He handed his Codex over, and Dillon listened, his face darkening. “You’re sure the old sod’s okay?”

“So it would appear. Not the driver, though. Something fishy there, I think.”

“Then you’d better investigate.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, Harry’s in charge. I’m just his minder.”

“As if he needs one.”

“Certainly not on this trip. He went for a walk in Central Park, and some bastard had a go.”

“Mugged him, you mean?”

“Not sure. There could have been a bit more to it than that.”

“Tell me about it.”

Which Dillon did, and afterwards Roper said, “Very strange, especially the prayer card. You’ve got a point, Sean, I’ll check it online. Okay, talk things over and let me know what you decide.”

Dillon handed the Codex back. “What do you want to do?”

“Let’s go back to the hotel and talk.”

“I heard you were in town.”

“Good to hear from you,” Dillon said, and put the phone on speaker.

“Not this time, Sean. I believe you and Major Miller were expecting to see Blake?”

“We certainly were. He missed quite a speech.”

“He’s in a hospital on Long Island, suffering from a gunshot wound. I’m with him now, but he’s just had surgery so he’s not exactly in top shape. The police recovered the body of his assailant, a man named Jack Flynn.”

“An Irish name,” Dillon said, his voice grim.

“We’ve recovered his Social Security card and driver’s license, and an American passport, and they look kosher to me. Place of birth: New York. We’ll check to see if he’s got a record, which I expect he has. Something’s odd about all this. Blake rambled a lot to the receiving doctor and said the guy started to fire at him the moment he got on the boat. He seemed intent on killing him from the word go.”

“I see.” Dillon frowned. “Anything else? Anything about this Flynn character that would help with his background?”

“Not really,” Clancy said. “Except for one thing. He appears to have been of a religious turn of mind. There was a sort of prayer card in his wallet.”

Dillon said, “‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone’?”

“How in hell do you know that?” Clancy was truly shocked.

“The Irish for ‘ourselves alone’ is Sinn Fein, Clancy.”

“Are you saying this has got something to do with the IRA?”

“Clancy, this is Miller,” the Major interrupted. “Early evening before we left for the UN, I took a walk in Central Park. I was carrying a Colt .25 in an ankle holster, and good job I was.”

“Okay,” Clancy said. “Tell me the worst.”

Miller did. “I could have killed this Barry guy, but I didn’t. It seemed unlikely he’d want to make a police case out of it. It was only later, when Dillon was looking at the computer photo of me Barry had in his wallet, that he discovered the prayer card. It seemed like a curio, but, now that we have two of them, it gets more interesting.”

“It sure does,” Clancy said. “I’ll make careful inquiries with the NYPD and find out where this Barry guy ended up, then move him so we can get some answers. I can assure you that you will be kept out of it, Major.”

“Well, that eases my mind,” Miller told him. “You seem on top of your game, Clancy.”

“I’d better get moving. When are you returning to London?”

“Sooner than we’d expected,” Miller said. “Because we’ve got more news for you. Just after eleven o’clock London time, General Ferguson was leaving a function to go home, and his car blew up.”

Clancy was horrified. “What happened to him?”

“He was blown over by the blast as he walked towards the limousine. They’ve been checking him out at Rosedene, and he seems all right.”

“Unfortunately, the driver was killed. I think he was closer to the car, and the bomb went off prematurely,” Dillon said. “Ferguson’s going to play the whole thing down as some sort of engine failure leading to the explosion. No talk of bombs.”

“Well, that makes sense. I can see where he’s going. But for this to happen to Charles Ferguson, on top of everything else tonight, is hardly a coincidence.”

“Which is why I’m going to call our two pilots now. We’re leaving instantly.”

“Well, don’t let me hold you, gentlemen. I’ll stay in touch.”

“If there’s anything you want, it’s in the kitchen area. You know where the drinks cabinet is, Sean.”

“You’re too kind,” Dillon told him. “How long?”

“The weather in the mid-Atlantic isn’t perfect, but, at the worst, I’d say we’ll make Farley Field in six hours.”

He went out, and Dillon’s Codex sounded. It was Clancy. “Have I got news for you.”

Dillon put his phone on speaker and leaned towards Miller.

“I traced Barry to Mercy Hospital, and get this. He was waiting to go into the operating room when some guy in scrubs turned up and stuck a hypodermic in him. A nurse discovered him, and he knocked her out and ran for it. Long gone, my friends.”

“Whoever was behind Barry didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut,” Dillon said. “But how did they find out where he was so quickly?”

