by Jack Higgins
Once the Mass was over and the absolutions given, the nuns carried the coffin out through the rain to the small private cemetery in a corner between the inner and outer walls of the convent.
At the graveside Father da Costa sprinkled the grave and the coffin with holy water and incensed them and after he had prayed, some of the nuns lit candles, with some difficulty because of the rain, to symbolise Sister Marie Gabrielle's soul, with God now and shining still, and they sang together, very sweetly, the twenty-third psalm which had been her favourite.
Father da Costa remembered her, for a moment, during those last days, the broken body racked with pain. Oh God, he thought, why is it the good who suffer? People like Sister Marie Gabrielle?
And then there was Anna. So gentle, so loving, and at the thought of what had taken place the night before, black rage filled his heart.
Try as he might, the only thought that would come to mind as he looked down into the open grave was that Meehan's firm had probably made the coffin.
Jenny Fox had taken two sleeping pills the previous night and overslept. It was after eleven when she awakened and she put on her dressing-gown and went downstairs. She went into the kitchen and found Fallon sitting at the table, the bottle of Irish whiskey in front of him, a half-filled tumbler at his elbow. He had taken the Ceska to pieces and was putting it carefully together again. The silencer was also on the table next to the whiskey bottle.
'You're starting early,' she commented.
'A long time since I had a drink,' he said. 'A real drink, Now I've had four. I had some thinking to do.'
He emptied his glass in a single swallow, rammed the magazine into the butt of the Ceska and screwed the silencer on the end of the barrel.
Jenny said wearily, 'Did you come to any conclusions?'
'Oh yes, I think you could say that.' He poured himself another whiskey and tossed it down. 'I've decided to start a Jack Meehan-must-go campaign. A sort of one man crusade, if you like.'
'You must be crazy,' she said. 'You wouldn't stand a chance.'
'He'll be sending for me some time today, Jenny. He has to because he's shipping me out from Hull tomorrow night so we've got things to discuss.'
He squinted along the barrel of the gun and Jenny whispered, 'What are you going to do?'
'I'm going to kill the bastard,' he said simply. 'You know what Shakespeare said. A good deed in a naughty world.'
He was drunk, she realised that, but in his own peculiar way. She said desperately. 'Don't be a fool. Kill him and there'll be no passage out of Hull for you. What happens then?'
'I couldn't really care less.'
He flung up his arm and fired. There was a dull thud and a small china dog on the top shelf above the refrigerator shattered into fragments.
'Well now,' he said. 'If I can hit that at this range after half-a bottle of whiskey, I don't see how I can very well miss Dandy Jack.'
He stood up and picked up the bottle of whiskey. Jenny said, 'Martin, listen to me for God's sake.'
He walked past her to the door. 'I didn't go to bed last night so I will now. Wake me if Meehan calls, but whatever happens, don't let me sleep past five o'clock. I've got things to do.'
He went out and she stood there listening as he mounted the stairs. She heard the door of his bedroom open and close and only then did she move, going down on her hands and knees wearily to pick up the shattered fragments of the china dog.
The Bull and Bell yard was not far from Paul's Square, a dirty and sunless cobbled alley named after the public house which had stood there for two hundred years or more. Beside the entrance to the snug stood several overflowing dustbins and cardboard boxes and packing cases were thrown together in an untidy heap.
The Bull and Bell itself did most of its trade in the evening, which was why Jack Meehan preferred to patronise it in the afternoon. For one thing it meant that he could have the snug to himself, which was handy for business of a certain kind.
He sat on a stool, a tankard of beer at his elbow, finishing a roast beef sandwich and reading the Financial Times. Donner was sitting in the window seat playing solitaire.
Meehan emptied his tankard and pushed it across the bar. 'Same again, Harry.'
Harry was a large, hefty young man who, in spite of his white apron, had the physique of a professional Rugby player. He had long dark sideburns and a cold, rather dangerous-looking face.
As he filled the tankard and pushed it across, the door opened and Rupert and Bonati came in. Rupert was wearing a sort of caped, ankle-length highwayman's coat in large checks.
