Midnight Runner (2002)

by Jack - Sd 10 Higgins

  "That figures," Dillon said.

  Roper sat back. "Yes. Funny, isn't it? Daniel Quinn keeps tabs on Kate Rashid. Rashid funds a bunch of questionable organizations. One of them is Act of Class Warfare, and guess who's a member? Daniel Quinn's daughter."

  "Are you suggesting Kate Rashid had something to do with the girl's death?"

  "No, no, but still--quite a coincidence. And I abhor coincidence. I like life to be orderly. One and one must always make two."

  "This from the man who spent seven hours defusing the largest IRA bomb ever, then put himself in that wheelchair from practically a firecracker."

  "All right," Roper shrugged. "Some days one and one make three. Anything else you need?"

  "That twelve o'clock autopsy, as soon as you can."

  "Fair enough. Do you want me to see what the police are up to?"

  "Hannah's working on that, but it can't hurt to see what you can find, too. I've got to get going. Let me know if you turn up anything."

  Dillon left and Roper cut into Scotland Yard's Central Records Office. He examined what was there and frowned. There was an ancillary link to the case of one Alan Grant, Canal Street, Wapping, believed drowned and believed to be the person who had delivered Helen Quinn to the hospital. Roper sat back, still frowning again. The name, Alan Grant, was familiar, and then he remembered where he'd seen it. He went back to the Act of Class Warfare website, and there he was: Oxford, a second-year student at St. Hugh's College also, reading physics.

  Another coincidence he didn't believe in. He picked up the phone to Ferguson.

  A t Cavendish Place, Dillon looked out of the French window in the drawing room, then turned. Ferguson was sitting by the fire.

  "So, we not only know why she went to London, we know that this Grant delivered her to the hospital, did a runner, and ended up dead by drowning."

  "And I've got more." Hannah Bernstein bustled in from outside. "Both Quinn and Grant went to London on a special bus hired by a professor named Henry Percy, and guess who came along for the ride?"

  "Who?" Ferguson said mildly.

  "Would you believe, Rupert Dauncey?"

  Dillon laughed harshly and Ferguson said, "What on earth was he doing there?"

  "Percy gave Scotland Yard what would usually be termed a full and frank statement. Rashid funds ACW, as we know, and Dauncey came down to try to call off their participation in the rally. Said it was too dangerous. Both he and Percy even made speeches to the busload of students pointing out the dangers of the rally."

  "Did Dauncey end up going?"

  "With Percy, but they left when it got rough. Percy went back to the bus and Dauncey said he was going home."

  "Very convenient, Dauncey just showing up like that," said Dillon. "Making noble speeches."

  "And get this," said Bernstein. "Percy actually introduced Dauncey to Helen Quinn. Said he wanted to meet a fellow American. Percy says he heard him urging her not to go to the rally but that her boyfriend, this Alan Grant, mocked him in front of everybody. They ended up going to the rally, but then people lost sight of each other, and that was the last Percy saw of either of them."

  "Hmm," Ferguson said. "So on the face of it, they went to Canal Street after the riot, probably for sex, had a few drinks, some drugs, and she had an adverse reaction. Grant takes her to the hospital, she dies on the instant, and he runs for it, doesn't know which way to turn...and commits suicide."

  "Which might be believable...if it weren't for the damn smell of the Rashids."

  The phone rang. Hannah answered it and found Roper on the other end. "I'm faxing the autopsy through now. They're doing Grant next. I'll send those details when they come in."

  She got the fax from Ferguson's study and read it as she went back to the living room. She looked up. "Confirmed, sir. She was heavily over the line on alcohol, had certainly taken Ecstasy. Otherwise healthy, well nourished. Not a virgin, but no evidence of sex before her death."

  She handed the fax to Ferguson, who read it through. "Poor girl. God knows what her father will make of it." He looked up. "I still don't know what I make of it."

  "Well, I do," Dillon said. "If you'll excuse me, I've got things to do."

  "Such as?" demanded Hannah.

  "That's my business. Talk to you later, Charles."

  He left, got a taxi to the Ministry of Defence, booked a limousine, and told the driver to take him to Oxford. There was something he wanted to check.