“I’ve seen the nurse’s statement. When he was in great pain and waiting to be prepped, she heard him call somebody on his mobile, very worked up, very agitated. He said, ‘It’s me, you bastard. I’m in Mercy Hospital with a bullet in my knee, and you’d better do something about it or else.’ She said she took the phone from him and put it on the bedside table.”

“Don’t tell me,” Dillon said. “It’s gone.”

“So no way of tracing who his employer was. No point in showing the nurse any faces. The guy was in green scrubs, a face mask, skullcap, the works. Oh, the police will go through the motions, but I’d say that’s it. You’re still out of it, Major, which is the main thing. Stay in touch. And if you make any sense out of the prayer card thing, let me know.”

Dillon switched off his phone. Got up, went to the kitchen, found a half bottle of Krug champagne in the icebox, thumbed off the cork, took two glasses, and returned to his seat. He filled one glass and handed it to Miller, then filled the other.

“Are we celebrating something?” Miller asked.

“Not exactly, It’s just that champagne always concentrates my mind wonderfully. Drink up, and we’ll decide who’s going to call Roper.”

“So one prayer card is certainly interesting, and two, more than a coincidence.”

“Exactly,” Dillon said. “And three would be enemy action.”

“George Langley’s doing the postmortem now on Pool, so Ferguson’s still at Rosedene. I’ll give him a call and ask him to have a look in Pool’s wallet. I’ll be back.”

“There you go,” Dillon said to Miller. “Mystery piles on mystery.”

“We’ll wait and see,” Miller told him. “What about a little shut-eye?”

“On a plane? Never.” Dillon rose and picked up the empty half bottle of Krug. “I’m sure there was another half bottle in the kitchen. I’ll go and see.”

A half-empty pack of cigarettes, a plastic lighter, what looked like house keys on a ring, a comb, a car key with a plastic black-and-gold tab with a telephone number on it but no name.

“Do you want to examine the wallet, General?” she asked.

“No, just take out what you find.”

She did. There was cash, forty-five pounds in banknotes, a driver’s license, a national insurance card, a Premier credit card, and a cheaply printed business card that she found in one of the pockets and handed over.

Ferguson examined the business card. “‘Henry Pool, Private Hire, 15 Green Street, Kilburn.’ ” He put it down on the towel, and, as he did, she extracted another card from the wallet.

“This is interesting,” she said. “‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’” Ferguson took it from her. “Is it important?” she asked.

“It certainly is, my dear.” Ferguson put the card down, took out his Codex, and called Roper. “It’s here,” he said when the Major answered. “Also a business card: ‘Henry Pool, Private Hire, 15 Green Street, Kilburn.’ Check it out, and let Dillon and Miller know. And here’s an interesting point that I just remembered. Pool had a slight cockney accent, but when I was following him along the pavement from the Garrick and a limousine drove past and splashed him, he got very angry and abused them. I remember what he said because his accent suddenly sounded a little Irish. He said, ‘Holy Mother of God, you’ve soaked me, you bastards.’ Then he turned to me as if embarrassed and said he was sorry—but with the cockney back again.”

“Curiouser and curiouser, especially since his address is in Kilburn, the Irish quarter of our city since time immemorial. I’ll see you soon.”

“I think so. Look at this: Henry Pool, born in London in 1946, mother Irish, Mary Kennedy. She came to England in the Second World War, worked as a cook, married a Londoner named Ernest Pool, who served in the army, was wounded in April ’forty-five, and received a medical discharge plus pension. They moved to 15 Green Street, Kilburn.”

“He must have got down to work sharpish, old Ernest, for the baby to be produced in 1946.”

“The bad news is, he died of a stroke two years later,” Roper said. “The wound had been in the head.”

“Poor sod,” Tony said.

“The mother never remarried. According to her Social Security records, she continued as a cook until her late sixties. Died four years ago, aged eighty. Lung cancer.”

“And Henry?”

“Worked as a driver of some sort, delivery vans, trucks, was a black-cab driver for years, then started being referred to as ‘a chauffeur. ’ Continued to live at the same address through all the years.”

“Wife . . . family?”

“No evidence of a marriage.”

“It sounds like a bad play, if you ask me,” Tony said. “The old woman, widowed all those years, and the son—a right cozy couple, just like Norman Bates and his mum in the movie.”

“Could be.” Roper’s fingers moved over the keys again. “So he’s been in the private-hire business for twelve years. On the Ministry’s approved list for the last six. Owned a first-class Amara limousine, approved by the Cabinet Office at Grade A level.”

