‘I’m not following you, sir,’ Regan replied quietly.
‘I’m saying two things. Sergeant Carter had a quiet think about Lieutenant Ewing and did some discreet investigating. He found out that, although Ewing had been in England three days, he had made no move whatsoever to set in train with the Home Office the organizing of extradition papers for the man he intended to arrest. When Carter found out that Ewing wasn’t here to locate and extradite Purcell to the US, he came to the inevitable conclusion. Ewing was here on a vengeance mission. He was here to execute the police-killer Purcell.’
‘Now he goes to jail for it,’ Regan said softly.
‘That’s not my point. My point is, why did Carter think of doing a check on Ewing, and not you?’
Regan glared at Maynon. ‘What would you like me to say, sir? That fortunate we are indeed to have amongst us this gift of God, Sergeant Carter?’
‘I’m saying, Regan, you’re not a very bright copper.’ Regan, his eyes hard on Maynon’s, allowed a grim silence to tick on for a full half a minute. And still Haskins said nothing.
Regan suddenly gave a shrug, as if he’d dismissed the whole thing from his mind. ‘All right, what are we going to do about this murdering bastard Ewing?’ he said matter of factly,
Maynon looked at Haskins as if he expected Haskins to give the news, and Haskins began to open his mouth, and for some reason Maynon raised his hand. Maynon had elected to take the responsibility. He put the tips-of his fingers together and faced Regan. ‘It’s a question of whose story to believe. Three people in the car, one dead. You were driving. Lieutenant Ewing’s story is that he told you to stop the car. He wanted to interrogate Purcell in the car, try to get an admission about the killing of O’Hagen before the whole of London CID descended on Purcell, the bank robber. He told you to stop the car. You banged on the brakes. The car lurched. An accident. The gun went off. That’s his story.’
‘It’s a fucking lie.’
‘Your story.’ Maynon said it as if it was a question of simple choice. ‘I believe Lieutenant Ewing is a very, very experienced police officer. I don’t think he’d have any problems convincing a coroner of his accident story. I don’t see any future in the two of you going into a lengthy court case and calling each other liars. Furthermore, I do not believe that the Director of Public Prosecutions would in this...’
Regan got up and walked out of the office.
The concourse of Terminal Three, Oceanic, London Airport, has its exits and its entrances. To the Swiftian observer noting the large numbers entering by foot and leaving on wings, Spring through Summer, it would appear a matter of months before the entire population be drained forever from this British island. And not within distance of easy return. These people have chosen Oceanic. Not the other two buildings, the cross country, or European terminals. These travellers want to put oceans between themselves and the sinking, bankrupt island. Not channels, nor mere continents, oceans. They want out, far and fast. The travel office at New Scotland Yard had told Regan a booking had been made for Ewing on Pan Am Polar 102 back to San Francisco. Flight time, midday. Boarding time, eleven-thirty. Regan pushed open the swing doors on the ground floor of Terminal Three and was confronted by a sea of humanity. He had possibly seconds to find Ewing before he got on the plane. He took the escalator directly on his left to the first floor. It was eleven-thirty.
At the far end of the first floor passport formalities, and the walkway to the planes. And on the floor itself about two thousand people.
Regan strode across the Pirelli flooring. Some people got in his way, he pushed them aside; others saw his expression, and moved aside. And although Ewing should already be heading towards the Passport Officers, he hadn’t made the move and Regan spotted him just for one fraction of a second in a small gap in the seething crowd.
Ewing was standing, back to him, window shopping in the huddle of kiosks selling Pringle sweaters, tartan kilts, and Yardley perfume.
He paced in on Ewing. Len’s hundred mile an hour drive up the motorway, Winkworth gong blasting, had got Regan here with, perhaps, just a few seconds to spare.
That’s all Regan required — a few seconds. He approached the back of Lieutenant Ewing and tapped him on the shoulder.
Ewing turned.
Regan brought his right hand back, bunched hard, and hit the American a crippling punch just below the heart.
Ewing’s lungs exploded air in Regan’s face. Ewing stepped back and sank to his knees.
Regan turned. At the same deliberate pace that he’d approached Ewing, he walked away from him, ignoring the witnesses who’d seen that punch, and the big man go down, witnesses frozen to the spot with amazement and disbelief.
Regan didn’t know where he was heading. Then he did know. He could see just to the left of the escalators the bar. It was open. He headed over to it. A scotch, and then on with life as it is lived.
There were four customers at the bar, ranged along its length like permanent extensions of the bar stools. Not travellers, probably off-duty porters, or taxi men, none with baggage.
Regan formulated the immediate plan. A large scotch, which he ordered. Then Len to drive him home. Then a call to the Yard to say he was taking the day off at their convenience or inconvenience. Then he’d open a bottle of Teachers, and drink most of it, and work it out. Whether to stick with this lousy job, or jack it in immediately. And he wondered how he already knew that the decision would be to stick with the fucking job.
There was a tap on Regan’s shoulder.
Regan swung round on Ewing.
‘What d’you want?’ Regan demanded, his fists bunched and ready. Ewing studied him, shrugged, sat down two bar stools away, caught the barman’s eye.
‘Do you have Jim Beam?’
The barman nodded.
‘A small Jim Beam.’
The barman poured, came over, put the drink down. Ewing spun a fifty-pence piece with a flick of his wrist. The barman picked up the spinning coin.
Regan’s eyes down on his own drink. ‘You’ll miss your bloody plane.’
‘I’ve checked in. They know I’m here. They’ll wait a bit, Ewing said. ‘Jesus, you throw a mean right.’
Regan turned, looked at him, "What d’you want?’
The American shrugged again, ‘I would like to buy you a drink, Jack Regan.’
Regan looked him over slowly, closely, as if it was the moment for a final conclusion about Ewing, a conclusion to file away permanently in his own mind, for his own purposes. ‘No,’ he said gently, almost wearily. ‘I don’t want a drink from you.’
Ewing was studying Regan, calculating some kind of equation whereby he could leave this strange English cop, not quite one hundred per cent hating him.
Regan made it difficult for him, or perhaps easy. He got up, and walked off.
Ewing listened to the third public address call for Flight 102, swallowed down his drink, and headed away towards Passport Control, and the walkway to the planes.
The Sweeney 01 Page 18
