Red Crystal (64 page)

There was a silence.

Nick walked slowly forward. He knelt beside her.

She was already dead, her eyes sightless and half-closed.

He knelt there for some moments.

She’d made the decision, when she’d raised the rifle. She’d made the decision to die.

Yet she hadn’t tried to kill him. Perhaps she hadn’t hated him so much after all.

There was the sound of running feet. Soon a circle of men stood staring down at her.

A voice said, ‘Thank God.’

He knew what they were thinking: That she was dead and it was right that she was dead because she had got to enjoy killing, and there was nothing worse than that.

They were right, of course. That was the only way to look at it.

And he tried to lock the confusing blend of bitterness and guilt and pity out of his mind.

T
HE DRIZZLE FELL
in unremitting grey curtains, cloaking the car park in a mantle of gloom. The group of pressmen – well over twenty of them – huddled under the porch of the crematorium, stamping their feet, chatting desultorily, their breath hanging in white clouds on the damp air. The local newsmen wore a slightly pained expression, the consequence of being heavily outnumbered by the national boys, and having a correspondingly slim chance of getting anything of their own into the dailies. Two television crews, enveloped in voluminous waterproofs, adjusted and fussed over their equipment. While sustaining necessary journalistic appearances of boredom and disinterest, everyone maintained a firm eye on the long drive that snaked down between bare lawns to the gates at the bottom of the hill.

It was almost ten to two, but no mourners had yet arrived. It was going to be a quiet funeral.

Suddenly there was a subtle change in the atmosphere, a buzz of interest. The photographers started manoeuvring for position, tucking their cameras inside their raincoats and trotting out into the wet.

A black car had appeared and was slowly climbing the hill. The TV cameramen raised their cameras to their shoulders; the soundmen dusted their cans. There was silence as each man peered forward, trying to identify the occupants.

The car rose over the brow of the hill and swung in a slow arc into the covered area in front of the doors, its dripping black metal momentarily glistening in the flash of the camera lights.

The car halted. The newsmen pressed in closer. Someone whispered. ‘The parents!’

The driver got out and opened the passenger door. There was a pause, then a woman in a black hat with a heavy veil emerged. The light danced with the blinding flicker of flashbulbs. She lowered her head and put a hand up to shade her eyes. The photographers jostled in front of her, crouching to get shots of her face.

She swerved, but they pressed in on her. She gave a small cry of rage or anguish and ran forward into the sanctuary of the chapel.

The father came next, an upright figure in a military tie, his face set in an expression of British impassivity. He did not attempt to hide his face, but took the bombardment of lights with a series of fierce blinks and a firm set of the jaw.

Finally a girl in her mid-twenties. The sister. The hacks had all her details: name Diana, age twenty-four, Sloane Square address, seen around London with the minor aristocracy. She too wore a veil, but not a thick one, and the boys knew that, by getting up really close to the face, they’d get a good shot through the thin gauze. As she stepped forward someone called, ‘Were you close to your sister, Diana?’

The girl gulped, and her face completely crumpled. The photographers fired off a cacophony of shots and silently thanked the guy who had shouted the question. An anguished face was always good front-page stuff.

As the sister stumbled in through the doors of the chapel, the journalists scribbled away happily on their pads. They’d have no trouble building their notes up into something substantial. This was a gift of a story – had been ever since it had broken five days before. There were so many punchy phrases that sprang to mind.

Heiress to fortune. County set. Wealthy land-owning family. Hints of connections in high places. Educated at top school. Turned hippy. Despair of her parents. Country commune. Drug orgies. Sex orgies (not established, that, but a good hint added a lot of spice). Italian terrorist boyfriend. Trips to France. Gun-running. Putty in his hands. Leads gang to victim’s home.

Poor little rich girl.

The story had all the ingredients you could ever hope for: sex, drugs, murder, intrigue, lost innocence. And of course, the best of all, a sudden and violent end. In the pubs of Fleet Street it was being said that a severed foot had been found days later, stuck in a corner of the cellar. Couldn’t print that, of course. None the less they wished they got stories like this every day.

Another car appeared in the gateway at the bottom of the drive. It didn’t look very promising. A dark blue saloon. Nothing special. There was a cautious lack of interest among the watchers.

The car did not drive up to the doors, but parked beside a grass verge some distance away. Two men got out, one with fair collar-length hair, snappily dressed in casual dark slacks and jacket, and an open-necked shirt.

Immediately there was a rekindling of interest. Looked the type who might be a friend of the dead girl.

One of the experienced newsmen, a hack of twenty years’ standing and now a feature-writer with one of the tabloids, inched his way forward. He knew exactly who these two men were.

As they approached he stepped forward and introduced himself to the fair-haired young man. ‘You talked to the Danby girl through the door, I believe, sergeant. Can you tell me what she said?’

‘No comment.’

‘And I believe that you were the police officer taken hostage by the Wilson woman. Is that correct?’

The young policeman spun round angrily. ‘We’re not allowed to give interviews, as you well know. And you can’t publish my identity either.’

The photographers, who had been snapping away, came out from behind their cameras. They were getting the gist of the conversation.

The second police officer shouted, ‘Forget the pictures, boys! I’m a Special Branch officer and you’re not permitted to publish pictures of me or my colleague here.’

The fair-haired officer gave the hack a last angry look and turned on his heel.

They all muttered amongst themselves. The trendily dressed one was the undercover man of course. They pretended that they’d known who he was all the time. Pity they couldn’t use him. But at least they were all in the same boat.

An electricity suddenly gripped the crowd.

Their eyes were riveted on the end of the drive.

