Midnight Runner - Jack Higgins [51]
The skipper came down to see him, looking absurdly young in spite of being a squadron leader. "Terribly sorry about your great loss, sir. Anything you need, just ask."
"That's kind of you."
Quinn lit a cigarette and thought about it. "Your great loss." How apt that was, how painful. Death was so final; he'd learned that at an early age with the barbarity of Vietnam.
And the one thing that wouldn't go away was this suggestion of a drug connection to the whole rotten business. It couldn't be true. That wasn't the Helen he'd known and loved.
He lay back in the canvas chair in which they'd put him, stretched out his legs, folded his hands, and slept the sleep of exhaustion.
10
C HARLES FERGUSON WAS ENJOYING BREAKFAST IN FRONT of the fire at Cavendish Place the following morning when Blake Johnson called him. Ferguson listened, his face grave.
"This is a bad one, Blake. What do you want me to do?"
"Daniel Quinn will want answers. The President thinks you can help find them."
"So you don't believe the most obvious explanation? A young woman on the loose, too much to drink, the wrong pill?"
"No. And I think Daniel will find that difficult to believe. Do what you can, Charles. Hannah can help him deal with Scotland Yard and the coroner's court. Dillon's been pretty creative on occasion."
"That's an unusual way of putting it, but, yes, we should be able to do something. Leave it with me, Blake."
He called Hannah Bernstein on her mobile. She was on her way to the office. "Listen carefully." He told her what had happened.
"That's terrible," she said. "What do you want me to do?"
"Talk with your friends in Special Branch. Use your muscle. Find out what the police are doing and what they've got."
"Right, sir."
He clicked off, then tried Dillon, who was running around the streets close to Stable Mews in a blue tracksuit, a towel on his neck. His mobile sounded and he slowed and took it out.
"Where are you?" Ferguson asked.
"Morning run. Where are you?"
"At home. I want you to see Roper."
"Why?"
Ferguson told him.
A t Regency Square, the buzzer sounded, the door opened, and Dillon went in. Roper was in his wheelchair working at the computer. He turned.
"You want something, I can tell."
"You could say that. Daniel Quinn's daughter, Helen, is dead. The word is that it's drug-related. She was admitted to the St. Mark's Hospital emergency room last night and died there."
"Oh dear." Roper started to hack his way in and very quickly came up with the details. "Helen Quinn, twenty-two, American citizen, address St. Hugh's College, Oxford. Preliminary blood tests show a high alcohol content and traces of Ecstasy. They're doing an autopsy at twelve."
"Dammit to hell," Dillon said. "So it's true. Her father won't like that. What else have you got?"
"I can access her personal records at Oxford."
"Do that."
Dillon lit a cigarette and Roper tapped away. "Here we go. Usual background details. Reading politics, philosophy, and economics. Member of the Oxford Union, Music Society, Oxford Literary Workshop." He frowned. "Well, I'll be damned. Oxford has a branch of Act of Class Warfare. She was a member."
"Helen Quinn was a member of Act of Class Warfare?"
"I'll see if they have a website. Yes, here we are. Huh. Well, now we know why she was in London yesterday. They sent a delegation to that Liberty in Europe fiasco."
"That figures," Dillon said.
Roper sat back. "Yes. Funny, isn't it? Daniel Quinn keeps tabs on Kate Rashid. Rashid funds a bunch of questionable organizations. One of them is Act of Class Warfare, and guess who's a member? Daniel Quinn's daughter."
"Are you suggesting Kate Rashid had something to do with the girl's death?"
"No, no, but still--quite a coincidence. And I abhor coincidence. I like life to be orderly. One and one must always make two."
"This from the man who spent seven hours defusing the largest IRA bomb ever, then put himself in that wheelchair from practically a firecracker."
"All right," Roper shrugged. "Some days one and one make three. Anything else you need?"
"That