“Don’t ask me, I’m not into philosophy. The thing is, Charles Ferguson and the Rashid family had a huge feud. You may have heard of how the three brothers came to a bad end? Dillon killed all of them.”

“And Kate Rashid?”

“Oh, he had something to do with that, too, and so did Ferguson and the Salters. Let’s put it this way. I’d like to cause them a lot of grief.”

“You mean of the permanent variety?”

“Not yet. First, a bit of mischief. I hear that Salter runs riverboats, amongst other things.”

“That’s right, up and down the river,” Murphy said. “ Westminster, Charing Cross piers, better than the bus.”

“Including a boat called the River Queen?”

“That’s his pride and joy. Originally built in the thirties. He’s spent a fortune refurbishing her,” Murphy said. “Lovely boat.”

“Excellent.” Marco turned to Gibson. “Sink her for me. Do that, and the deal arranged with Kate Rashid for your arms shipment goes through. Delivery at Drumgoole on the tenth.”

Derry looked astonished. “That’s only four days away.”

“The Mona Lisa’s already left Spain. I assumed you’d be a sensible man.”

Gibson laughed. “Oh, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rossi. As for this business with the Salters, that’ll be a pleasure, too.”

It was past midnight when Gibson and Murphy drove down to Wapping in a Land Rover, past The Dark Man and along Cable Wharf, where the River Queen was berthed. It was an area still undeveloped, mainly decaying warehouses. It was dark, a few lights on the other side, but no traffic on the river because of the hour. No one was around, or so it seemed.

Unfortunately, life being as uncertain as usual, there was a movement from one of a stack of packing cases, where an old drunk, a street person named Wally Brown, habitually kipped with his few wretched possessions. Disturbed by the noise, he crept out and listened.

“Jesus, Derry, I don’t like it.”

“Murphy, it’s as simple as hell. I go down through the engine-room hatch and open the sea-cocks. Water pours in and the boat sinks. Now, do as you’re told and we’ll be out of here before you know it. Fuck me up and you’ll end up in the river, too.”

“There’s no need for that, Derry.”

“Yes, well, this arms deal with Rossi means a lot to me. With that final arms shipment, I’ll be ready to take on the IRA for real. It’ll be just like the old days, the great days.”

“I’m your man, Derry, I won’t let you down.”

“Then let’s get on with it.”

They went up the gangplank to the River Queen, and Wally Brown, having heard everything, crept back and cowered inside his packing case.

Murphy stayed on deck to stand guard, Gibson slid back the engine-room hatch, only switching on his light when he’d descended the steel ladder. The engines were beautiful, everything was beautiful, and as an Irish boy raised in a fishing port, he felt genuine regret.

“What a beauty,” he said softly. “Still…”

He knew there would be at least four sea-cocks and checked them out, sturdy circular wheels in bronze. The first one turned very smoothly, then clicked to a halt. He hurriedly moved to the second. By the time he was working on the fourth, water was already sloshing along the floor of the engine room and he was ankle-deep.

He came out and joined Murphy. “You cast off forward and I’ll see to the stern line, quick now, then get ashore.”

They did that, then pulled up the gangplank and stood back from the edge of the wharf and watched the River Queen drift out a little and settle.

“A sad sight,” Gibson said, as water poured across the deck. “But we’ve done our worst. It’s me for the early morning flight to Belfast. If I need you, I’ll be in touch.”

“I know one thing,” Murphy said, as he got into the Land Rover. “Harry Salter won’t be pleased.”

He wasn’t. Dillon, on his morning run, answered his mobile and heard Harry say, “Some damn bastard’s sunk the River Queen at her moorings.”

“What do you mean?” Dillon asked.

“Well, the bleeding boat didn’t just sink on her own! Billy’s got his scuba-diving gear out. He’s going down to take a look.”

“Ah, Harry, he shouldn’t be doing that, not after having been shot to hell in Hazar only a few months ago. I’ll come straight down.”

He switched off, thought about it and then rang Ferguson at Cavendish Place.

At the end of Cable Wharf, he found Harry, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall looking across at the part of the River Queen that was sticking out of the water. Billy’s Shogun was parked nearby, the rear door open to reveal various items of diving equipment and a couple of air bottles.

“Where’s Billy?” Dillon said, as he got out of the Mini.

“He’s been down there for fifteen minutes.”

“Dammit, Harry, he shouldn’t have gone down there. Leave it to the salvage experts.”

Then two things happened. Ferguson and Hannah arrived, and Billy surfaced. He slipped off his air bottle and Dillon reached for it. Billy started up the ladder to the wharf and Baxter and Hall pulled him up. Billy took off his mask, his face blue with cold.

“You bloody idiot,” Dillon said.

“Well, I learned it from you. It was the sea-cocks, all four of them were wide open. I’ve closed them. It was hard going.”

Dillon said, “The salvage people will need to pump her out. She’ll float again.”

“Which leaves us with the problem of who did this.”

There was a pause, and then a quavery old drink-sodden voice said, “I know, Mr. Salter. I saw them, I heard them.”

It was Joe Baxter who said, “Wally Brown. He dosses down in the packing cases.”

“And you heard them?” Harry demanded.

“Yes. One of them was called Murphy, but the one in charge was called Derry. That’s what the other kept calling him and they spoke funny, Irish but not Irish.” He pointed at Dillon. “Come to think of it, they talked like him.”

Ferguson said, “ Derry, and talks like you, Dillon. Northern Irish.”

Hannah said, “Could that be Derry Gibson, the Red Hand of Ulster?”

“Back to haunt me. But why?” Dillon said.

“The Derry guy mentioned someone called Rossi?” old Wally put in.

The silence was astonishing. “I’ll kill him,” Harry said. “I’ll kill the bleeder.”

“No, you won’t, Harry, or not yet,” Ferguson said. “We’ll go back to The Dark Man. Thank you, Mr. Brown. That’s been most helpful. Did you hear anything else?”

They all sat in the corner booth. Dora, the barmaid, provided tea and coffee. Harry and Billy Salter, Ferguson, Hannah and Dillon sat at the table. Baxter and Sam Hall leaned against the wall.

“They’ve declared open warfare,” Harry said.

“True.” Dillon nodded. “But if you’ll excuse me, Harry, the most important thing is that Rossi has struck a deal to deliver arms to Derry Gibson.” Wally Brown was devouring bacon and eggs at a corner table.

“So, according to Wally, Murphy was unhappy about sinking the boat and Derry threatened him. He said the deal with Rossi, the final arms shipment, would be the one he could use to take on the IRA again.”

“So what do you suggest?” Ferguson said.

“I wouldn’t bother with the Baron or Rossi again. I’m going to have words with Pat Murphy.”

“You talk to that bastard, I’m going with you,” Harry Salter said.

Ferguson nodded. “Try not to leave him floating in the Thames, Dillon.”

“Don’t be silly, Charles, if he’s been fronting in London for Derry Gibson and the Red Hand, he’ll be far too valuable to waste.”

At South Audley Street, Marco sat with his father and told him what had happened. The Baron found it rather amusing.

“Oh, the great Harry Salter will not be pleased at all. But this other business. The Mona Lisa, the arms shipment. Is this wise?”