’ve been acting your head off since you emerged from drama school thirteen years ago, and now you’ve given a performance that’s made you the toast of the London stage.” He shook her lightly. “It’s all happening, you cuckoo, Hollywood beckons. Enjoy it, you’ve earned it.”

  “And where does that leave you?”

  “Boring old me, you mean?”

  She shook her head. “I was speaking to Monica. She’s got the idea that Dillon is a spook. She said you fobbed her off, but when she raised it again, you said he’d been a top enforcer with the IRA.”

  “Which gave her a good laugh.”

  She looked at him searchingly. “I’ve shared my bed with you, Harry Miller. If I know anyone it should be you, and you don’t make fun. You’re a dour, serious man. I think what you said to Monica about Dillon must be true.”

  He took her hands and held them tight. “Sean Dillon is probably one of the most remarkable men I’ve met in my entire life.” He was gripped by the desire to tell the truth to the only woman he had ever truly loved, and he thought, yes, now was the moment. “You’ve always thought I was a desk man, a Whitehall Warrior. Isn’t that right?”

  “And that wasn’t true?”

  “In 1985, aged twenty-three, I was sent undercover to Belfast to seek out a particularly obnoxious murdering piece of scum. I came across a priest named Father Sharkey. We killed together, fled through the sewers of Belfast. That man, I’ve discovered of late, is the Sean Dillon now working for the Prime Minister’s security team.”

  “Killed? You killed?” There was a troubled look on her face. “After we were married, those trips you always went away on . . . ?”

  “To Northern Ireland. I was never away for long, you recall? Just a few days, a week at the most.”

  “And what happened in those few days—that’s what you were doing?” She pulled her right hand free and punched him in the chest. “That terrible man in Shepherd’s Market, the one you hit with the bottle. It makes sense now. Good Lord, Harry, I’ve never known you at all.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “I don’t know.” She was angry and more than a little frightened. “Just go, Harry, go. I need to think this through.”

  “I’m sorry it’s upset you. I’ve wanted to be honest for a long, long time.”

  “Honest?” She really was angry now. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. You were living a lie when we got married. What kind of love was that? You deceived me totally, and what kind of trust did it show?”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t approve.”

  “You were right, I don’t.” She pulled open the door and walked out.

  Miller stood there, saddened, but it was done now and could not be taken back. He took out his phone and alerted Ellis that he was ready and went down.

  LATER, MUCH LATER, when he’d had enough of Parliament, he left and walked aimlessly through the streets. He’d sent Ellis back to Dover Street earlier to pick up Olivia, told him to stay with her. Finally, with nowhere else to go, he hailed a cab and told the driver to take him to Holland Park, where he found Roper in the computer room.

  “You got bored with the debate, I see,” Roper said. “I watched if for a while on television, caught your short speech, succinct and very practical. ‘Serbs like to butcher Muslims, so Muslims understandably would prefer Kosovo to be independent. Let’s face up to that, gentlemen.’”

  “If only it was that easy,” Miller said. “Can I sample your whiskey?”

  “Only if you pour one for me, too.” Which Miller did. “You seem rather depressed.”

  “I’m that, all right. I’m also in the doghouse.”

  “Well, if you want to share, here I am.”

  So Miller told him all about it.

  Afterward, Roper poured him another drink. “You’ve dug yourself into a real hole there.”

  “Dug myself into my own grave, in a manner of speaking. I can see now that she’s unlikely to forgive me.”

  “Why on earth did you come clean after so long?”

  “A mad impulse. Love, a proper relationship, of its very nature implies total honesty between people. In her eyes, I’ve acted as badly as if I’d been having an affair with another woman.”

  Roper felt desperately sorry for him. “Look, you’re a decent man, Harry, an honorable man. Remember Derry all those years ago? You went into harm’s
way to pull out that young officer, took on four IRA guns. Soldiers take care of those things which ordinary folk can’t. You’ve been a great one. I take my hat off to you.”

  “God bless you for saying that, Roper, but it doesn’t help, unfortunately. I’ll be on my way. I’ll get Sergeant Doyle to call in a taxi for me.”

  He left, and Dillon entered the room. Roper said, “I didn’t get a chance to tell him you were in the house. He just poured it all out. How much did you hear?”

  “Enough. He’s a good man.”

