He went upstairs to the bathroom, trembling with excitement. He splashed his face with water, dried it, and combed his hair, and was just coming back down when he heard a sudden cry. He ran down the rest of the stairs and went into the living room.
She was writhing convulsively on the couch, her entire body shaking. "What is it?" he cried.
When he put a hand to her face, it was burning; he saw that her eyes were bulging and then froth appeared on her mouth. It was every horror story he'd ever heard about people who got an adverse reaction to Ecstasy.
He couldn't walk out. Everyone knew they'd been together.
There was only one thing for it, St. Mark's Hospital half a mile up the High Street. If he got her there, they'd fix her. He ran to the front door, opened it and then the garage door, got into his brother's Escort and reversed out. He went back inside and helped her to her feet and looped her purse around her neck. Strangely enough, she was able to shuffle along, and he got her out of the house and into the rear seat of the Escort.
R upert, in the Porsche, had just turned into Canal Street, saw Grant leading her out, and knew instantly from the way she was walking that there was something seriously wrong. He drove past the Escort, turned the Porsche, and was on their tail as Grant drove away. They were at the hospital in minutes.
Rupert followed them into the main car park and watched as Grant got her out. She was really suffering now, walking like a zombie, as Grant took her up the steps to the entrance to the Casualty department. Rupert got out and followed.
Inside, it was crowded, as was typical of most English National Health Service hospitals; all seats were taken, with some people standing. Rupert stayed back by the entrance. Grant glanced around, wondering what to do, and Helen cried out and started to struggle. He couldn't hold her and she fell to the floor. Some people jumped up in alarm.
A passing nurse ran over and knelt beside her. There was a huge amount of foam on her mouth now.
The nurse looked up at Grant. "What is it?"
He lied through his teeth, panicking now. "Don't ask me. I was passing outside. She was obviously ill and trying to get up the steps. I thought she was on some drug. I just gave her a hand."
The nurse called to those at the counter. "Emergency!"
As two other nurses ran over, Helen's heels started to drum on the floor, and her body shook and then went still. One of the nurses felt for a neck pulse, then looked up.
"She's gone."
Grant said stupidly, "She can't have gone."
A male nurse put a hand on his shoulder. "She's dead, son."
"Oh, my God!" Grant turned and ran away, and Rupert went after him.
G rant was nearly out of his mind, he didn't know what to do. When he got back to Ten Canal Street, it was nearly dark. He parked the Escort, found the half bottle of vodka, and sat at the kitchen table drinking it, swallow after swallow very quickly. When the front door bell rang, he was already drunk. He ignored it, but it rang again. Angry, he went to open it.
He stood there, swaying, and Rupert pushed him back. "I was here earlier, I followed you to the hospital." He turned Grant and ran him into the kitchen. "I saw what happened. She's dead."
"I had nothing to do with it."
"You had everything to do with it." Rupert got him by the tie, took the Colt .25 from his inside pocket, and put it against the boy's left temple. "Did you give her one of the pills?"
Grant was shaking a great deal, as much from the large amount of vodka he'd drunk as from fear. "Just as you said. I can't understand it. I've taken Ecstasy. I've never had a reaction like that."
"Some people do. It's a kind of allergy," Rupert said, but he was looking closely at Grant. "But that wasn't what caused it, was it? You're completely drunk, Grant." He spied the empty bottle on the table. "You gave her vodka, didn't you? You got her drunk and then you gave her drugs, and after I told you not to mix them. You really screwed up this time, didn't you?"
Grant started to cry. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want to, she took the bottle. I couldn't stop her. And anyway, you gave me the Ecstasy. It's just as much your fault as mine."
As a piece of self-justification it was monumental, but all Rupert did was straighten Grant's collar. "You know what, Alan? You're right. But you don't look good. I think you need some air," and he pushed him out of the kitchen to the front door.
"What's down here?" Rupert asked.
"Canal Wharf."