“Which explains somebody as important as the General getting him.”

“And yet it just doesn’t add up. How long have you been in the military police, Tony?”

“Seventeen years, you know that.”

“Well, you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes . . . What’s the most interesting thing here?”

“Yes, tell us, Sergeant.” They both glanced around and found Ferguson leaning in the doorway.

“Aside from the cards, the nature of the targets,” Doyle said. “Blake Johnson, Major Miller, and you, General—you’ve all worked together on some very rough cases in the past.”

“I agree, which means, Major,” Ferguson said to Roper, “we need to take a look at the various matters we’ve been involved in recently.”

“As you say, General. I’m still intrigued by the religious element in the prayer cards, though, and the IRA element.”

His fingers moved over the keys again. The borough of Kilburn appeared on the screen, drifted into an enlargement. “There we are, Green Street,” Roper said. “And the nearest Roman Catholic church would appear to be Holy Name, only three streets away, the priest in charge, Monsignor James Murphy. I think we should pay him a visit. It might be rewarding.”

“In what way?” said Ferguson.

“Pool would have been a parishioner at this Holy Name place. The priest might be able to tell us where he comes into it.”

“All right, go talk to him, but you know what Catholic priests are like. Seal of the Confessional and all that stuff. He’ll never tell you anything.”

“True,” Roper said, “but he might talk to a fellow Irishman.”

“Dillon? Yes, as I recall, he lived in Kilburn for a while in his youth, didn’t he? Have you spoken to him about what you just found out about Pool?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, get on with it, for heaven’s sake.” Ferguson turned to Doyle. “Lead on to the kitchen, Sergeant. I need a pot of coffee, very hot and very strong.”

“As you say, General.”

They went out and Roper sat there thinking about it, then called Dillon, who answered at once. “Any progress to report?”

“I’m afraid you’ve got enemy action,” Roper said. “Ferguson found a prayer card in the driver Pool’s wallet.”

Dillon reached over and shook Miller awake. “You’d better listen to this.”

Miller came awake instantly and listened to the call on speaker. “Can you explain anything more? I mean, the driver and so on.”

Roper went straight into Henry Pool, his background, the facts as known. When he was finished, Dillon said, “This notion you have about seeing the priest at Holy Name, I’ll handle that. I agree it could be useful.”

“On the other hand, Pool was only half Irish, through his mother.”

“They’re sometimes the worst. De Valera had a Spanish father and was born in New York, but his Irish mother was the making of him. We’ll be seeing you round breakfast time. We’d better have words with Clancy Smith, I promised to call him back.”

He switched off, and Miller said, “Sean, you were a top enforcer with the IRA and you never got your collar felt once. Do you really think this is some kind of IRA hit?”

“Not really. Most men of influence in the Provisional IRA are now serving in government and the community in one way or the other. Of course, there are splinter groups still in existence—that bunch called the Real IRA, and rumors that the Irish National Liberation Army still waits.”

“INLA,” Miller said. “The ones who probably killed Mountbatten and certainly assassinated Airey Neave coming out of the underground car park in the House of Commons.”

“True,” Dillon said. “And they were the great ones for using sleepers. Middle-class professional men, sometimes university educated, accountants, lawyers, even doctors. People think there’s something new in the fact that Islamic terror is able to recruit from the professions, but the IRA was there long before them.”

“Do you believe IRA sleepers still exist?” Miller asked.

“I guess we can’t take the chance they don’t. I’m going to call Clancy.”

Clancy said, “This really raises the game,” once they reached him. “I’m sitting at Blake’s bedside now. I’ll let you talk to him, but don’t talk too long. By the way, we’ve established that Flynn’s American passport was a first-class forgery.”

Blake said, “That you, Sean?”

“It sure is, old stick,” Dillon said.

“Clancy filled me in about Miller and me and some sort of possible IRA link with these prayer cards.”

“And we’ve now discovered the same card in Ferguson’s driver’s wallet, and I hear the guy who tried to waste you, Flynn, had a false American passport.”

Blake laughed weakly. “I’ll tell you something funny about him, Sean. When I had him covered and told him to give up, he didn’t say ‘Fuck you.’ He said ‘Fug you.’ I only ever heard that when I was in Northern Ireland.”

“Which shows you what gentlemen we are over there. Take care, old son, and sleep well.” Dillon switched off, and turned to Miller. “You heard all that, so there we are.”