  Traffic was light and they were there in one and a half hours. As they reached the outskirts, he called Roper on his mobile.

  "Can you pull me in Henry Percy's address from that police report perhaps?"

  "Hang on." He was back in two minutes. "Has an apartment, 10B Kaiser Lane. What are you up to?"

  "I'll let you know later."

  They found Kaiser Lane with no trouble; 10B was at the top of a gloomy stairway in a Victorian semi-detached. Dillon pulled a cord and an old-fashioned bell jangled. After a while, he heard the shuffle of steps, the door opened, and Percy appeared. He was bleary-eyed and looked as if he'd been sleeping.

  "Professor Percy?"

  "Yes."

  "I was asked to call on you by a Rupert Dauncey."

  Percy managed a smile. "I see. You'd better come in." He led the way along the corridor and entered a parlor. "Now what can I do for you?"

  "First of all, I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine, my Walther PPK." He took it from his special pocket. "And this is his friend. He's called a Carswell silencer." He screwed it on the muzzle of the Walther. "Now I can shoot you through the kneecap and nobody will hear a thing."

  Percy was terrified. "Who are you? What do you want?"

  "I've seen your statement to the police about Helen Quinn's death. You say Rupert Dauncey was against the students going to the rally because he anticipated violence?"

  "Yes."

  "And that you both made it clear on the bus that you were against going?"

  "Yes, yes. There were over forty students there. They can confirm it. The Oxford police have interviewed some of them."

  Dillon grabbed him, pushed him back over a table, and rammed the Walther into his knee. "So you're telling me Dauncey's as pure as the driven snow, is that it?"

  Percy totally freaked. "No, no, no. I mean, yes, but--it's just that he changed his attitude."

  "What do you mean?"

  "At first, he was all for positive action. He thought it good for the students." He hesitated and carried on. "He arranged for some of them to go to training courses in Scotland."

  "Did Helen Quinn go?"

  "No, but her boyfriend did, Alan Grant."

  "You know he's dead."

  "Yes, the police have been in touch. They said he committed suicide."

  Dillon stood back. "Don't believe everything you hear. So that's all you can tell me, is it? Dauncey used to be blood-thirsty, but now he's changed."

  "That's right."

  Dillon rammed the Walther in again. "And you expect me to believe that fairy tale? When did you last see him?"

  "We spoke on the phone late last night."

  "What did he say?"

  "That it was a good thing he and I had spoken to the students as we had, since we'd probably be called to the inquest."

  "Yes, that was very convenient, wasn't it, Henry?" Dillon stood there for a moment, looking at him, then he began to unscrew his silencer. "You're not leaving anything out now, are you, Henry? Anything that might change this little tale of yours?"

  Percy thought about the fifty thousand but decided on discretion. "I've told you the truth, as God is my witness," he said piously.

  "Yes, well, I wouldn't call God into this if I were you, Professor. I'll see you at the inquest. And when you speak to Dauncey next--tell him Sean Dillon was here."

  He walked into the hall. Percy hesitated, then picked up the phone. "Dauncey? It's Percy."

  In the hall, Sean Dillon smiled softly and let himself out.

  D anie
l Quinn had Frobisher take him to the American Embassy first, and wait. He went up the steps and identified himself to the security guards. In two minutes, a Marine Captain in uniform was greeting him.

  "My name's Davies, Senator. It's a privilege to meet you. Ambassador Begley is waiting." Quinn, unshaven and still in combat gear, shook hands with him.

  "If I may say so, you look as though you've had a hard time out there."

  "Well, I wouldn't recommend Kosovo for your next vacation, Captain."

  "This way, Senator."

  A couple of minutes later, he opened the door to the Ambassador's office and ushered Quinn in.

  "Hello, Elmer."

  Begley was wearing a Savile Row suit, his gray hair perfectly groomed. There couldn't have been a greater contrast. He came round the desk and took Quinn's hand. "Daniel, I'm so sorry. If there's anything we can do--anything--the resources of the Embassy are at your disposal. Sit down."

