“Twenty-four hours.”
“All right.”
She got a coat and scarf, went downstairs with him and they left together. The pavements were frosty and she carried his briefcase for him and held on to his arm until they reached the hotel.
“I’ll see you in an hour,” she said and moved on.
It was the sort of place which had been a thriving pub and hotel in late Victorian times. The present owners had done their best with it and that wasn’t very much. The dining room to the left of the foyer was totally uninviting, no more than half a dozen people eating there. The desk clerk was an old man with a face like a skull who wore a faded brown uniform. He moved with infinite slowness, booking Dillon in and gave him his key. Guests were obviously expected to carry their own cases.
The room was exactly what he’d expected. Twin beds, cheap coverings, a shower room, a television with a slot for coins and a kettle, a little basket beside it containing sachets of coffee, teabags and powdered milk. Still, it wouldn’t be for long and he opened his suitcase and unpacked.
Among Jack Harvey’s interests was a funeral business in Whitechapel. It was a sizeable establishment and did well, for, as he liked to joke, the dead were always with us. It was an imposing, three-storeyed Victorian building which he’d had renovated. Myra had the top floor as a penthouse and took an interest in the running of the place. Harvey had an office on the first floor.
Harvey told his driver to wait, went up the steps and rang the bell. The night porter answered.
“My niece in?” Harvey demanded.
“I believe so, Mr. Harvey.”
Harvey moved through the main shop with coffins on display and along the passage with the little Chapels of Rest on each side where relatives could view the bodies. He went up two flights of stairs and rang the bell on Myra’s door.
She was ready for him, alerted by a discreet call from the porter, let him wait for a moment, then opened the door. “Uncle Jack.”
He brushed past her. She was wearing a gold sequined minidress, black stockings and shoes. “You going out or something?” he demanded.
“A disco, actually.”
“Well, never mind that now. You saw the accountants? Is there any way I can get at Flood legally? Any problems with leases? Anything?”
“Not a chance,” Myra said. “We’ve gone through the lot with a fine-tooth comb. There’s nothing.”
“Right, then I’ll just have to get him the hard way.”
“That didn’t exactly work last night, did it?”
“I used rubbish, that’s why, a bunch of young jerks who didn’t deserve the time of day.”
“So what do you intend?”
“I’ll think of something.” As he turned to the door, he heard a movement in the bedroom. “Here, who’s in there.” He flung the door open and revealed Billy Watson standing there, looking hunted. “Jesus!” Harvey said to Myra. “Disgusting. All you can ever think of is a bit of the other.”
“At least we do it the right way,” she told him.
“Screw you!” he said.
“No, he’ll do that.”
Harvey stormed downstairs. Billy said, “You don’t give a monkey’s for anyone, do you?”
“Billy, love, this is the house of the dead,” she said and picked up her fur coat and handbag. “They’re lying in their coffins downstairs and we’re alive. Simple as that, so make the most of it. Now, let’s get going.”
Dillon was sitting in a small booth in the corner at Luigi’s drinking the only champagne available, a very reasonable Bollinger non-vintage, when Tania came in. Old Luigi greeted her personally and as a favored customer and she sat down.
“Champagne?” Dillon asked.
“Why not.” She looked up at Luigi. “We’ll order later.”
“One thing that hasn’t been mentioned is my operating money. Thirty thousand dollars. Aroun was to arrange that,” Dillon said.
“It’s taken care of. The man in question will be in touch with me tomorrow. Some accountant of Aroun’s in London.”
“Okay, so what have you got for me?” he asked.
“Nothing on Fahy yet. I’ve set the wheels in motion as regards the flying license.”
“And Number Ten?”
“I’ve had a look at the file. The public always had a right of way along Downing Street. The IRA coming so close to blowing up the whole cabinet at the Tory Party Conference in Brighton the other year made for a change in thinking about security. The bombing campaign in London and attacks on individuals accelerated things.”
“So?”
“Well, the public used to be able to stand at the opposite side of the road from Number Ten watching the great and the good arrive and depart, but no longer. In December eighty-nine, Mrs. Thatcher ordered new security measures. In effect the place is now a fortress. The steel railings are ten feet high. The gates, by the way, are neo-Victorian, a nice touch that, from the Iron Lady.”
“Yes, I saw them today.”
Luigi hovered anxiously and they broke off and ordered minestrone, veal chops, sauté potatoes and a green salad.
Tania carried on: “There were accusations in some quarters that she’d become the victim of paranoid delusions. Nonsense, of course. That lady has never been deluded about anything in her life. Anyway, on the other side of the gates there’s a steel screen designed to come up fast if an unauthorized vehicle tries to get through.”
“And the building itself?”
“The windows have specially strengthened glass and that includes the Georgian windows. Oh, and the net curtains are definitely a miracle of modern science. They’re blast-proof.”
“You certainly have the facts.”
“Incredibly, everything I’ve told you has been reported in either a British newspaper or magazine. The British press puts its own right to publish above every other consideration. They just refuse to face up to security implications. On file at the clippings library of any major British newspaper you’ll find details of the interior of Number Ten or the Prime Minister’s country home, Chequers, or even Buckingham Palace.”
“What about getting in as ancillary staff?”
“That used to be a real loophole. Most catering for functions is done by outside firms, and some of the cleaning, but they’re very tough about security clearance for these people. There are always slipups, of course. There was a plumber working on the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s home at Number Eleven who opened a door and found himself wandering about Number Ten trying to get out.”
“It sounds like a French farce.”
“Only recently staff from one of the outside firms employed to offer cleaning services of one kind or another, staff who had security clearance, were found to be operating under false identities. Some of them had clearance for the Home Office and other Ministries.”
“Yes, but all you’re saying is mistakes occur.”
“That’s right.” She hesitated. “Have you anything particular in mind?”
“You mean potshots with a sniper’s rifle from a rooftop two hundred yards away as he comes out of the door? I don’t think so. No, I really have no firm idea at the moment, but I’ll come up with something. I always do.” The waiter brought their soup. Dillon said, “Now that smells good enough to eat. Let’s do just that.”
Afterwards, he walked her round to her door. It was snowing just a little and very cold. He said, “Must remind you of home, this weather?”
“Home?” She looked blank for a moment then laughed. “Moscow, you mean?” She shrugged. “It’s been a long time. Would you like to come up?”
“No, thanks. It’s late and I could do with the sleep. I’ll stay at the hotel tomorrow morning. Let’s say till noon. From what I saw I don’t think I could stand the thought of lunch there. I’ll be back after two, so you’ll know where I’ll be.”
“Fine,” she said.
“I’ll say good night, then.”