Miller glanced at his watch. “Two hours to go. I’ll try to get some sleep.” He closed his eyes and turned his head against the pillow behind him, reaching to switch off the light.

Dillon simply sat there, staring into the shadows, the verse from the prayer card repeating endlessly in his brain, remembering a nineteen-year-old actor who had walked out of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art to accept an offer to work with the National Theatre, and the night when the local priest in Kilburn called to break the news to him that his father, on a visit to Belfast, had been caught in a firefight between PIRA activists and British troops and killed.

“A casualty of war, Sean,” Father James Murphy of the Holy Name church had said. “You must say your prayers, not only the Hail Mary, but this special one on the prayer card I give you now. It is a comfort for all victims of a great cause. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’ ”

He tried closing his eyes, but it still went around and around in his brain, and he opened them again, filled with despair, just as he had felt it that day, desolation turning into rage, a need for revenge that had taken the nineteen-year-old on a violent path which had shaped his whole life, a path from which there could be no turning back. Yet, as always, he was saved by that dark streak of gallows humor in him.

“Jesus, Sean,” he told himself softly. “What are you going to do, cut your throat? Well, you don’t have a razor, so let’s have a drink on it.”

“I’m going home, Sean, to see to my mail, knock out a report on my impressions of Putin and the Russian delegation at the UN, then take it to Downing Street. The Prime Minister will want to see me personally, but he likes things on paper, he’s very precise.”

“Will you tell him of your exploits in Central Park?”

“I’ve no reason not to. It happened to me, Sean, I didn’t happen to it, if you follow me. The way it’s being handled, there is no story, not for the press anyway. The whole thing is an intelligence matter that needs to be solved. He’ll understand. He’s a moralist by nature but also very practical. He won’t be pleased at what’s happened, and he’ll expect a result.”

“Well, let’s see how quickly we can give him one.”

Dillon got in the Mini beside Tony Doyle, and they drove away. Miller got in the back of the Mercedes and discovered a bunch of mail.

“Good man, Arthur.” He opened the first letter.

“Thought you’d like to get started, Major. Traffic’s building up already. Could take us an hour to get to Dover Street.”

“No problem. I can save a lot of time here due to your usual efficiency.”

“Hey, I could give you that,” Doyle said, for he was of Jamaican stock, born in the East End of London.

Dillon went into the computer room, but there was no sign of Roper, and then Henderson, the other sergeant, entered wearing a tracksuit.

“Good to see you back, sir. Major Roper’s in the wet room having a good soak. We’re also hosting General Ferguson. He’s in one of the second-floor suites, no sign of movement. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to the Major.”

“Fine, I’m going to my room. Tell him I’ll join him for breakfast.”

He stripped his clothes off, left them in the laundry basket, showered and shaved, pulled on a terry-cloth robe, and went down to the kitchen. He ate two bananas, drank a glass of cold milk from the refrigerator, went into his study, sat at his computer, and produced his report. Satisfied, he went upstairs and changed, ready for Arthur exactly on time as ordered.

“You look well, Harry. How was Vladimir?”

“Worrying, Henry. To be honest, I think I find him rather impressive on occasion, and I’m not supposed to.”

“Certainly not.”

Miller handed him his report. “All there, but I expect the PM saw it on television.”

“Not the same, sweetheart,” said Henry, his gayness breaking through occasionally. “Who believes in TV anymore? You’ve got a genius for seeing things as they really are.”

“Lermov was with Putin. I hear he’s the new Head of Station in Kensington.”

“I believe he’s expected this weekend. I wonder what they’ve done with Boris Luzhkov?”

“God knows,” Miller said. There were few things Henry Frankel didn’t know about, but Boris Luzhkov ending up dead in the Thames was one of them.

“The boss is in, and he’s expecting this, so I’ll deliver it now. He said you’re to wait, so help yourself. Coffee, all kinds of tea, juices. We’ve got a miracle machine now. Just press the right button.”

Which Miller did and also glanced at the Times. Frankel was in and out several times, but it was thirty-five minutes before he came over to him and smiled.

“Everything on the go this morning, but he’ll see you now.” Miller followed him. Frankel opened the door of the office and stood to one side.

“Come in, Harry.” The PM was behind his desk. “Take a chair. First-class report.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister. Putin didn’t say anything he hasn’t said before, but he does have this dangerous gift of sounding quite reasonable.”

“As I know, to my cost, but I must tell you that I’ve had Charles Ferguson on the phone. A terrible business, this incident with his car and the death of the driver.”

