Текст книги "A Prayer for the Dying"

Автор книги: Jack Higgins

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 13 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 5 страниц]

6

Face to Face

It was still raining when Fallon crossed Paul's Square and went up the steps to the main entrance. When he tried the office it was empty and then Rupert appeared, having noticed him arrive through the glass door of the flower shop.

'Can I help you, sir?'

'Fallon's the name. Meehan's expecting me.'

'Oh yes, sir.' Rupert was exquisitely polite. 'If you'd like to wait in the office I'll just see where he is.'

He went out and Fallon lit a cigarette and waited. It was a good ten minutes before Rupert reappeared.

'I'll take you up now, sir,' he said, and with a flashing smile led the way out into the hall.

'And where would up be?' Fallon asked him.

'Mr Meehan's had the attics of the three houses knocked together into a penthouse suite for his personal use. Beautiful.'

They reached a small lift and as Rupert opened the door Fallon said, 'Is this the only way?'

'There's the back stairs.'

'Then the back stairs it is.'

Rupert's ready smile slipped a little. 'Now don't start to play games, ducky. It'll only get Mr Meehan annoyed, which means I'll end up having one hell of a night and to be perfectly frank, I'm not in the mood.'

'I'd have thought you'd have enjoyed every golden moment,' Fallon said and kicked him very hard on the right shin.

Rupert cried out and went down on one knee and Fallon took the Ceska out of his right-hand pocket. He had removed the silencer, but it was still a deadly-looking item in every way. Rupert went white, but he was game to the last.

'He'll crucify you for this. Nobody mixes it with Jack Meehan and passes the post first.'

Fallon put the Ceska back in his pocket. 'The stairs,' he said softly.

'All right,' Rupert leaned down to rub his shin. 'It's your funeral, ducky.'

The stairway started beside the entrance to the Chapel of Rest and they climbed three flights, Rupert leading the way. There was a green baize door at the top and he paused a few steps below. 'That leads directly into the kitchen.'

Fallon nodded. 'You'd better go back to minding the shop then, hadn't you?'

Rupert needed no second bidding and went back down the stairs quickly. Fallon tried the door which opened to his touch. As Rupert had said, a kitchen was on the other side. The far door stood ajar and he could hear voices.

He crossed to it on tiptoe and looked into a superbly furnished lounge with broad dormer windows at either end. Meehan was sitting in a leather club chair, a book in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other. Billy, holding the whippet, stood in front of an Adam fireplace in which a log fire was burning brightly. Donner and Bonati waited on either side of the lift.

'What's keeping him, for Christ's sake?' Billy demanded.

The whippet jumped from his arms and darted across to the kitchen door. It stood there, barking, and Fallon moved into the lounge and crouched down to fondle its ears, his right hand still in his coat pocket.

Meehan dropped the book on the table and slapped a hand against his thigh. 'Didn't I tell you he was a hard-nosed bastard?' he said to Billy.

The telephone rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment and smiled. 'It's all right, sweetheart, you get back to work. I can handle it.' He replaced the receiver. 'That was Rupert. He worries about me.'

'That's nice,' Fallon said.

He leaned against the wall beside the kitchen door, hands in pockets. Donner and Bonati moved in quietly and stood behind the big leather couch facing him. Meehan sipped a little of his whisky and held up the book. It was The City of God by St Augustine.

'Read this one, have you, Fallon?'

'A long time ago.' Fallon reached for a cigarette with his left hand.

'It's good stuff,' Meehan said. 'He knew what he was talking about. God and the Devil, good and evil. They all exist. And sex.' He emptied his glass and belched. 'He really puts the record straight there. I mean, women just pump a man dry, like I keep trying to tell my little brother here only he won't listen. Anything in a skirt, he goes for. You ever seen a dog after a bitch in heat with it hanging half out? Well, that's our Billy twenty-four hours a day.'

He poured himself another whisky and Fallon waited. They all waited. Meehan stared into space. 'No, these dirty little tarts are no good to anybody and the boys are no better. I mean, what's happened to all the nice clean-cut lads of sixteen or seventeen you used to see around? These days, most of them look like birds from the rear.'

Fallon said nothing. There was a further silence and Meehan reached for the whisky bottle again. 'Albert!' he called. 'Why don't you join us?'