"Why are the other houses boarded up?"
"They're going to redevelop. Everyone's gone except my brother. The Council's going to rehouse him when he comes back from Germany."
It was almost fully dark now, and they turned onto the wharf, passing under a single street lamp. There were lights on the other side of the river, a pleasure boat passed, the sound of music drifting across.
Grant leaned on the rail, maudlin now. "I used to play down there when I was a kid. There's a beach when the tide's out, all my mates swimming, only not me. I could never get the hang of it."
"That's good," Rupert said, stepped back, and stood behind him. Then he pushed hard with both hands and Grant went over with a cry.
He surfaced, floundering, his arms thrashing. "Help me," he called and went under again.
He seemed to have gone, but then he surfaced again, with very little movement now. Rupert peered down. "Are you all right, my friend?" There was a choking sound and Grant slipped away for the last time. "Yes, I thought you were." He shook his head and said softly, "She was a nice girl. You shouldn't have done that."
He turned and walked back to the Porsche.
B ack at South Audley Street, Kate Rashid was still sitting at the fire and it was as if nothing had occurred in between.
"Well, did you find them?"
He didn't have a drink, simply went and opened the French window at the small terrace and lit a cigarette.
"I believe once, in an excess of enthusiasm, I said I'd do anything for you, even kill for you."
"I remember, darling."
"Well, I just did."
She looked stunned, then began to smile. "What happened?"
And he told her.
T he charge nurse at St. Mark's who'd received Helen Quinn's body examined her purse and found many items in it to establish her identity, the most obvious being her American passport. There was also a card for the Oxford Student's Union, another for St. Hugh's College.
Blood tests at the hospital had established the presence not only of alcohol but of Ecstasy. As was the usual practice, the hospital administrator informed the police and then phoned the principal of St. Hugh's College with the sad news. He canvassed other students in the residence hall and discovered that some of them had been on the bus with her and Alan Grant. The principal then phoned the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, and it was the American Ambassador who, because of Daniel Quinn's status, had the unhappy task of phoning the President on his direct line.
A t the White House, Jake Cazalet was in the Oval Office. He listened in horror, then put the phone down and rang Blake Johnson in the Basement and told him to come upstairs at once.
Blake arrived in shirtsleeves, with a sheaf of papers. "I had stuff for you anyway."
"Never mind that," and Cazalet gave him the grim news.
Blake was staggered. "I can't believe it, especially the drug suggestion. I've met Helen many times. She just wasn't the sort."
"I can't comment. Students on a day out, who can say?" Cazalet sighed. "Drugs are the curse of modern life. Where is Daniel now?"
"He reported in yesterday from a place called Prizren. It's in the multinational sector of Kosovo. You were busy, so I spoke to him."
"What's he doing in this Prizren place?"
"There's been an outbreak of fighting, Albanians ambushed by Serbs, or something like that."
Cazalet said, "I'll tell him myself. It's the least I can do."
"Thank God it's not me. How do we handle it?"
"He'll want to be in L
ondon as soon as possible. Using Presidential authority, how soon can that be arranged?"
"A helicopter north from Prizren to Pristina. Then a direct flight to the U.K. I should have it arranged within an hour."
"Do it then. But first get him on the phone for me."
Q uinn was outside Prizren with a small detachment of French paratroopers, part of the multinational force. Four Serbs had been killed, and they waited in their body bags in the village square for a helicopter to arrive.
One of the men gave Quinn a cup of coffee, and their captain, a young man named Michel, was on a mobile. Quinn was drinking his coffee when his own special mobile sounded and he switched on.
"Quinn."
"Daniel? Jake Cazalet."
Quinn was astonished. "What can I do for you, Mr. President?"
Cazalet hesitated. "What are you up to now?"
"Oh, sheltering from heavy rain at the arsehole of the world outside Prizren. I'm with the French. We've got a few Serbs in body bags to get out of here, and we're just waiting for a helicopter. What's this about, sir?"