“I don’t know what the General has told you, Prime Minister, but it now seems certain that the driver was party to the whole affair. It would seem likely that the device, whatever it was, exploded prematurely, unfortunately for him. General Ferguson is handling the matter as if it was an accident, not a bomb, so there should be no problem with the media.”

“Yes, that’s the last thing we need. Ferguson’s also filled me in on the unfortunate business on Long Island, and on your own brush with death in Central Park.” He sighed. “Trouble follows you everywhere I send you—Kosovo, Washington, Lebanon. You always end up shooting someone. You are the most irregular Member of Parliament I have ever known.”

“Hardly my fault, Prime Minister, when you send me to places where people are liable to do a bit of shooting themselves.”

“A valid point. All those years in the Intelligence Corps dealing with the wild men of Ulster made you spectacularly good at violent solutions. Your decision to leave the army on your father’s death and put yourself up for his seat in Parliament has proved most fortuitous, although it would have been slightly more convenient if we’d both been members of the same political party.”

“Well, you can’t have everything,” Miller said.

“I’m aware of that. No one in the Cabinet has any kind of military experience whatsoever, which is why I broke the rules and made you an under-secretary of state. You can be, on occasion, a thoroughly ruthless bastard, and there are times when that’s something that’s needed.”

“But I am attached to you, Prime Minister, and that makes all the difference.”

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Miller. I’m due in the House soon, so you’ve got fifteen minutes to explain this whole damn mess and what you and Ferguson intend to do about it.”

Which Miller did, rapidly and fluently, covering everything. “That’s it, I think.”

“And quite enough. Prayer cards, killings, a bombing, and, to top all that, this suggestion of an IRA link. That can’t be possible. I’ve enough on my plate with all these banks failing, plus the worst recession in years. I know there are a few crackpot organizations out there still demanding a United Ireland, but enough is enough. Sort it, Harry, sort it—and quickly.”

He stood up, the door opened behind Miller as he rose, and Henry Frankel ushered him out.

“How do you know when people are leaving?” Dillon asked. “Are you a magician or something?”

“Absolutely, love. Take care.” Miller went out, calling Arthur on his mobile.

“As soon as you like, and we’ll make it Holland Park.”

“There you are, you devil, what went on in New York, then? You were supposed to be his minder. It’s a miracle he was wearing that ankle holster.”

“Which I knew nothing about.”

Maggie Hall entered with scrambled eggs, and withdrew.

“Diplomatic immunity covered us when we landed in the Gulfstream, obviously, but he couldn’t have worn it to the UN.”

“Probably just a whim,” Ferguson said. “There’s no question of him going into Parliament with it, but I suspect he does in other places in London.” He glanced at Dillon. “Do you agree?”

Dillon reached down to his right ankle and produced a Colt .25. “All the rage, these days. I wouldn’t be without one.”

Roper said, “A damn good job he was carrying when he took that walk in the park.”

Dillon reached for toast and marmalade, and said cheerfully, “Oh, I suspect he’d have thought of something ghastly as an alternative. A man of infinite resource and guile, our Harry.”

“You can say that again.” He took a piece of Dillon’s toast, and his Codex sounded. It was Billy Salter. “That you, Roper? I’m at the Dark Man. We’ve had a right old business down here. Some geezer tried a little arson in the early hours.”

Roper waved a hand at the others, and turned his Codex on speaker. “Say again, Billy?”

“We’d all gone to bed early—Ruby, Harry, me, Joe Baxter, and Sam Hall,” he continued, naming the Salters’ minders. “Joe was still dressed and watching a late-night movie on television when he heard a noise from the bar. He knocked on Sam’s door to alert him, then smelt petrol, so he moved into the bar, turned on the lights, and found this guy emptying a can of petrol all over the place, the till rifled, cash drawers open.”

“Who was it?”

“How do I know? They’re just fishing him out of the Thames. He was wearing a black tracksuit and ski mask, Joe said, and he looked like a terrorist from central casting. Joe had his Smith and Wesson with him. He wasn’t keen on firing, in case the petrol ignited, so the guy threw the can at him and legged it. Sam had joined Joe by then, and they went after him.”

“What happened?”

“The old Ford van at the end of the wharf? It always has a key in it, not worth stealing. I reckon he’d checked it out previously, because he ran straight for it, was in and driving off, but the wrong way. There was no place to turn, and he simply ran over the edge of the wharf in the dark.”

“With him in it?”

“The police are here now. They’ll have a recovery team get the truck later, but a police diver’s been down, and he’s found the guy. He’s gone down again with another diver to try and get him. Harry’s here, and he’d like a word.”

