by Jack Higgins
Meehan called to him and ran across the road, ignoring the traffic. The Irishman glanced over his shoulder but kept on walking and had reached the fountain before Meehan and Billy caught up with him.
He turned to face them, his right hand in his pocket and Meehan put up a hand defensively. 'I just want to talk.'
He dropped on to a bench seat, slightly breathless, and took out a handkerchief to wipe his face. Billy arrived a moment later just as the rain increased suddenly from a steady drizzle into a solid downpour.
He said, 'This is crazy. My bloody suit's going to be ruined.'
His brother ignored him and grinned up at Fallon disarmingly. 'You're hell on wheels, aren't you, Fallon? There isn't a tearaway in town who wouldn't run from Fat Albert, but you.' He laughed uproariously. 'You put him on sticks for six months.'
'He shouldn't have joined,' Fallon said.
'Too bloody true, but to hell with Albert. You were right, Fallon, about the priest, I mean.' Fallon showed no emotion at all, simply stood there watching him and Meehan laughed. 'Scout's honour. I won't lay a glove on him.'
'I see,' Fallon said. 'A change of heart?'
'Exactly, but it still leaves us with a problem. What to do with you till that boat leaves Sunday. I think maybe you should go back to the farm.'
'No chance,' Fallon said.
'Somehow I thought you might say that.' Meehan smiled good-humouredly. 'Still, we've got to find you something.' He turned to Billy. 'What about Jenny? Jenny Fox. Couldn't she put him up?'
'I suppose so,' Billy said sullenly.
'A nice kid,' Meehan told Fallon. 'She's worked for me in the past. I helped her out when she was having a kid. She owes me a favour.'
'She's a whore,' Billy said.
'So what?' Meehan shrugged. 'A nice, safe house and not too far away. Billy can run you up there.'
He smiled genially - even the eyes smiled - but Fallon wasn't taken in for a moment. On the other hand, the sober truth was that he did need somewhere to stay.
'All right,' he said.
Meehan put an arm around his shoulders. 'You couldn't do better. She cooks like a dream, that girl, and when it comes to dropping her pants she's a little firecracker, I can tell you.'
They went back across the square and followed the mews round to the car park at the rear. The whippet was crouched at the entrance, shivering in the rain. When Billy appeared, it ran to heel and followed him into the garage. When he drove out in a scarlet Scimitar, it was sitting in the rear.
Fallon slipped into the passenger seat and Meehan closed the door. 'I'd stick pretty close to home if I were you. No sense in running any needless risks at this stage, is there?'
Fallon didn't say a word and Billy drove away. The door to the reception room opened and Donner came out. 'I've rung for that quack, Mr Meehan. What happened to Fallon?'
'Billy's taking him up to Jenny Fox's place,' Meehan said. 'I want you to go over to the car wash and get hold of Varley. I want him outside Jenny's place within half an hour. If Fallon leaves, he follows and phones in whenever he can.'
'I don't follow, Mr Meehan.' Donner was obviously mystified.
'Just till we sort things out, Frank,' Meehan told him. 'Then we drop both of them. Him and the priest.'
Donner grinned as a great light dawned. 'That's more like it.'
'I thought you'd approve,' Meehan smiled, opened the door and went inside.
* * *
Jenny Fox was a small, rather hippy girl of nineteen with good breasts, high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes. Her straight black hair hung shoulder-length in a dark curtain and the only flaw in the general picture was the fact that she had too much make-up on.
When she came downstairs she was wearing a simple, white blouse, black pleated mini skirt and high-heeled shoes and she walked with a sort of general and total movement of the whole body that most men found more than a little disturbing.
Billy Meehan waited for her at the bottom of the stairs and when she was close enough, he slipped a hand up her skirt. She stiffened slightly and he shook his head, a sly, nasty smile on his face.
'Tights again, Jenny. I told you I wanted you to wear stockings.'
'I'm sorry, Billy.' There was fear in her eyes. 'I didn't know you'd be coming today.'
'You'd better watch it, hadn't you, or you'll be getting one of my specials.' She shivered slightly and he withdrew his hand. 'What about Fallon? Did he say anything?'
