Heathen/Nemesis Page 16

  ‘You mean he was trying to join them?’

  ‘It’s possible. She could have been his way in.’

  ‘What would he have gained by joining a group like that?’

  ‘That’s what I have to find out. I thought Martin Connelly might know, but I’ve phoned his office and his home a couple of times and there’s never anyone there. Have you heard from him?’

  ‘Why would he call me?’ Julie said defensively.

  ‘He might want to find out if I was back yet. If he does call, tell him I’ll speak to him when I get back.’ There was a pause, then the silence was finally broken by Donna. ‘I think Chris was involved in something, Julie. Something dangerous. Perhaps that envelope Dowd brought round will answer some questions.’

  Julie looked at the envelope lying on the worktop.

  ‘There’s nothing more for me here,’ said Donna wearily. ‘I’m coming home tonight. I’ll get a shuttle flight.’

  ‘Do you want me to pick you up from the airport?’

  ‘No, I’ll get a cab. I’ll see you later. Take care.’

  ‘You too.’

  Donna hung up.

  Julie gently replaced the receiver and walked across to the envelope. She picked it up, feeling the weight of it. It was packed tightly with papers and ...

  She ran her fingers gently over the manila surface and felt the outline of something small and cold inside. She pressed it with the tip of her index finger, trying to figure out what it could be. She frowned, gliding the pads of her fingers across the shape like a blind person reading braille, feeling every contour.

  Fifty-Three

  ‘She must die.’

  The voice floated through the air like smoke, the words almost visible in the heavy atmosphere.

  ‘Not yet,’ another said. ‘Not until we have the book.’

  The room was large, the walls oak-panelled on two sides. The other two were dark brick. Paintings hung on them, large canvases in gilt frames. The room was lit by a number of small reading lamps, none powered by anything stronger than a sixty-watt bulb. It gave the room an artificially cosy feel, which was added to by the open fireplace and the array of expensive leather furniture that dotted the floor, spread out on thick carpet as dark as wet concrete.

  The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke; a number of the twelve men seated there puffed away quite happily while they talked. They sat at different places in the room, most of them also with drinks cradled in their hands.

  The house in Conduit Street was just two minutes walk from Berkeley Square in one direction and, in the other, the bustling thoroughfare that was Regent Street. The house and the room within were like a peaceful island in the sea of activity that constituted the centre of London.

  The room was on the second floor of the three-storey building, its curtains drawn, its inhabitants hidden from those below. Windows like blind eyes reflected the lights of passing cars.

  One of the men in the room got to his feet and crossed to a well-stocked drinks cabinet, refilling his glass, offering the same service to his colleagues.

  They had been drinking for the best part of an hour but none were drunk. Even so, large quantities of brandy and gin were consumed as the men talked.

  There was a large table in the centre of the room, made of dark polished wood. Two men sat at its head, their faces reflected in the gleaming surface. As the first of them drank, the gold ring on his left index finger clinked against the crystal.

  ‘What if Connelly was lying?’ said the one seated next to him. ‘What if the woman doesn’t know where the book is?’

  ‘She knows,’ the other said with an air of certainty. ‘She was at Rathfarnham, wasn’t she? She went to the lodge at Mountpelier.’

  ‘I want to know why she wasn’t stopped there,’ an angry voice from the other side of the room interrupted him.

  ‘Those responsible for the mistake have been dealt with,’ another said. ‘Besides, we can’t kill her until she’s led us to the book or at least told us where we can find it.’

  ‘If Ward did tell her about it then she might go to the police,’ a third voice said.

  ‘Let her,’ chuckled another. Several others joined in the laughter.

  One of the men at the head of the table brought his hand down hard on the table-top and the sound ceased.

  ‘Enough of this. We need the book and we need it quickly. There isn’t much time left.’

  ‘We’ll get it,’ said another man, approaching the table. ‘We’ll get her and the book.’

  The other occupants of the room gradually moved across to the table, each of them taking a seat around it.

  ‘It must be in our hands within seven days,’ one of the men wearing the gold rings insisted angrily.

  ‘It will be.’

  There was a note of certainty in Peter Farrell’s voice.

  ‘I hope for your sake that it is, Farrell. I hope for all our sakes it is.’

  ‘What if she uses the book the way Ward was going to?’ another voice added with concern. ‘If she knew about the book, he may have told her about the contents, too.’

  Farrell waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘She’s being followed now. There are two men on her. They’ll find the book. They’ll make her tell them where it is. And then they’ll kill her. End of story.’

  ‘What if they fail?’ a worried voice interjected.

  ‘They won’t,’ Farrell snapped irritably.

  ‘You said that about the men who went to her house to search. They failed. Perhaps we underestimated her.’

  ‘She’s a woman,’ Farrell chuckled. ‘Just a woman.’

  A chorus of laughter greeted his remark.

  ‘So, we are agreed,’ said one of the men at the head of the table. ‘Once she tells us where the book is or she leads us to it, she dies.’ He looked around at his companions. ‘Yes?’ He looked at each man in turn and waited for their compliance.

