Simon turned around, quickly trying to calculate whether he could lift the heavier man and carry him over to the car. But he needn’t have bothered. The car was moving towards them, accelerating smoothly as it rapidly closed the gap. He hoisted Rothermere up as the car drew level, and pushed him inside as soon as the driver had reached over to open the passenger door.
‘Let’s get out of here, fast!’ He slammed the door shut and jumped into the back. He was only just in time. As the car sped off their pursuers rounded the corner. Two of them stopped, pulled out pistols and crouched to steady themselves and take aim. But they were too far away by now to be accurate. A couple of heavy thuds thumped from the boot area, and the rear window screen suddenly starred as a bullet smashed its way through and wedged itself inside the roof lining, missing him narrowly.
‘Christ, sir, they’re firing at us!’ The driver was wearing a grey uniform and cap, hunched over the steering wheel, his silver hair cut neatly above his collar.
Where the hell were they going? The Bentley bounced and jolted as it sped along a path lined with trees. They were in the middle of a small copse. A T-junction soon came into view dead ahead.
‘Turn left.’ They must be somewhere near the Serpentine. If they carried on heading south it might confuse their pursuers, who would hopefully assume their intended exit from the park was north and away from trouble. ‘Keep going, as fast as you can.’ He caught a sudden glimpse of water directly in front of them. That must be the lake! He began to get his bearings. He tried to slow his breathing down. If they turned right up ahead, they would almost certainly skirt the shore and head deeper into the park. What was it called? The Serpentine Road- that was it. If they followed that they would cross over the bridge he had used earlier, and then it would be a simple task to keep right and stay hidden in the trees. Past the Albert Memorial, and then exit at the Palace Gate. Then find somewhere to hole up and get the information Rothermere had on him.
Blood was trickling down his leg, soaking the dark grey trouser leg, a shallow tear where the bullet had creased his skin. It was nothing serious. The bleeding would soon stop. There were far more important things on his mind.
Stanhope Hotel 1402
The telephone rang, rousing Menzies out of his thoughts. He had lost track of the pursuit as soon as the two figures disappeared around the side of the building. One of them, the older, taller man, was struggling to run. Had Rattigan hit him? The sniper couldn’t be sure. Then his team of MI6 pursuers had suddenly appeared, blocking their view as they ran on in hot pursuit. He thought there may have been some gunfire shortly afterwards, but the reports were muffled by the distance and the roar of the traffic on Park Lane, directly below them.
He rushed to grab the receiver.
‘Yes, what is it,’ he barked breathlessly.
‘It’s Johnson, Chief.’ He sounded out of breath. ‘I’m afraid they’ve scarpered.’ Menzies groaned. It was the news he’d been dreading all along. Something, some unwelcome premonition, had whispered into his ear in the last few minutes that today was not going to go according to plan. He swore silently to himself. Johnson continued. ‘There was a grey Bentley parked at the back, and they’ve made off west, further into the trees. We need some transport now, Chief. But there is some good news.’
‘What’s that?’ He demanded urgently.
‘I’ve got the number plate.’ Johnson spelled it out phonetically. ‘JRE 2.’
‘Brilliant.’ Suddenly a crushing weight was lifted off his shoulders- he could still turn the tables on his opponents, retrieve the operation from the brink of disaster. A successful conclusion to the day’s events was still possible. Menzies scribbled the number on a piece of paper. ‘Well done, man. I’ll get cars over to you as soon as we can organise it. Out.’
He turned towards his team in the hotel room, galvanised by the news. ‘Simmonds, get onto the Ministry of Transport. Give them this number and tell them it’s urgent, top priority, a matter of national importance - don’t spare the horses! Mention my name. Let’s see how quickly they can move on this. There can’t be many grey Bentleys out there, not with a number plate like that. Mears, get me the Commissioner at Scotland Yard. I think we’re going to need some more help on this one.’
A thrill of excitement riveted him. It’s not over yet, by God. Oh no. We’ll have his identity, where he works, his home address in no time. It can only be a matter of time before we nab them both..