'Asked me if I had a razor he could borrow. Who is he?'
'None of your business. He shouldn't go out, but if he does, give Jack a ring straight away. And try to find out where he's going.'
'All right, Billy.' She opened the front door for him.
He moved in close behind her, his arms about her waist. She could feel his hardness pressed against her buttocks and the hatred, the loathing rose like bile in her throat, threatening to choke her. He said softly, 'Another thing. Get him into bed. I want to see what makes him tick.'
'And what if he won't play? she said.
'Stocking tops and suspenders. That's what blokes of his age go for. You'll manage.' He slapped her bottom and went out. She closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, struggling for breath. Strange how he always left her with that feeling of suffocation.
She went upstairs, moved along the corridor and knocked softly on Fallon's door. When she went in, he was standing in front of the washbasin in the corner by the window, drying his hands.
'I'll see if I can find you that razor now,' she said.
He hung the towel neatly over the rail and shook his head. 'It'll do later. I'm going out for a while.'
She was gripped by a sudden feeling of panic. 'Is that wise?' she said. 'I mean, where are you going?'
Fallon smiled as he pulled on his trench-coat. He ran a finger down her nose in a strangely intimate gesture that brought a lump to her throat.
'Girl dear, do what you have to, which I presume means ringing Jack Meehan to say I'm taking a walk, but I'm damned if I'll say where to.'
'Will you be in for supper?'
'I wouldn't miss it for all the tea in China.' He smiled and was gone.
It was an old-fashioned phrase. One her grandmother had used frequently. She hadn't heard it in years. Strange how it made her want to cry.
When Miller went into the Forensic Department at police headquarters, he found Fitzgerald in the side laboratory with Johnson, the ballistics specialist. Fitzgerald looked excited and Johnson seemed reasonably complacent.
Miller said, 'I hear you've got something for me.'
Johnson was a slow, cautious Scot. 'That just could be, Superintendent.' He picked up a reasonably misshapen piece of lead with a pair of tweezers. 'This is what did all the damage. They found it in the gravel about three yards from the body.'
'Half an hour after you left, sir,' Fitzgerald put in.
'Any hope of making a weapon identification?' Miller demanded.
'Oh, I've pretty well decided that now.' There was a copy of Small Arms of the World beside Johnson. He flipped through it quickly, found the page he was searching for and pushed it across to Miller. 'There you are.'
There was a photo of the Ceska in the top right-hand corner. 'I've never even heard of the damn thing,' Miller said. 'How can you be sure?'
'Well, I've some more tests to run, but it's pretty definite. You see there are four factors which are constant in the same make of weapon. Groove and land marks on the bullet, their number and width, their direction, which means are they twisting to the right or left, and the rate of that twist. Once I have those facts, I simply turn to a little item entitled the Atlas of Arms, and thanks to the two German gentlemen who so painstakingly put the whole thing together, it's possible to trace the weapon which fits without too much difficulty.'
Miller turned to Fitzgerald. 'Get this information to CRO at Scotland Yard straight away. This Ceska's an out-of-the-way gun. If they feed that into the computer, it might throw out a name. Somebody
who's used one before. You never know. I'll see you back in my office.'
Fitzgerald went out quickly and Miller turned to Johnson. 'Anything else, let me know at once.' He went back to his office where he found a file on his desk containing a resume of Father da Costa's career. Considering the limited amount of time Fitzgerald had had, it was really very comprehensive.
He came in as Miller finished reading the file and closed it. 'I told you he was quite a man, sir.'
'You don't know the half of it,' Miller said and proceeded to tell him what had happened at the presbytery.
Fitzgerald was dumbfounded. 'But it doesn't make any kind of sense.'
'You don't think he's been got at?'
'By Meehan?' Fitzgerald laughed out loud. 'Father da Costa isn't the kind of man who can be got at by anybody. He's the sort who's always spoken up honestly. Said exactly how he felt, even when the person who was hurt most was himself. Look, at his record. He's a brilliant scholar. Two doctorates. One in languages, the other in philosophy, and where's it got him? A dying parish in the heart of a rather unpleasant industrial city. A church that's literally falling down.'
