But the weather became even worse, the rain torrential, and when they drove down the hill overlooking the village, it was a scene of chaos, the water overflowing a foot deep in the street, and men struggling at the lock gate.
Hedley pulled in at the pub. Old Tom Armsby was putting sandbags at the door and Hetty was helping him. She looked up as the Mercedes stopped and Lady Helen opened the door.
'Looks bad.'
'It is bad, and all down to the Parish Council. The mean bastards wouldn't find the money to fix that lock gate after the last time, when Hedley saved us. Much more of this and every cottage in the village will be flooded.'
Lady Helen turned to Hedley. 'They're ordinary folk, most of them pensioners. It would ruin them.'
'I know.' He got out into the rain, took off his chauffeur's tunic and rolled up his sleeves, standing there in a pool of water. 'What's that phrase where you have a sense that you've been here before?'
' Deja vu. It's French.'
'Yes, it would be.'
He turned and went towards the men struggling at the lock gate and she got out and waded after him. There was a young man in the turbulent waters below. He was obviously half-dead, but he tried to go under again and was thrown back up, retching.
'Get him out of here,' Hedley ordered. The boy was plucked from the water and dragged up the bank. 'Where's a crowbar?'
Someone held one out. Hedley took it and, without hesitation, plunged in. He surfaced, took a deep breath, went down and felt for the iron clasps on the gate that had been temporarily repaired after the previous occasion. He forced the crowbar in, worked at it, then had to surface, gasping for breath.
He went down again, twice, three times, always more difficult, and then the clasp gave, the gates started to open and then the force of the water drove them wide. Hedley surfaced to a ragged cheer, for already the flood waters were subsiding.
Willing hands pulled him from the water. He got to his feet and stood there in the rain, and Hetty Armsby ran over with a blanket and put it round him.
'Oh, you wonderful bastard. Come on into the pub, and the rest of you as well. To hell with the law tonight.'
Everyone moved forward, and Lady Helen joined Hedley. 'Don't let it go to your head. I wouldn't be as blasphemous as to say you walk on water, but they just might change the name of the church to St Hedley.'
The following morning at Compton Place, the weather was still dreadful, an east wind driving in the rain, waves breaking across the long flat sands of Horseshoe Bay.
Helen, wrapped up in storm coat and hood, cantered her mare through pine woods that broke the worst excesses of the storm, paused in the shelter of the wall of an old ruined chapel and lit a cigarette with difficulty in her cupped hands.
She looked out at the churning sea, and remembered a visit to friends in Long Island some years before, not in the fashionable summer, but late winter, just like this. She'd been shown Chad Luther's mansion, a palace of a place, lawns running into the waters of the Sound, no one in residence, so she didn't enjoy a conducted tour. Chad had invited her many times, mainly because he liked money and she had more than he did. She had never accepted, for a simple reason. She didn't like him. Vulgar, vain, conceited.
She pulled herself up and said softly, 'Come on, my dear, who are you to make such judgements? Somebody must love him. Though God alone knows who.'
Which still left Long Island in her mind. She shook the reins and galloped away.
Hedley had driven down to the village to see the state of the game. It was still raining hard and the water in the slot was high, but there were no problems. He called at the village shop, filled out a grocery order and drove back to the house. There was no sign of Lady Helen. He left the groceries in the kitchen, went out into the yard and heard the sound of pistol fire coming from the barn. When he went in, she was standing shooting at the targets with the Colt. 25.
He said, 'So I take it we are still going to Long Island and the Colt will still be in your purse?'
'Day after tomorrow,' she said, and reloaded. 'I'll use one of the company Gulfstreams. We can land at Westhampton Airport in Long Island. Very convenient.'
'I still wish you weren't taking the gun, though.'
'As I told you, I want to be ready for anything. For whatever opportunity arises. You don't need to come if you aren't happy.'
'Oh, but I do need to come.' He picked up a Browning from the selection of weapons on the table and fired very rapidly at the targets, shooting four of them through the head.
'Showing off again, Hedley?'
'No,' he said. 'Just checking I'm on form so I can make sure you're on form. After all, what if you meet the Connection?'
'So you'll come? You're with me?'
'Oh, I'll come all right. Someone's got to watch out for you.' He took the Colt from her, checked it and handed it back. 'Okay, take your stance and remember what I told you.'
New York,
Washington
Chapter Eleven
Blake sat in Parker's office the following morning, drank coffee and ate a ham sandwich. He was quite alone. Outside, the end of March weather was as lousy as it could be. Powdery flakes of wet snow drifted against the window. The door opened and Parker came in in shirt sleeves.
'They said you were here. Hey, feel free with my coffee break.'
'I just flew in from Washington. The weather was so bad they couldn't serve breakfast.'
'Serves you right for joining the jet set.' Parker sat down, picked up the phone and ordered another sandwich and more coffee. He shook his head. 'You are in deep shit, my friend.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Come on – Cohan? All the newspapers indicated an unfortunate accident, but you and I know better.'
At that moment, his assistant, an older woman police sergeant, came in without knocking and put more coffee and sandwiches on the desk.
'Have mine. I've already ordered more. I figured Mr White House here would clean you out.'
She went. Blake said, 'What a treasure – and what a healthy appetite. Too much for you, with your weight to consider.'
He took another sandwich and Parker said, 'Screw you, Blake.' He took a sandwich himself. 'So what's the score?'
'Simple. The Sons of Erin, all gone to the great diners club in the sky. Cohan, Ryan, Kelly, Brady, Cassidy. That's five.' Blake opened one of the coffee containers. 'Come on, you bastard, all those years on the street, how many murders have you investigated?'
'A hundred and forty-seven. I kept count.'
'So what's your verdict? You don't accept this sectarian nonsense, do you?'
'Crap.' Parker finished his sandwich. 'The pattern is clear. The motive is revenge.'
'Revenge for something the Sons of Erin were responsible for.'
'I'd say so.'
Blake sat there thinking about it. 'I agree. But it still doesn't get us very far. I've been thinking about Cohan. Why wasn't he attacked in New York, like the others? You don't happen to have any attempted burglaries on his house, do you? That sort of thing?'
'Let's have a look.'
The last sandwich in his left hand, Parker went to his computer, sat down and tapped the keys. 'No, no such reports.' He paused. 'Just a minute. That's interesting.'
'What is?'
'Last week there were a couple of murders in an alley next to Cohan's house. Typical street bad guys. Shot dead. Autopsy showed lots of alcohol and traces of cocaine. Both of them were in police hands many times. Street dealers, one of them ran whores.'
The screen kept changing. Blake, trying to suppress a rising excitement, said, 'What kind of gun was it?'