LITMIR.BIZ

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course.’

      Rupert said softly, ‘By the way, Ferguson has Sean Dillon here and the Bernstein woman. Just your type, Tom, she went to Cambridge, too.’ He kissed Grace again. ‘See you later.’

      ‘After the show at my place.’

      He walked one way and Belov another.

      Dillon, who had observed the whole scene, said to Hannah, ‘I’ll be back,’ and pushed through the crowd.

      ‘Miss Browning.’ He gave her his best smile. ‘You won’t remember me.’

      ‘But I do,’ she said. ‘The Europa in Belfast. You’d been to see my show and were very charming about it.’

      ‘You were wonderful.’

      ‘You remember Professor Curry?’

      ‘Of course.’ Dillon nodded.

      ‘But you didn’t tell us your name.’

      ‘Dillon – Sean Dillon.’

      ‘And you were at RADA?’

      ‘A long time ago. I worked at the National briefly. Played Lyngstrand in Lady from the Sea.’

      ‘One of my most favourite plays. But I’ve never heard of you?’

      ‘Oh, I gave it all up a long time ago.’

      ‘Ah, I see, you found something better?’

      ‘No, you might say the theatre of life called. Are you working at the moment?’

      ‘I’m doing Private Lives at the King’s Head.’

      ‘Not a bad play,’ Dillon said. ‘He had a way with words, old Noël.’

      At that moment he was tapped on the shoulder and turned to find Hannah Bernstein there. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but our friend’s ready to go.’

      Dillon smiled, took Grace Browning’s hand and kissed it. ‘I’ll try to get in to see the show. I’d hate to miss it.’

      Curry said, ‘Actually, we’d better make a move, too. Grace hasn’t a lot of time. Good night.’ He led her away through the crowd.

      ‘Come on, Dillon,’ Hannah said and pulled on his arm.

      As Dillon and Hannah reached the foyer Ferguson led Liam Bell through the crowd. ‘I hope everything went well,’ the Brigadier said.

      ‘Fine, just fine. The Prime Minister was most helpful. I hope things are as constructive in Belfast and Dublin, but you must excuse me now. I’m kind of jet-lagged and I’ve an early start. I’ll get a cab.’

      ‘Good God, no,’ Ferguson said. ‘My Daimler’s outside. My chauffeur can run you home. It’s Vance Square, isn’t it? Islington?’

      ‘That’s right. I have this rather nice old house on the other side of the churchyard. Used to be the minister’s.’

      ‘Good, we’ll take care of that.’ As Bell walked to the door Ferguson dropped back slightly. ‘Follow him, Chief Inspector, just to make sure, and you, Dillon.’

      ‘Right, sir,’ she said.

      Ferguson and Bell paused in the doorway while the Brigadier waved to his driver.

      Grace Browning, from the back of the black cab Belov had provided, saw them. ‘There he is,’ she said, ‘Let’s go – I want to be there before him,’ and the cab moved out into the Park Lane traffic.

      As Liam Bell got into the Daimler, Dillon and Hannah turned to her Rover saloon. She got behind the wheel, Dillon scrambled in and they were away.

      ‘Hold the bag open,’ Grace told Curry.

      He did as he was told. She removed her high-heeled shoes, took out a pair of loose muslin trousers and pulled them on, tucking the short skirt of her dress inside. Next came a pair of slippers and a cheap three-quarter length raincoat. Then she found a long scarf and wrapped it round her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. Finally she took out a Harrod’s plastic bag with the Beretta inside. She checked the action, then put it in her shoulder bag.

      ‘Ready to go. I didn’t tell you, Tom, but I’ve changed the plan. I went and had a look at this place Vance Square this afternoon. Bell lives in the old rectory and the easiest way to get there is to walk through St Mary’s churchyard. I’m banking that’s what he’ll do, so you drop me there and clear off.’

      ‘Now look here,’ he protested.

      ‘It’s only a quarter of a mile to the King’s Head. I’ll walk. No problem.’

      ‘I can wait.’

      ‘No way,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ll see you at the theatre. It’s how I want it, Tom.’

      The cab turned into Vance Square and she tapped on the window. The driver pulled in at the kerb. She turned, smiled at Curry and got out. She crossed to the entrance to the churchyard and the cab moved away.

      The churchyard was a jumble of Gothic monuments and gravestones, great crosses and here and there a marble angel. There was a path running through to the old rectory, with a light at the entrance and one at the other end. In between was a place of shadows. She walked about halfway along the path, positioned herself between a mausoleum’s bronze doors and waited.

      It started to rain in a sudden rush as the Daimler deposited Liam Bell at the kerb by the entrance to the churchyard.

      ‘Good night,’ he said to the chauffeur and turned.

      The Daimler drove away and Hannah Bernstein coasted into the square and slowed down. ‘There he goes,’ she said as Bell entered the churchyard. ‘We can go now.’

      She started to increase speed but Dillon grabbed her arm. ‘Just a minute, I think I saw someone in there up ahead of him.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ She braked to a halt.

      ‘Yes, I damn well am.’

      He was out of the car in a second and running for the entrance to the churchyard, a silenced Walther in his hand.

      Liam Bell pulled up the collar of his raincoat and hurried on as the rain increased. He reached the centre of the churchyard, was aware of a movement up ahead in the shadows. He paused and Grace Browning moved out of the shadows. At the same moment, Dillon ran through the entrance gates. In the half-light, he saw Grace and shouted at the top of his voice.

      ‘Mr Bell, get down!’

      Bell paused, bewildered, turned to look at Dillon, turned again and she levelled the Beretta and fired twice, hitting him in the heart, knocking him to one side of the path. He fell against a tombstone and hung there for a moment.

      Dillon dropped to one knee and fired the Walther, but she had already slipped into the shadows of the mausoleum. He emptied his gun into the darkness of the bronze doorway, but unknown to him, Grace had dropped flat on her face on the ground. He ejected his magazine and reached for another. As he rammed it into the butt, she stepped into the light and took deliberate aim, her arm extended.

      ‘Very foolish, Mr Dillon.’ Her voice was perfect Pakistani English in its inflection. ‘And you don’t often make mistakes. I admire that.’

      Dillon stood there, frozen, awaiting the bullet, then suddenly she raised an arm in a kind of salute and slipped into the shadows. He pulled the slider on the Walther and fired twice. Behind him, Hannah ran up the path, gun in hand.

      ‘See to him,’ he said and ran along the path into the darkness.

      Grace Browning was already on the other side of the rectory, the church to one side. There was another, older part of the cemetery there. As she went round the end of the church, a side door opened, light flooded out and an old man in a cassock appeared. She ran past him, head down, to where she knew there was a gate in the wall,

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