Angel of Death (7 page)

“I’m impressed,” she said. “And you?”

“Tom Curry,” Lang said. “He’s just a rotten old Professor of Political Philosophy at London University. Visiting Professor here at Queen’s once a month. Can we offer you a drink?”

“Why not. A glass of white wine. Just one. I’ve got to give a performance.”

Lang gave the order to the barman. “We’ve seen you many times.”

“Together?”

“Oh yes.” He smiled. “Tom and I go back a long way. Cambridge.”

“That’s nice.” She sipped her wine. There was something about them. She sensed it. Something unusual. “Are you coming to the show tonight?”

“Didn’t realize it was on,” Curry said. “Only here for three days. Don’t suppose there are any tickets left.”

“I’ll leave you two of my tickets at the box office,” she said.

It was a challenge instantly taken up. “Oh, you’re on,” Lang said. “Wonderful.”

She swallowed the rest of the wine. “Good. I’ll have to love you and leave you. Hope you enjoy it.”

She went out. Curry turned to Lang and they toasted each other. “By the way,” Curry said, “are you carrying?”

“Of course I am,” Lang told him. “If you think I’m going to walk the streets of Belfast without a pistol you’re crazy. As a Minister of the Crown I have my permit, Tom. No problems with security at the airports.”

“The Beretta?” Curry asked.

“But of course. Lucky for us, I’d say.”

Curry shook his head. “It’s just a game to you, isn’t it? A wild, exciting game.”

“Exactly, old sport, but then life can be such a bore. Now drink up and let’s go and get ready.”

And Grace Browning was wonderful, no doubt about it, received a rapturous reception from the packed house at the end of the play. Curry and Lang went into the bar for a drink and debated whether to go round and see her.

It was Lang who said, “I think not, old sport. Probably lots of locals doing exactly that. We’ll go back to the Europa and have a nightcap at the bar. She may well look in.”

“You like her, don’t you?” Curry said.

“So do you.”

Curry smiled. “Let’s get the car,” and they went out.

On their way back to the hotel, Curry who was driving, turned into a quiet road between several factories and warehouses, deserted at night. Lang put a hand on his arm as they passed a woman walking rapidly along the pavement, an umbrella up against the rain.

“Good God, it’s her.”

“The damned fool,” Curry said. “She can’t walk around the back streets of Belfast like that on her own.”

“Pull in to the curb,” Lang said. “I’ll get her.”

Curry did so. Lang opened the car door and saw two young men in bomber jackets run up behind Grace Browning and grab her. He heard her cry out and then they hustled her into an alley.

Grace wasn’t afraid, just angry with herself for having been such a fool. On a high after her performance, she’d thought that the walk back to the hotel in the rain would calm her down. She should have known better. This was uncharted territory. Belfast. The war zone.

They hustled her to the end of the alley where there was a dead end, a jumble of packing cases under an old street lamp bracketed to a wall. She stood facing them.

“What do you want?”

“English, is it?” The one with a ponytail laughed unpleasantly. “We don’t like the English.”

The other, who wore a tweed cap, said, “There’s only one thing we like about English girls, and that’s what’s between their legs, so let’s be having you.”

He leapt on her and she dropped the umbrella and tried to fight back as he forced her across the packing case, yanking up her dress.

“Let me go, damn you!” She clawed at his face, disgusted by the whisky breath, aware of him forcing her legs open.

“That’s enough,” Rupert Lang called through the rain.

The man in the tweed cap turned and Grace pushed him away. The one with the ponytail turned too as Lang and Curry approached.

“Just let her go,” Curry said. “You made a mistake. Let’s leave it at that.”

“You’d better keep out of this, friend,” the man in the tweed cap told him. “This is Provisional IRA business.”

“Really?” Rupert Lang replied. “Well, I’m sure Martin McGuinness wouldn’t approve. He’s a family man.”

They were all very close together now. There was a moment of stillness and then the one in the ponytail pulled a Smith & Wesson .38 from the pocket of his bomber jacket. Rupert Lang’s hand came up holding the Beretta and shot him twice in the heart.