He shook himself vigorously and unbuttoned his coat. 'When's it going to stop, that's what I'd like to know.'
Meehan drank some more beer and belched. He said, 'What in the hell do you want? Who's minding the shop?'
Rupert slid gracefully on to the stool next to him and put a hand on his thigh. 'I do have to eat some time, ducky. I mean, I need to keep my strength up, don't I?'
'All right, Harry.' Meehan said, 'Give him his Bloody Mary.'
Rupert said, 'By the way, does anyone know where Billy is?'
'I haven't seen him since last night,' Meehan told him. 'Who wants him, anyway?'
'The superintendent of Pine Trees phoned into the office just before I left.'
'And what did he want?'
'It seems they found Billy's whippet wandering about up there. Soaked to the skin and trembling life a leaf apparently. Wanted to know what to do with him.'
Meehan frowned. 'What in the hell would it be doing up there?'
Donner said, 'Last I saw of it, was about half eight this morning when I went into the garage. It was inside the Scimitar. I figured Billy had forgotten about it when he came in last night so I let it out. I mean, he's done that before when he's been pissed or something. Left Tommy in the car, I mean.'
'He still hadn't come in when I came out this morning,' Meehan said, 'and if he left his car in the garage, that means he went to one of the city centre clubs. Probably still in bed with some whore, the dirty little bastard.' He turned to Bonati. 'You'd better go up to Pine Trees and get it. Take it back home and give it something to eat.'
'All right, Mr Meehan,' Bonati said and went out.
Meehan swallowed some more beer. 'Inconsiderate little swine. I'll kick his arse for him when I see him.'
'He's young, Mr Meehan,' Harry said. 'He'll learn.'
He picked up a bucket of slops, moved from behind the bar, and opened the door and went out into the yard. As he emptied the bucket across the cobbles, Father da Costa entered the yard. He was wearing his cassock and held the umbrella over his head against the rain.
Harry looked him over in some amazement and Father da Costa said politely, 'I'm looking for Mr Meehan - Mr Jack Meehan. They told me at his office that I might find him here.'
'Inside,' Harry said.
He moved into the snug and Father da Costa followed, pausing just inside the door to put down his umbrella.
It was Rupert who saw him first in the mirror behind the bar. 'Good God Almighty!' he said.
There was a long silence and Meehan turned on his stool very slowly. 'And what in the hell are you doing there? Rattling the box for Christmas or something? Will a quid get rid of you?'
He took out his wallet ostentatiously and Father da Costa said quietly, 'I was hoping we might have a few words in private.'
He stood there with the umbrella in his hand, the skirts of his cassock soaking wet from the long grass of the convent cemetery, mud on his shoes, grey beard tangled, waiting for some sort of response.
Meehan laughed out loud. 'God, but I wish you could see yourself. You look bloody ridiculous. Men in skirts.' He shook his head. 'It'll never catch on.'
Father da Costa said patiently, 'I don't expect it will. Now can we talk?'
Meehan indicated Donner and Rupert with a wave of the hand. 'There's nothing you can say to me that these two can't hear.'
'Very well,' Father da Costa said. 'It's simple
enough. I want you to stay away from Holy Name and I don't want any repetition of what happened at the presbytery last night.'
Meehan frowned, 'What in the hell are you talking about?'
'All right, Mr Meehan,' Father da Costa said wearily. 'Last night, someone broke into the presbytery when I was out and attacked my niece. If Fallon hadn't arrived at the right moment and chased the man away anything might have happened to her. On the other hand, I suppose you'll now tell me that you know nothing about it.'
'No, I bloody well don't.' Meehan shouted.
Father da Costa struggled to contain his anger. 'You're lying,' he said simply.
Meehan's face was suffused with blood, the eyes bulging. 'Who in the hell do you think you are?' he demanded hoarsely.
'It's my final warning,' Father da Costa said. 'When we last spoke I told you my God was a God of Wrath as well as of Love. You'd do well to remember that.'
Meehan's face was purple with rage and he turned to the barman in fury. 'Get him out of here!'