  "If you don't mind, I won't, Elmer. I just wanted to touch base. I'd like to get to my house, shower and change, then I have an appointment with General Ferguson."

  "Charles? He's a friend. You'll be in good hands there. But remember--anything we can do."

  "Thank you, Elmer."

  Q uinn's house in Park Place was in a turning off South Audley Street, a pleasant Regency building with a small courtyard. Luke Cornwall, his chauffeur, a large black man from New York, was hosing down a Mercedes town car. He stopped at once, his face grave.

  "Senator, what can I say?"

  "There's nothing to be said, Luke, but thank you. Right now I feel like shit, though, so I'm going to shower and change, and then I want you to take me to Cavendish Place."

  "You've got it, Senator."

  Quinn went up the steps, the door opened, and Mary Cornwall appeared. She'd been a maid for years at the Boston house, had seen Helen grow up, and there were tears in her eyes. He kissed her on the cheek.

  She was crying. "Sometimes I wonder whether there's a God in heaven."

  "Oh, there is, Mary, always hang on to that."

  "Can I get you anything to eat?"

  "Not now. I'm going to change. I have an appointment."

  He went along the paneled hall, hurried upstairs, and opened the door to his bedroom suite. It was light and airy, with maple paneling, his favorite paintings on the walls, and Turkish carpeting. On his return he'd always experienced conscious pleasure on entering this room, but now it meant nothing.

  In the bathroom, he stripped, dropping all his clothes to the floor, turned on the shower, and soaped himself all over, trying to wash away the stench of Kosovo and death.

  Half an hour later, he came downstairs, perfectly groomed, wearing a brown Armani country suit and brogues. Mary was in the kitchen and he didn't bother her, simply opened the front door and went down the steps to where Luke, in a dark blue chauffeur's uniform, waited.

  R upert Dauncey was waiting, too. He'd calmed Henry Percy when Percy had called him in a panic, but he disliked the idea that Dillon was still on the case. He also wondered where Daniel Quinn was, and he'd checked with a friend at the Embassy, who told him Quinn had arrived and was on his way to Park Place.

  Park Place! That was a bit of luck. Dauncey had driven around the corner without knowing the number of the house, but then he had seen Luke standing waiting by the Quinn Mercedes. Rupert pulled in farther along the street and saw Quinn emerge from the house. As Luke drove away, Rupert was already turning and he went after him.

  I t was Hannah Bernstein who answered the door at Cavendish Place and found Quinn standing there. She recognized him from the photo in his file, just as he recognized her from the material Blake Johnson had shown him in Washington.

  "Superintendent Bernstein."

  "Senator Quinn. Please come in."

  She led the way into the sitting room. Dillon was drinking Bushmills by the French windows and Ferguson got up.

  "I wish I could say this is a pleasure, Daniel, but it doesn't seem appropriate. We all feel for you."

  "That's appreciated."

  "Do you know Sean Dillon?"

  "Only by reputation." Quinn shook hands. "If you know anything about me, you'll know my grandfather was born in and fought with Michael Collins. He was chased out to the States in 1920."

  "So he'd be Irish Republican Brotherhood," Dillon said. "Worse than the mob, that lot."

  Quinn managed a smile. "You could say that."

  "Will you join me in a Bushmills?" Quinn hesitated, and Dillon added, "I'd recommend a large one. The Superintendent's put a file together that won't exactly cheer you up."

  "Then I'll take that as sound advice."

  Dillon gave him the whiskey in a shot glass and Quinn drank it in a single swallow. He put the glass on a table and took the file from Hannah.

  Ferguson said, "That file gives you a full history of our dealings with the Rashids, and everything we know so far about your daughter's death, including the details of her post-mortem and the police inquiries. In fact, we've just added details of the post-mortem of her boyfriend, too, Alan Grant."

  "Who? I've never heard of him." Quinn was astonished. "I didn't know she had a boyfriend."

  "I'm afraid she did," Hannah Bernstein said.

  "Afraid?"

  "It's all there, Senator," she told him quietly.

  "Show the Senator into my study," Ferguson told her. "He can read the file in peace."

  She led Quinn out. Dillon said, "What a sod."

