by Pryor, Mark
“Right, shall we talk shop?” Pendrith said, settling himself back on the couch. Hugo sat in his chair, Harper to his left. “Bit of a horror what happened up in Hertfordshire,” he went on.
“Yeah. I really am very sorry about what happened,” Harper said, looking into his beer. “Sorry for Mr. Drinker and his family.” He looked up at Pendrith. “But it was an accident.”
“Yes, of course. No doubt. Thing is, the whole business of not stopping to help, not calling the police, not upping and taking responsibility.” He compressed his lips. “Rather smacked of the movie-star arrogance, you see. People are a little bit riled up by the whole thing.”
“That farmer—”
“That’s the other thing,” Pendrith interrupted. “It wasn’t just some old farmer. Chap was the only son of a rather important landowner.”
“Does that make a difference to anything?” asked Hugo.
“I’d like to say no, but honesty forbids. Fellow has pull and doesn’t want this incident to go quietly into yonder night, so to speak.”
“Meaning?” Hugo asked.
“That’s rather what we need to hash out.”
Harper looked over at Pendrith. “I want to go home,” he said, his voice sharp. “I want to take Ginny and go home.”
Hugo saw the pained look in Pendrith’s eyes. “Yes, I’m sure you do, old boy. A few hurdles to that one, I’m afraid.”
“Hurdles?” Harper looked between them. “What are you talking about?”
“Thing is, rather need you to stick around for a bit.”
“What are you talking about?” Harper said again. “Why can’t I just pay a big fine, get put on probation, and go home?”
“Well,” Pendrith frowned at his scotch. “See now, there’s been a bit of a spanner in the works.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Harper said.
“Look,” Pendrith began, “I’m not sure how to tell you this but you can’t go anywhere for a while. Weeks, probably.” He cleared his throat and looked up at Harper. “This is a murder investigation now.”
“Murder?” said Hugo and Harper together.
“It was a fucking accident!” Harper was on his feet. “Fine, I was drunk, I admit it. Two beers, maybe three. Fuck it: four. But Jesus Christ, can’t you people understand? It was a goddamn accident. Now you’re saying I murdered that farmer?”
Pendrith was staring at Harper, eyes wide and unmoving. If Harper didn’t get it, Hugo did, and he put a hand on Harper’s sleeve, pulling him gently back into his seat. “No, he’s not.”
“Yeah, he is. He just fucking said it. Murder, for fuck’s sake.”
“No, Dayton. He’s saying someone murdered your wife.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Harper looked back and forth between them. The silence was broken by the phone ringing in the study, but Hugo ignored it.
“I thought you said suicide?” Harper said to Hugo. The actor wandered over to the large windows and stared into the gray world outside.
“I don’t think anyone can be sure at this stage,” Hugo said gently. He turned to Pendrith, who was recharging his glass. “Why are you saying murder?”
The Englishman looked at Harper and then back at Hugo, as if to say, should we do this in front of him? Hugo walked past the actor, sunk deep into his own world, and stood by Pendrith, who murmured, “Thing is, we’re not sure. All a bit odd, but given everything together, the chaps at Scotland Yard think it best to pursue it as a murder.”
“What things?” Hugo asked.
“Odd place to hang yourself, for one. Then the lack of note or any kind of message.” Pendrith leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “And she had a hood over her face.”
Hugo inclined his head. So, I was right about that.
“Silk. A bag. Bloody strange, if you ask me,” Pendrith said. “The whole business.” His mustache twitched with concern, only calmed by a steady draught of whisky.
So, I’m stuck with him for a while, Hugo thought, immediately chiding himself for being uncharitable. He looked at Harper, who stood staring into space, a megastar to millions but a hollow-eyed waif today, the superhero sucked into oblivion, leaving behind a fragile shell.
Harper caught him looking. “Am I going back to jail?” he asked.
“You’re on American soil now, old chap,” said Pendrith. “To be honest, I suggest you stay here.” He furrowed his brow. “Why would you think you’re going back to jail?”
“Aren’t you accusing me of killing her?”
