Jack Higgins - Dark Justice

Hannah said, “Right. Get her up out of there and deliver her to Peel Street Morgue. I’m going to call in Professor George Langley. He’ll handle it.”

She walked away with her mobile and stood in a doorway. Dillon saw Patel lurking outside his shop and went over.

“This must have been a shock for you?”

“A terrible shock. It was a higher tide than usual last night. It’s amazing she wasn’t swept away.”

“Are you surprised by what happened?”

“Not really. She’d had a few close calls in that wheelchair and she was worse these days.”

“What do you mean, worse?”

“Couldn’t handle herself, confused, no memory worth speaking of. She didn’t know which way she was pointing. She was very upset when Henry went off to the States.” Patel hesitated. “What was it all about before, you and the Superintendent and those inquiries?”

Dillon lied glibly. “Her son was only on a special tourist visa, but seems to have gone missing, and we had a request to check it out. A lot of people do that. Go as tourists and fade into the landscape.”

“A lot of people do that here, too,” Patel said.

“The way of the world.”

Dillon went over to Hannah as she finished her call. “What next?”

“I’ve spoken to Langley, and he’s going straight to the morgue.” A couple of paramedics carried Mrs. Morgan past them in a body bag. “Poor old lady,” Hannah said.

“And nothing we can do. But speaking of doing things, Roper seems to have come up with some stuff about Ashimov and the Wrath of Allah thing.”

“Good. I’ll speak to the General,” which she did briefly and turned to Dillon. “He suggests we all meet up at Roper’s apartment, get filled in together.”

“Sounds good to me.” He shook his head. “I accept everything Patel says about Mrs. Morgan and her wheelchair, about her incompetence and so on, her minor accidents – but it doesn’t explain what she was doing on the jetty in the first place.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

Roper’s apartment was on the ground floor, with a ramp entrance to facilitate his wheelchair. The entire place was designed for not only a handicapped person, but one determined to look after himself. His equipment was state-of-the-art, some of it top secret and supplied by Ferguson.

Dillon and Hannah had been with him for perhaps ten minutes when Ferguson arrived and joined them.

“So where are we?” he asked Hannah. “With Mrs. Morgan, I mean.”

“I’ve pulled in Professor Langley, sir. He’s working on her now.”

“He won’t find much, not in my opinion.” Dillon told Ferguson all Patel had said. “So there you are. It’s highly suspicious, but I doubt we can prove it’s any more than an accident.”

Ferguson looked gloomy. “One thing’s certain. We can’t throw the fact that Henry Morgan is dead into the pot, because we’re not supposed to know. So where does that leave us?”

“With Yuri Ashimov, for one thing,” Roper said. “Formerly the pride of the KGB.” He punched his computer keys and Ashimov’s photo emerged. One or two in uniform, others in a more social situation.

“What’s he up to now?”

“Head of security for Josef Belov and his outfit.”

“The oil billionaire?” Dillon asked.

“That’s the man,” Roper said. “Man of mystery, that’s his front. A billionaire many times over, and friend of Putin.”

“So what on earth would Ashimov be doing around Mrs. Morgan?”

“It must have been something to do with the son,” Hannah said. “Has to be.”

“And the interesting question is Who sent Henry Morgan to New York with the intention of shooting the President?” Dillon turned to Hannah. “You said Dr. Ali Selim was clean as a whistle.”

It was Roper who broke in. “He is, as far as my researches show.”

“Then why is he involved with a man like Ashimov? What’s the purpose?” Dillon shook his head. “There has to be a reason.” He turned to Roper. “What did you find out about the Wrath of Allah?”

“It was an Arab militant group some years ago during the civil war in Lebanon. With the end of that war, it seemed to disappear from view. Last year, the Israeli Mossad tried to establish if it was an offshoot of Al Qa’eda, but got nowhere.

“Well, it meant something to Henry Morgan,” Ferguson said. “It may have disappeared, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. One of our greatest security problems is the way a few terrorists can hide themselves in the mass of an ordinary decent Muslim population. How can you tell the difference?”

“Mao Tse-tung invented that strategy years ago, and it eventually won him China,” Dillon pointed out.

“I’ve got something else for you, recently pulled out of my printer.” Roper handed three photos across. “Greta Novikova. Supposed to be a secretary at the Russian Embassy, but in reality a major in the GRU. Used to be Ashimov’s girlfriend. Neat coincidence, her being assigned to London, isn’t it?”

“Quite a lady,” Dillon said admiringly. He slipped a copy into his breast pocket. “Maybe I’ll run into her.”

Hannah’s mobile went, she answered and listened. “Fine, we’ll be there.” She turned to Ferguson. “Professor Langley, sir. He can give us a preliminary.”

“Excellent,” Ferguson said. “You hang in there, Major. I’ll keep you informed.”

They filed into Ferguson ’s Daimler, and as it moved away, Greta Novikova eased out in her Opel and went after them.

George Langley was a small, gray-haired energetic man whom they had all met in the pursuance of previous cases. Many people considered him the greatest forensic pathologist in London, and not much escaped him.

The Peel Street Morgue was an old building, some of it Victorian, but the interior was modern enough. A receptionist led them into a white-tiled room with fluorescent lighting and modern steel operating tables. Mrs. Morgan lay on one of them. The wounds from her examination had been stitched up.

“My God, I never get used to this part,” Hannah said softly.

Langley came in from the preparation room in shirtsleeves, drying his hands on a towel.

“Ah, there you are, Charles.”

“Good of you to be so quick off the mark, George. What have you got for me?”

“Death by drowning. No suggestion of foul play. Strangely enough, no bruising. On the other hand, she was as light as a feather. Very undernourished. Her previous medical history isn’t good. The car accident, which reduced her to the wheelchair, was very grave. I’ve checked the records. I’ve also checked with her GP, and she was being treated for Alzheimer’s.”

“So that’s it?”

“I’d say so. It’s interesting that the man who found her, Patel, speaks of these minor accidents she suffered in the wheelchair. I notice a report by the scene-of-crime sergeant who went to see the imam at Queen Street. Sounded most distressed, said he’d implored her many times not to venture out alone, and usually sent someone to escort her.”

“Which still leaves us wondering what she was doing at the end of the jetty,” Dillon said.

“I’ve had a quick look. Nothing out of the ordinary. The Alzheimer’s would make her subject to confusion, memory loss, considerable general stress. If she turned right, she’d turn the corner for the Queen Street Mosque; if she turned left, she’d find herself on the jetty and only a few yards to the steps.” He didn’t even frown when he said, “Are you looking for suspicious circumstances here, Charles? You usually are.”

“No, no. It’s an unrelated matter.”

“Unrelated, huh? Which brings you hotfoot, plus the Superintendent and Dillon? Highly unlikely, I’d have thought. However, I can’t help you with this one and I’ve other things to do. I’ll be on my way.”