Meehan laughed harshly. 'You need me, Fallon, remember? Without me there's no passport and no passage out of Hull Sunday so put it away like a good boy.'

He walked to the door and opened it. Fallon shifted his aim slightly, following him, and Meehan turned to face him. 'All right then, let's see you pull that trigger.'

Fallon held the gun steady. Meehan stood there waiting, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. After a while he turned slowly and went out, closing the door behind him.

For a moment or so longer Fallon held the Ceska out in front of him, staring into space, and then, very slowly, he lowered it, resting his hand on the table, his finger still on the trigger.

He was still sitting there when Jenny came in. 'They've gone,' she said.

Fallon made no reply and she looked down at the gun with distaste. 'What did you need that thing for? What happened?'

'Nothing much,' he said. 'He held up a mirror, that's all, but there was nothing there that I hadn't seen before.' He pushed back his hair and stood up. 'I think I'll get a couple of hours' sleep.'

He moved to the door and she said diffidently. 'Would you like me to come up?'

It was as if he hadn't heard her and went out quietly, trapped in some dark world of his own. She sat down at the table and buried her face in her hands.

* * *

When Fitzgerald went into Miller's office, the Superintendent was standing by the window reading a carbon copy of a letter.

He offered it to Fitzgerald. 'That's what we sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions.'

Fitzgerald read it quickly. 'That seems to sum up the situation pretty adequately to me, sir,' he said as he handed the letter back. 'When can we expect a decision?'

'That's the trouble, they'll probably take a couple of days. Unofficially, I've already spoken to the man who'll be handling it by telephone.'

'And what did he think, sir?'

'If you really want to know, he wasn't too bloody hopeful.' Miller's frustration was a tanglible thing. 'Anything to do with religion, you know what people are like. That's the English for you.'

'I see, sir,' Fitzgerald said slowly.

It was only then that Miller noticed that the Inspector was holding a flimsy in his right hand. 'What have you got there?'

Fitzgerald steeled himself, 'Bad news, I'm afraid, sir. From CRO about that Ceska.'

Miller sat down wearily. 'All right, tell me the worst.'

'According to the computer, the last time a Ceska was used to kill someone in this country was in June, nineteen fifty-two, sir. A Polish ex-serviceman shot his wife and her lover to death. They hanged him three months later.'

'Marvellous,' Miller said bitterly. 'That's all I needed.'

'Of course they're circulating arms dealers in the London area for us,' Fitzgerald said, 'It will take time, but something could come out of that line of enquiry.'

'I know,' Miller said bitterly. 'Pigs might also fly.' He pulled on his raincoat. 'Do you know what the unique feature of this case is?'

'I don't think so, sir.'

'Then I'll tell you. There's nothing to solve. We already know who's behind the killing. Jack Meehan, and if that damned priest would only open his mouth I could have his head on a platter.'

Miller turned angrily and walked out, banging the door so hard that the glass panel cracked.

Fallon had only taken off his shoes and jacket and had lain on top of the bed. He awakened to find the room in darkness. He had been covered with an eiderdown which meant that Jenny must have been in. It was just after eight when he checked his watch and he pulled on his shoes hurriedly, grabbed his jacket and went downstairs.

Jenny was doing some ironing when he went into the kitchen. She glanced up. 'I looked in about three hours ago, but you were asleep.'

'You should have wakened me,' he said and took down his raincoat from behind the door.

'Jack Meehan said you weren't to go out.'

'I know.' He transferred the Ceska to the pocket of his raincoat and fastened the belt.

'It's that girl, isn't it?' she said. 'You're worried about her.' He frowned slightly and she rested the iron. 'Oh, I was listening outside the door. I heard most of what went on. What's she like?'

'She's blind,' Fallon said. 'That means she's vulnerable.'

'And you're worried about Billy? You think he might try to pay you off for what happened last night by getting at her?'

'Something like that.'

'I don't blame you.' She started to iron a crisp white blouse. 'Let me tell you about him so you know what you're up against. At twelve, most boys are lucky if they've learnt how to make love to their hand, but not our Billy. At that age, he was having it off with grown women. Whores mostly, working for Jack Meehan, and Billy was Jack's brother, so they didn't like to say no.' She shook her head. 'He never looked back. By the time he was fifteen he was a dirty, sadistic little pervert. It was downhill all the way after that.' She rested the iron again. 'So if I were you, I'd worry all right where he's concerned.'

'Thanks,' he said. 'Don't wait up for me.'

The door banged and he was gone. She stood there for a moment, staring into space sadly and then she returned to her ironing.

Anna da Costa was about to get into the bath when she heard the phone ringing. She put on a robe and went downstairs, arriving in the hall as her uncle replaced the receiver.

'What is it?' she asked.

'The Infirmary. The old Italian lady I visited the other day. She's had a relapse. They expect her to die some time tonight. I'll have to go.'

She took down his coat from the hallstand and held it out for him. He opened the front door and they moved out into the porch. The rain was pouring down.

'I'll walk,' he said. 'It's not worth taking the van. Will you be all right?'

'Don't worry about me,' she said. 'How long will you be?'

'God knows, probably several hours. Don't wait up for me.'

He plunged into the rain and hurried down the path passing a magnificent Victorian mausoleum, the pride of the cemetery with its bronze doors and marble porch. Billy Meehan dropped back into the shadows of the porch quickly, but when the priest had gone past, he moved forward again.

He had heard the exchange at the door and a cold finger of excitement moved in his belly. He had already had intercourse twice that night with a prostitute, not that it had been any good. He didn't seem to be able to get any satisfaction any more. He'd intended going home and then he'd remembered Anna - Anna at the window undressing.

He'd only been lurking in the shadows of that porch for ten minutes, but he was already bitterly cold and rain drifted in on the wind. He thought of Fallon, the humiliation of the previous night, and his face contorted.

'The bastard,' he said softly. 'The little Mick bastard. I'll show him.'

He produced a half-bottle of Scotch from his pocket and took a long pull.

Father da Costa hurried into the church. He took a Host out of the ciborium and hung it in a silver pyx around his neck. He also took holy oils with him to anoint the dying woman's ears, nose, mouth, hands and feet and went out quietly.

The church was still and quiet, only the images floating in candlelight, the drift of rain against the window. It was perhaps five minutes after Father da Costa's departure that the door creaked open eerily and Fallon entered.

He looked about him to make sure that no one was there, then hurried down the aisle, went inside the cage and pressed the button to ascend. He didn't go right up to the tower, stopping the cage on the other side of the canvas sheet covering the hole in the roof of the nave.