Hugo and Pendrith exchanged looks. “You were in jail when she died,” Hugo said. “Do you know something about what happened?”
The blank look on Harper’s face gave the answer long before the actor shook his head. “God no. Who would do this?” he mumbled. “Why?”
“And how, that’s what I want to know,” said Pendrith. “Doesn’t seem very likely to me, frankly. Murder by hanging? Hardly likely.”
Hugo silently agreed. He’d never seen it, and he’d seen more murders than any other cop or medical examiner he’d ever met. And, as one of the FBI’s roving behavioral scientists, he’d been all over America to the most bizarre crimes scenes imaginable. No hangings, not one. “So what happens now?” he asked Pendrith.
“’Fraid I have to ask for his passport. Scotland Yard chappies wanted to come in here, meet the fellow, you know, do it themselves. Told them to keep their autograph books at home, I’ll collect it and spare the poor fellow more harassment.”
Hugo nodded. “Thanks.” He’d known someone would come for Harper’s passport and had kept it apart from his other belongings for that very reason. “They really think murder?”
They both turned as Harper got up and walked slowly past them toward the spare bedroom, his head down. When he reached the doorway he stopped and looked back at them. Hugo hadn’t realized how pale the man looked, how the strong features had been borne down by the weight of events, aging him ten years. Harper ran a hand over his face and shook his head slowly. The ghost of a smile appeared.
“It’s like a movie, isn’t it?”
Then he went into his room and shut the door, not waiting for an answer.
“Poor bugger,” Pendrith said, a finger stroking his mustache. “Listen, you going to be chaperoning him while he’s here?”
“Looks like it,” Hugo said with a grimace. “My boss thinks so, I guess that’s what matters.”
“Come now, he’s Dayton Harper, a bloody movie star. Jolly exciting, I should say. Probably pop back for a visit or two myself, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Sure. Have him stay with you, if you like,” Hugo offered hopefully.
“Love to, old thing, but like I said, best he stays on American soil. The mood’s a little unpredictable right now.”
“Whose mood? Public or the police?”
“Yes, well, insightful question, actually.” He wrapped his fingers around his glass. “You asked before, whether they really think it’s murder. I’m not sure they do.”
“What are you saying?” Hugo loved England and the English, but had never felt that he understood them. It was as if they moved through life determined to keep their true motivations and thoughts hidden, revealed only when absolutely necessary, and maybe not even then. That was more true of the upper classes, people like Pendrith, brought up to believe that blunt honesty was a crude and unnecessary affront to civilized society. Every member of the ruling class had been raised to act like a spy; polite, friendly even, but with a hidden agenda you didn’t discover until you’d been stripped, skewered, and roasted.
“Unlikely scenario for murder, as I said before,” Pendrith was saying. “Did you know her sister was killed by a drunk driver?”
“Ginny Ferro’s?”
“Yes. I gather the family went haywire after she was killed. Mum blamed Dad, Dad blamed Mum, and little Ginny caught in the middle. Or rather, left in the middle and ignored. Point is, family destroyed by the whole thing.”
“You k
now a lot about the family dynamic,” Hugo said, an eyebrow raised.
Pendrith smiled. “It’s not only the FBI who do their homework, you know.”
Ah, yes. Former MI5. “Fair enough,” Hugo said. “So why tell Harper it’s murder if you don’t think it is?”
Pendrith looked surprised. “Better than suicide, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Buggered if I know.”
Hugo put his glass down. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re talking in circles. You’re contradicting yourself, trying to figure out how I feel about . . . something.”
“I am?”
“Yes. I’d be grateful if you’d tell me what’s going on.”
“No idea what you’re talking about, old boy.”
Which is why you won’t look at me, Hugo thought. And then something else occurred to him. “Jesus, it’s not me you’re playing with, is it?”
Pendrith said nothing, but a smile shaded his lips.
“It’s not me at all, is it?” Hugo repeated. “It’s him. Suicide, then murder. No one does that.”
“Does what, old boy?”
“Lets a man think that his wife committed suicide, and then tell him she was murdered.”