At the same moment, the man in the tweed cap knocked Grace sideways so that she fell. He picked up a batten of wood and struck Lang across the wrist so that he dropped the Beretta. The man scrambled for it, but it slid on the damp cobbles toward Grace. She picked it up instinctively, held it against him, and pulled the trigger twice, blowing him back against the wall.

She stood there, legs apart, holding the gun in both hands, staring down at him, and Rupert Lang said, “Give it to me.”

“Is he dead?” she asked in a calm voice.

“If not, he soon will be.” Lang took the Beretta and shot him between the eyes. He turned to the one with the ponytail and did the same. “Always make sure. Now let’s get out of here.” He picked up the umbrella. “Yours, I think.”

Curry took one arm, Lang the other, and they hustled her away. “No police?” she said.

“This is Belfast,” Curry told her. “Another sectarian killing. They said they were IRA, didn’t they?”

“But were they?” she demanded as they took her down to the car and pushed her into the rear.

“Probably not, my dear,” Rupert Lang said. “Nasty young yobs cashing in. Lots of them about.”

“Never mind,” Curry told her. “They’ll be heroes of the revolution tomorrow.”

“Especially if January 30 claims credit.” Rupert Lang lit a cigarette and passed it to her. “Even if you don’t use these things, you could do with one now.” She accepted it, strangely calm. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No, he didn’t penetrate me if that’s what you mean.”

“Good,” Curry said. “Then a hot bath and a decent night’s sleep and put it out of your mind. It didn’t happen.”

“Oh yes it did,” she said and tossed the cigarette out of the window.

When they reached the Europa, Lang, a hand on Grace’s arm, started toward the lifts. She said, “ Actually, I’d like a nightcap.”

Lang frowned, then nodded. “Fine.” He turned to Curry. “Better make the call, Tom,” then he led her into the Library Bar.

A few minutes later the phone rang on the desk of the night editor at the
Belfast Telegraph
. When he picked it up, a gruff voice said, “Carrick Lane, got that? You’ll find a couple of Provo bastards on their backs there. We won’t be sending flowers.”

“Who is this?” the night editor demanded.

“January 30.”

The phone went dead. The night editor stared at it, frowning, then hurriedly dialed his emergency number to the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

Curry joined them in the bar at a corner table. They were drinking brandy and there was a glass for him.

Lang said, “You seem rather calm, considering the circumstances.”

“You mean, why am I not crying and sobbing because I just killed a man?” She shook her head. “He was a piece of filth. He deserved everything he got. I loathe people like that. When I was twelve I was driving back from a concert in Washington one night with my parents. We were attacked by armed thugs. My parents were killed.”

She sat staring down into her glass and Curry said gently, “I’m sorry.”

Lang said, “You handled the gun surprisingly well. Have you had much training?”

She laughed. “One Hollywood movie, just one. I didn’t like it out there. There were a few scenes where I had to use a gun. They showed me how.” She finished the brandy and raised the empty glass to the barman. “Three more.” She smiled tightly. “I hope you don’t mind, but we do seem to be rather tied in together, don’t we?”

“Yes, you could say that,” Curry told her.

She turned to Lang as the barman brought the brandies and waited until he’d gone. “You said in the car something about January 30 claiming credit. I’ve read about them. They’re some sort of terrorist group.”

“That’s right,” Lang said. “Of course in this sort of case, revolutionaries and so on, all sorts of groups like to claim credit. Very useful fact of life. We’re just making sure somebody does.”

“I’ve already spoken to the night desk at the
Belfast Telegraph
,” Curry said. “By tomorrow, you’ll find the Ulster Freedom Fighters or the Red Hand of Ulster claiming credit also. They’re Protestant Loyalist factions.”

“But you’d prefer January 30 to get the credit?” she said.

There was a moment of silence. It was Lang who said, “You’re a remarkably astute young woman. Is there a problem here?”

“Not in the slightest. As I said, it would seem we’re tied together in this.”

“Invisible bonds and all that.”

“Exactly.” She opened her handbag, took out a card, and passed it to him. “That’s my address and phone number. Cheyne Walk. I’ll be back in London in twelve days. Perhaps we could meet?”

“I think you can count on that.”

