Jack Higgins - Thunder Point

Carter stood up and managed a feeble smile. “A wise decision, Prime Minister.”

“Having said that, it would appear this business of using the services of the man Dillon worked out, Brigadier?”

“We only reached a successful conclusion because of Dillon’s efforts, sir.”

The Prime Minister came round the desk to shake hands and smiled. “I’m sure it’s an interesting story. You must tell me sometime, Brigadier, but for now, you must excuse me.”

By some mystery, the door opened smoothly behind them and the aide appeared to usher them out.

In the hall the porter helped them on with their coats. “A satisfactory conclusion all round, I’d say,” Carter remarked.

“You think so, do you?” Ferguson said.

The porter opened the door and at that moment, the aide hurried in from the rear office. “A moment, gentlemen, we’ve just had a most distressing call from the River Police. They recovered the body of Sir Francis Pamer from the Thames a short time ago. I’m about to inform the Prime Minister.”

Carter was struck dumb and Ferguson said, “Very sad. Thank you for letting us know,” and he stepped out past the policeman on the step, put up his umbrella and started to walk along Downing Street to Whitehall.

He walked very fast, was almost at the security gates before Carter caught up with him and grabbed his arm. “What was it you said to him, Ferguson, I want to know.”

“I gave him all the facts,” Ferguson said. “You are aware of the part he played from the beginning in this affair. I reminded him of that. I can only imagine he decided to do the decent thing.”

“Very convenient.”

“Yes, isn’t it.” They were on the pavement of Whitehall now. “Do you want to share a cab?”

“Damn you to hell, Ferguson!” Simon Carter told him and walked away.

Ferguson stood there for a moment, rain bouncing from his umbrella, and a black cab swerved into the curb. The driver peered out, a cap down over his eyes and asked in perfect cockney, “You want a cab, guvnor?”

“Thank you.” Ferguson climbed in and the cab pulled away.

Dillon removed his cap and smiled at Ferguson in the rearview mirror. “How did it go?”

Ferguson said, “Did you steal this thing?”

“No, it belongs to a good friend of mine.”

“London-Irish, no doubt?”

“Of course. Actually it’s not registered as a working cab, but as everyone assumes it is, it’s great for parking. Now what about the Prime Minister?”

“He put everything on the fire, said it was an old story, was even charitable about Francis Pamer.”

“Did you put him straight there?”

“I couldn’t see the point.”

“And how did Carter take it?”

“Rather badly. Just as we were leaving, the Prime Minister’s office received a report from the River Police. They recovered Pamer’s body.”

“And Carter thinks he did it because of pressure from you?”

“I don’t know what he thinks, or care. The only thing I worry about is Carter’s competence. He dislikes me so much that it clouded his judgment. For example, he was so taken up with the mention of Sir Joseph Pamer in the Blue Book on page eighteen that he missed the gentleman on page fifty-one.”

“And who would that be?”

“An army sergeant from the First World War, badly wounded on the Somme, no pension, out of work in the twenties and understandably angry with the Establishment, another associate of Sir Oswald Mosley, who entered politics and became General Secretary of a major trade union. He died about ten years ago.”

“And who are we talking about?”

“The Prime Minister’s uncle on his mother’s side.”

“Mother of God!” Dillon said. “And you think he knew, the Prime Minister I mean?”

“That I knew? Oh, yes.” Ferguson nodded. “But as he said, an old story and the evidence has just gone up in smoke anyway. Which is why I can afford to tell you, Dillon. After all your efforts in this affair I think you’re entitled to know.”

“Very convenient, I must say,” Dillon observed.

“No, the Prime Minister was right, we can’t visit the sins of the fathers on the children. Pamer was different. Where are we going, by the way?”

“Your place, I suppose,” Dillon said.

Ferguson opened the window a little and let the rain blow in. “I’ve been thinking, Dillon, my department’s under severe pressure at the moment. Besides the usual things we’ve got the Yugoslavian business and all this Neo-Nazi stuff in Berlin and East Germany. Losing Jack Lane leaves me in rather a hole.”

“I see,” Dillon said.

Ferguson leaned forward. “Right up your street, the sort of thing I have in mind. Think about it, Dillon.”

Dillon swung the wheel, did a U-turn and started back the other way.

Ferguson was flung back in his seat. “What are you doing, for God’s sake?”

Dillon smiled in the rearview mirror. “You did mention dinner at the Garrick Club, didn’t you?”