A Season in Hell. Jack Higgins

mother died when he was born. I understood that because I’d gone through the same pain. I understood him and he understood me.’

      ‘And now he’s gone. What happened?’

      She sat there thinking about it for a moment, then got her briefcase from under the seat, opened it and took out the buff envelope containing the material Villiers had sent over from London. ‘Read that.’

      She lit another cigarette and lay back in her seat while Barbera worked through the various papers. He didn’t say a word until he was finished. He carefully replaced the papers in the envelope and turned to her, his face like a stone.

      ‘Drugs,’ she said. ‘How could he? Heroin – cocaine.’

      ‘You told me earlier how you smoked pot back in the sixties. It’s an even worse problem for kids these days because it’s all so available.’

      ‘You would know, wouldn’t you?’ The words were out before she could take them back.

      He showed no anger. ‘Mrs Talbot, I’m an old-fashioned man. Sure, I was what you would term a gangster, but those I harmed tended to be my own kind. To me, other people were civilians. My family had business with the unions, gambling, prostitution, even booze during Prohibition, and these are human failings which everyone understands. But I tell you this. The Barbera family never took a penny on the drugs market. My grandson, Vito, in London, for example. We got three casinos there. Restaurants, betting shops.’ He shrugged. ‘How much does a man need?’

      ‘But Eric,’ she said. ‘I still don’t understand.’

      ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s a popular misconception that people on hard drugs are hooked by some pusher. The first fix is almost always offered by a friend. Probably he was at some student party the first time it happened. Had a few drinks …’

      ‘But afterwards,’ she said. ‘Afterwards came the pushers, the suppliers, all happy to keep the pot boiling. To destroy young people on the threshold of life, and for what? For money.’

      ‘To some people money is serious business, Mrs Talbot. But let’s leave that on one side. What do you intend to do about this? What do you want?’

      ‘Justice, I suppose.’

      He laughed harshly. ‘A rare commodity in this wicked world. Look, the law is a joke. You go to court, it goes on and on. The rich and powerful can buy anything they require because most men are corruptible.’

      ‘Then what would you do?’

      ‘It’s difficult for me. Spilled blood cries out for vengeance, that is the Sicilian way. My son dies, he must be avenged. It isn’t a question of choice. I have no choice. I can do no other.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re from a different world. Violence has never had any place in your life, I suspect.’

      ‘That’s true. I once saw a fist fight as we were driving through the Bronx, from my privileged position in the rear seat of a Cadillac.’

      He smiled bleakly. ‘That’s good, you can mock yourself. But now, there is something you must promise me you will do and it is essential.’

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘You must insist on seeing your son’s body.’ He raised a hand to stop her saying anything. ‘No matter how terrible an ordeal. Believe me, I know a great deal about death and of this I am certain. You must see for yourself, you must mourn, or you will be haunted for the rest of your life.’

      She nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’

      ‘And there is one more thing you must face up to. Something quite terrible.’

      ‘And what would that be?’

      ‘The French coroner’s verdict was clear. Accidental death by drowning under the influence of drugs and alcohol.’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘His body, Mrs Talbot, was a considerable convenience to those who used it. It occurs to me that it might have been more than a convenience that it was available at all.’

      She said flatly, ‘You’re actually suggesting that there was no accident to any of this?’ It was difficult for her to get the word out, but she forced herself. ‘That he was murdered.’

      ‘Please. It’s all been very convenient, that’s all I’m saying. I don’t wish to make things worse for you than they already are. I’ve lived in a harsh world for too many years. I tend to suspect the worst.’

      ‘I didn’t think it could be worse,’ she told him, her voice shaking with anger and the last vestiges of denial.

      ‘I may be wrong and, in any case, I’m sure the authorities would consider the possibility fully.’ He took out his wallet and extracted a card. ‘This is my grandson, Vito’s, address in London. I’ll speak of you to him. He’ll do anything he can. I myself don’t even leave the airport. I fly straight on to Palermo. I know it is unlikely, but if you are ever in Sicily, you will find me at my villa outside the village of Bellona in the Cammarate.’

      He took her hand and kissed it gently. ‘And now, my child, you need sleep.’

      She reached and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled, stood up and went back to his own seat. She switched off the light and lay there in the darkness thinking about what he had said. The suggestion that Eric’s death had not been accidental filled her with horror. She refused to accept it, pushed the thought away and after a while she did sleep, head pillowed on her arm as the plane droned on through the night.

      A journalist in Kent, alerted by a sympathetic friend in the local police force, sent a brief report of the affair to the Daily Mail in London. It recounted only what he knew. That a hearse had crashed on a Kent country road and had caught fire. There was also the mention that a body was involved. Details being understandably sketchy at that stage, it merited no more than a paragraph at the bottom of page three because of the macabre implication. In any event, the issue of the D-notice Ferguson had authorized meant that the story was deleted in later editions, but not before Eric Talbot’s identity had been revealed to the world.

      Jago had flown over on the breakfast plane from Paris and was at the service flat in Connaught Street close to Hyde Park by eleven o’clock. As he was unpacking, the phone rang.

      Smith said, ‘There’s a small item in the Daily Mail this morning. It seems the boy wasn’t what he seemed. His real name was Eric Talbot and he was a student at Cambridge.’

      ‘So he used an alias,’ Jago said. ‘That’s perfectly understandable. Why should it be a problem?’

      ‘Because he wasn’t a nobody after all,’ Smith told him. ‘I’ve made discreet enquiries with the porter at his college. Pretended to be a journalist. His grandfather’s a baronet, for Christ’s sake.’

      ‘Oh, dear me,’ Jago said, resisting the impulse to laugh out loud. ‘And who got us into this mess?’

      ‘A bitch in Cambridge called Greta Markovsky. She was a student too. A pusher. I’ve used her for a year now. I thought she was reliable.’

      It was the first hint of weakness Jago had ever noted in Smith. ‘But my experience of this wicked old world is that no one ever is. Where is Miss Markovsky to be found?’

      ‘It seems she overdosed badly on heroin two nights ago. She’s in some rehabilitation place outside Cambridge called Grantley Hall. A closed unit.’

      ‘Do you want me to do something about her?’

      ‘I don’t think it’s necessary, certainly not at this stage, and in any case, she’s never met me.’

      ‘Who has?’ Jago said.

      ‘Exactly.’

      ‘So what do you want me to do?’

      ‘There’s a coroner’s inquest at Canterbury at