by Daniel Kemp
Chapter Forty-Four
A Time To Die
Aberman could find no parking bay available on his first drive-by. I watched in the mirror as he turned his four-wheel-drive vehicle around at the end of the street to make a re-run. As he neared our car he slowed to a crawl near a gap behind us, but decided not to attempt to park there and drove on. He slowed again, twenty yards in front, but repeated the action he had previously taken. It was on his third attempt that he spotted Job, who this time was too slow to duck. He picked up speed.
I shouted at Fianna to ram him. With screeching tyres and the acrid smell of burning rubber she reversed, hitting the car behind, then accelerated from the kerb into his path. His larger vehicle slammed ferociously into ours, slewing our car across his path. He had nowhere to go. This time it was he who reversed, but only far enough for another run. Smash! Our windshield shattered on the impact created by his car and the already damaged vehicle behind. Now he had created enough room to pass. But that was not all he had in mind. I saw his gun and withdrew mine. Instinctively my brain measured speed, distance and angle of the shot. I cannot say with any certainty which one of us fired first. Perhaps the two shells passed equidistant in the closing space that separated us; no matter, they both had the same effect. Mine had gone through his open side window and into his head, killing him instantly and stopping his vehicle just past our shattered BMW. I turned to Fianna who was slumped over the steering wheel. The damage caused by his shell was extensive and deadly. Half the back of her skull was missing, most of which was splattered over the rear seat behind where she had sat.
The towering figure of Job was tugging my door open, then seemed to scream into my left ear.
“Has she a gun?” he asked and I answered, “yes, she does.” He took my gun from my hand, wiped the grip, trigger, guard and barrel with a handkerchief then leant across me and pressed it firmly into Fianna's hand. It fell to the floor.
“Take her gun and give it me.” I obeyed without thought.
He dragged me from the car, hoisted me upon his shoulder and began to run in the direction Aberman had intended for his escape. We reached his parked van.
“Get inside and hold tight when I drive off. Got to do something first.”
I stood leaning against it without any feeling of remorse, sadness or regret, just idly watching him as he felt for a pulse inside Aberman's Jeep Wagoneer. The gun shots had caused a sudden deafness, but as I swallowed hard my ears started to clear and slowly I began to recognise the silence that follows death.
Back at number thirty-seven Jack and Fraser were busy cleaning surfaces, cups and glasses, Dicky was wiping anything they overlooked.
“Is there a back way out?” Fraser asked Jack.
“Not that I know of,” he replied.
“Right, it's a run for it. Our car is up the street a bit. Meet you at the Best Western on Rockaway Boulevard near JFK in about—” Dicky checked his watch. “We have just over two hours until there's a flight, so you'll have to make it snappy, Jack.”
“Got it!” he shouted as he exited the room.
It is said that very few witnesses to a crime or traffic accident fully appreciate the totality of the scene. Their vision is focused on one aspect and one alone, in this case the two cars were the primary concern. This was evident as doors of adjoining homes were opened and residents appeared, gazing steadily at the mangled mess of metal on the normally quiet street. It was the crash that fixed their attention, not the running figures making off in both directions from number thirty-seven
When Jack arrived at Job's van I calmly opened the side door and followed the instructions of holding on.
“Have you got your passport, Patrick?” Jack shouted at me as he jumped inside. It was the use of my real name that registered first in my clearing eardrums, then came the realisation that I was about to leave America.
“I have, Jack. I sent Fianna to the bank where I kept everything this afternoon and she emptied my box. She's dead, you know!” It was then that the pain of separation set in.
“You will have to get a shoe on that foot of yours. You won't be allowed on any plane with that injury on show along with the state of your face.”
That's all he said. No mention of the woman I had belatedly come to know so well and who had died in a cause that was not her own. I wanted to scream at him. Vent all the anger that had built up on the back of his ludicrous storytelling when only truth was needed to be told. But something held me back.
Chapter Forty-Five
Rockaway
Flying High
When Job with his two passengers found the room that Dicky had told of, both he and Fraser were packing their bags in an orderly unhurried fashion. The television on the wall was broadcasting the local evening news and to anyone who may have opened the door onto this scene there was nothing to indicated what had happened a mere thirty-five minutes ago in an otherwise peaceful part of New York. Dicky was the first to notice me.
“I wish we could have met under different circumstances, young man, but alas that's not been possible. Allow me to introduce the two of us to you. I'm Sir Richard Blythe-Smith; head of what's commonly referred to as MI6. This gentleman is my colleague, Fraser Ughert. You might not believe it at the moment but we came to America to rescue you and Jack. I'm sorry it ended in such a messy way. Unfortunately there is preciously little time for us to discuss all that needs to be discussed. We must move as swiftly as humanly possible. There is a flight to London leaving at nine-fifteen. Fraser has booked reservations for the four of us. We have thirty minutes before we must collect our tickets and present our luggage at departures.” He took a stride backwards to examine me, and satisfied with what he saw, he continued.
“You must have a million and half questions you wish to ask me. Believe me when I tell you I will answer them all to the very best of my ability. Have you all that you need to travel, Patrick?”
