Читать книгу Thunder Point - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 14

In St John it was just after ten o’clock in the morning as Jenny Grant walked along the waterfront to the café and went up the steps and entered the bar. Billy was sweeping the floor and he looked up and grinned.

‘A fine, soft day. You heard from Mr Henry yet?’

‘Five hours time difference.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Just after three o’clock in the afternoon there, Billy. There’s time.’

Mary Jones appeared at the end of the bar. ‘Telephone call for you in the office. London, England.’

Jenny smiled instantly. ‘Henry?’

‘No, some woman. You take it, honey, and I’ll get you a cup of coffee.’

Jenny brushed past her and went into the office and Mary poured a little water into the coffee percolator. There was a sharp cry from inside the office. Billy and Mary glanced at each other in alarm then hurried in.

Jenny sat behind the desk looking dazed, clutching the phone in one hand and Mary said, ‘What is it, honey? Tell Mary.’

‘It’s a policewoman ringing me from Scotland Yard in London,’ Jenny whispered. ‘Henry’s dead. He was killed in a road accident.’

She started to cry helplessly and Mary took the phone from her. ‘Hello, are you still there?’

‘Yes,’ a neutral voice replied. ‘I’m sorry if the other lady was upset. There’s no easy way to do this.’

‘Sure, honey, you got your job to do.’

‘Could you find out where he was staying in London?’

‘Hang on.’ Mary turned to Jenny. ‘She wants to know the address he was staying at over there.’

So Jenny told her.

It was just before five and Travers, in response to a telephone call from Ferguson asking him to meet him, waited in the foyer of the mortuary in the Cromwell Road. The Brigadier came bustling in a few minutes later.

‘Sorry to keep you, Garth, but I want to expedite things. There has to be an autopsy for the coroner’s inquest and we can’t have that unless he’s formally identified.’

‘I’ve spoken to the young woman who lives with him, Jenny Grant. She’s badly shocked, but intends to fly over as soon as possible. Should be here tomorrow.’

‘Yes, well I don’t want to hang about.’ Ferguson took a folded paper from his inside breast pocket. ‘I’ve got a court order from a judge in chambers here which authorizes Rear-Admiral Garth Travers to make formal identification so let’s get on with it.’

A uniformed attendant appeared at that moment. ‘Is one of you gentlemen Brigadier Ferguson?’

‘That’s me,’ Ferguson told him.

‘Professor Manning is waiting. This way, sir.’

The post-mortem room was lit by fluorescent lighting that bounced off the white lined walls. There were four stainless-steel operating tables. Baker’s body lay on the nearest one, his head on a block. A tall thin man in surgeon’s overalls stood waiting flanked by two mortuary technicians. Travers noted with distaste that they all wore green rubber boots.

‘Hello, Sam, thanks for coming in,’ Ferguson said. ‘This is Garth Travers.’

Manning shook hands. ‘Could we get on, Charles? I have tickets for Covent Garden.’

‘Of course, old boy.’ Ferguson took out a pen and laid the form on the end of the operating table. ‘Do you Rear-Admiral Travers formally identify this man as Henry Baker, an American citizen of St John in the American Virgin Islands?’