The Judas Gate by Jack Higgins Page B

stood to one side of a huge staircase rising to a railed gallery above. There was a study, a library, a drawing room, and then, in the centre, a Victorian glass doorway misting over with the heat. Jean Talbot opened it and Justin followed her in.
    It was a Victorian jungle, and quite delightful if you liked that sort of thing. Green vines and bushes and exotic flowers everywhere, medium-sized palm trees, the sound of waterfrom a white-and-black tiled fountain; it ended in a circular area with a statue of Venus on a plinth.
    Colonel Henry Talbot sat in his wheelchair, wearing a robe, a white towel around his neck. His grey hair was so sparse that, with the sweat, one could imagine he was bald. A brandy decanter was on the ironwork table beside him and a glass that was a quarter full.
    Sitting at a cane table on the other side of the circle was Murphy, the nurse. His head was shaven and he resembled a Buddha in a way; the face very calm, very relaxed, as he sat there in a white coat and read a book.
    The heat was incredible and Justin said, ‘How can anybody stand this?’
    Murphy stood up. ‘Is there anything I can do, Madam?’
    ‘How is he?’ she raised her voice so that he could hear.
    He came forward. ‘A little calmer, I think.’
    Colonel Henry turned his head and examined her. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he demanded, and glanced at Justin. ‘And who’s this?’
    ‘It’s your grandson, Father,’ she said.
    The man resembled nothing so much as a ghoul with his hollow cheeks and rheumy eyes, as he glared at Justin, his right hand clutching a blackthorn walking stick. Then something sparked in the eyes.
    ‘The bastard,’ he cackled. ‘The Protestant bastard.’
    ‘Please, Father,’ she started to say, and he tried to strike out at her with the blackthorn. She managed to jump out of the way, and Murphy blocked the blow with his right arm.
    ‘That’s it,’ Justin said. ‘I’m out of here. I’m going to havea shower and change into something comfortable. I sincerely hope that I’m not expected to eat with him, because I won’t, I’ll have it in the kitchen.’ He turned and walked out.
    Nine-thirty on a weekday night wasn’t the busiest time in most London pubs, and the Dark Man on Cable Wharf by the Thames at Wapping was no exception. Harry Salter still had a weakness for the place, for it was where he had started out all those years ago, when he’d realized that more money could be made in business than crime, and you didn’t have to constantly run the chance of going down the steps at the Old Bailey for twenty years.
    He’d invited everybody round for drinks and supper, Dora’s hotpot if they were lucky, and that included Roper. Dillon would be bringing him in the back of the people carrier from Holland Park. Holley got a cab from the Dorchester and arrived just after they did, paid the driver off, then walked to the edge of the wharf and looked across the Thames as a riverboat passed by, ablaze with lights.
    He was standing in a place of dark shadows beyond the lights from the pub, and was turning to go, when he saw three young men in track suits jog down from the direction of Wapping High Street. They moved apart, one of them turning into the car park, two of them running along the jetty to where Salter’s boat, the Linda Jones, was tied up. A few moments later, the one from the car park emerged and went to join the others as they ran back to join him.
    Holley regarded them for a moment and then dismissedthem, and went into the Dark Man. The Salters sat in their usual corner booth, with Dillon and Harry’s two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, lounging at the bar. Roper sat facing them in his state-of-the-art wheelchair in his favourite reefer coat, his long hair framing the bomb-scarred face.
    ‘Here he is,’ Harry said. ‘The guy who planned to have us burned down.’
    ‘Well, it didn’t work, did it?’ Holley said.
    ‘I won’t mention it again, old son. Bygones are bygones as far