Harry lifted the bar flap and moved out. 'Right, on your way, mate.'
'I'll go when I'm ready,' Father da Costa told him.
Harry's right hand fastened on his collar, the other on his belt and they went through the door on the run to a chorus of laughter from Donner and Rupert. They crowded to the door to see the fun and Meehan joined them.
Father da Costa was on his hands and knees in the rain in a puddle of water. 'What's up, ducky?' Rupert called. 'Have you pissed yourself or something?'
It was a stupid remark, childish in its vulgarity, and yet it was some sort of final straw that set black rage boiling inside Father da Costa so that when Harry dragged him to his feet, an arm about his throat, he reacted as he had been taught to react thirty years earlier in that hard, brutal school of guerrilla warfare and action by night.
Harry was grinning widely. 'We don't like fancy sods like you coming round here annoying the customers.'
He didn't get a chance to say anything else. Father da Costa's right elbow swung back into his ribs and he pivoted on one foot as Harry reeled back, gasping.
'You should never let anyone get that close. They haven't been teaching you properly.'
Harry sprang forward, his right first swinging in a tremendous punch. Father da Costa swayed to one side, grabbed for the wrist with both hands, twisted it round and up, locking the arm and ran him headfirst into the stack of packing cases.
As Father da Costa turned, Donner came in fast and received a kick under the right kneecap, perfectly delivered, that doubled him over in pain and Father da Costa followed with a knee in the face that lifted him back against the wall.
Rupert gave a cry of dismay and in his haste to regain the safety of the snug, slipped on the top step, bringing Meehan down with him. As Meehan started to get up, Father da Costa punched him in the face, a good, solid right hand that carried all his rage, all his frustration with it. Bone crunched, Meehan's nose flattened beneath Father da Costa's knuckles and he fell back into the snug with a groan, blood gushing from his nostrils.
Rupert scrambled behind the bar on his hands and knees and Father da Costa stood over Meehan, the killing rage still on him, his fists clenched. And then he looked down at his hands, saw the blood on them and an expression of horror appeared on his face.
He backed slowly out into the yard, Harry lay on his face amongst the packing cases, Donner was being sick against the wall. Father da Costa looked in horror once again at the blood on his hands, turned and fled.
When he went into his study at the presbytery, Anna was sitting by the fire knitting. She turned her face towards him. 'You're late. I was worried.'
He was still extremely agitated and had to force himself to sound calm. 'I'm sorry. Something came up.'
She put down her knitting and stood up. 'After you'd gone, when I went down to the church to get ready for choir practice, Fallon was playing the organ.'
He frowned. 'Did he say anything? Did you speak with him?'
'He gave me a message for you,' she told him. 'He said to tell you that it had all been his fault and he was sorry.'
'Was there anything else?'
'Yes, he said that there was no need to worry from now on. That he'd started it, so he'd finish it. And he told me we wouldn't be seeing him again. What did he mean? Do you think he intends to give himself up?'
'God knows,' Father da Costa forced a smile and put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture of reassurance. 'I'm just going down to the church. Something I have to do. I won't be long.'
He left her there and hurried down through the cemetery, entering the church by way of the sacristy. He dropped on his knees at the altar rail, hands clenched together and looked up at Christ on the cross.
'Forgive me,' he pleaded. 'Heavenly Father, forgive me.'
He bowed his head and wept, for in his heart, he knew there was not one single particle of regret for what he had done to Jack Meehan. Worse than that, much worse, was the still, small voice that kept telling him that by wiping Meehan off the face of the earth he would be doing mankind a favour.
Meehan came out of the bathroom at the penthouse wearing a silk kimono and holding an ice-bag to his face. The doctor had been and gone, the bleeding had stopped, but his nose was an ugly, swollen, bruised hump of flesh that would never look the same again. Donner, Bonati and Rupert waited dutifully by the door. Donner's mouth was badly bruised and his lower lip was twice its usual size.
Meehan tossed the ice-bag across the room. 'No bloody good at all, that thing. Somebody get me a drink.'