The bedroom door opened, there was a pause and a man entered the room who was so large that he had to duck his head to come through the door. He was a walking anachronism. Neanderthal man in a baggy grey suit and he must have weighed at least twenty stone. His head was completely bald and his arms were so long that his hands almost reached his knees.

He shambled into the room, his little pig eyes fixed on Fallon. Billy moved out of the way nervously and Albert sank into a chair on the other side of Meehan, next to the fire.

Meehan said, 'All right, Fallon. You cocked it up.'

'You wanted Krasko dead. He's on a slab in the mortuary right now,' Fallon said.

'And the priest who saw you in action? This Father da Costa?'

'No problem.'

'He can identify you, can't he? Varley says he was close enough to count the wrinkles on your face.'

True enough,' Fallon said. 'But it doesn't matter. I've shut his mouth.'

'You mean you've knocked him off?' Billy demanded.

'No need.' Fallon turned to Meehan. 'Are you a Catholic?'

Meehan nodded, frowning. 'What's that got to do with it?'

'When did you last go to confession?'

'How in the hell do I know? It's so long ago I forget.'

'I went today,' Fallon said. 'That's where I've been. I waited my turn at da Costa's one o'clock confession. When I went in, I told him I'd shot Krasko.'

Billy Meehan said quickly, 'But that's crazy. He'd seen you do it himself, hadn't he?'

'But he didn't know it was me in that confessional box – not until he looked through the grille and recognised me and that was after I'd confessed.'

'So what, for Christ's sake?' Billy demanded.

But his brother was already waving him down, his face serious. 'I get it,' he said. 'Of course. Anything said to a priest at confession's got to be kept a secret. I mean, they guarantee that, don't they?'

'Exactly,' Fallon said.

'It's the biggest load of cobblers I've ever heard,' Billy said. 'He's alive, isn't he? And he knows. What guarantee do you have that he won't suddenly decide to shoot his mouth off?'

'Let's just say it isn't likely,' Fallon said. 'And even if he did, it wouldn't matter. I'm being shipped out from Hull Sunday night – or have you forgotten?'

Meehan said, 'I don't know. Maybe Billy has a point.'

'Billy couldn't find his way to the men's room unless you took him by the hand,' Fallon told him flatly.

There was a dead silence. Meehan gazed at him impassively and Albert picked a steel and brass poker out of the fireplace and bent it into a horseshoe shape between his great hands, his eyes never leaving Fallon's face.

Meehan chuckled unexpectedly. 'That's good – that's very good. I like that.'

He got up, walked to a desk in the corner, unlocked it and took out a large envelope. He returned to his chair and dropped the envelope on the coffee table.

'There's fifteen hundred quid in there,' he said. 'You get another two grand on board ship Sunday night plus a passport. That clears the account.'

That's very civil of you,' Fallon said.

'Only one thing,' Meehan told him. 'The priest goes.'

Fallon shook his head. 'Not a chance.'

'What's wrong with you, then?' Meehan jeered. 'Worried, are you? Afraid the Almighty might strike you down? They told me you were big stuff over there, Fallon, running round Belfast, shooting soldiers and blowing up kids. But a priest is different, is that it?'

Fallon said, in what was little more than a whisper, 'Nothing happens to the priest. That's the way I want it. That's the way it's going to be.'

'The way you want it?' Meehan said and the anger was beginning to break through now.

Albert tossed the poker into the fireplace and stood up. He spoke in a rough, hoarse voice. 'Which arm shall I break first, Mr Meehan? His left or his right?'

Fallon pulled out the Ceska and fired instantly. The bullet splintered Albert's right kneecap and he went back over the chair. He lay there cursing, clutching his knee with both hands, blood pumping between his fingers.

For a moment, nobody moved and then Meehan laughed out loud. 'Didn't I tell you he was beautiful?' he said to Billy.

Fallon picked up the envelope and stowed it away in his raincoat. He backed into the kitchen without a word, kicked the door shut as Meehan called out to him and started down the stairs.

In the lounge, Meehan grabbed his coat and made for the lift. 'Come on, Billy!'

As he got the door open, Donner called, 'What about Albert?'

'Call that Pakistani doctor. The one who was struck off. He'll fix him up.'

As the lift dropped to the ground floor Billy said, 'Look, what are we up to?'

'Just follow me and do as you're bleeding well told,' Meehan said.

He ran along the corridor, through the hall and out of the front door. Fallon had reached the other side of the road and was taking one of the paths that led across the green centre of the square.

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.'