The unmistakable cockney voice of Billy’s uncle echoed around the canteen. Harry Salter, a gangster for most of his life and now a property millionaire, said, “Well, this is nice, Roper, we could all have been roasted in our beds. What the hell was the bugger playing at? There was a grand in the till. Wasn’t that enough?”

It was Ferguson who said, “It’s me, Harry, and Dillon’s just back from New York with the strangest story you’ve heard in a long time.” He turned to Roper. “You explain.”

Which Roper did.

“But true, Harry. The guy who shot Blake, the one who attacked Miller, and then the General’s rogue driver last night, all were in possession of the same prayer card.”

“Tell me again what it says?”

Roper did. “The police will search your arsonist’s body when they get him up. Billy can use some muscle by flashing his MI5 card. See where it gets you, and call back.”

Ferguson said, “An interesting one, gentlemen.”

“What is?” Harry Miller entered at that moment.

“Well, it goes something like this . . .” Roper began.

Harry and Billy were standing by watching with Baxter and Hall and Ruby Moon, who was wearing a reefer coat two sizes too large. The inspector emerged from the bar and approached.

“Nasty business, Mr. Salter. Stinks in there. You’ll have to close for a while. Could have been very nasty if he’d dropped a match.”

Harry had known him for years. “A real evil bastard, had to be, to do a thing like that. We could have all ended up cooked for breakfast.”

“Sure you haven’t been annoying anyone lately?”

“On my life, Parky, those days are long gone. I own most of the developments round here, and my nephew Billy’s got an MI5 warrant card in his pocket.”

“Yes, I heard they’d taken him on. I was impressed. I’d always understood they wouldn’t accept anyone with a record.”

“True, Parky, it was the folly of youth, where Billy was concerned, but all wiped clean now.”

“You must have friends in high places these days, Billy.”

“Oh, I do, Inspector,” Billy said. “And here’s my warrant to prove it.” He offered it. “As you know, I’m involved in cases where the highest security and the welfare of the nation is involved—so I’d like to check the identity of the man who’s being hauled up at this moment. It could explain the severity of his intentions.”

“Are you saying you could have been his target?”

“It’s possible,” Billy said, and at that moment an ambulance rolled up, two paramedics emerged, opened the rear door, and pulled out a stretcher, which they took forward to where the four policemen were hauling up the drowned man in a sling.

Water poured from the man as they laid him down on the stretcher, and one of the paramedics removed the balaclava, revealing the unshaven face, handsome enough, eyes closed in death, dark hair with silver streaks in it.

“Good God, I know this one,” Parky said. “He used to live round here when I was a young constable. Bagged him coming out of a booze shop he’d broken into on Wapping High Street. Costello, Fergus Costello. He went down the steps for two years. Petty criminal, when he got out. Irish bloke, drunk and disorderly, that kind of thing, always getting arrested.”

“Can you remember what happened to him?” Billy asked.

“Not really, it’s so long ago.” They watched as a police officer went through the dead man’s pockets, producing a bunch of skeleton keys, a folded flick-knife, and a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, which they handed to Parky.

“He certainly meant business.”

A passport came next, which turned out to be Irish. “See, I was right,” Parky said, but frowned when he opened it. “John Docherty, and there’s a Dublin address.” He shook his head and handed the passport to Billy. “Even though he’s dead, you can see from the photo it’s the same man.”

“You’re right.” Billy gave it to Harry. “Must be a forgery. Let’s see what’s in the wallet.”

Parky went to his car, opened the wallet, and took out the wet contents—a driver’s license, a Social Security card, and a credit card. “All in the name of John Docherty, and an address in Point Street, Kilburn.”

“So he was living under a false name,” Harry said.

Parky nodded. “You know, I remember now, it’s all coming back. He used to get in a lot of trouble over the drink, and then there was a refuge opened, run by Catholics. They used to get visits from a priest, who had a big influence on the boozers there. I can’t remember his name, but, as I recall, Costello stopped getting into trouble and started churchgoing, and then he cleared off.”

The officer who had been searching the pockets said, “There’s this, sir, tucked away.”

He offered the damp card, and Parky examined it. “I’ve seen something like this before. It’s a prayer card.”

Billy took it from him and read it aloud. “‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’”

Harry said, “But what the hell does it mean?”

Parky smiled. “I told you he’d turned to religion, didn’t I, so I was right.”

“You certainly were,” Billy said. “I’ll hang on to this and the passport. You can keep the rest.”