Angel of Death

The phone went dead. The night editor stared at it, frowning, then hurriedly dialled his emergency number to the Royal Ulster Constabulary.

Curry joined them in the bar at a corner table. They were drinking brandy and there was a glass for him.

Lang said, ‘You seem rather calm considering the circumstances.’

‘You mean why am I not crying and sobbing because I just killed a man?’ She shook her head. ‘He was a piece of filth. He deserved everything he got. I loathe people like that. When I was twelve I was driving back from a concert in Washington one night with my parents. We were attacked by armed thugs. My parents were killed.’

She sat staring down into her glass and Curry said gently, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You handled the gun surprisingly well,’ Lang said. ‘Have you had much training?’

She laughed. ‘One Hollywood movie, just one. I didn’t like it out there. There were a few scenes where I had to use a gun. They showed me how.’ She finished the brandy and raised the empty glass to the barman. ‘Three more.’ She smiled tightly. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but we do seem to be rather tied in together, don’t we?’

‘Yes, you could say that,’ Curry agreed.

She turned to Lang as the barman brought the brandies and waited until he’d gone. ‘You said in the car something about January 30 claiming credit. I’ve read about them. They’re some sort of terrorist group, aren’t they?’

‘That’s right,’ Lang said. ‘Of course, in this sort of case, revolutionaries and so on, all sorts of groups like to claim credit. Very useful fact of life. We’re just making sure somebody does.’

‘I’ve already spoken to the night desk at the Belfast Telegraph,’ Curry said. ‘By tomorrow, you’ll find the Ulster Freedom Fighters or the Red Hand of Ulster claiming credit, also. They’re Protestant Loyalist factions.’

‘But you’d prefer January 30 to get the credit?’ she said.

There was a moment of silence. It was Lang who said, ‘You’re a remarkably astute young woman. Is there a problem here?’

‘Not in the slightest. As I said, it would seem we’re tied together in this.’

‘Invisible bonds and all that.’

‘Exactly.’ She opened her handbag, took out a card and passed it to him. ‘That’s my address and phone number. Cheyne Walk. I’ll be back in London in twelve days. Perhaps we could meet?’

‘I think you can count on that.’

She stood up. ‘You’ll have to excuse me now. I have a matinee tomorrow.’

She walked out of the bar.

Curry said, ‘My God, what a woman.’

‘Yes, quite remarkable. You know, Tom, I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

When she put out the light and pulled up the covers, Grace Browning lay there, strangely calm, staring up through the darkness, looking for him, the shadowy figure with the gun in his hand, but he seemed to have gone. She closed her eyes and slept.

It was four weeks later that Rupert Lang received a call from her in response to a message he had left on her answering phone a week earlier.

‘Sorry I haven’t called you before,’ she said. ‘But some friends had a problem at Cross Little Theatre in the Lake District. They had a week unexpectedly vacant. Someone let them down so I went up and did my one-woman show.’

‘That sounds interesting.’

‘No big deal. Shakespeare’s heroines – that sort of thing.’

‘Can we meet? Tom’s in town. I thought we could have dinner.’

‘That sounds fine. You could come here for drinks first. Six-thirty suit you?’

‘Smashing. We’ll look forward to it.’

At the Cheyne Walk house she opened the door to them herself. She wore a deceptively simple Armani trouser suit in black crepe and her black hair was tied at the back of the neck with a velvet bow.

Rupert Lang took her hands. ‘You look fabulous.’

‘That’s a bit over the top,’ she said.

‘Not at all.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Don’t you think she looks fabulous, Tom?’

Curry took her hand briefly. ‘Don’t mind Rupert. Extravagant in everything.’

They went through into a panelled drawing room. It was furnished in Victorian style – dark velvet drapes at the windows, a basket fire on the hearth, four paintings by Atkinson Grimshaw on the walls.

‘My goodness, they’re worth a bob or two,’ Curry said as he inspected them.

She took a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and Rupert Lang moved in fast. ‘Allow me.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘my aunt loved Grimshaw, loved everything Victorian in fact. Lady Hunt, Martha Hunt. She raised me from the age of twelve when my parents were killed. This house was her pride and joy.’

Rupert Lang poured the champagne. ‘I remember her husband, Sir George Hunt. Merchant banker in the city. My father used to do business with him.’

‘He died before I arrived,’ she said, ‘and Martha only the other year.’

‘I’m truly sorry.’

She went and opened the French windows. A cold, February night outside, a slight drizzle, some fog and some barge traffic, their red and green lights clear in the murk as they passed down river.

‘I love the Thames at night.’

‘Heart of the city,’ Lang said. ‘Lovely to see you.’ He raised his glass. ‘Now, what shall we drink to?’

‘Why not January 30?’ she said. ‘I read about that in the Belfast Telegraph. I also noticed, just as you said, that some Protestant terrorist organizations also claimed credit.’ She moved to the fire and sat down in a wing-backed chair. ‘And those two thugs were IRA after all. There were details of their military funerals.’

Lang and Curry sat on the long sofa opposite her. ‘That’s right,’ Curry said. ‘Irish tricolour on the coffin, black beret and gloves neatly arranged.’