“And who would that be?”

“Billy Salter, a well-known gangster. His uncle, Harry, has been one of the most important guvnors in the East End for years. Gone legit now – supposedly. He’s big in property development by the Thames. They’re very thick with Dillon.”

“So it would seem.”

“The thing is, the Rashids got their hands on Billy at the end of that business in Hazar. Kate Rashid went crazy. Shot Salter a few times. In the back, if you follow me.”

“And Dillon wasn’t pleased?”

“No, and neither was the countess. Dauncey told us she wanted us to jump him in London, sling him in the back of the van and drive him down to Dauncey Place to take care of him proper.”

“And this was when?”

“The night before she flew off in that plane.”

Marco nodded. “Let me guess. Dillon got the drop on you?”

“That’s right,” Cook said.

“Taunted us, really,” Newton said. “Told us to tell Dauncey he’d be seeing him soon.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, I did, and not because I’d much time for Dauncey. It was just that I liked to think he might be able to sort Dillon out if he appeared.”

“So Dillon probably turned up in the early hours of the morning when she flew out.”

“I’d say so.”

“It didn’t occur to you to notify the police of any of this after you read about the crash?”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Newton said. “Whatever went on here wasn’t the kind of thing we wanted to get involved with.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“That’s it.”

Marco pushed the briefcase a little closer. “Then this is yours.” He stood and pulled on his trench coat. “Nine o’clock, Monday morning, report to the Rashid security division. Ask for Taylor. I’ll tell him to expect you.”

Newton looked at Cook, uncertain. “I’m not so sure. I mean, Dillon…”

“Leave Dillon to me. On the other hand, if you’d rather stay working as bouncers at some third-rate nightclub, feel free.”

Newton stood up and said hurriedly, “No, we’re with you, Mr. Rossi.”

Which bound them to him and suited him perfectly.

“In fact, you could take the rest of the day off and do me a favor. Dillon has a cottage in a place called Stable Mews.”

Newton glanced at Cook. “Yes, we know it.”

“Hang around outside. See where he goes. Follow him.” He took out a card. “My mobile number is on that. If there’s anything interesting, give me a call.”

Within fifteen minutes of arriving at Stable Mews, Newton and Cook saw Dillon drive out of the garage in a Mini Cooper and followed him. Twenty minutes later, they reached Harley Street and saw Dillon park, and walk up steps to a door, a brass plate beside it, and go in.

“I’ll go,” Newton said.

He checked the plate, frowned and came back to the car, then called Rossi on his mobile. “It says Professor the Reverend Susan Haden-Taylor, Clinical Psychiatrist.”

“And he’s still in there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come straight around.”

A moment later, Dillon emerged, but didn’t return to his car. Instead, he went down the street, turned the corner and crossed the road to a church. Newton saw him go inside, paused, then crossed the road himself. He phoned Rossi, who was in his car.

“He’s gone round the corner to a church called St. Paul’s, and get this – the priest’s name on the notice board is the same as the psychiatrist’s.”

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” Rossi told him and switched off.

Now what in the hell was Dillon up to?

The church was Victorian and smelled of damp, also of burning candles and incense. It was a dark and secret place, only the altar glowing in candlelight, a statue of the Virgin and Child to one side. It was old-fashioned Church of England, but it always took Dillon back to his Roman Catholic childhood and the Jesuits who’d had a hand in his education.

“Remember, wee Sean,” he said. “One corruption is all corruption. By the small things shalt thou know them.” And how many times had that helped him over the years? Of course, in the end, it meant you didn’t trust anybody.

The vestry door was closed. He listened to the murmur of voices, sighed and sat in one of the pews, thinking of Kate Rashid. “Two churches in one day, old son. This could get to be a habit.”

Behind him, Marco Rossi slipped in cautiously through the open door, saw him, faded into the darkness at the rear and sank onto a rush-bottomed chair behind a pillar in the corner. After a while the vestry door opened and a young girl emerged, crying a little. Professor Susan Haden-Taylor was with her, a calm, pleasant woman in a clerical collar and a cassock. She put an arm round the girl, who was carrying a bag.

“Off you go, Mary. They’re expecting you. St. Paul’s Hospice, Sloan Street. Stay as long as you like. We’ll sort it out together. God bless.”

“And God bless you, Reverend.”

The girl moved out. Professor Haden-Taylor didn’t notice Dillon in the gloom of the other side of the aisle, picked up a broom from somewhere, went to the altar and started to sweep the floor.

“If it’s not one thing, it’s another with you,” Dillon said. “Comforting the weak and then brushing the bloody floor.”

She paused, turned and saw him. “Seventeen, Sean, that’s all, and with no one to help her. And she’s not weak. She’s just been diagnosed with breast cancer.”

“God dammit,” he exploded. “Me and my big mouth.”

“It’s your nature,” she said calmly.

“God, I feel rotten. Can I help? Could I give you a check?”

“Easily done, Sean. After all, you’re a rich man. All that money for a wicked deed. Trying to see off the Prime Minister…” She smiled like an angel. “But I’ll take the check. The hospice needs to have the central heating refurbished and some plumbing work in the kitchen.”

“It’s the hard woman you are, but it’s a deal.”

“Excellent.” She sat in a pew two rows away, facing him. “Not that it will do your immortal soul much good, mark you. You can have a cigarette if you want. God won’t mind.”

“The decent ould stick he is.” Dillon lit up. “So now what? A final debriefing, Ferguson said. I thought I’d covered everything.”

“I just want you to cover it again.”

“Why?”

“It’s called catharsis, Sean. A kind of mental outpouring which could be good for you. That’s an unlocking of things you’ve been turning away from.”

“Like thirty years with the IRA? All the killing? You’ve got to be joking.”

“All right. Your conflict with the Rashids. You killed all three brothers.”

“Who were trying to kill me.”

“You ruined Kate Rashid’s plans and she tried to kill Billy Salter. You came back to London angry and she tried to have you kidnapped.”

“You’ve heard all this.”

“And I want to hear it again. Tell me everything.”

“All right. I told the guys I jumped to tell Rupert Dauncey I’d be calling in at Dauncey Place in the early hours of the morning.”

“How did you feel?”

“Well, I armed myself to the teeth and drove down from London. Ferguson hadn’t ordered it. This was me.” He lit another cigarette and drifted into the past. “I liked Kate Rashid, always did, but she was barking mad, responsible for too much blood, and Billy was the last straw.” In a way he ignored her, thinking back. “I always told myself, the IRA, all the killing, was because my father was killed in the crossfire of a firefight between Provos and Brit paratroopers in Belfast, but driving down that morning, in the darkness and rain, I remembered one of my favorite philosophers, Heidegger. For authentic living, he said, what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. So what if, for me, it’s been a mad game, constantly seeking death? Any psychiatrist worth their salt could have come up with that one.”

“Did you believe that?”

He smiled. “Not really. Only as a motivation.”