  They nodded slowly, solemnly, like a jury passing sentence.

  Farrell merely smiled.

  ‘Perhaps we should have brought her here,’ said one of the men. ‘Let her enjoy our company for an evening.’

  There was more laughter.

  One of the men at the head of the table rose, his glass in his hand, the gold of his ring clinking against the crystal.

  ‘A toast,’ he said grandly.

  ‘To the Death of God, the destruction of morality and to The Sons of Midnight.’

  Francis Dashwood spoke the words with a grin on his wrinkled features.

  Beside him, Richard Parsons echoed the toast, and so did the other men in the room.

  ‘To The Sons of Midnight.’

  Fifty-Four

  The shuttle flights from Edinburgh to London were booked up right through until eleven that evening. Donna rang the station and discovered that there was a train to King’s Cross leaving at 8.27 p.m. She booked a seat on it and took a taxi to the terminus.

  Trains out of Waverley were running fifteen minutes late by the time she got there, but she didn’t care. She wandered across the concourse to the Travellers’ Fare buffet and sat warming her hands around a cup of coffee while she waited for her train to arrive.

  She sat in the window, watching the streams of people coming to and from the trains. Taxis waited in a long queue to ferry them away, while others struggled up the stairs with cases or bags, determined to make their way by other means. She wondered how many of them were going home. Home to relatives, to loved ones. To husbands?

  Donna felt a twinge of sadness and stared down into the depths of her cup, picking up the spoon and stirring unnecessarily, watching the dark liquid drip from the plastic utensil.

  On the concourse people stood around gazing up at the departure and arrival boards, checking times of trains. She saw a young man squatting on a rucksack, eating a bar of chocolate and looking at the board. Close by a couple were kissing, holding each other close to ward off the cold wind that had sprung up. Donna watched
them for a moment, then looked away.

  One of the station employees was following a discarded wrapper across the concrete, trying to pick it up but thwarted every time by a fresh breeze that blew the litter out of his reach. Cursing, he continued his pursuit.

  Donna finally got to her feet and wandered outside, glancing up at the board, noticing that her train was due in about five minutes.

  She left the buffet and headed for the small John Menzies shop opposite.

  She didn’t notice the thick-set man dressed in jeans and a long dark coat get up and follow her out. He stood by the exit, watching, cupping one hand around the flame of his lighter as he lit up a Marlboro.

  Donna glanced at the paperbacks on the bestseller stand as she entered the shop. Only six months earlier her husband’s last book had occupied a prominent position on that stand and hundreds like it up and down the country. Again she felt that twinge of sadness. She selected three magazines, paid for them, then made her way back out onto the concourse.

  The man outside the buffet sucked on his cigarette and watched her as she headed towards the gates and the platforms beyond. She paused to roll up the magazines and push them into her handbag, rummaging for her ticket.

  The man in the long dark coat glanced at Donna, then back towards the Menzies shop.

  Another man, dressed in a leather jacket and trousers that were too short, was walking briskly across the concourse, his eyes fixed on Donna. In fact so engrossed with her movements was he that he bumped into a young woman who was struggling with an impossibly heavy suitcase. He almost knocked her over but continued walking, ignoring her angry shouts. Other heads turned towards the commotion; indeed, even Donna looked round briefly. But she only saw the girl who had now returned her full attention to the case.

  Other passengers for the train were forming a queue. Donna joined it, filing past the barriers, showing her ticket and heading down the platform towards the First Class carriages. As she passed the buffet car her stomach rumbled, as if to remind her she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.

  She opened one of the doors and climbed up, selecting a double seat for herself, sliding her suitcase between two seats.

  Further down the train the man in the long dark coat also climbed aboard.

  The man in the leather jacket stood on the platform for a moment longer before stepping up into the carriage next to Donna’s.

  She spread her magazines out on the table and removed her shoes, massaging her toes as she waited for the train to pull away. There were perhaps half a dozen other passengers in the carriage, all spread out. Some read newspapers; one fiddled with a Walkman, adjusting the volume.

  Donna shivered slightly, noticing how cold it was on the train.

  The journey should take a little over six hours. She glanced at her watch as the train pulled away from the platform.

  The man in the leather jacket walked to the door that linked the carriages and looked through, seeing where Donna was seated. Satisfied he knew her position, he returned to his seat.

  There was plenty of time.

  Fifty-Five

  Apart from Donna there were only two other people eating in the train’s dining car. They sat at the far end of the carriage, talking in hushed tones. Each man had a portable phone on the table beside him.

  Donna enjoyed her meal, luxuriating in the warmth of the carriage. She felt tired and wondered if she might manage a couple of hours’ sleep before the train reached London. It was about forty miles from York at present, so she had plenty of time.

  She glanced up briefly as David Ryker passed her, his leather jacket undone. As he passed by, Donna noticed that his trousers didn’t touch the top of his shoes. She looked at his broad back, then at the short trousers, and smiled to herself, returning her attention to her coffee. When the steward returned with a steaming pot she had another cup.