“Not me who changed the schematics. Thank the coroner for that.”
“No, Pendrith, when you got here you said ‘suicide,’ knowing full well it wasn’t. Or might not be. You’re MI5. You know what meaning those words carry and you don’t use them unless you’re sure. Or unless you’re very unsure.”
“Now who’s talking in circles?” Pendrith turned back to his whisky.
“It’s not a question of what you think happened, is it? It’s a question of what he thinks happened. Why?”
“Cooper was right, you are a clever fellow.” Pendrith shot a look at Harper’s closed door. “Look. I don’t know if she was murdered or committed suicide. But her death is as high-profile a tragedy as you get and if he knows something, anything, I’d like to find out. I’m not always as subtle as I should be, but then I was trained in this shit a few hundred years ago.”
“Hey, I get it,” Hugo said, holding up his hands. “You like to get your facts straight, I’m just not sure toying with a grieving man’s head is the best way to go.”
“Yes, well, like I said. A hundred years ago.” Pendrith glanced up. “And I really do like the chap, admire him. His wife, too.”
“Yes,” Hugo smiled, “I did notice the crush you have on him.”
“What?” Pendrith colored. “What absolute nonsense. Crush indeed, never heard such guff.”
“Sure, OK.” Hugo turned away to stop himself from laughing. A moment later, they both looked over as Harper’s door opened. He stopped in the doorway and looked at them, and Hugo noticed that he’d changed clothes and brushed his hair into perfection. “You guys think we could get out of here? Feeling kind of cooped up.”
“‘Out of here’ where?” Hugo asked.
“Wherever. Tour of London or something. I just need to be doing something, looking at something other than these walls.” He smiled. “I’m not real good at sitting still, you’ll find that out about me pretty quick.”
“Well,” Hugo said, “we need to stay on US soil, so we could take a stroll around the embassy grounds.”
Harper gestured to the rain-streaked windows. “Yeah, sounds awesome. We can’t take a drive around town?”
“No,” said Hugo. “Not a good idea.”
Pendrith cleared his throat. “Oh, come now, Marston. A wee drive in our fair city can’t hurt. Maybe a spin through Chelsea, where I live. You have diplomatic plates on your car, yes?”
“Yes,” Hugo said. The idea of an evening inside with a grieving and bipolar Harper was even less appealing than a rainy drive around London. But the embassy was a safe zone.
“Well then. And I’ll come along, too, be your tour guide. No harm in that, eh?” Pendrith was talking to Harper now, and the actor held up two thumbs and disappeared into his room. Pendrith looked back at Hugo. “What? Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t start that again. I’m just trying to help. International comity, and all that.”
“Yes, of course,” said Hugo, chewing back a smile. “You know, I have a pen and paper if you want to go ahead and get his autograph before we leave.”
“Hush, man,” Pendrith snorted, “you’re being ridiculous.”
Hugo drove the Cadillac with Pendrith sitting next to him; Harper had insisted on sitting in the back seat. “I move around a lot, want to see everything,” he’d said. They drove in silence down Saint Audrey Street toward Piccadilly, shuffling along in the traffic, the only sounds the brush of the windshield wipers and the occasional, heavy tick of the car’s turn signals. Hugo always wondered how the English stayed sane in this weather, the endless rain and drizzle and the sun setting before four o’clock in the depths of winter. Once he’d tried to shake the blues by using a tanning bed, like the Scandinavians do, but he spent the rest of that day catching whiffs of burned pork, so he didn’t do that again.
A car honked at them as he swung onto Hertford Street, toward Park Lane and Hyde Park Corner, one of the thousands of undersized cars that in America would have been laughed off the road but that here, Hugo had to concede, were far more sensible than the hunk of metal he had to drive. He braked hard as the car hopped in front of them, red brake lights flashing. Sensible, but crushable, he couldn’t help thinking.
“Bloody fool,” Pendrith muttered. “There’s no one in front of him, why’s he braking?”