Laverton Place, South Kensington 1425
‘I’m sorry sir, but I’m going to have to pull over. There’s something wrong at the rear.’ It was the chauffeur.
‘What do you think it is?’
‘I think we may have a puncture, sir.’
Simon cursed to himself. But there was no possibility of driving further if there was. ‘Alright, pull over somewhere soon and we’ll take a look. Try and find somewhere discreet. I’d prefer not to attract unnecessary attention to ourselves.’
The driver nodded. Earl’s Court Road was just up ahead. Suddenly an entrance to a mews on their left came into view. ‘Here’, said Simon, urgently. The car turned left and parked just inside the entrance, out of view of the main thoroughfare. They both got out and walked around to the back end of the car. The mews was quiet, not a soul was in sight. The only sound to be heard was that of the wind rustling the leaves and the distant roar of traffic.
He was right. The left rear tyre was deflated. Probably a slow puncture, caused by driving over the rutted paths in the park. A bullet would have deflated it immediately. ‘Have we got a spare?’ Simon asked.
‘In the boot, sir. Won’t take me long to change it, but I could use a bit of a hand with the brace. I’m not as strong as I used to be, and sometimes the garage over-tightens the wheel nuts. Would you mind?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘Thank you sir. I thought you were a gentleman as soon as I saw you. How’s your leg?’
‘It’s just a scratch, nothing to worry about. Must be where I fell over.’
The chauffeur opened the boot, glancing as he did so at the bullet holes in the metal. ‘Who were those people who were chasing you, sir? They weren’t the Police, from what I could see.’
‘I’m not really sure who they are,’ Simon lied. ‘I met up with your master in the park, a pre-arranged meeting. We were walking back towards the car when suddenly there was a shout and they started pursuing us.They might be somebody your master knows.’
The chauffeur made no comment. He began to extract the spare wheel and brace, with some difficulty. Simon leaned in to help him lift them out, and moved around to the near side of the car and started to work on the punctured wheel. ‘What about your master in the front? He doesn’t look well to me.’ Rothermere had not stirred since the episode in the park.
‘I don’t think His Lordship is too bad. I shouldn’t worry too much, sir. I’ve seen him like this before. He’s not very fit, and any unaccustomed exercise can make him go like this. Don’t know if it’s something to do with his blood pressure, but when this has happened before, we call the local doctor, who soon pops over and sorts him out. He usually stays in bed for a day or two, and then he’s as right as rain.’
Ignoring the pain in his left thigh Simon began to crank the heavy car up on the jack. After a few minutes strenuous strain the car was elevated up at the correct height, and within a few moments the old wheel was removed. The new one slotted in with minimal difficulty.
‘If it’s alright with you, I’ll go check on him.’ Simon stood up. The bleeding in his leg was coming under control. The cut looked like it would not need suturing, just a clean up followed by a dressing. That should be enough.
Rothermere was conscious, but it was obvious that he had seen better days. His face still looked grey. His breathing was rapid and somewhat laboured.
‘How do you feel?’
‘My vision’s blurred, and I’ve got a terrible headache, the worst I’ve ever had.’ He whispered, slurring his
words a little… ’I’ll be alright, jusssh get me home…’ It was clear to Simon that this was not the best time to start asking questions- perhaps later, when the older man had recovered. He considered his options. Rothermere would be better off semi-reclined across the back seat. Simon had long since taken off Ruiz’s overcoat and hat. These would come in useful as cushioning, to prop him up. The car was sinking gently back to the ground. Simon went back to give the chauffeur a hand to replace the wheel and brace in the boot, and then they both lifted Rothermere out and into the back of the car. The sick man groaned a little as he was being repositioned, but otherwise remained silent.
‘Are you sure he’s not seriously unwell? He doesn’t look too good to me.’ They spoke in discreet tones out of earshot. Simon remained unconvinced about Rothermere’s condition.