'All right, I'm convinced,' Miller said. 'So he speaks up loud and clear when everyone else has the good sense to keep their mouths shut.' He opened the file again. 'And he's certainly no physical coward. During the war he dropped into Yugoslavia by parachute three times and twice into Albania. DSO in 1944. Wounded twice.' He shrugged impatiently. 'There's got to be an explanation. There must be. It doesn't make any kind of sense that he should refuse to come in like this.'
'But did he actually refuse?'
Miller frowned, trying to remember exactly what the priest had said. 'No, come to think of it, he didn't. He said there was no point to coming in, as he wouldn't be able to help.'
'That's a strange way of putting it,' Fitzgerald said.
'You're telling me. There was an even choicer item. When I told him I could always get a warrant, he said that no power on earth could make him speak on this matter if he didn't want to.'
Fitzgerald had turned quite pale. He stood up and leaned across the desk. 'He said that? You're sure?'
'He certainly did.' Miller frowned. 'Does it mean something?'
Fitzgerald turned away and moved across the room to the window. 'I can only think of one circumstance in which a priest would speak in such a way.'
'And what would that be?'
'If the information he had at his disposal had been obtained as part of confession.'
Miller stared at him. 'But that isn't possible. I mean, he actually saw this character up there at the cemetery. It wouldn't apply.'
'It could,' Fitzgerald said, 'if the man simply went into the box and confessed. Da Costa wouldn't see his face, remember - not then.'
'And you're trying to tell me that once the bloke has spilled his guts, da Costa would be hooked?'
'Certainly he would.'
'But that's crazy.'
'Not to a Catholic it isn't. That's the whole point of confession. That what passes between the priest and individual involved, no matter how vile, must be utterly confidential.' He shrugged. 'Just as effective as a bullet, sir.' Fitzgerald hesitated. 'When we were at the cemetery, didn't he tell you he was in a hurry to leave because he had to hear confession at one o'clock?'
Miller was out of his chair and already reaching for his raincoat. 'You can come with me,' he said. 'He might listen to you.'
'What about the autopsy?' Fitzgerald reminded him. 'I thought you wanted to attend personally.'
Miller glanced at his watch. 'There's an hour yet. Plenty of time.'
The lifts were all busy and he went down the stairs two at a time, heart pounding with excitement. Fitzgerald had to be right - it was the only explanation that fitted. But how to handle the situation? That was something else again.
* * *
When Fallon turned down the narrow street beside Holy Name, Varley was no more than thirty yards in the rear. Fallon had been aware of his presence within two minutes of leaving Jenny's place - not that it mattered. He entered the church and Varley made for the phone-box on the corner of the street and was speaking to Meehan within a few moments.
'Mr Meehan? It's me. He's gone into a church in Rockingham Street. The Church of the Holy Name.'
'I'll be there in five minutes,' Meehan said and slammed down the receiver.
He arrived in the scarlet Scimitar with Billy at the wheel to find Varley standing on the street corner, miserable in the rain. He came to meet them as they got out.
'He's still in there, Mr Meehan. I haven't been in myself.'
'Good lad,' Meehan said and glanced up at the church. 'Bloody place looks as if it might fall down at any moment.'
'They serve good soup,' Varley said. 'To dossers. They use the crypt as a day refuge. I've been in. The priest, he's Father da Costa, and his niece, run it between them. She's a blind girl. A real smasher. Plays the organ here.'
Meehan nodded. 'All right, you wait in a doorway. When he comes out, follow him again. Come on, Billy.'
He moved into the porch and opened the door gently. They passed inside and he closed it again quickly.
The girl was playing the organ, he could see the back of her head beyond the green baize curtain. The priest knelt at the altar rail in prayer. Fallon sat at one end of a pew halfway along the aisle.
There was a small chapel to St Martin de Porres on the right. Not a single candle flickered in front of his image, leaving the chapel in semi-darkness. Meehan pulled Billy after him into the concealing shadows and sat down in the corner.