Hugo felt a cold hand clutch his stomach as the doors to the little car swung open. He checked the rear view mirror but a flat-nosed van was inches from his bumper, giving him no room to reverse. He looked back at the two men, now out of the car, both wearing long overcoats and hats.
“Get down, both of you,” he snapped, pulling his embassy-issue pistol. A patter of rain blurred the windshield, but Hugo saw a black object in the right hand of one of the men, the car’s passenger. Hugo’s mind screamed Gun! and his whole body tensed as the man raised it up.
Hugo reached for the door latch and threw the door open, instinctively hitting the button to lower the window to clear his view. In two seconds he was crouching behind the open door shouting at the men to stand still, his eyes blinking away the rain. A bright flash, then another from the passenger, and immediately Hugo knew he’d made a mistake. He swore under his breath and quickly tucked the gun back into his shoulder holster.
“Is that Dayton Harper in the car?” the car’s driver said. “Have him step out. We’re the press. We just have a few questions.”
“You’re blocking traffic,” Hugo said.
“And you’re waving a gun in a public place, arsehole,” the photographer snapped.
“Shut up, Gary, he’s just doing his job,” the driver said. He held up both hands, the peacemaker. “I’m Phil Larson, Daily Express. You his bodyguard?”
“Nice to meet you, Phil,” Hugo said. “Sorry we can’t stay and chat.”
“So when did he get out of jail?”
“Call our press office, they’ll answer all your questions.”
“Whose press office? And no they won’t, mate. You know that. If I want information the last place I go is someone’s bloody press office. Come on, do me a favor, give me something. Where are you taking him?”
“What makes you think he’s in the car?”
“A tip and some surveillance.”
“Tip from whom?” Hugo didn’t much care, but he wanted to keep the reporter and photographer where they were until he figured a way out of this. A horn sounded from behind the Cadillac and the photographer shifted on his feet.
“Can’t say, you know that,” Larson said.
“Course not,” said Hugo. “But no harm in asking. Look, why don’t you leave me your card, and we can talk later.”
“Now’s better.” Larson’s tone was polite, g
entle even, but he wasn’t budging. To Hugo’s left, the photographer started forward, apparently tired of the civility, intent on doing his job whether Hugo liked it or not. As he approached the passenger side of the car, Pendrith stepped out. The photographer stopped and looked at Larson, the sight of an MP in the company of an American security officer and a recently released movie star too much to take in. But not for long. His camera leapt to his face and Hugo heard the shutter whirring, the click-click as Pendrith was captured for the public, standing beside a shiny black Cadillac.
Another door opened behind Hugo, and he looked over his shoulder to see Harper slipping out of the car. Hugo turned back to Larson, exasperated that the situation was going in completely the wrong direction.
In front of Hugo, the photographer let his camera fall to his side and Larson started forward, pointing. Hugo swiveled to see the rear passenger door still open and no sign of Harper.
Pendrith strode to the back of the car and received a chorus of honks from frustrated drivers, and his calls to Harper were lost in the din. Hugo ran to join him and was immediately flanked by the journalists.
“What the hell’s going on?” Larson turned to Hugo. “He just ran off. Dayton Harper just ran off.”
“No shit.” Hugo was already on his way back to the driver’s seat, closing Harper’s door and shouting at Pendrith to get in. Hugo glanced at his mirrors, looking for a tiny break in traffic. When he didn’t see one, he squealed into a U-turn anyway, clipping the reporter’s rear bumper and setting off an angry chorus from the cars on the other side of Hertford Street. He ignored them, eyes scanning for Harper. “What the hell is he playing at?”
“There!” Pendrith pointed through the windshield, and Hugo saw him jogging thirty yards ahead, apparently trying to keep a moving van between him and them. Harper turned and looked over his shoulder, hair flat and face glistening in the drizzle, and he quickened his step. Hugo feathered the steering wheel and whisked the car past a cyclist.
“Careful man, these are my constituents,” Pendrith said.
“Feel free to get out any time you like,” Hugo replied. “I’ll take full responsibility. In the meantime, hold on tight.” He yanked the wheel to the right and the tires squealed as he followed Harper onto Down Street.
