Edge of Danger

‘It would seem the Sultan of Hazar has just been assassinated.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘A remarkable coincidence, don’t you think?’

The Irishman lit a cigarette. ‘Oh, yes, remarkable.’ He blew out smoke. ‘I know one thing. I feel sorry for Igor Gatov.’

That evening, there was a function at the Dorchester, a political affair attended by the Prime Minister, and Ferguson, Bernstein and Dillon had been drafted for security, not without a little grumbling.

Dillon and the Superintendent moved in from the Park Lane entrance to the ballroom, checked all the arrangements and, satisfied, followed Ferguson through. And there at the bar was the Earl of Loch Dhu and his sister.

Ferguson said, ‘Talk about a bad penny. Hannah and I will continue with the security. See if there’s anything more you can find out, Dillon.’

Kate and Paul Rashid stood together, watching the crowd, as Dillon approached and said, ‘What a coincidence.’

‘I’ve never believed in coincidences, Mr Dillon,’ Paul Rashid told him. ‘Have you?’

‘Funny you should say that. Like you, I’m a cynic, but today –’

Just then, a young man interrupted. ‘My Lord, the Prime Minister would like a word.’

Rashid said to the Irishman, ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Dillon, our conversation will have to wait. However, I’d appreciate it if you’d see to my sister for me.’

‘It’d be an honour.’

Rashid walked away and Kate turned to Dillon. ‘Well, as long as you’re seeing to me, how about a fresh drink?’

Dillon was just turning to hand her a glass when a rather large man with a florid face appeared, and gave her a squeeze from behind. ‘Kate, my darling,’ he said in a booming voice.

Seeing he would have no chance to talk to her now, Dillon decided to leave – but managed to step on the man’s right foot as he moved away. The man let her go. ‘Damn you, you clumsy oaf.’

Dillon smiled. ‘So sorry.’ He bowed to Kate. ‘I’ll be in the Piano Bar.’

He walked through the main hotel to the Dorchester’s Piano Bar, where, since it was still early evening, it was quiet. Guiliano, the manager, greeted him warmly, for they were old friends.

‘Glass of champagne?’

‘Why not?’ Dillon said. ‘And I’ll give you a tune on the piano while you’re waiting for your man to turn up.’

He was well into a Gershwin melody when Kate Rashid appeared.

‘I see you’re a man of many talents.’

‘Good barroom piano is all it is, ma’am. What happened to the gentleman?’

‘The gentleman – and I use the term loosely – is Lord Gravely, a life peer who inhabits the House of Lords and does little good there.’

‘I wouldn’t think your brother would welcome his attention to you.’

‘That’s an understatement. Did you really need to stand on his foot?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, I’m glad. The man is an absolute pig. He’s always grabbing at me, groping me. The man just won’t take no for an answer. He deserves a sore foot, and a lot more besides.’

She picked up his glass of champagne and finished it off. ‘Anyway, I just came by to say thank you. Now I’d better be off. I asked for my car at seven.’

Seeing that there was to be no further conversation, Dillon smiled. ‘It’s been a sincere sensation.’

She walked out and Dillon came to the end of his tune and decided to follow her. He didn’t know why exactly, but there just seemed to be unfinished business.

He went out of the main door, turned right into Park Lane and found limousines picking up people from the reception at the ballroom entrance. Lady Kate Rashid was standing on the pavement, a shawl about her shoulders, and there, suddenly, was Lord Gravely again. He put his arm around her and pulled her close, whispering in her ear. She struggled and two things happened simultaneously. Paul Rashid’s Daimler coasted in to the kerb, with Rashid in the back, and as he scrambled out Dillon moved in on Gravely and screwed both fists into his kidneys. Gravely cried out and released Kate, and her brother pulled her away into the car. Gravely turned on Dillon in a fury and, pivoting, Dillon gave Gravely a reverse elbow strike to the mouth, whereupon his lordship slid down to the pavement.

As they were driven away, Rashid looked out of the rear window and saw Dillon melt into the crowd and a policeman approach Gravely. ‘A remarkable man, Dillon. I owe him one. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, brother, and I’m the one who owes him.’

‘You like him?’

‘Very much.’

‘I’ll have him checked out thoroughly.’

‘No, Paul, that I’ll do for myself.’

After a lawyers’ meeting the following morning, the two of them drove down to Dauncey Place. Paul had phoned ahead, so his brothers were there as well, and they’d given photos of Gatov to Betty Moody. Betty in turn had spoken to the locals.

When he saw her in the bar that evening, she gave him his usual glass of champagne and spoke in a low voice.

‘He’s in the village, Paul; arrived at lunchtime with a party from the Russian Embassy.’

‘Good.’ He savoured the champagne.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

I’m going to execute him, Betty,’ he told her and smiled over her sharp intake of breath.

Later that night, he spoke to his brothers in the Great Hall. Betty was there as well – she’d come up from the pub with last-minute information overheard from the local staff at Knotsley Hall: Gatov was leaving at eleven to drive overnight to London.

Paul Rashid told his brothers what he intended to do, but he’d purposely excluded Kate. ‘I don’t want her involved,’ he said. ‘This is men’s work.’

What he did not know was that Kate was on the minstrel gallery above, and listening. Furious, she was about to call out, but Betty appeared behind her and fastened a hand on her shoulder. ‘You mind your manners, girl. Your brothers are going in harm’s way. They don’t need you making it difficult for them.’

And Lady Kate Rashid, for the moment a child again, did as she was told.

That night, Igor Gatov drove around a corner of a narrow country lane and found a van tilted into a ditch and someone lying in the middle of the road. He got out of his BMW, walked forward and leaned over the figure on the ground. It was Paul Rashid, and he struck him across the neck.

He and his brothers wore black Special Forces overalls. Michael and Paul carried the semiconscious Gatov to the BMW and pushed him behind the wheel.

George went to the van, got in and reversed it out of the ditch. Paul Rashid took a bottle from his overalls and doused Gatov in petrol.

‘Fire purifies, so the Koran tells us,’ he said, then switched on the engine of the BMW and slipped off the handbrake. ‘It’s not much of an exchange for my mother, but it’s better than nothing.’