'Brigadier Ferguson? I'm George Harrison, Lady Helen's nephew.'

'Of course. You're taking over as chief executive of all the family business interests?'

Harrison was actually crying. 'She was a great woman, just great. She used to come over to Boston when I was a kid. We all loved her.'

'These are colleagues of mine, Superintendent Bernstein, Sean Dillon and Blake Johnson from the White House.'

Harrison stared. 'The White House?'

'I'm here as the President's personal representative,' Blake said. 'He's sent a wreath.'

'My God, I don't know what to say.' Harrison got his handkerchief out. 'I guess I'd better get back to my wife.'

Dillon was not a religious man. He remembered the Roman Catholic church in County Down in Ulster as a boy – incense, candles and the holy water, the uncle he'd had who was a priest and too good for this world – but standing at the back of that old English church, the service meant very little to him. The hymns, the organ music, the eulogy on Helen Lang's life by the clergyman seemed to make no sense. Strange, like Dillon, she was a Catholic, but the Lang family was not. Yet at the end, what difference did it make?

He was happy to get out, stood at the side of the path in the rain and lit a cigarette. For the moment, he'd lost the others and Hedley appeared with a large black umbrella.

'Another cliche, Hedley,' Dillon told him. 'A funeral and the rain pouring down.'

'You sound angry, Mr Dillon.'

'I just feel she deserved better.'

'You got that bastard for her.'

'The one good thing.'

They stood to one side as the bearers emerged from the church with the coffin and moved towards the part of the churchyard where the Lang family mausoleum was.

'A hell of a woman,' Hedley said. 'You know what she did for me?'

'Tell me.'

'The lawyer phoned this week. One million pounds in her will and her house in South Audley Street.'

Dillon tried to find the right words. 'She loved you, Hedley, she wanted to take care of you.'

'It's only money, Mr Dillon.' There were tears in Hedley's eyes. 'Only money, and what good is that, when you come down to it?'

Dillon patted his shoulder as the coffin moved on and they followed with the crowd, and when he turned, Ferguson, Bernstein and Blake were with them.

The coffin went into the mausoleum, the vicar spoke, the bronze doors closed, the rain was relentless. Already a new plaque was here beneath the one that said, Major Peter Lang, MC, Scots Guards, Special Air Service Regiment 1966-1996. Rest in Peace. It said, Helen Lang, Greatly Loved, Died 1999.

Hedley said to Dillon, 'I suggested that, as there was no one else here. I knew she wouldn't want anything fancy.'

'Remarkable,' Ferguson said. 'A wreath from both the British Prime Minister and the President of the United States. You don't see that every day.'

The crowd started to disperse, they walked down to the church parking lot. There was an American Air Force limousine there, a uniformed sergeant at the wheel.

'Straight back, Blake?' Dillon asked.

'I've got work to do, my fine Irish friend, you know how it is.'

'Oh, I do.'

'Goodbye, Brigadier.' Blake shook hands, kissed Hannah, got in the rear of the limousine and was driven away.

People dispersed, the cars drove away. Ferguson said, 'That's it, then.'

They walked to the Daimler, the driver opened the rear door and they got in, Dillon taking a jump seat opposite Hannah and Ferguson. He pulled the glass panel behind him closed.

'Do you ever feel tired, my love?' he asked Hannah. 'Really tired?'

'I know, Sean, I know.'

The Daimler moved away. 'So now what?' Dillon asked.

'There are still problems, Dillon,' Ferguson told him. 'The Middle East, Africa, Bosnia.' He shrugged. 'Only the Irish dimension has changed, with the peace process working.'

'Brigadier, if you believe that, you'll believe anything.'

Dillon leaned back, folded his arms and closed his eyes.