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?”
“Northern Echo. What about you?”
“Evening Standard. We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
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
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?”
“Northern Echo. What about you?”
“Evening Standard. We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
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
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