A Prayer for the Dying. Jack Higgins

stood looking at them, a slight frown on his face. ‘Perhaps she’s heard more than was good for her.’

      Father da Costa held Anna away from him a little and looked down at her. ‘Is that so?’

      She nodded, whispering, ‘I was in the church.’ She turned reaching out her hands, feeling her way to Fallon. ‘What kind of man are you?’

      One hand found his face as he stood there as if turned to stone. She drew back hastily as if stung and da Costa put a protective arm about her again.

      ‘Leave us!’ she whispered hoarsely to Fallon. ‘I’ll say nothing of what I heard to anyone, I promise, only go away and don’t come back. Please!’ There was a passionate entreaty in her voice.

      Father da Costa held her close again and Fallon said, ‘Does she mean it?’

      ‘She said, didn’t she?’ Father da Costa told him. ‘We take your guilt on our souls, Fallon. Now get out of here.’

      Fallon showed no emotion at all. He turned and walked to the hoist. As he opened the gate, da Costa called, ‘Two of us now, Fallon. Two lives to be responsible for. Are you up to that?’

      Fallon stood there for a long moment, a hand on the open gate. Finally, he said softly, ‘It will be all right. I gave you my word. My own life on it, if you like.’

      He stepped into the hoist and closed the gate. There was the gentle whirring of the electric motor, a dull echo from below as the cage reached the ground floor.

      Anna looked up. ‘He’s gone?’ she whispered.

      Father da Costa nodded. ‘It’s all right now.’

      ‘He was in the church earlier,’ she said. ‘He told me what was wrong with the organ. Isn’t that the strangest thing?’

      ‘The organ?’ Da Costa stared down at her in bewilderment and then he sighed, shaking his head and turned her gently round. ‘Come on, now, I’ll take you home. You’ll catch your death.’

      They stood at the cage, waiting for the gate to come up after he had pressed the button. Anna said slowly, ‘What are we going to do, Uncle Michael?’

      ‘About Martin Fallon?’ He put an arm about her shoulder. ‘For the moment, nothing. What he told me in the church spilled over from the confessional box because of my anger and impatience so that what you overheard was still strictly part of that original confession. I’m afraid I can’t look at it in any other way.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Anna. I know this must be an intolerable burden for you, but I must ask you to give me your promise not to speak of this to anyone.’

      ‘But I already have,’ she said. ‘To him.’

      A strange thing to say and it troubled him deeply as the cage arrived and they moved inside and made the quick descent to the church.

      Alone in his study, he did a thing he seldom did so early in the day and poured himself a glass of whisky. He sipped it slowly and stood, one hand on the marble mantelpiece and stared down into the flames of the small coal fire.

      ‘And what do we do now, Michael?’ he asked himself softly.

      It was an old habit, this carrying on a conversation with his inner self. A relic of three years of solitary confinement in a Chinese prison cell in North Korea. Useful in any situation where he needed to be as objective as possible about some close personal problem.

      But then, in a sense, this wasn’t his problem, it was Fallon’s, he saw that suddenly with startling clarity. His own situation was such that his hands were tied. There was little that he could do or say. The next move would have to be Fallon’s.

      There was a knock at the door and Anna appeared. ‘Superintendent Miller to see you, Uncle Michael.’

      Miller moved into the room, hat in hand. ‘There you are, Superintendent,’ da Costa said. ‘Have you met my niece?’

      He made a formal introduction. Anna was remarkably controlled. In fact she showed no nervousness at all, which surprised him.

      ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She hesitated, the door half-open. ‘You’ll be going out, then?’

      ‘Not just yet,’ Father da Costa told her.

      Miller frowned. ‘But I don’t understand, Father, I thought. …’

      ‘A moment, please, Superintendent,’ Father da Costa said and glanced at Anna. She went out, closing the door softly and he turned again to Miller. ‘You were saying?’

      ‘Our arrangement was that you were to come down to the Department to look at some photos,’ Miller said.

      ‘I know, Superintendent, but that won’t be possible now.’

      ‘May I ask why not, Father?’ Miller demanded.

      Father da Costa had given considerable thought to his answer, yet in the end could manage nothing more original than, ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to help you, that’s all.’

      Miller was genuinely puzzled and showed it. ‘Let’s start again, Father. Perhaps you didn’t understand me properly. All I want you to do is to come down to the Department to look at some photos in the hope that you might recognise our friend of this morning.’

      ‘I know all that,’ Father da Costa told him.

      ‘And you still refuse to come?’

      ‘There wouldn’t be any point.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because I can’t help you.’

      For a moment, Miller genuinely thought he was going out of his mind. This couldn’t be happening. It just didn’t make any kind of sense, and then he was struck by a sudden, dreadful suspicion.

      ‘Has Meehan been getting at you in some way?’

      ‘Meehan?’ Father da Costa said, his genuine bewilderment so perfectly obvious that Miller immediately dropped the whole idea.

      ‘I could have you brought in formally, Father, as a material witness.’

      ‘You can take a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, Superintendent.’

      ‘I can have a damn good try,’ Miller told him grimly. He walked to the door and opened it. ‘Don’t make me take you in formally, sir. I’d rather not but I will if I have to.’