  “But racked with guilt now.”

  “And who needs that?” Dillon said.

  “Maybe she’ll come round.”

  “Yes, maybe, but somehow I doubt it. Come on, let’s go down to the Dark Man. You need a break.”

  IN KILBURN, Fahy sat at his workbench, filling the vial of acid linked to the electronic circuit, the whole enclosed in a plastic box with grip clips that could be fitted to the brake fluid tube in seconds. It was painstaking work performed under a large magnifying glass, but in the end he was satisfied, particularly with the tiny watch battery that would act as a trembler underneath once the engine was turned on. Twenty minutes after his gadget was set in motion by the car starting, the vial would rupture and the acid would do its work virtually instantly.

  He was tired, eyes sore, and now his pain started again. He got the Bushmills out and had a large one, for he intended to go to bed soon. His phone rang, and when he answered it, he found the Broker on the other end.

  “Is everything proceeding smoothly?”

  “Does anything in this life? The device is prepared.”

  “Will there be any trace of it after the accident if the wreck is inspected by experts?”

  “It’s so small that it’s extremely doubtful. Years ago, when I used the same thing for the Army colonel in London, the coroner recorded a verdict of death by misadventure.”

  “I like that.”

  “The sweeper reports say Miller’s chauffeur is never there before eight-thirty, but I’ll be in the cul-de-sac by seven-thirty, just in case. What about the traffic warden?”

  “Hassim has found you a real one. He’s named Abdul and he’s been told the minimum he needs to know.” A lie, of course, for Abdul was Hassim’s enforcer.

  “That’s good. I’m going to go to bed now.”

  The Broker said with great sympathy, “I get the feeling you’re not well, my friend.”

  “Well enough to see this through. Good night.” Fahy turned off the phone.

  THE BROKER sat thinking about it and debating whether to speak to Volkov, but decided against it. He would leave it until the morning when, hopefully, the news would be good. What a triumph it would be, seeing off Miller. There were four decanters on his desk: gin, whiskey, brandy, and port. He decided on port, poured a glass, and said, “Here’s to you, Miller, and may you rot in hell.” In the distance, Big Ben started to strike.

  AT DOVER STREET, Miller sat by the bow window in the ark, smoking a cigarette and enjoying a glass of whiskey. His wife had not returned yet, not that it bothered him, and then his phone rang and it was Monica.

  “Harry?”

  “Yes, old girl, where are you?”

  “New Hall, my rooms. Olivia spoke to me earlier, told me this astonishing news about you. Is it true?”

  “The short reply is yes.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, you could try ‘Harry, I still love you,’ I suppose.”

  “I always will, you know that. It’s just such a shock.”

  “What, having a killer in the family? I’ve managed to get by with that knowledge since 1985, and I’m sure she’s told you that was when I first came across Dillon. You told me you liked him. Do you like him less now you know something of his past?”

  There was a pause, and she murmured, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Actually, that’s the second time you’ve said that. My advice is say nothing, love. Night, bless.”

  He put his phone away and heard a car, looked down outside, and saw a black cab draw up. Olivia got out, laughing, obviously on a high, and Colin Carlton stepped out behind her.

  “Thanks a lot, darling,” she said. “It was marvelous. I’ll see you at the BBC tomorrow morning.”

  She reached to kiss his cheek, his arms went around her, she dropped her bag and her arms went around him, and the kiss was long and obviously fruitful. It was almost funny.

  “Ah, well,” Miller murmured. “That’s show business.”

  He turned, got out of the dark room fast, was upstairs and into the spare bedroom before she got the front door open. He undressed quickly and slid into bed, switching off the light.

  He heard her come up the stairs, walk along the corridor, pause, then continue to the main suite. He said softly, “That’s that, then.” He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  10

  FAHY ARRIVED AT DOVER STREET AT SEVEN-THIRTY. IT WAS RAINING STEADILY. The traffic warden was already there in uniform and cap, wearing a mackintosh that almost reached his ankles and holding an umbrella over his head, clutching a clipboard, his ticket machine hanging from his shoulder.

  There were no cars in the cul-de-sac, and the warden approached as Fahy got out of the van. “The people who usually park here, so they told me, have gone to work. I’m Abdul.”

  “Anyone else tries to park, move them on, except for the chauffeur in the Amara.”

