Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

“I’ll probably try to sleep through the whole trip.”

“Probably the best thing for you.”

The stewardess went away and Jenny leaned back, drinking her brandy and thinking about Henry, all the kindness, all the support. He’d saved her life, that was the truth of it, and the strange thing was that try as she might, for some reason she couldn’t remember his face clearly and tears welled up in her eyes, slow and bitter.

The Daimler arrived just before seven-thirty. Travers left a note for his housekeeper, Mrs. Mishra, an Indian lady whose husband kept a corner store not too far away, explaining the situation, hurried down the steps to Ferguson’s limousine and was driven away, passing a British Telecom van parked at the end of the street. The van started up, moved along the street and parked outside Travers’ house.

A telephone engineer in official overalls got out with a toolbox in one hand. He had the name Smith printed on his left-hand breast pocket. He went along the flagged path leading to the back of the house and the rear courtyard. He went up the steps to the kitchen door, punched a gloved hand through the glass pane, reached in and opened it. A moment later he was also opening the front door and another Telecom engineer got out of the van and joined him. The name on his overalls pocket was Johnson.

Once inside they worked their way methodically through the Admiral’s study, searching every drawer, pulling the books from the shelves, checking for signs of a safe and finding none.

Finally, Smith said, “Waste of time. It isn’t here. Go and get the van open.”

He unplugged the Admiral’s word processor and followed Johnson out, putting it in the back of the van. They went back inside and Johnson said, “What else?”

“See if there’s a television or video in the living room, then take this typewriter.”

Johnson did as he was told. When he returned to the living room Smith was screwing the head of the telephone back into place.

“You’re tapping the phone?”

“Why not? We might hear something to our advantage.”

“Is that smart? I mean, the kind of people we’re dealing with, Intelligence people, they’re not rubbish.”

“Look, to all intents and purposes this is just another hit-and-run burglary,” Smith told him. “Anyway, Mr. Santiago wants a result on this one and you don’t screw around with him, believe me. Now let’s get moving.”

Mrs. Mishra, the Admiral’s housekeeper, didn’t normally arrive until nine o’clock, but the fact that she’d had the previous day off meant there was laundry to take care of so she had decided to make an early start. As she turned the corner of Lord North Street and walked toward the house, an overcoat over her sari against the early morning chill, she saw the two men come out of the house.

She hurried forward. “Is there a problem?”

They turned toward her. Smith said urbanely, “Not that I know of. Who are you, love?”

“Mrs. Mishra, the housekeeper.”

“Problem with one of the telephones. We’ve taken care of it. You’ll find everything’s fine now.”

They got in the van, Johnson behind the wheel, and drove away. Johnson said, “Unfortunate that.”

“No big deal. She’s Indian, isn’t she? We’re just another couple of white faces to her.”

Smith lit a cigarette and leaned back, enjoying the view of the river as they turned into Millbank.

Mrs. Mishra didn’t notice anything was amiss because the study door was half-closed. She went into the kitchen, put her bag on the table and saw the Admiral’s note. As she was reading it she became aware of a draft, turned and saw the broken pane in the door.

“Oh my God!” she said in horror.

She quickly went back along the passage and checked the living room, noticed the absence of the television and video at once. The state of the study confirmed her worst fears and she immediately picked up the phone and dialed 999 for the police emergency service.

Travers recognized Jenny Grant at once as she emerged into the arrival hall at Gatwick pushing her suitcase on a trolley. She wore a three-quarter-length tweed coat over a white blouse and jeans and she looked tired and strained, dark circles under her eyes.

“Jenny?” he said as he approached. “Do you remember me? Garth Travers?”

“Of course I do, Admiral.” She tried a smile and failed miserably.

He put his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You look bushed, my dear. Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve got a car waiting. Let me take your case.”

The driver put the case in the boot of the Daimler and Travers joined her in the rear. As they drove away he said, “I expect you to stay with me, naturally, if that’s all right?”

“You’re very kind. Will you do something for me?” She was almost pleading. “Will you tell me exactly what happened?”

“From what witnesses have told the police he simply looked the wrong way and stepped in front of a bus.”

“What a bloody stupid way to go.” There was a kind of anger in her voice now. “I mean, here we had a sixty-three-year-old man who insisted on diving every day, sometimes to a hundred and thirty feet in hazardous conditions, and he has to die in such a stupid and trivial way.”

“I know. Life’s a bit of a bad joke sometimes. Would you care for a cigarette?”

“As a matter of fact, I would. I gave up six months ago, started again on the plane coming over last night.” She took one from the packet he offered and accepted a light. “There’s something else I’d like, and before we do anything else.”

“What’s that?”

“To see him,” she said simply.

“I thought you might,” Garth Travers said. “That’s where we’re going now.”

The undertaker’s was a pleasant enough place, considering what it was. The waiting room was panelled and banked with flowers. An old man in black suit and a tie entered.

“May I help you?”

“Mr. Cox? I’m Admiral Travers and this is Miss Grant. You were expecting us, I believe?”

“Of course.” His voice was a whisper. “If you would come this way.”

There were several rooms off a rear corridor with sliding doors open revealing coffins standing on trestles and flowers everywhere, the smell quite overpowering. Mr. Cox led the way into the end one. The coffin was quite simple, made of mahogany.

“As I had no instructions I had to do the best I could,” Cox said. “The fittings are gold plastic as I assumed cremation would be the intention.”

He slid back the lid and eased the gauze from the face. Henry Baker looked very calm in death, eyes closed, face pale. Jenny put a hand to his face, slightly dislodging the gauze.

Cox carefully rearranged the gauze. “I wouldn’t, miss.”

She was bewildered for a moment and Travers said, “There was an autopsy, my dear, had to be, it’s a court requirement. They’ll be holding a coroner’s inquest, you see. Day after tomorrow.”

She nodded. “It doesn’t matter, he’s gone now. Can we leave, please?”

In the car he gave her another cigarette. “Are you all right?”

“Absolutely.” She smiled suddenly. “He was a smashing fella, Admiral, isn’t that what they say in England? The dearest, kindest man I ever knew.” She took a deep breath.

“Where to now?”

“My house in Lord North Street. You’d probably like a bath, rest up a little and so on.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

She leaned back and closed her eyes.

The surprise at Lord North Street was the police car. The front door stood open and Travers hurried up the steps, Jenny behind him. He went into the hall and found the chaos in his study instantly, followed the sounds of voices and found Mrs. Mishra and a young policewoman in the kitchen.