“Yes, sir, I have,” I answered, catching Fraser staring intently at me.
“And how does your face feel without the splint?” It was he who asked that question.
“It's a bit sore, but I'll survive,” I replied more in hope than certainty.
“I have four syringes of morphine on me, Dicky. Just in case Pat needs them.” It was Jack who spoke. “Recently I've been in the habit of using them more regularly.”
My head was about to blow up and concentration was an effort I could have done without. Did he say he's been using morphine? I asked myself silently.
“I have a spare pair of shoes that should fit you, Patrick. Here, try them on.” The voice was Fraser's, but nothing was registering in my brain. I was miles behind the conversation as I stared dumbly at his offering.
“Was the morphine for your illness, Jack?” Same voice but what illness?
Suddenly I was acutely aware of what was happening.
“Are you dying, Jack?” I asked without any emotion.
“I am, Patrick. Liver cancer, beyond redemption!” he calmly replied.
There was that condescending smile of his and the moment I saw it I knew why I could not have screamed at him or lessened my pain by striking him and rendering him as dead as Fianna. He was lovable, was Jack Price, in a manly way, you understand. The affection that one man can have for another without the complication of sex. As that reality hit me, both Sir Richard and Fraser turned their attention to the television.
News is coming in of a possible argument over road space in the Turtle Bay area which has left a woman aged in her late twenties and a man about sixty dead from shots to the head. We hope to have more of this in our 9pm bulletin.
As the two turned from the TV set, and continued with their packing, another death was announced.
Earlier this evening a young United Kingdom national was found dead on the walkway outside the St. Regis Hotel on East 55th Street. It is believed he jumped from the seventh floor. A local police spokesman has said that he was known to suffer from depression. No one is being s
ought in connection to this incident. His relatives in the UK have yet to be informed.
I saw Fraser look at Sir Richard and he returned the same glance. That shared look convinced me that the body on the walkway had not committed suicide. I told myself that he, whoever he was, was the man sent to kill me and someone had got to him before he had succeeded. I needed something to believe in.
“What exactly is that bandage on your foot covering, Patrick?” Sir Richard asked with his back to me as he closed his suitcase.
“I've lost the three toes, sir. They were shot off when a man tried to kill me,” I stated, trying to announce it as casually as I could.
“In that case try a pair of mine. I have them made as I have a wide foot.” he replied, as if it was everyday conversation.
Fianna's dead you dead know, and my brother Alan killed her. I wanted to shout it. Open my mouth and come to terms with the fact that Alan was a murderer. Or was it Alain dead and Fianna had shot him? What am I doing?
I was sitting on a bed with Sir Richard on his knees adjusting the bandage around my foot so as to slip into a pair of brown brogues previously worn by the head of MI6. If ever I wrote a book, I told myself, I must include that. My mood was lightening in more ways than one. As I bent to tie the laces, Jack stabbed his morphine-filled syringe in my thigh.
Chapter Forty-Six
The Best Westerns
England
I never told Jack or anyone else what Fianna had told me on the night she died, it would have benefitted no one if I had. I saw him again only the once.
On arrival at Heathrow I was taken to a hospital just outside of Brighton, and ordered by Fraser Ughert to remain until fully recovered without moving from there. Jack passed away three weeks after landing back in England believing that he had saved the Duke of Windsor's honour, and I was not going to change that view. I had telephoned Century House, asking Sir Richard Blythe-Smith for permission to see Jack in his home at Woolwich, South London where he was being cared for by, of all people, Gloria from the flat below his in Romilly Street and Bethnal Green, along with Amelia, also known as Jimmy, from the wine bar in Soho.
In the corner by the window of his lounge stood his yellow triangular chair and on the mantelpiece was the chiming slate clock with the two framed photographs either side of it.
“I told you Soho had heart, didn't I, young whatever name you're going by nowadays.” He smiled as he greeted me, but it was not the same smile, it was edged by death and marred by disappointment. We chatted for a while about this and that but never once touched on Fianna or her death and how that left both of us. So, when I was leaving it came as a bolt from the blue that he asked about her jade ring. I showed him it, hanging around my neck on a gold chain.
“It's not lucky that thing, you know. Se fossi in te, avrei sbarazzarsi di esso,” he said incomprehensibly, then immediately added the translation; “I'd get rid of it, if I was you.”
There was no reason that I knew of for him to say that, but one thing I was certain of and still am, he was a generous man and I was privileged to have known him. I have never looked back on the events that happened in my life due to the association I formed with Jack Price with anything but a sense of pride. I believe that Fianna would have approved and shared in my view. I attended his funeral. The service was held at St Michael's Church, Plumstead and he was buried in the cemetery beside that church. There were eight other mourners, all from Soho. I asked each of them if they knew of his son or daughter, but none did.
The task I'd asked Fianna to do the afternoon before she was murdered was to use my key to gain entry to Leeba's office and check the photograph she had shown me of Penni standing beside the birthday aeroplane. It was dated third of July 1970 and said—Pennia aged thirty-two. Leeba was at least seven or eight weeks pregnant when she boarded the plane from Austria. To my eternal shame I had taken no notice of it when first shown.
