Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter

‘Of course. As you can see from the card, fund raiser for the Conservative Party. The Prime Minister will be looking in. There will be one unexpected guest.’

‘And who would that be, sir?’

He told them about Liam Bell. When he was finished he said, ‘He’ll just be a face in the crowd. Highly unlikely anyone would recognize him.’ He pushed a photo across. ‘There he is. No press release. He’ll arrive at six-fifteen. I’ll greet him when he comes in and take him to a private room where he and the PM will have a little chat. He has a house in Vance Square. I presume he’ll return there afterwards. He has an onward journey by private jet in the morning at seven o’clock from Gatwick so he’s hardly likely to go out on the town.’

‘And what would you like us to do, sir?’

‘Keep an eye on him, that’s all.’

‘Fine, sir,’ Hannah said. ‘We’ll see you there, then.’

She and Dillon went out and Ferguson opened a file and started to go through some papers.

Dillon arrived at the Park Lane entrance to the Dorchester at ten minutes to six. There was quite a crowd pressing to get in and he pushed his way through, taking off his navy blue Burberry trenchcoat to reveal a rather smart grey flannel suit by Yves St Laurent, with blue silk shirt and dark-blue tie. He saw Hannah Bernstein standing beside the uniformed security guards and she waved.

‘Here, give me your coat. I’ll put it with mine. Don’t use the cloakroom. It would take an hour to get it back.’ She turned to the head security guard. ‘He’s with me. Ministry of Defence.’

Dillon produced his ID card and the man nodded. ‘That’s fine, sir.’

They moved towards the entrance to the ballroom and found Ferguson standing talking to Rupert Lang.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Ferguson said and turned to Lang. ‘Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon. This is Rupert Lang, an Under-Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office.’

‘A pleasure, Chief Inspector.’ Lang took in her black silk trouser suit with obvious approval. ‘Mr Dillon.’ He didn’t hold out his hand. ‘Your fame precedes you.’

‘What you really mean is ill-fame,’ Dillon said cheerfully.

‘For God’s sake, Dillon, I can’t take you anywhere,’ Ferguson said. ‘Clear off and get yourself a drink while the going’s good and be back here in fifteen minutes.’

Dillon and Hannah pushed through the crowd to the champagne bar. ‘Not for me,’ she said.

‘Good God, girl, is it the Sabbath or something?’ He reached for one of the glasses of champagne and drank it down. ‘Of course, I was forgetting. You only drink kosher wine.’

‘I shall kick you very hard if you don’t behave yourself,’ she told him.

At that moment there was a flurry of movement at the entrance and they turned to see the Prime Minister enter, followed by several members of the Cabinet. The crowd parted and started to applaud. He smiled his acknowledgement and waved.

‘The great and the good and the not so good,’ Dillon said. ‘They’re all here.’

He turned to reach for another glass of champagne and saw Grace Browning and Tom Curry at the other end of the bar.

‘Jesus!’ he said, ‘Would you look who’s here?’

‘Who?’ Hannah asked.

‘Grace Browning and that professor fella from the Europa. I told you I spoke to her after you’d gone to bed. I’ll have a word with her.’

‘No you will not. It’s just on six-fifteen. We’re needed,’ and she turned and moved towards the entrance.

As they arrived, Ferguson was greeting Liam Bell, a tall, grey-haired man with a fleshy face who seemed to smile easily.

‘That’s real kind of you, Brigadier,’ he was saying as Ferguson took his coat.

Ferguson passed the coat to Dillon. ‘Sean Dillon, who is on my staff.’

‘A good Irish name.’ Liam Bell held out his hand and Dillon warmed to him.

‘And Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein.’

Bell smiled. ‘I’ve always approved of women police officers, but never more than now.’

Before she could reply Ferguson said, ‘The Prime Minister is waiting. I’ll take you to him.’ He nodded to Dillon and Hannah. ‘Be available.’

They moved off through the crowd. Dillon said, ‘Did you come in your car?’

‘Yes, I have priority parking right outside on the kerb.’

‘See what having great legs gets you?’

‘You offensive little jerk.’ She punched him in the side.

‘Only some of the time. Now let’s one of us have another drink.’

Grace Browning stood at the bar with Tom Curry and sipped a glass of Perrier.

‘You’re sure you don’t want a glass of champagne?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be silly, Tom, I have to perform, don’t I? What about transport?’

‘A black cab just for us, with one of Yuri’s boys at the wheel. He knows what we look like. He’ll be straight across the road the moment we appear.’

‘That seems all right.’

An arm went about her shoulder and Rupert Lang kissed her hair. ‘You’re looking rather delicious.’

‘Rupert darling.’ She kissed him on the mouth.

‘Stop trying to make Tom jealous,’ he said. ‘Bell has just arrived and Ferguson’s taken him to see the PM in a side room. You know what he looks like.’

‘Of course I do. I’ve been shown enough pictures.’

Yuri Belov moved out of the crowd, urbane and charming, a glass of champagne in one hand.

‘Hello, Colonel, good to see you,’ Rupert Lang said.

‘Mr Lang – Professor.’ Belov took Grace’s hand and kissed it. ‘Miss Browning, you look as charming as ever. You’re looking forward to your performance this evening?’

‘Of course.’