The chauffeur looked again at his master. ‘No, I think he’s going to be fine, sir. I think we should get him back to Epsley House. I’ll call the doctor from there. He usually comes straight away.’
‘What about a hospital? Surely there’s one nearby?’
‘No sir. Absolutely not.’ The chauffeur’s face was a picture of determination and resolution. ‘He has a morbid fear of those damned places ever since his first wife died. If he realizes that we’re going to a hospital, he’ll go berserk - not a good idea the way he is just now. Probably cost me my job. He was very explicit the last time the subject came up.’ He looked worried.
‘Alright. So be it. How long will it take us to get to where he lives?’
‘Esher? At this time of the day, no more than forty five minutes at the most.’
‘Better get going now. The sooner we get medical help the better as far as I’m concerned.’
But the traffic was much heavier than expected, particularly on the A3. It seemed to Simon that everybody was in a rush to get out of London that afternoon, as if the weekend had started at least one day early, even in wartime. All the traffic lights seemed to be on red for an inordinate length of time, as if some deliberate, malevolent force was determined to hold back onward movement. In addition the usual batch of road repairs blighted the road, adding considerably to the delay. Finally they managed to clear the congestion and start motoring. It was nearly four o’clock by the time they reached their destination.
Epsley House stood on the very edge of London, facing away from the city towards the wooded slopes of the North Downs, a beautiful three-storey mansion set in secluded grounds. A magnificent drive led up a slope towards the house, dividing the impressive, neatly arranged gardens and lawns. The front façade appeared deserted. There were no other cars parked on the wide gravel parking area adjacent to the house.
‘I’ll draw us up to the front steps. It’ll be the quickest way to get him into bed.’ The chauffeur drew the Bentley up in a wide turning motion, stopping just in front of the main entrance. ‘I’ll give you a hand to get him upstairs, then I’ll telephone the doctor.’ Eventually they managed to get Rothermere out of the car and into the house. The stairs were a little tricky, but at last they achieved their objective. He lay fully dressed upon the bed, his head and upper body propped on three bulky pillows. Rothermere still looked ashen, his weather-beaten features distinctly wan and unhealthy. Although his breathing was less laboured than before it still appeared abnormal, at least to Simon’s unskilled eyes.
‘Sir, I’ll just nip downstairs and make the call. Do you want to get cleaned up in the meantime?’ The chauffeur looked enquiringly at him as he turned to leave the room.
‘No, thanks- I’ll stay here and keep an eye on him until the doctor arrives.’
‘Very good sir. I’ll get Beatrice to makes us some tea and sandwiches in the meantime. She’s the maid. She should be around somewhere, and she certainly should have heard us come in. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
The chauffeur left the room. Simon walked back to where Rothermere lay reclined on the bed. He wanted to start asking questions now, before the doctor arrived and possibly sedated the older man, but he had since closed his eyes, and appeared to be asleep. Simon tried to wake him, at first gently, and then more vigorously, but the eyes did not open. Rothermere’s breathing was as rapid and shallow as it had been previously- the pulse slow and full. What did it mean? Maybe the doctor would be able to throw some light on his current medical condition.
Then suddenly it hit him. Where was the information that Rothermere was carrying? Was it a simple verbal message, or were there any documents involved? He quickly searched the unconscious body, but all he found was a wallet with some money in it, not even any form of identification. What about that newspaper Rothermere was carrying as he walked towards the meeting place? Could the documents have been hidden inside? Ruiz had not mentioned how they were passed over. Where was it now- had it been dropped at the scene of their escape, or was it somewhere inside the car? If not, would he dare risk returning to Hyde Park? In all the excitement of the pursuit, and their hurried escape from the centre of the city, it had slipped his mind. Damn it! It was time to search the car.