Rupert hurried to the drinks trolley and poured a large brandy. He carried it across to Meehan who was standing at the window, staring out in the square, frowning slightly.
He turned, suddenly and mysteriously his old self again.
He said to Donner, 'Frank, what was the name of that old kid who was so good with explosives?'
'Ellerman, Mr Meehan, is he the one you're thinking of?'
'That's him. He isn't inside, is he?'
'Not that I know of.'
'Good, then I want him here within the next hour. You go get him and you can tell him there's a couple of centuries in it for him.'
He swallowed some more of his brandy and turned to Rupert. 'And you, sweetheart - I've got just the job for you. You can go and see Jenny for me. We're going to need her, too, for what I have in mind.'
Rupert said, 'Do you think she'll play? She can be an awkward bitch, when she feels like it.'
'Not this time.' Meehan chuckled. 'I'll give you a proposition to put to her that she can't refuse.'
He laughed again as if it was a particularly good joke and Rupert glanced uncertainly at Donner. Donner said carefully, 'What's it all about, Mr Meehan?'
'I've had enough,' Meehan said. 'That's what it's all about. The priest, Fallon, the whole bit. I'm going to clean the slate once and for all. Take them both out this very night and here's how we're going to do it.'
Harvey Ellerman was fifty years of age and looked ten years older, which came of having spent twenty-two years of his life behind bars if he added his various sentences together.
He was a small diffident individual who habitually wore a tweed cap and brown raincoat and seemed crushed by life, yet this small, anxious-looking man was reputed to know more about explosives than any man in the north of England. In the end, his own genius had proved his undoing, for such was the uniqueness of his approach to the task in hand that it was as if he had signed his own name each time he did a job, and for some years the police had arrested him with monotonous regularity the moment he put a foot wrong.
He came out of the lift into the penthouse, followed by Donner, holding a cheap fibre suitcase in one hand that was bound together by a cheap leather strap. Meehan went to meet him, hand extended, and Ellerman put the suitcase down.
'Great to see you, Harvey,' Meehan said. 'Hope you'll be able to help. Did Frank explain what I'm after?'
'He did, Mr Meehan, in a manner of spea
king.' Ellerman hesitated. 'You won't want me personally on this thing, Mr Meehan? There's no question of that?'
'Of course not,' Meehan told him.
Ellerman looked relieved. 'It's just that I've retired from active participation in anything, Mr Meehan,' he said. 'You know how it is?'
'Too true, I do, Harvey. You were too bloody good for them.' He picked up Ellerman's suitcase and put it down on the table. 'Okay, let's see what you've got.'
Ellerman unfastened the strap and opened the suitcase. It contained a varied assortment of explosives carefully packed in tins, a selection of fuses and detonators, neat coils of wire and a rack of tools.
'Frank told me you wanted something similar to the sort of thing the IRA have been using in Ireland.'
'Not just similar, Harvey. I want it to be exactly the same. When the forensic boys get to examine what's left of this bomb I don't want there to be the slightest doubt in their minds where it's come from.'
'All right, Mr Meehan,' Ellerman said in his flat, colourless voice. 'Just as you say.' He produced a tin from the case. 'We'll use this, then. A Waverley biscuit tin. Made in Belfast. Packed with plastic gelignite. Say twenty pounds. That should do the trick.'
'What about a fuse?'
Ellerman held up a long, slim, dark pencil. 'They've been using a lot of these things lately. Chemical fuse of Russian manufacture. Virtually foolproof. Once you break the cap seal you've got twenty minutes.'
'Just the job,' Meehan rubbed his hands together. You'd better get started, then.'
He turned and walked across to the window, whistling happily.
14
Grimsdyke
Fallon came awake to find Jenny shaking him by the shoulder. 'Wake up!' she kept saying insistently. 'Wake up!'
There was a slight persistent throbbing ache behind his right eye, but otherwise he felt strangely light-headed. He sat up, swinging his legs to the floor, and ran his hands over his stubbled chin.
'What time is it?' he asked her.
'About four. Your friend, Father da Costa, was on the phone. He wants to see you.'