Jack's inverted snobbery had led him to trust an abused figure of a man who had lied purely for his own ends. Penni's father was Alain Aberman who was not, as Richard Stockford believed, parting from a lover that night he saw his mother and Aberman say their goodbyes; in all probability he was confessing his sin and asking for a forgiveness that not even a flight to freedom could provide. As to the question of why Leeba had no recollection of who it was that raped her when she was thirteen, then only she can answer why that was never openly discussed. Some answers are best locked away from sight; forever. I never saw or heard from her, Penina or Job ever again.
* * *
I did see Sir Richard though. When fully recovered I was driven from my nursing hospital to the Travellers Club in London by Fraser Ughert. We exchanged no more than common pleasantries on the journey, avoiding all mention of New York as though it would cause an epidemic of disastrous proportions to break out in our wake if we had. The conversation at Sir Richard's club began no differently. It was stilted and awkward for the both of us but perhaps more so for him. Eventually, after the studying of menus and the summoning of waiters, the subject of why I had been invited was broached.
“Shall we get down to business, Patrick? I bet you're dying to get back to work. Your position in the police is assured. Enhanced in fact. Your leave of absence was marked down as a special assignment by the new head of C11 at the Yard. Trenchard took early retirement and has emigrated to far away lands. It was thought best that he went quietly with no fuss being made in the press. You'll be pleased to know that as a direct result of your action abroad you have been awarded the George Medal with instant promotion to detective sergeant.” I noted that there was no specific mention of New York. He stopped speaking as our lunch was served, but he never looked at his plate, he just stared at me waiting for a response. I had none.
“I am embarrassed by what I have next to say, but it is my duty and I'd fail in my responsibilities if I did not. Everything you heard from either Jack, Fraser, myself or the unfortunate Miss Slattery is classified, Patrick. You are legally bound by that Official Secrets Act that you signed when you joined the police service. I hope I do not have to spell out the consequence if you breached that Act.” Again the pause and the stare.
“I'm aware of that, sir, and have no desire to speak to anyone.”
“Good to hear, young man. I thought as much. I have an offer of a job to put to you. The details are in this envelope.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket pocket and wedged it between the salt cellar and the pepper shaker in the middle of our table.
Now it was my turn to stare at him. The ease with which bad memories can be wiped away were in that envelope, my bribe for staying silent.
“The remuneration is at a grade three level in line with the Civil Service pay structure, but it has additional benefits that far outweigh any in the private sector, or what the police can offer you. It's not, you understand, in my department, but it is of a similar nature.” I was unmoved by his offer and he could see it.
“There's absolutely no rush in this. Read the contents and give it some thought, Patrick. You're not expected back in any capacity until you feel that you are ready.” Our wine was being served when he next spoke.
“I can recommend the apple crumble here. They have change the pastry chef recently, but if anything this one is even better.” he exclaimed cheerfully.
“If you wouldn't mind, sir, I have a question for you over something that occurred in New York and has caused me some restless nights since getting back.”
“I'm sorry to hear that, young man. I only hope I can put your mind at rest. Ask away and I'll answer if I can, of course.”
“On the plane coming home, Jack mentioned the name András Képesszemély to me several times. He seemed obsessed with it. He said that you had brought it up when speaking of Aberman inside that house on the night of the shooting. I wondered what it had to do with all that went on over there?”
“News to me, Patrick! I really have not heard that name before. Do you think that maybe Jack was slightly delusion
al because of having to share what morphine he had with you?” Was that an attempt to make me feel guilty?
“That could be the answer, sir, only I don't think so.” It was my turn to study his expressionless face as our waiter left with our plates.
“You don't? Then what's your explanation?”
“In his will, Jack left his house in Woolwich to me. He also left some money to be shared with two other people. When I told those two that I would be leaving the flat that was rented out to me, one of them knew the owner of the whole block in Rose Street. His name was an anagram of Alain Aberman; a Brian Alaname.”
“Yes, we knew of that, Patrick, but I don't see the connection with that other name you claim I said to Jack.” Sir Richard was fidgeting with his dessert spoon and fork.
“At first I was simply intrigued by Aberman's use of a pseudonym, but then I remembered what Jack had said on the plane and did some investigation. Képesszemély is Hungarian, sir. Its literal English translation means; capable person. Substitute Ableman for Aberman then capable person is not dissimilar, is it?”
“I see your point, Patrick, but again I must reiterate that the name never came from me. Jack, as you know, was an extremely inventive person with an imagination as big as the universe, and remember he must have been in pain.”
“Never a truer word spoken, Sir Richard, but there's more I'm afraid. I'm an impatient man, Sir Richard, and the time I had on my hands recently would have drove me insane had I not had something to do. I looked up the Képesszemély family and do you know what I found, sir? Of course not, how could you if you'd never heard the name before. The Képesszemélys and the Schuschniggs were related by marriage. I'm totally sure you would have heard of that last name. The Schuschnigg one?” He had stopped fidgeting, but declined to answer.
