The stench of that open grave was still in his nostrils. Just inside the main door to the chapel there was a toilet and he went inside and bathed his face and hands in cold water.

A pane of glass in the small window above the basin was missing and rain drifted through. He stood there for a moment, suddenly depressed. The open grave, the toeless feet protruding from the rotting coffin had been a hell of a start to the day and now this. A man came down to so little in the end. A handful of ashes.

When he went outside, Meehan was waiting for him. 'Well, that's it,' he said. 'Do you want to see another one?'

'Not if I can help it.'

Meehan chuckled. 'I've got two more this morning, but never mind. Varley can take you back to Jenny's place.' He grinned broadly. 'Not worth going out on a day like this unless you have to. I'd stay in if I were you. I mean, it could get interesting. She's a real little firecracker when she gets going is our Jenny.'

'I know,' Fallon said. 'You told me.'

He got into the rear seat of the limousine and Varley drove away. Instead of going down to the main gate, he followed a track that was barely wide enough for the car and round to the right through trees.

'I hope you don't mind, Mr Fallon, but it saves a good mile and a half this way.'

They came to a five-barred gate. He got out, opened it, drove through and got out to close the gate again. The main road was fifty yards farther on at the end of the track.

As they moved down towards the centre of the city, Fallon said, 'You can drop me anywhere here, Charlie.'

'But you can't do that, Mr Fallon. You know you can't,' Varley groaned. 'You know what Mr Meehan said. I've got to take you back to Jenny's place.'

'Well, you tell Mr Meehan, with my compliments, that he can do the other thing.'

They were moving along Rockingham Street now and as they came to the Holy Name, Fallon leaned over suddenly and switched off the ignition. As the car coasted to a halt, he opened the door, jumped out and crossed the road. Varley watched him go into the side entrance of the church, then drove rapidly away to report.

11

The Gospel according to Fallon

The Right Reverend Monsignor Canon O'Halloran, administrator of the pro-cathedral, was standing at his study window when Miller and Fitzgerald were shown in. He turned to greet them, moving towards his desk, leaning heavily on a stick, his left leg dragging.

'Good morning, gentlemen, or is it? Sometimes I think this damned rain is never going to stop.'

He spoke with a Belfast accent and Miller liked him at once and for no better reason than the fact that in spite of his white hair, he looked as if he'd once been a useful heavyweight fighter and his nose had been broken in a couple of places.

Miller said, 'I'm Detective-Superintendent Miller, sir. I believe you know Inspector Fitzgerald.'

'I do indeed. One of our Knights of St Columba stalwarts.' Monsignor O'Halloran eased himself into the chair behind the desk. 'The bishop is in Rome, I'm afraid, so you'll have to make do with me.'

'You got my letter, sir?'

'Oh yes, it was delivered by hand last night.'

'I thought that might save time.' Miller hesitated and said carefully, 'I did ask that Father da Costa should be present.'

'He's waiting in the next room,' Monsignor O'Halloran filled his pipe from an old pouch methodically. 'I thought I'd hear what the prosecution had to say first.'

Miller said, 'You've got my letter. It says it all there.'

'And what do you expect me to do?'

'Make Father da Costa see reason. He must help us in this matter. He must identify this man.'

'If your supposition is correct, the Pope himself couldn't do that, Superintendent,' Monsignor O'Halloran said calmly. 'The secret nature of the confessional is absolute.'

'In a case like this?' Miller said angrily. 'That's ridiculous and you know it.'

Inspector Fitzgerald put a restraining hand on his arm, but Monsignor O'Halloran wasn't in the least put out. He said mildly, 'To a Protestant or a Jew, or indeed to anyone outside the Catholic religion, the whole idea of confession must seem absurd. An anachronism that has no place in this modern world. Wouldn't you agree, Superintendent?'

'When I consider this present situation then I must say I do,' Miller told him.

'The Church has always believed confession to be good for the soul. Sin is a terrible burden and through the medium of confession people are able to relieve themselves of that burden and start again.'

Miller stirred impatiently, but O'Halloran continued in the same calm voice. He was extraordinarily persuasive. 'For a confession to be any good as therapy, it has to be told to someone, which is where the priest comes in. Only as God's intermediary, of course, and one can only expect people to unburden themselves when they know that what they say is absolutely private and will never be revealed on any account.'

'But this is murder we're talking about, Monsignor,' Miller said. 'Murder and corruption of a kind that would horrify you.'

'I doubt that.' Monsignor O'Halloran laughed shortly and put another match to his pipe. 'It's a strange thing, but in spite of the fact that most people believe priests to be somehow cut off from the real world, I come face to face with more human wickedness in a week than the average man does in a lifetime.'

'Very interesting,' Miller said, 'but I fail to see the relevance.'

'Very well, Superintendent. Try this. During the last war, I was in a German prisoner-of-war camp where escape plans were constantly being frustrated because somebody was keeping the German authorities informed of every move that was made.' He heaved himself up out of his seat and hobbled to the window. 'I knew who it was, knew for months. The man involved told me at confession.'

'And you did nothing?' Miller was genuinely shocked.

'Oh, I tried to reason with him privately, but there was nothing else I could do. No possibility of my even hinting to the others what was going on.' He turned, a weary smile on his face. 'You think it easy carrying that kind of burden, Superintendent? Let me tell you something. I hear confessions at the cathedral regularly. Not a week passes that someone doesn't tell me something for which they could be criminally liable at law.'

Miller stood up. 'So you can't help us then?'

'I didn't say that. I'll talk to him. Hear what he has to say. Would you wait outside for a few minutes?'

'Certainly, but I'd like to see him again in your presence before we leave.'

'As you wish.'

They went out and Monsignor O'Halloran pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. 'I'll see Father da Costa now.'

It was a bad business and he felt unaccountably depressed in a personal sense. He stared out at the rainswept garden wondering what on earth he was going to say to da Costa and then the door clicked open behind him.

He turned slowly as da Costa crossed to the desk. 'Michael, what on earth am I going to do with you?'

'I'm sorry, Monsignor,' Father da Costa said formally, 'but this situation was not of my choosing.'

'They never are,' Monsignor O'Halloran said wryly as he sat down. 'Is it true what they suppose? Is this business connected in some way with the confessional?'

'Yes,' Father da Costa said simply.

'I thought so. The Superintendent was right, of course. As he said in his letter, it was the only explanation that made any kind of sense.' He sighed heavily and shook his head. 'I would imagine he intends to take this thing further. Are you prepared for that?'

'Of course,' Father da Costa answered calmly.

'Then we'd better get it over with,' Monsignor O'Halloran pressed the button on the intercom again. 'Send in Superintendent Miller and Inspector Fitzgerald.' He chuckled. 'It has a certain black humour, this whole business. You must admit.'