  “Leave it with me.”

  The traffic warden went and stood on the corner, and Fahy opened the rear of the van, got two levers out, and raised the manhole cover. There was a very short ladder, pipes down there, no nasty smells. He brought the bollards from the van and circled a small fence around the opening, then brought a stool he’d found, a bag full of tools, and a shabby old black umbrella. Obviously, the Water Board maintenance people were used to rain.

  Miller’s chauffeur appeared at the end of Dover Street at eight-fifteen and Abdul, standing on the corner beside Chico’s, turned and waved briefly to Fahy, who prepared himself to look busy. What he didn’t know was that Ellis Vaughan had already checked in with Miller, who had told him he wouldn’t need him for half an hour at least and to go to Chico’s and have breakfast.

  The Amara passed the cul-de-sac, then reversed in. Vaughan got out, looked toward Fahy, then walked to the end and said to Abdul, “I’m going in the café for twenty minutes. My governor isn’t ready yet.”

  He kept on going and moved into the café. Abdul turned toward Fahy and nodded. After almost forty years of dealing with cars, Fahy had a small leather case of master keys that between them would unlock any car. The third one he tried got the engine cover open, and he took the plastic box out of his pocket. The grips fit perfectly over their target. He placed the engine cover back down and locked it again. He nodded to Abdul and went straight back down on the stool.

  Fifteen minutes later, Miller went downstairs and found Olivia wearing a raincoat over a trouser suit, finishing a cup of coffee fast. “Oh, there you are,” she said. “I was coming to look for you. Colin and I have been asked to go on the BBC lunchtime television show. It’ll be marvelous publicity for the play.”

  “I shouldn’t think you need it, but I hope you do great.”

  She smiled. “Look, Harry, I’ve phoned the hairdressers, and as a special favor, they’ll take me early if I can get there as soon as possible. I’m asking you as a favor—please, can I have Ellis?”

  “Of course you can.” Miller took out his phone and called Vaughan, who replied at once. “It’s me, Ellis, we need you now. Mrs. Miller’s going on television and wants you to get her to the hairdressers as quickly as possible.”

  “On my way, Major.”

  Vaughan switched off, and Miller smiled at her. “Your carriage awaits, Madame.”

  There was a slight sadness there when she said, “You are good to me, Harry,” but she didn’t kiss him, simply opened the front door and went out and down the steps
, as Vaughan appeared.

  In the cul-de-sac, Fahy was surprised by Vaughan’s sudden departure, but he assumed it was Miller in the car. Abdul came toward him. “I understood his passenger would be a man.”

  “What in the hell do you mean?”

  “It was a woman, a good looker, came down the steps fast and he was away with her.”

  It took only seconds for the implication to strike home to Sean Fahy. “Dear God, no, not that.”

  He went back up the cul-de-sac and, in a frenzy of activity, replaced the manhole cover and put everything back in the van. His stomach was burning, the pain terrible, and he turned against the wall and was very sick indeed.

  Abdul moved in behind him. “Are you okay, man?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “Whatever the hell you want.”

  He was in despair as he got in the van, reversed, and turned into Dover Street and passed the house. He didn’t know what to do, but the truth was there was nothing he could do, and he continued to drive slowly through Mayfair.

  SHORTLY AFTERWARD, Ellis Vaughan drove to the end of a street leading into Park Lane. As he approached, the lights changed to green, so he put his foot on the accelerator to catch the light, braking as he encountered heavy traffic, and in a few desperate and horrific minutes, discovered his brakes no longer worked. It was like gliding on the rain-wet road, and he bounced one car to his left, spun in a half-circle, and ended up pointing the wrong way in the fast lane. The driver of the bus hurtling toward him could do nothing in the heavy traffic conditions of the morning rush hour. The bus plowed into the Amara, hurling it to one side like a toy. Olivia Hunt had barely time to cry out, but Vaughan heard her and then he heard nothing.

  CONGESTION AND THE ENORMOUS buildup of traffic led Fahy in the right direction. He left his van in a courtyard and proceeded on foot. The police were there in force, had closed that side of the dual carriageway. There were three ambulances already, a Fire Service recovery vehicle, men working on the wreckage. Fahy joined the onlookers on the pavement and watched as what looked like the driver was pulled out. There was more work going on at the back of the car.