Cazalet said, "Daniel, I've got heartbreaking news for you."
Quinn said, "What would that be, Mr. President?"
And Cazalet told him.
A short while later, Quinn switched off the phone, experiencing a feeling he had never known before in his life. Michel clicked off his mobile and came to him.
"Hey, mon ami, I'm told they're diverting another helicopter to here just for you. It's taking you to Pristina. You really must have some kind of influence, eh?"
"No. It's a personal thing." He stared almost blindly at the Frenchman. "My daughter, Helen. I've just been told she's dead."
"Mon Dieu," Michel said.
"Twenty-two years old, Michel. I mean, who dies at twenty-two years old?" He buried his head in his hands and wept.
Michel snapped his fingers at his Sergeant, a half bottle of cognac was produced, and Michel unscrewed the cap. "You'd better take a large one, and another if you need it, mon ami. Just take your time." There was the sound of a helicopter in the distance.
"They're coming for you now."
T he President spoke to the chief of staff at the London Embassy, who was eager to please. They spoke in conference, Blake listening.
"You're an old London hand and you're also a lawyer, Frobisher," the President said. "You've looked at the facts in the case. How will it be handled?"
"It's a police matter, Mr. President, because of the drug connection and the fact that the young man who delivered her ran away. Someone got the license number of his car, though--one of the nurses who followed him out."
"So the police will run him down?"
"Absolutely. The license number will lead to the owner's address."
"Then what?"
"There'll be an autopsy, followed by a coroner's inquest. Once that's over, the body will be released."
"Right," Cazalet said. "I've arranged to get Senator Quinn to the U.K. as soon as possible. I'll have Blake Johnson liaise with you on this. The Senator gets our best shot. Anything he wants. If there are any roadblocks with the British police or legal system, use all your Embassy's muscle to overcome them."
"At your command, Mr. President."
"Fine. I know you'll do your best."
"Of course, sir."
Blake cut in. "Hello, Mark, Blake here. I'll notify you when and where Daniel will get in and you can arrange to pick him up."
"I'll do it myself. Leave it with me, Blake."
The line went dead and Cazalet drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. Finally, he said, "Listen, whatever Frobisher is able to do, he's still at a disadvantage. It's a different country, different police procedures, different legal system."
"So what are you saying?"
"I think we need Charles Ferguson on this."
"I'll speak to him at once."
W hen the news reached Henry Percy, he was horrified. Dauncey's accusation about the funds had been true enough. He'd been mesmerized by the sums passing through his hands, and then temptation had set in. A few thousand here, a few thousand there. Who would notice? But the chickens had come home to roost. Now this.
He telephoned Rupert Dauncey in London. "Thank God you're there. Something terrible has happened."
"And what's that?" Dauncey said, pretending ignorance.
Percy told him. "Such a nice girl. She's the last one I'd have suspected of being on drugs. And what worries me, too, is the position of our organization. That dreadful riot, the violence."
"Yes, it spoils all our good work," Rupert said. "But no one can fault the Trust, Professor. You behaved with great responsibility when you warned the students on the bus and tried to dissuade them."
"That's true." Percy hesitated. "And, of course, so did you, Mr. Dauncey. No one could have done more."
"Yes, and if the matter is raised at the inquest, any student who was present would have to confirm what we both said."
Suddenly, Percy felt much brighter. "Of course."
"You have my personal support. As to the other matter, I've spoken to the Countess, who feels there may have been a genuine error on your part."
"That's very kind of her." Percy was overjoyed.
"We'll speak again," and Rupert smiled as he put the phone down.
A police car was outside the Canal Street house, two constables, a man and a woman. They checked the Escort and found the keys inside.
"That's a trifle careless these days," the woman officer said.
"Still, it's the right car," her colleague replied, as he checked the license plate.
