He had little formal education but he was a shrewd, clever man with the ability to cut through to the heart of things, and this, coupled with an extensive knowledge of human nature gained from a thousand long, hard Saturday nights on the town, had made him a good policeman.

He had no conscious thought or even desire to help society. His job was in the main to catch thieves, and society consisted of the civilians who sometimes got mixed up in the constant state of guerrilla warfare which existed between the police and the criminal. If anything, he preferred the criminal. At least you knew where you were with him.

But Dandy Jack Meehan was different. One corruption was all corruption, he'd read that somewhere and if it applied to any human being, it applied to Meehan.

Miller loathed him with the kind of obsessive hate that was in the end self-destructive. To be precise, ten years of his life had gone to Dandy Jack without the slightest hint of success. Meehan had to be behind the Krasko killing, that was a fact of life. The rivalry between the two men had been common knowledge for at least two years.

For the first time in God knows how long he'd had a chance and now, the priest . . .

When he got into the rear of the car he was shaking with anger, and on a sudden impulse he leaned across and told his driver to take him to the headquarters of Meehan's funeral business. Then he sat back and tried to light his pipe with trembling fingers.

5

Dandy Jack

Paul's Square was a green lung in the heart of the city, an acre of grass and flower-beds and willow trees with a fountain in the centre surrounded on all four sides by Georgian terrace houses, most of which were used as offices by barristers, solicitors or doctors and beautifully preserved.

There was a general atmosphere of quiet dignity and Meehan's funeral business fitted in perfectly. Three houses on the north side had been converted to provide every possible facility from a flower shop to a Chapel of Rest. A mews entrance to one side gave access to a car park and garage area at the rear surrounded by high walls so that business could be handled as quietly and as unobtrusively as possible, a facility which had other uses on occasion.

When the big Bentley hearse turned into the car park shortly after one o'clock, Meehan was sitting up front with the chauffeur and Billy. He wore his usual double-breasted melton overcoat and Homburg hat and a black tie for he had been officiating personally at a funeral that morning.

The chauffeur came round to open the door and Meehan got out followed by his brother. 'Thanks, Donner,' he said.

A small grey whippet was drinking from a dish at the rear entrance. Billy called, 'Here, Tommy!' It turned, hurled itself across the yard and jumped into his arms.

Billy fondled its ears and it licked his face frantically. 'Now then, you little bastard,' he said with genuine affection.

'I've told you before,' Meehan said. 'He'll ruin your coat. Hairs all over the bloody place.'

As he moved towards the rear entrance, Varley came out of the garage and stood waiting for him, cap in hand. A muscle twitched nervously in his right cheek, his forehead was beaded with sweat. He seemed almost on the point of collapse.

Meehan paused, hands in pockets and looked him over calmly. 'You look awful, Charlie. You been a bad lad or something?'

'Not me, Mr Meehan,' Vatley said. 'It's that sod, Fallon. He ...'

'Not here, Charlie,' Meehan said softly. 'I always like to hear bad news in private.'

He nodded to Donner who opened the rear door and stood to one side. Meehan went into what was usually referred to as the receiving-room. It was empty except for a coffin on a trolley in the centre.

He put a cigarette in his mouth and bent down to read the brass nameplate on the coffin.

'When's this for?'

Donner moved to his side, a lighter ready in his hand. 'Three-thirty, Mr Meehan.'

He spoke with an Australian accent and had a slightly twisted mouth, the scar still plain where a hair lip had been cured by plastic surgery. It gave him a curiously repellent appearance, modified to a certain extent by the hand-tailored, dark uniform suit he wore.

'Is it a cremation?'

Donner shook his head. 'A burial, Mr Meehan.'

Meehan nodded. 'All right, you and Bonati better handle it. I've an idea I'm going to be busy.'

He turned, one arm on the coffin. Billy leaned against the wall, fondling the whippet. Varley waited in the centre of the room, cap in hand, the expression on his face that of a condemned man waiting for the trap to open beneath his feet at any moment and plunge him into eternity.

'All right, Charlie,' Meehan said. 'Tell me the worst.'

Varley told him, the words falling over themselves in his eagerness to get them out. When he had finished, there was a lengthy silence. Meehan had shown no emotion at all.

'So he's coming here at two o'clock?'

'That's what he said, Mr Meehan.'

'And the van? You took it to the wrecker's yard like I told you?'

'Saw it go into the crusher myself, just like you said.'

Varley waited for his sentence, face damp with sweat. Meehan smiled suddenly and patted him on the cheek. 'You did well, Charlie. Not your fault things went wrong. Leave it to me. I'll handle it.'

Relief seemed to ooze out of Varley like dirty water. He said weakly, 'Thanks, Mr Meehan. I did my best. Honest I did. You know me.'

'You have something to eat,' Meehan said. 'Then get back to the car wash. If I need you, I'll send for you.'

Varley went out. The door closed. Billy giggled as he fondled the whippet's ears. 'I told you he was trouble. We could have handled it ourselves only you wouldn't listen.'

Meehan grabbed him by the long white hair, the boy cried out in pain, dropping the dog. 'Do you want me to get nasty, Billy?' he said softly. 'Is that what you want?'

'I didn't mean any harm, Jack,' the boy whined.

Meehan shoved him away. 'Then be a good boy. Tell Bonati I want him, then take one of the cars and go and get Fat Albert.'

Billy's tongue flicked nervously between his lips. 'Albert?' he whispered. 'For God's sake, Jack, you know I can't stand being anywhere near that big creep. He frightens me to death.'

'That's good,' Meehan said. 'I'll remember that next time you step out of line. We'll call Albert in to take you in hand.' He laughed harshly. 'Would you like that?'

Billy's eyes were wide with fear. 'No, please, Jack,' he whispered. 'Not Albert.'

'Be a good lad, then.' Meehan patted his face and opened the door. 'On your way.'

Billy went out and Meehan turned to Donner with a sigh. 'I don't know what I'm going to do with him, Frank. I don't really.'

'He's young, Mr Meehan.'

'All he can think about is birds,' Meehan said. 'Dirty little tarts in mini skirts showing all they've got.' He shivered in genuine disgust. 'I even found him having it off with the cleaning woman one afternoon. Fifty-five if she was a day - and on my bed.'

Donner kept a diplomatic silence and Meehan opened an inner door and led the way through into the Chapel of Rest. The atmosphere was cool and fresh thanks to air-conditioning, and scented with flowers. Taped organ music provided a suitably devotional background.

There were half-a-dozen cubicles on either side. Meehan took off his hat and stepped into the first one. There were flowers everywhere and an oak coffin stood on a draped trolley.

'Who's this?'

'That young girl. The student who went through the windscreen of the sports car,' Donner told him.

'Oh yes,' Meehan said. 'I did her myself.'

He lifted the face cloth. The girl was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, the face so skilfully made up that she might only have been sleeping.