He hurried out of the room and made his way down the flights of stairs. As he reached the mezzanine before the ground floor, he looked out of the window. A car was entering the drive, a black saloon. It was too far away to see who was in it, but it must be the doctor- pretty quick work to get here so soon- he must have been in the area or close by. Simon reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. The house seemed unnaturally quiet, perhaps abnormally so. Suddenly he could hear muffled sounds coming from the kitchen, then he heard the sound of something smash to the floor- some crockery, a plate perhaps or something similar. The skin across his back began to itch its warning. Something was wrong. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the PPK. The car could wait for the moment. Stealthily he turned towards the corridor that led deeper inside the house. Where was the chauffeur, or the rest of the household staff?
The kitchen door was half-open. Carefully, he slid inside. Next to him, a pantry door was ajar, but a quick glance revealed nothing out of order. Pieces of broken crockery lay on the floor in front of the Aga. The room was deserted. He walked swiftly across to where another open door led to the utility area. But there was nobody there either.The chauffeur had mentioned that there were two resident staff including himself, and several day staff responsible for cleaning, gardening and other household chores, but where the hell was everybody? The sound of a car’s engine and the crunch of tyres on gravel interrupted his thoughts. That must be the doctor. He put the pistol back in his pocket for the moment and walked towards the kitchen door.
There was a tapping at the kitchen window. As he turned to look, a sudden blur of movement from his left caught him completely unawares. Before he could react he was slammed sideways against a wall. He slid to his knees. Something cold and hard was pressing hard into his neck, forcing his head away from looking at his assailant.
‘Don’t move, old boy,’ a calm, reasonable voice called out. ‘I wouldn’t recommend it. Not if you want to stay alive, that is.’
Epsley House 1615
The Arterial Circle of Willis is the circular ring of arteries situated at the base of the brain that is responsible for supplying the entire brain with blood. It is of paramount importance in meeting the brain’s constant and unceasing requirements for oxygen and other essential nutrients carried in the bloodstream. The circle also provides a degree of redundancy, so that if one part of the circle or a supplying artery becomes blocked or severely narrowed, blood can flow from around the rest of the circle to maintain an adequate supply.It is a marvel of evolutionary anatomical design. Unfortunately, it is not perfect.
A major problem that can occur is that parts of the arterial walls in the circle of vessels are inherently weak. Small sac-like protrusions of the arterial walls can develop at various points in the circle. These are called Berry Aneurysms. If one of these aneurysms ruptures, often due to the effects of untreated high blood pressure, then the results can be disastrous- strokes,
leading to permanent disability, or even death. The mortality rate in the 1940’s was nearly one hundred percent.
Rothermere was unlucky enough to have not just one but two of these aneurysms inside his Circle of Willis, both of them gradually degenerating as the years went by. However, the one located on the right of the circle, along the Posterior Communicating artery, was far more advanced than the one on the left. It had gradually begun to leak over the last few hours, but suddenly and rapidly developed a bigger tear, gushing large quantities of blood into the spaces between the inside of the skull and the brain - a condition known as a Subarachnoid Haemorrhage. The immediate consequence was widespread vasospasm- a medical term that denotes arteries going into uncoordinated muscular contraction, irritated by the presence of blood where it should not normally be. As a result many areas of Rothermere’s brain, particularly those involved with higher mental capability, began to shut down.
He slipped quickly into deep unconsciousness, a condition from which he could not be roused. His major internal organs carried on working on autopilot - his heart, lungs, kidneys and liver. But the brain’s higher functions, his ability to act consciously as a normal human being, would never return to normal. To all intents and purposes he was no longer in the same world as the rest of the human race.
Simon was still pinned against the wall, the steel object boring into him under the angle of his jaw. It had to be a revolver of some sort. The voice soon confirmed this fact.
‘There’s a loaded Browning pressing into your neck, and I’m only a pound or two’s pressure off pulling the trigger and sending you straight to hell where you belong. Keep very still. We don’t want to splatter blood and brains all over the carpet, do we? His Lordship wouldn’t thank you for the cleaning bills.’ The pressure in his neck was unrelenting. A hand began to frisk him expertly. In next to no time the PPK was removed. The search was quickly completed. The pressure on his neck eased.
London Calling Page 26