'What in the hell are we supposed to be doing?' Billy whispered.
'Just shut up and listen.'
At that moment, Father da Costa stood up and crossed himself. As he turned he saw Fallon.
'There's nothing for you here, you know that,' he said sternly.
Anna stopped playing. She swung her legs over the seat as Fallon advanced along the aisle and Billy whistled softly. 'Christ, did you see those legs?'
'Shut up!' Jack hissed.
'I told you I'd see to things and I have done,' Fallon said as he reached the altar rail. 'I just wanted you to know that.'
'What am I supposed to do, thank you?' Father da Costa said.
The street door banged open, candles flickered in the wind as it closed again and to Jack Meehan's utter astonishment, Miller and Fitzgerald walked up the aisle towards the altar.
'Ah, there you are, Father,' Miller called. 'I'd like a word with you.'
'My God,' Billy Meehan whispered in panic. 'We've got to get out of here.'
'Like hell we do,' Meehan said and his hand gripped Billy's right knee like a vice. 'Just sit still and listen. This could be very interesting.'
7
Prelude and Fugue
Fallon recognised Miller for what he was instantly and waited, shoulders hunched, hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat, feet apart, ready to make whatever move was necessary. There was an elemental force to the man that was almost tangible. Father da Costa could feel it in the very air and the thought of what might happen here filled him with horror.
He moved forward quickly to place himself between Fallon and the two policemen as they approached. Anna paused uncertainly a yard or two on the other side of the altar rail.
Miller stopped, hat in hand, Fitzgerald a pace or two behind him. There was a slight awkward silence and da Costa said, 'I think you've met my niece, Superintendent. He has Inspector Fitzgerald with him, my dear.'
'Miss da Costa,' Miller said formally and turned to Fallon.
Father da Costa said, 'And this is Mr Fallon.'
'Superintendent,' Fallon said easily.
He waited, a slight, fixed smile on his mouth and Miller, looking into that white, intense face, those dark eyes, was aware of a strange, irrational coldness as if somewhere, someone had walked over his grave, which didn't make any kind of sense - and then a sudden, wild thought struck him and he took an involuntary step
backwards. There was a silence. Everyone waited. Rain drummed against a window.
It was Anna who broke the spell by taking a blind step towards the altar rail and stumbling. Fallon jumped to catch her.
'Are you all right, Miss da Costa?' he said easily.
'Thank you, Mr Fallon. How stupid of me.' Her slight laugh sounded very convincing as she looked in Miller's general direction. 'I've been having trouble with the organ. I'm afraid that, like the church, it's past its best. Mr Fallon has kindly agreed to give us the benefit of his expert advice.'
'Is that so?' Miller said.
She turned to Father da Costa. 'Do you mind if we start, Uncle? I know Mr Fallon's time is limited.'
'We'll go into the sacristy, if that's all right with you, Superintendent,' Father da Costa said. 'Or up to the house if you prefer.'
'Actually, I'd rather like to hang on here for a few minutes,' Miller told him. 'I'm a pianist myself, but I've always been rather partial to a bit of organ music. If Mr Fallon has no objection.'
Fallon gave him an easy smile. 'Sure and there's nothing like an audience, Superintendent, for bringing out the best in all of us,' and he took Anna by the arm and led her up through the choir stalls.
From the darkness at the rear of the little chapel to St Martin de Porres, Meehan watched, fascinated. Billy whispered, 'I said he was a nutter, didn't I? So how in the hell is he going to talk his way out of this one?'
'With his fingers, Billy, with his fingers,' Meehan said. 'I'd put a grand on it.' There was sincere admiration in his voice when he added. 'You know something. I'm enjoying every bleeding minute of this. It's always nice to see a real pro in action.' He sighed. 'There aren't many of us left.'
Fallon took off his trenchcoat and draped it over the back of a convenient choir stall. He sat down and adjusted the stool so that he could reach the pedals easily. Anna stood at his right hand.
'Have you tried leaving the trumpet in as I suggested?' he asked.