“He’s right, of course,” Ferguson observed. “In the circumstances, I think I’ll turn the screw on her,” and he picked up the phone.
Grace Browning, back at Cheyne Walk was drinking a cup of hot and very sweet tea, sitting at the table, trying in the most cold-blooded way to assess the situation. The phone rang and she picked it up.
Ferguson said, “Brigadier Charles Ferguson here, my dear. I think you know who I am.”
“What do you want?” she said calmly.
“I’m sure you’re aware, as it has been prominently featured in all news bulletins, that your good friend Rupert Lang died earlier today in a tragic accident.”
“Yes, I know about that.”
“What you won’t yet know is that your other good friend, Professor Tom Curry, died under the wheels of a train at Westminster Underground Station within the past hour.”
Grace took a deep breath. “That’s shocking news.”
“Yuri Belov is, in effect, locked up at the Soviet Embassy, which leaves only you. The game’s over, I’m afraid.”
“And what game would that be, Brigadier?”
“I always did say you were a brilliant actress. That’s why I got my aide, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, to get us tickets for the King’s Head tonight. You will be appearing, I take it?”
“I’ve never missed a performance in my life, Brigadier.”
“I’m looking forward to it. I’ll tell you what I think of it afterwards.”
Hannah said, “She could decide to run.”
“I don’t think so,” Ferguson said, “but if you want to keep a discreet eye on her, do so. She knows Dillon, so you’ll have to take care of it yourself.”
“I’m on my way,” Hannah said, picked up her shoulder bag, and went out.
“Full of enthusiasm,” Dillon said. “That’s what I like. God save us, but the women are taking over the world.”
No alcohol, she needed a clear head. She made another very hot cup of tea, went into the drawing room, and looked out at Cheyne Walk. Lots of traffic and plenty of cars parked. Somebody out there would be keeping an eye on her, she took that for granted now, so she would have to be very, very clever. The one important thing was her firm intention of still keeping her date with destiny at Drumgoole Abbey. She owed it to Tom and Rupert if for no other reason. She lit one of her rare cigarettes, pacing up and down, and then it came to her, the perfect solution and devastatingly simple.
Yuri Belov was in his office at the Soviet Embassy when the phone rang. Grace said, “Yuri, it’s me. You’ve heard about Rupert?”
“Unfortunately yes.”
“I’ve more bad news. Tom flung himself under a train at Westminster Underground Station this afternoon.”
“Dear God!” Belov said.
“And they’re definitely onto me,” Grace said. “I had a cryptic phone call from Ferguson. He’s coming to my final performance at the King’s Head tonight with Dillon and this Bernstein woman.”
“Get out, Grace, while you can,” he said urgently.
“No way. I’m sticking to the plan. You see, I’m taking a chance. I’m betting on the fact that they don’t know anything about Sunday. Rupert could have told them – although I’m sure he wouldn’t have – Tom’s dead. That means it’s all still in place, Carson at the airfield at Coldwater, the flight to Kilbeg. Will your people definitely leave a car there?”
“All taken care of, but Grace, this is madness.”
“Not really, I’ve worked it out very carefully. There is one thing I need to know. There’s no chance of Ferguson ringing you up to offer you a deal? I mean, some of your people have come over in the past. Lots of information in return for a comfortable asylum.”
“He’ll offer, I’m sure of it, but not yet.”
“But if you’re shipped back to Moscow as a failure, wouldn’t that be rather unpleasant?”
“But I won’t be a failure if you succeed in shooting Patrick Keogh.” Belov laughed. “Of course, if you fail, I can always do a deal with Ferguson then.”
She laughed back at him. “That’s my Yuri.”
“But tell me,” he said, “what’s your plan?”
“It’s really quite simple. I’m going to die.”
“Good God!” he said. “Tell me.”
So she did.
She found a large plastic bag in the kitchen and put in it an old navy-blue tracksuit, a light raincoat, some trainers, and a pair of black leather, flat-heeled shoes. She went to her safe, opened it, and took out two bundles of ten-pound notes, a thousand pounds in each. She placed a bundle in each of the black shoes, thought about things for a while, then rolled up a kitchen towel and added that also.
When she left the house fifteen minutes later, she wore an old Burberry and carried an umbrella against the rain. She turned along the pavement to where she had parked her red Mini, opened it, and got in.
Hannah, parked farther along on the other side of the road, watched all this with interest, following her as Grace Browning pulled out into the heavy traffic, driving toward Westminster, skirting the Tower of London until she reached Wapping High Street, finally parking close to a department store. There was room a couple of cars behind and Hannah pulled in and switched off her engine.
Grace got out the plastic bag, locked her car, then paused to put money into the parking meter. She turned and made for the main entrance of the department store and went inside. Hannah went after her, but when she went into the store, it was crowded with shoppers and no way of knowing which department her quarry had gone to, and there was also the chance that if she went walk-about looking for her she might miss Grace leaving. She decided to take a chance and returned to her car.
Grace Browning at that moment was visiting the toilet and rest room at the bottom of a short flight of steps at the rear of the building. There was a door which said Staff Only. She’d used it once out of curiosity and had discovered that it led into an alley at the side of the store. She hurried along to the end and came out onto the waterfront.
She walked quickly to an area of decaying warehouses, St. James’s Stairs, not too far away. She knew this place well, had once done an episode for a television thriller here. There was a narrow alley called Dock Street, nothing but boarded-up windows and several old dustbins. She was taking a chance, but there was a risk in everything now. She pushed the plastic bag down behind the dustbins, pulled a dirty old sack over it, turned, and hurried back.
She was entering the staff door at the department store five minutes after exiting from it, went up the stairs, walked to an area displaying bedding and towels, chose a couple of towels at random, paid for them, and waited while the assistant packed them into a white plastic bag similar to the one she had entered the store with.
Hannah saw her at once as she came out of the entrance and walked to her Mini. Grace opened the door, tossed the plastic bag in the rear, and slid behind the wheel. If she was being followed, she’d fooled them nicely, she was certain of that, and she pulled into the traffic, followed by Hannah.
A little while later she approached Wapping Underground Station and turned into the multi-story car park that was close by. She drove into the basement and pulled up at the car valeting service. Hannah followed, taking a vacant parking spot, and watched.
Grace smiled at the young black man in overalls who came out of the office. “A wash and wax would be fine. Can you manage that?”
“No problem. When do you want it?”
“The fact is I’m doing a show tonight and I might be late. Ten o’clock, something like that.”
“We close at seven.”
“Couldn’t you leave the keys under the mat for me?”
“Well we aren’t supposed to do that, lady.”
She opened her purse. “How much will it be?”
“Twenty pounds.”