  "I agree, and I'm not looking forward to when he's done. You'd better pour me one of those, too."

  Twenty minutes later, Quinn came back into the room. His face was very pale and the right hand shook slightly as he raised the file.

  "Can I keep this?"

  "Of course," Ferguson said.

  Quinn said, "Right, I'll go along to the mortuary now. I'll need to identify her."

  "Then drink this." Dillon poured another Bushmills. "Get it down. You're going to need it. In fact, I'll come with you."

  "That's kind of you." Quinn turned to Hannah. "What about the inquest?"

  "It's tomorrow morning. We managed to get them to bring it forward."

  "Good. The sooner the better." He drank the Bushmills and said to Dillon, "Let's get it done."

  Rupert had sat patiently in his Mercedes just down the street from the apartment. Finally, Quinn and Dillon came out, got into the limousine, and were driven away.

  "Dillon," Rupert said softly, "now, that's interesting." A moment later, he was following them.

  T he mortuary was the sort of aging building that, from the outside, looked more like a warehouse than anything else. Inside, it was different. There was a pleasant reception area, well decorated with fitted carpets. A young woman at a desk looked up and smiled.

  "Can I help you?"

  "My name is Quinn. I believe you have my daughter here?"

  She stopped smiling. "Oh, I'm so sorry. We had a call a short while ago saying you were coming to identify the body. I've notified the local police station. It's only five minutes away."

  "Thank you."

  "And I've notified Professor George Langley. He's our regular forensic pathologist, and fortunately he's in the building right now. I thought you'd want to speak with him."

  "Thank you. We'll wait."

  He and Dillon sat down, but only moments later, a small gray-haired, energetic man entered. The girl whispered and he came over.

  "George Langley."

  "Daniel Quinn, and this is Sean Dillon, a friend."

  "You have my deepest sympathy."

  "May I see my daughter?"

  "Of course." He said to the woman, "Send in the police officer when he arrives."

  The room into which he led them was walled with white tiles, with fluorescent lighting and a line of modern-looking steel operating tables. Two bodies were covered with some sort of white rubber sheets.

  "Are you ready?" Langley asked.

  "As I ever will be."

 
Helen Quinn looked very calm, her eyes closed. A kind of plastic hood was on her head and a little blood seeped through. Quinn leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  "Thank you."

  Langley replaced the sheet and Quinn said, "I've seen your report to the coroner. The alcohol, the drug? There's absolutely no doubt?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "It's so unlike her. That's just not the girl I knew."

  "That's sometimes the way of it," Langley said gently.

  "And the boy? Is that him?" He nodded to the other body. "I didn't even know he existed."

  "Well, yes, that is Alan Grant." Langley hesitated, then said, "I shouldn't do this, but it's an unusual business."

  He lifted the sheet and Quinn looked down at Grant, who seemed even younger in death. "Thank you." Langley replaced the sheet. "And do you think he committed suicide, the way the police are hinting?"

  "I only deal in certainties, sir. He had consumed a vast amount of vodka, but there was no trace of Ecstasy. No sign of any kind of bruising. Did he fall by accident off that wharf, did he jump? I can't help you there."

  There was a knock at the door and a uniformed police officer appeared. "Ah, there you are, Professor."

  The Sergeant had a form on a clipboard. "I regret the circumstances, Senator, but would you please formally identify the deceased?"

  "She is my daughter, Helen Quinn."

  "Thank you, sir. If you'd sign the form," and he nodded to Dillon. "Perhaps you'd be kind enough to witness it."

  They did as they were asked and he withdrew. Langley said, "I'll see you at the inquest."

  "Of course. Many thanks," and Quinn led the way out.

  They got in the Mercedes, and as Luke drove away, Dillon said, "A hell of a business."

  Quinn said, "We'll drop you off," then leaned back and closed his eyes.

  And Dauncey followed.

  11

  Q UINN ARRIVED AT THE CORONER'S COURT AT TEN THE following morning. There were few people about, the odd police officer passing through. A young man was sitting on one of the benches, wearing a trench coat, a traveling bag on the floor beside him. He looked tired and unshaven.