  Ryker passed her once more, glancing at her, cradling a plastic beaker of tea in his hand. As the train thundered over a set of points he steadied himself against her seat for a moment, then wandered off down the aisle.

  Donna ordered brandy from the steward and sat gazing at the window of the train.

  Apart from lights from distant towns, all she saw was her own reflection in the dark glass. The train sped along, countryside flying by in the gloom outside.

  She moved across to the window, cupping one hand over her eyes so that she could see out, but there was little to see. They passed through a small station and she caught a glimpse of a couple of people standing on the windswept platform, but other than that there was nothing to see. She sat back and reached for her brandy. She closed her eyes and allowed her head to loll back against the pillow.

  Was she any closer to a solution, to finding out why her husband had died?

  He died because his car hit a wall.

  But why? Was it really an accident?

  The incidents in Ireland told her it wasn’t, yet she had no proof to support the fact that he had been killed. She was beginning to wonder if her trip had been worthwhile. She had also wondered if seeing the places he went might make her feel closer to him, but it hadn’t. She was left with still more unanswered questions. Most of all, she was no wiser as to his involvement with Suzanne Regan.

  Donna missed Chris badly. At nights, particularly, she had felt loneliness so great it was as if a hole had been torn in her soul, something irreplaceable had been ripped from her. Knowing of his involvement with another woman, however, had meant that that hole was in danger of being filled with hate, not sorrow. If only she’d had the chance to ask him why he’d had the affair.

  She felt cheated, when she should have felt despair.

  Just one chance to ask him.

  One chance to say goodbye.

  She sat forward and opened her eyes.

  David Ryker’s reflection filled the window beside her as he passed. For a second Donna thought he’d been standing there looking at her, this man in the leather jacket and trousers which were too short.

  He retreated back down the aisle again.

  Donna decided to take her brandy back to her seat with her. She paid the bill and walked back through the dining car, drawing glances from the two men at the other end with the portable phones. Both of them looked at her for a second, then continued their hushed conversation.

  She made her way back to her seat, noticing that the man with the leather jacket was seated about five rows behind her.

  Donna made herself comfortable and prepared to sleep, wondering, despite the fact that she was tired, whether or not the thoughts tumbling through her mind would be still long enough to allow her two or three precious hours’ rest. She drained what was left in her glass and set it down.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  The voice startled her. She looked round to see Ryker standing there. His face was expressionless.

  Without waiting to be invited he sat down beside her and crossed his legs, the trousers riding up almost to his calf.

  ‘I saw you in the dining car,’ he said. ‘I thought you were travelling alone.’

  ‘I prefer travelling alone,’ Donna said, trying to be as tactful as possible. She smiled thinly at him.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Ryker asked. ‘I was going to have one.’

  ‘No thanks, I was going to try and get some sleep,’ she told him, an edge to her voice.

  ‘I can’t sleep on trains,’ Ryker said.

  And it doesn’t look as if I’m going to be able to either, thought Donna irritably.

  ‘I get bored,’ he continued, looking up, noticing that another man was approaching.

  A man in a long dark overcoat.

  Donna saw him, too. Saw that he was looking at her.

  She sat up, the puzzled look on her face turning to one of irritation.

  The second man sat opposite her.

  ‘I don’t want to seem rude,’ she said, ‘but I was hoping to travel on my own. I ...’

  Ryker cut her short.

 
‘Shut up,’ he whispered. ‘Just shut it.’

  Donna turned to say something to him.

  As he opened his jacket she saw his hand close over the hilt of a knife.

  Opposite, the man in the long dark overcoat was smiling.

  ‘We need to ask you some questions,’ he said. ‘We need your help.’ He unbuttoned his coat and reached inside.

  ‘And what if I call for the steward?’ Donna said defiantly.

  Stuart Benton pushed back his coat slightly so that she could see that he too carried a knife.

  ‘If you do,’ he said softly, leaning towards her, ‘we’ll slice you up like a joint of meat.’

  Fifty-Six

  ‘Who are you?’

  Donna regarded the two men warily, her gaze flicking from one to the other in quick succession.

  ‘We need your help,’ said Benton, staring at her. ‘And you’re going to give it. You’re going to tell us what we want to know.’

  Donna looked up and saw the steward coming up the aisle.

  Could she alert him to her danger? Should she?

  Ryker saw him too and nodded towards him.

  Benton glanced over his shoulder and saw the man.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said, his eyes blazing. ‘I’ll kill him, too.’

  The steward smiled as he passed, glancing at the two men sitting close to Donna.

  Benton watched him go.

  ‘Well done, Mrs Ward,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘Don’t patronize me, you bastard,’ she snarled. ‘And how do you know my name?’

  ‘We’ve been following you since you left your hotel yesterday,’ Ryker told her. ‘The library, everywhere.’

  ‘Was the book in the library?’ Benton said.

  ‘There’s lots of books in libraries, you half-wit. You should try looking some time,’ Donna said with gleeful malice.

  ‘You fucking cunt ...’ Benton snapped, lunging forward.

  Donna sat back in her seat, her heart thudding hard against her ribs. But it was Ryker who sat forward to restrain his companion.