Was it too much to hope for? It
looked
promising. My God, if it
was
…

There’d been rumours, of course. But none of the official government sources would confirm or deny it. And unofficial sources were apologetic, but equally unhelpful. A purely personal decision, the sources said, so not something they were likely to hear about.

But, oh boy, if it
was
… What a complexion
that
would cast on the story! Victim comes to mourn girl-terrorist. Terrific. It suggested that he had kept some sort of affection for the girl.

It also suggested he had been deeply affected by what had happened, that he had lost his detachment …

There might even be a resignation.

The group stood, for once completely silent, their eyes locked on the black chauffeur-driven car rolling up the drive.

Caroline gripped Henry’s hand. ‘Oh
darling
! There are thousands of them.’

‘Yes. I knew there would be.’

‘Why couldn’t they—’

Henry shook his head briefly. ‘Inevitable, I’m afraid. Just remember – keep your face impassive, even if they tread on your toes. And stay close to me. Anderson will force a way through, won’t you, Anderson?’

The Special Branch man nodded firmly. ‘Yes, sir.’

The car climbed inexorably up the hill. Even as they swung in towards the covered porch the cameras were up against the car windows. Henry gripped Caroline’s hand. They exchanged fleeting smiles of encouragement.

The car pulled up. Anderson leapt out and fought his way round to help the driver, who was trying to clear some space by the passenger door.

The door opened. Henry got out first, then turned to help Caroline. There was a babble of voices. ‘Sir Henry! Can you tell us why you’re here?’

‘Sir Henry – what is your attitude to terrorism?’

‘Sir Henry! Sir Henry! How do you
feel
at this moment?’

He ignored all the questions, especially the last one. They weren’t enquiring after his health. They just wanted some raw emotion for the front page.

Tucking Caroline’s arm firmly into his, he walked slowly forward into the space cleared by Anderson. The pressmen fell back. They knew better than to badger a politician if he wasn’t in the mood to talk. Politicians and newsmen knew the game too well.

Henry led Caroline into the sudden calm of the chapel’s anteroom.

Caroline breathed, ‘My goodness. What hyenas.’ She gave him a sudden, anxious look. ‘Are you all right, darling?’

He nodded and they walked into the body of the chapel.

It contained just five people. The large black hat, he rightly guessed, belonged to Mrs Danby. A brief greeting would have to be endured at some point; he might as well get it over with straight away.

He and Caroline approached and stood by the pew.

Mrs Danby looked up. An expression of horror crossed her face and she gasped audibly. Then it all seemed to become too much for her, and she buried her head in her hands.

A wave of sympathy overcame Henry and, bending down, he murmured, ‘You know, she was a fine girl. I really believe that. And I’m sorry that …’ Henry broke off. Mrs Danby had raised her head. Her mouth was open, her expression aghast. She whispered fiercely, ‘After what she did to
you
? Well,
I
can never forgive her!
Never!
’

Henry stared, taken aback. ‘But you must understand – she did try to make amends. And you know, she was very brave, right to the end.’

Mrs Danby shook her head vehemently and looked away.

Caroline tugged at Henry’s sleeve. She was right; there was no point in discussing it. Not here and now. He nodded briefly to the sister and the father, and turned away.

He didn’t know the others. Two young men. Their eyes met, established a fleeting contact, then slid away.

Henry and Caroline chose a pew and sat down. Almost immediately Henry began to wonder about the two young men. He examined their profiles, his curiosity roused. The furthest one was dark and soberly dressed in a suit, the nearest one was fair, wearing dark but casual clothes. He thought he knew who they might be. He would find out later, after the service.

The chapel was cold and bare. There were no flowers. Some trestles stood in front of the altar, ready for the coffin. On one side of the altar was a long rectangular stand on which the coffin would eventually be placed. At one end of this was an opening covered by black curtains: the road to the cremation chamber. Henry suppressed a shiver. It was all so depressingly sinister.

There was a mild commotion outside, the sound of doors swinging open. Recorded organ music suddenly filled the chapel. The meagre congregation stood up.

Henry turned. A parson was walking slowly up the aisle in front of a plain wooden coffin borne by professional pallbearers, their faces grave with superficial and well-polished solemnity.

The coffin came level. Henry’s heart gave a small lurch. He was always hopelessly sentimental on these occasions. He tried to control the surge of emotion, but all he could see in his mind’s eye was the cellar and the pathetic heap under the hastily arranged coat and the blood, the appalling scarlet blood, splattered everywhere like a slaughter room in a ghastly abattoir …

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again he found himself looking at the fair-haired young man. His face was turned to the coffin, his expression serious. Or perhaps it was closer to remorse: it was difficult to tell.

He thought: At least someone else cared enough to come.

The coffin was placed on its stand. The service began. It was obviously going to be brief and to the point. The parson announced a hymn – ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ – normally one of Henry’s favourites, but with the pre-recorded music, so few voices and those raised halfheartedly the hymn sounded thin and joyless.

They knelt to pray. Tears came to Henry’s eyes. He couldn’t help it. He was still deeply tired. And the memories of the long hours in the cellar were still clear in his mind. Moreover, since the rescue, he’d been feeling strangely depressed, guilty almost, as if the suffering that had been visited on Caroline and everyone around him was somehow his fault. It was all nonsense of course, he realized that. The doctors talked knowledgeably about shock and reaction, but he was still finding this period of adjustment difficult and confusing. Time, everyone kept telling him; time would heal …

Caroline touched his hand. He nodded to show that he was all right, and took her hand in his. It had been hardest of all for her. She still couldn’t believe he was safe. Nor, sometimes, could he. Each day was a miracle.