There was a dim light at the back of the hall. They tried the doorbell but got no response, then went up a narrow footpath to the rear and found the kitchen light on. The man tried the door, but it was locked.
Two young men turned the corner at the end of Canal Wharf by the wharf itself. They stopped at the railing to urinate and, in the same moment, looked down to where the tide was receding and saw Alan Grant's body, half in the water, half out.
"Jesus Christ," one of them said, just as the two police officers returned to their car. The young man saw them. "Down here," he called. "There's a body on the beach," and the police hurried toward him.
A t Pristina, the first plane out to London was a Royal Air Force Hercules from Transport Command. Word had gone out and the crew was subdued but saw to Quinn's every need. He was sensible enough to eat some food, have a couple of coffees, and allow the RAF Sergeant looking after him to pour a little brandy in each.
The skipper came down to see him, looking absurdly young in spite of being a squadron leader. "Terribly sorry about your great loss, sir. Anything you need, just ask."
"That's kind of you."
Quinn lit a cigarette and thought about it. "Your great loss." How apt that was, how painful. Death was so final; he'd learned that at an early age with the barbarity of Vietnam.
And the one thing that wouldn't go away was this suggestion of a drug connection to the whole rotten business. It couldn't be true. That wasn't the Helen he'd known and loved.
He lay back in the canvas chair in which they'd put him, stretched out his legs, folded his hands, and slept the sleep of exhaustion.
10
C HARLES FERGUSON WAS ENJOYING BREAKFAST IN FRONT of the fire at Cavendish Place the following morning when Blake Johnson called him. Ferguson listened, his face grave.
"This is a bad one, Blake. What do you want me to do?"
"Daniel Quinn will want answers. The President thinks you can help find them."
"So you don't believe the most obvious explanation? A young woman on the loose, too much to drink, the wrong pill?"
"No. And I think Daniel will find that difficult to believe. Do what you can, Charles. Hannah can help him deal with Scotland Yard and the coroner's court. Dillon's been pretty creative on occasion."
"That's an unusual way of putting it, but, yes, we should be able to do something. Leave it with me, Blake."
He called Hannah Bernstein on her mobile. She was on her way to the office. "Listen carefully." He told her what had happened.
"That's terrible," she said. "What do you want me to do?"
"Talk with your friends in Special Branch. Use your muscle. Find out what the police are doing and what they've got."
"Right, sir."
He clicked off, then tried Dillon, who was running around the streets close to Stable Mews in a blue tracksuit, a towel on his neck. His mobile sounded and he slowed and took it out.
"Where are you?" Ferguson asked.
"Morning run. Where are you?"
"At home. I want you to see Roper."
"Why?"
Ferguson told him.
A t Regency Square, the buzzer sounded, the door opened, and Dillon went in. Roper was in his wheelchair working at the computer. He turned.
"You want something, I can tell."
"You could say that. Daniel Quinn's daughter, Helen, is dead. The word is that it's drug-related. She was admitted to the St. Mark's Hospital emergency room last night and died there."
"Oh dear." Roper started to hack his way in and very quickly came up with the details. "Helen Quinn, twenty-two, American citizen, address St. Hugh's College, Oxford. Preliminary blood tests show a high alcohol content and traces of Ecstasy. They're doing an autopsy at twelve."
"Dammit to hell," Dillon said. "So it's true. Her father won't like that. What else have you got?"
"I can access her personal records at Oxford."
"Do that."
Dillon lit a cigarette and Roper tapped away. "Here we go. Usual background details. Reading politics, philosophy, and economics. Member of the Oxford Union, Music Society, Oxford Literary Workshop." He frowned. "Well, I'll be damned. Oxford has a branch of Act of Class Warfare. She was a member."
"Helen Quinn was a member of Act of Class Warfare?"
"I'll see if they have a website. Yes, here we are. Huh. Well, now we know why she was in London yesterday. They sent a delegation to that Liberty in Europe fiasco."
Midnight Runner (2002) Page 12
