him down, helped him think.
So, it would seem reasonable that an autopsy on Hannah Bernstein would be performed by the same eminent pathologist who was performing it on Mary Killane. A strong chance surely. He had another shot of vodka, returned the bottle. There was just one more thing to do. Luhzkov’s remark in the pub that he’d better not lose the Putin warrant had stuck in his mind, so he took the letter out and put it through the office copier. He made three copies, put two in the office safe, one in his briefcase in an envelope and returned the original to his inside pocket.
He phoned Ashimov on his coded mobile and found him at the Royal George with Greta. “Just reporting in. Bell got back without incident?”
“Yes. What’s happening there?”
Levin brought him up to date. “I’m just about to go out and start sniffing around.”
“Yes, do that,” Ashimov told him.
“Frankly, I’ve not been impressed with the way things went here. It may have suited Bell, but if that’s the best the IRA can do, they’re a bunch of clodhoppers. The way Fitzgerald disposed of that girl was ridiculous and unnecessary.”
“We’re in the death business, Igor, there’s no time for finesse.”
He switched off and Greta Novikova said, “Trouble?”
“Just Igor sounding off. He isn’t impressed with the IRA.”
“Well, that’s all right,” Greta told him. “Neither am I.”
In his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson sat with Rabbi Julian Bernstein and Blake Johnson. Dillon sat on the windowsill. There was a knock at the door and Hannah’s father, Arnold Bernstein, came in.
“Sorry I’m late. I had an operation.”
“That’s all right,” Ferguson said. “Carry on, Rabbi.”
“Well, as you know, a Jewish body should not be desecrated by an autopsy, and should be buried within the twenty-four-hour window. But an expert rabbi may determine otherwise in exceptional circumstances. I have made a judgment, and in view of the murder of the young nurse and the circumstances surrounding Hannah’s death, I believe it is necessary to establish exactly what happened. With the blessing of my son, I give my permission for the autopsy.”
“I know how difficult this must be for you, but I’m most grateful. I’ll phone Professor Langley now.”
It was raining hard, so Levin wore a raincoat and trilby hat and carried a black umbrella. The Church Street Mortuary was surprisingly busy, with quite a number of cars outside. It was an aging building, probably Victorian, like many in that part of London, with the look of being a rather shabby old-fashioned school.
Inside it was well decorated and surprisingly pleasant, with two girls behind the reception desk and a number of people milling around, apparently reporters.
“Come on, Gail,” a young man said to one of the receptionists. “So was the Killane woman murdered or wasn’t she? What’s all the mystery?”
“I can’t tell you that,” the girl named Gail said. “All I know is that Professor Langley’s on another case.”
“Is there a link?”
“That’s not for me to say.”
She moved away, leaving the other girl in charge, as Ferguson, Dillon, the Bernsteins and Blake came in. Levin recognized all of them from their files.
Ferguson announced himself.
“Oh, this way, gentlemen.”
She led them through to the back corridor and they disappeared through a door. The young reporter said disconsolately, “Nobody ever tells you a thing. I’ll get hell at the office.”
He took out a cigarette and Levin gave him a light. “Who are you with?”
“
“
They found Langley in a room lined with white tiles, fluorescent lights making everything look harsh and unreal. There were steel operating tables and Hannah Bernstein lay on top of one of them. She looked calm, eyes closed, the top of her head covered, blood seeping through a little. In turn, both the Bernsteins leaned over and kissed her forehead. Ferguson said, “Forgive me, Professor, but will you confirm what you told me on the telephone?”
“Yes. In my opinion, Hannah Bernstein was murdered. Her heart was in a poor state anyway, but I’ve found traces of the drug Dazone in her system, a drug which had not been part of her medications at Rosedene; I’ve checked on that. Recently introduced into her system, and in overdose quantity.”
There was a dreadful silence, then Ferguson said, “You will appreciate the significance of this to the Mary Killane case.”
“I’m afraid so. I’ve never had much faith in coincidence. I’ve been told the time Killane gave Hannah her medication. The Dazone kicks in in half an hour at the most, which fits into the time scale of Killane’s murder.”
“Well, it saves one trial in the matter,” Ferguson said. “Now we have to find out who shot Killane. She has an IRA connection.”
“What happens now?” Dillon demanded.
“I invoke the Official Secrets Act and put the matter before a Special Crown Coroner. He’ll give what’s called a closed court order. No jury necessary. A burial order will also be issued, and you, Rabbi, may bury your granddaughter. All that will take place quickly. You may alert your undertaker. I can’t say how sorry we all are.”
“May she rest in peace.”
The response from Dillon was uncontrollable. “Well, I’m damned if I will.” He turned and brushed past the young receptionist, Gail, who had been standing at the door, and went out.
Dillon went through the crowd, angry beyond belief, pushing against Levin, who said, “Hey, watch it, old man.”
Dillon shook his head. “Sorry.” He pushed on and went out into the rain.
Levin waited and the young reporter said, “Something’s going on.”
Ferguson and the others emerged, pushed through the crowd and went out, and the receptionist appeared.
“What was all that about, Gail?” the young reporter asked.
“Don’t be daft. We have our ethics here. Anyway, it’s more than my job’s worth to talk to you.”
“Useless bitch.”
“Thanks very much,” she said, as she pulled on her coat.
Levin said to the young reporter loud enough for her to hear, “You shouldn’t speak to a lady like that. It’s not on.”
She flashed him a smile of gratitude, said to the other receptionist, “I’m going for my break,” and went out.
Levin followed. She hesitated on the step, faced by the pouring rain, and he put up his umbrella. It took a Russian, schooled at one of London’s greatest public schools, to sound so charming, and it had just the right rough edge to it.
“Some people just have no manners, but to speak to a lady like that…” He shook his head. “I should have punched him in the mouth.”
“Oh, he’s just stupid, but thanks for being so nice.”
“I don’t know where you’re going, but you’ll get soaked without my umbrella. Where
“Oh, the Grenadier pub. I’m on a half shift until nine tonight, so I have sandwiches and a coffee there.”
“What a coincidence – I was going to call in there myself. Shall we go together?”
He shielded her from the heavy rain, an arm slightly around her waist. “Are you a reporter, too?” she asked.
“So they tell me.” They reached the pub. “Come on, in we go.” It was still early and there was plenty of room.
