Dillon was on his morning run from Stable Mews, the hood of his tracksuit up against a light drizzle, when his mobile sounded and Hannah said, “It’s me, Sean.”
“At this time in the morning. Jesus, girl, am I finally getting through to you?”
“Shut up, Sean, it’s bad news,” and she told him. Dillon stopped in a doorway, stunned. “Are you still there, Sean?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“What do you think?”
“It stinks, that’s what I think.”
The rage was in his voice. She said, “Sean, don’t do anything stupid. We have to be sure. George Langley will do the postmortem later this morning. He’s the best there is. He’s put more murderers behind bars than even you can imagine. If there’s the smallest thing wrong, he’ll find it.”
“He’d better,” Dillon said. “By God, he’d better.”
She rang off and Dillon stayed there for a while in the doorway, then walked away.
He went home and changed, then drove to Roper’s place and found him in the sitting room at the computers. The major said, “You’re early. That means something’s up.”
Dillon told him, then went and found the bottle of Paddy whiskey and poured a glass. “It’s early, even for me, but I need it.” He swallowed it down. “What do you think?”
“She was certainly a mine of information.”
“Which von Berger immediately denied as the fantasy of an aging woman.”
“Who promptly has some sort of accident and ends up in the Thames. Very useful, that happening,” Roper said.
“Yes. It’s all true, everything she told us. Von Berger’s mission from Hitler, his final flight out of Berlin, the diary – all true.”
“And now the source of that information is dead,” Roper said.
Dillon’s face was drawn. “I told her to trust me. I swore no harm would come to her. You know what she said to me? ‘You’re a good man, Mr. Dillon, in spite of yourself.’”
“I’m sorry, Sean.”
“I know somebody who’ll be a damn sight sorrier when I’ve finished with them.”
“Wait for the postmortem.”
“Of course I will.” Dillon looked like the Devil himself as he left.
It was the middle of the afternoon when Ferguson, Hannah and Dillon arrived at Wapping Mortuary, in response to Professor Langley’s call. The reception area was pleasant enough, and Hannah went to the desk and spoke to a young woman, who picked up a phone.
“I’m sorry, Professor Langley is just cleaning up. He’ll be with you shortly.”
Ferguson and Hannah sat down, Dillon lit a cigarette and stood looking out the window. Ferguson said, “You seem restless, Dillon.”
“No, angry.”
“Calm yourself, we’ll have the result soon.”
“We have that now. The only result was her death and don’t tell me it could have been a coincidence. Neither you nor I believe in them very much, not in our business.”
Before Ferguson could reply, a small gray-haired, energetic man entered. “Hello, Charles.”
Ferguson shook hands. “Thanks for rushing this through, George. Detective Superintendent Bernstein here is the case officer. Sean Dillon is a colleague.”
“Sorry about the delay. Would you care to see the body?”
It was Dillon who cut in. “Yes, very much.”
Ferguson nodded and Langley said, “This way, then.”
The room he led them to was lined with white tiles. The fluorescent lighting was strangely harsh, and several steel operating tables stood in a line. There was a body on the first one, covered with a white rubber sheet.
“Mrs. Sara Grant. Do you know this woman personally, Charles?”
“We all do.”
“I’ll just show you her face, then. The rest is rather unpleasant. Autopsies usually are.”
She looked surprisingly calm, even the lines on her face seemingly smoothed, at peace in a way.
“Not a mark on her,” Langley said. “Nor anywhere. There was no fight here, no blows or wounds. The only reason for death was drowning.”
Dillon said, “You’re certain of that?”
“Absolutely. I noticed in the police report that the local shopkeeper who found her regularly saw her at night walking her dog along the jetty. She liked to stand at the end and watch the boats. I’ve visited the spot myself. There’s no handrail and a thirty-foot drop into the river.”
“You’re sure there were no marks at all, Professor?” Hannah said. “No indication of any kind of a struggle?”
“Not even bruising from the fall into the water. Of course, she was wearing a trouser suit and a heavy overcoat.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us?”
“Only that she had lung cancer. Wouldn’t have lasted more than a few months, anyway. Death by drowning, Charles, that’s the best I can do.”
“Dammit,” Dillon said. “There has to be more.”
“No, Mr. Dillon, she fell from the end of the jetty and drowned. Now, as to whether she had any help – which I know is what you’re wondering about – I couldn’t possibly comment on that. All I can say is that there are no signs of bruising, which on a woman as old and frail as she was means no violence of even the mildest kind.” He turned to Ferguson. “Charles, I realize that this is probably some sort of intelligence matter and no doubt classified. I’m happy not to know any more.”
“Many thanks, George.” Ferguson shook hands.
Dillon said, “That’s it then, nothing?”
“Sorry, Mr. Dillon.” Langley walked to the door with them. “Oh, wait a minute, there was something else.”
“And what would that be?” Ferguson demanded.
“I’ve done thousands of postmortems over the years and this was a first for me. The number tattooed in her left armpit. Not on the arm, like in the concentration camps, but in the armpit. It means she served in the SS.” He smiled. “But then you would know more about that than me, Charles.”
In the back of the Daimler, Dillon pulled the glass screen across, cutting off the chauffeur.
“They did it, General, the bastards took her out.”
“But how?” Hannah said. “We never mentioned any address.”
“Oh, come on, Hannah. Once they knew she existed, how long do you think it took Rossi to trace her?”
“But-”
“That’s enough,” said Ferguson. “Squabbling won’t bring her back. Superintendent, get von Berger on the line for me.”
It was Marco who answered the phone and passed it to his father. “General,” the Baron said. “What now?”
“Fräulein Sara Hesser has turned up in the Thames. It’s time for us to talk – now.”
“Why?”
“Would you prefer me to present a warrant and make it official?”
“There’s no need for the crudities, General. I’ll tell you what – let’s make it civilized. The Piano Bar at the Dorchester. Let’s say seven?”
“All right. And bring your thug with you.”
He hung up.
The Baron handed the phone back to Rossi. “He doesn’t seem to like you much. Marco – Sara Hesser was discovered in the Thames today.”
“My God.” Rossi managed to sound horrified.
“Do you know anything about this?”
“Father, on my life, I swear to you…”
The Baron raised a hand. “Well, Ferguson obviously thinks we do. It should be an interesting evening. And just to make sure, remember this: Newton and Cook don’t exist and we’ve never heard of Brick Lane.”
Only half a dozen people were in the Piano Bar when Ferguson arrived with Dillon and Hannah. Dillon wandered over to the piano, as he often did, and began to play: “A Foggy Day in London Town.” Hannah came and leaned on the piano. “I’ve never understood this, Sean, the piano. You seem to be good at so many things.”
“You mean like killing people?” He smiled. “Don’t be deceived, Hannah, good barroom piano is all.”