She stood up. “You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a matinee tomorrow.”

She walked out. Curry said, “My God, what a woman.”

“Yes, quite remarkable. You know, Tom, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

When she put out the light and pulled up the covers, Grace Browning lay there, strangely calm, staring up through the darkness looking for him, the shadowy figure with the gun in his hand, but he seemed to have gone. She closed her eyes and slept.

It was four weeks later that Rupert Lang received a call from her in response to a message he had left on her answering phone a week earlier.

“Sorry I haven’t called you before,” she said. “But some friends had a problem at Cross Little Theatre in the Lake District. They had a week unexpectedly vacant. Someone let them down, so I went up and did my one-woman show.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“No big deal.
Shakespeare’s Heroines
— that sort of thing.”

“Can we meet? Tom’s in town. I thought we could have dinner.”

“That sounds fine. You could come here for drinks first. Six-thirty suit you?”

“Smashing. We’ll look forward to it.”

At the Cheyne Walk house she opened the door to them herself. She wore a deceptively simple Armani trouser suit in black crepe and her black hair was tied at the back of the neck with a velvet bow.

Rupert Lang took her hands. “You look fabulous.”

“That’s a bit over the top,” she said.

“Not at all.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “Don’t you think she looks fabulous, Tom?”

Curry took her hand briefly. “Don’t mind Rupert. Extravagant in everything.”

They went through into a panelled drawing room. It was furnished in Victorian style, dark velvet drapes at the windows, a basket fire on the hearth, four paintings by Atkinson Grimshaw on the walls.

“My goodness, they’re worth a bob or two,” Curry said as he inspected them.

She took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and Rupert Lang moved in fast. “Allow me.”

“Yes,” she said, “my aunt loved Grimshaw, loved everything Victorian. Lady Martha Hunt, to be precise. She raised me from the age of twelve when my parents were killed. This house was her pride and joy.”

Rupert Lang poured the champagne. “I remember her husband, Sir George Hunt. Merchant banker in the city. My father used to do business with him.”

“He died before I arrived,” she said, “and Martha only the other year.”

“I’m truly sorry.”

She went and opened the French windows. A cold, February night outside, a slight drizzle, some fog and some barge traffic, their red and green lights clear in the murk as they passed downriver.

“I love the Thames at night.”

“Heart of the city,” Lang said. “Lovely to see you.” He raised his glass. “Now what shall we drink to?”

“Why not January 30?” she said. “I read about that in the
Belfast Telegraph
. I also noticed, just as you said, that some Protestant terrorist organizations also claimed credit.” She moved to the fire and sat down in a wing-backed chair. “And those two thugs were IRA after all. There were details of their military funerals.”

Lang and Curry sat on the long sofa opposite her. “That’s right,” Curry said. “Irish tricolor on the coffin, black beret and gloves neatly arranged.”

“Weeping relatives, lots of women in black,” Lang said. “Always looks good. Keeps the glorious cause going.”

“And you don’t approve?”

“Only one solution. The British Army should leave.”

“But that would lead to civil war and total anarchy.”

“Exactly, but this time we’d build from the ashes. A new state entirely,” Curry said.

“Run on the political lines he approves of,” Lang told her. “Which is Marxist-Leninist to the core. I should warn you, Tom is the Communist equivalent of a Jesuit.” He went and got the bottle of champagne and replenished their glasses.

“I’ve looked you up,” she told Curry, “mentioned you to one or two people. All I heard was that you were a brilliant academic who serves on all sorts of Government Committees. Not a hint of this Marxist-Leninist thing.”

“Well thank God for that,” Curry said.

She turned to Lang. “You were easier. I just asked my press agent to check the newspaper libraries. It would appear, from the dates, that you two were at Cambridge together. Afterwards, you served briefly in the Grenadier Guards and transferred to One Para. Rather a notorious outfit. Bloody Sunday and all that.”

“So they tell me.”

“You served again in Ireland before leaving the Army when your father died. Interesting. There was only one mention of your Military Cross and that was tucked away in a decoration list in the
Times
. No reason for the award given and you never mention it, not even in election speeches.”

“Natural modesty.” Lang smiled.