Solo - Jack Higgins [56]
Jago came round the desk on the run. He stood looking down at the broken pieces of the vase, his face working, then turned to his brother.
'You know what to do and tell them to make it good. If he ever does come out of hospital, I want it to be on sticks.'
Morgan had parked the Porsche some distance away. Kate Riley had her arm in his as they walked.
She said, 'So he wouldn't come through?'
'That's about the size of it.'
'What are you going to do now?'
'Persuade him to think again.'
They turned into the side street where he had left the Porsche.
Arnold Jago paused on the corner with two men. One of them was small and badly in need of a shave. The other was at least six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face and big hands.
'Right, Jacko,' Arnold said. 'Make it good.'
'Leave it to us, Mr Jago.'
The two men started along the pavement beside the parked cars and Jacko paused, pulled the smaller man to a halt. Morgan and Kate Riley seemed to have completely disappeared.
He took an anxious step forward. Morgan moved up the steps from the basement area of one of the tall Victorian houses, swung the small man round and kneed him in the groin.
He went down with a groan and Jacko turned to find Morgan standing on the other side of the writhing body, face clear in the lamplight as Kate Riley came up from the area behind him.
'Looking for me, are you?'
Jacko moved in fast. Afterwards, he could never be certain of what had happened. His feet were kicked expertly from beneath him, he landed hard on the wet pavement. As he got up, Morgan seized his right wrist, twisting it round and up, locking the shoulder as in a vice. Jacko gave a cry of agony as the muscle started to tear. Still keeping that terrible hold in position, Morgan ran him head-first into the railings.
He took Kate Riley by the arm and walked her along the pavement to the Porsche. As he handed her in she said, 'You really believe in going all the way, don't you?'
'Interesting,' he said as he got in beside her, 'that you're not tearing out your hair over my brutal fascist ways, a nice, virginal, liberal academic like yourself.'
'They asked for it, those two. They got it,' she said. 'You must have displeased Mr Jago considerably.'
'I think you could say that,' he said and drove away.
He stopped outside the house in Douro Place and walked her to the door.
'Aren't you coming in?' she asked.
'I've got things to do.'
'Such as?'
'Teach Harvey Jago his manners.'
'Can I help?'
'Not really. What I intend is by any definition a criminal act. I'd rather you weren't involved in case something goes wrong. I'll be in touch.'
He went down the steps to the Porsche, before she could argue. She opened the door and went inside. Arnold Jago got out of his car from where he had parked if further along the street. He checked the number of the house, then returned to his car and drove away.
Ferguson was working alone at his desk in the Cavendish Square flat, the only sound the Glenn Miller Orchestra playing softly on the record player on the table behind him.
It was his secret vice, listening to the big band sounds of his youth. Not only Miller but great British bands like Lew Stone, Joe Loss with Al Bowlly singing. It took Ferguson right back to the war with warm nostalgia. To 1940, when things had been really bad. But at least you knew where you were - knew just how far you had to go. Whereas now? The real enemy might actually be sitting on a parliamentary bench. Probably was.
The telephone, the red one at his left hand, buzzed softly. He checked his watch. It was almost ten o'clock as he lifted the receiver.
'Say who you are.'
'Baker, sir.'
'Working late tonight, Superintendent.'
'Desk work - you know how it is, sir. I thought you'd like to know Asa Morgan got back from Belfast in one piece. Security noted him passing through Heathrow last night.'
'But we don't know what he got up to while he was there?'
'No, sir.'