that z Para under the command of Colonel H. Jones attacked some place called Goose Green in the Falklands. Turned out to be about three times the Argentinian troops there as anticipated.'
'What happened?'
'Oh, they won the day, but Jones died, I'm afraid.'
'The news on Harry Fox is comforting,' Devlin said. 'They are flying him down from Glasgow this evening. But he's in fair shape.'
'Thank God for that,' Ferguson said.
'I spoke to Trent. They can't get a word out of those tinkers. Nothing helpful anyway. According to the old grandfather, he's no idea where the girl might go. Her mother's in Australia.'
'They're worse than gypsies, tinkers,' Ferguson said. 'I know. I come from Angus, remember. Funny people. Even when they hate each other, they hate the police more. Wouldn't even tell you the way to the public toilet.'
'So what do we do now?'
'We'll go along to St George's to see what His Holiness is up to, then I think you can take a run down to Canterbury. I'm laying on a police car and driver for you, by the way. I think it will help for you to look as official as possible from now on.'
Morag sat in the corner of the bunk, her back against the wall. 'Why did you come back at Penrith? You haven't told me.'
Cussane shrugged. 'I suppose I decided you weren't fit to be out on your own or something like that.'
She shook her head. 'Why are you so afraid to admit to kindness?'
'Am I?' He lit a cigarette and watched her as she took an old pack of cards from her pocket and shuffled them. They were Tarot. 'Can you use those things?'
'My grandma showed me how years ago when I was quite young. I'm not sure if I have the gift. It's hard to tell.'
She shuffled the cards again. He said, 'The police might be waiting at her place.'
She paused, surprise on her face. 'Why should they? They don't know she exists.'
'They must have asked questions at the camp and someone must have told them something. If not your grandad, there's always Murray.'
'Never,' she said. 'Even Murray wouldn't do a thing like that. You were different - an outsider - but me, that's not the same at all.'
She turned the first card. It was the Tower, the building struck by lightning, two bodies falling. 'The individual suffers through the forces of destiny being worked out in the world,' Morag commented.
'That's me. Oh, that's very definitely me,' Harry Cussane told her and he started to laugh helplessly.
Susan Calder was twenty-three, a small girl, undeniably attractive in the neat navy-blue police uniform with the hat with the black and white checks round the brim. She had trained as a schoolteacher, but three terms of that had very definitely been enough. She had volunteered for the Metropolitan Police and had been accepted. She had served for just over one year. Waiting beside the police car outside the Cavendish Square flat, she presented a pleasing picture, and Devlin's heart lifted. She was polishing the windscreen as he came down the steps.
'Good day to you,a colleen, God save the good work.'
She took in the black Burberry, the felt hat slanted across the ears, was about to give him a dusty answer, then paused. 'You wouldn't be Professor Devlin, would you?'
'As ever was. And you?'
'WPC Susan Calder, sir.'
'Have they told you you're mine until tomorrow?'
'Yes, sir. Hotel booked in Canterbury.'
Therewill be talk back at the station. Let's get moving then,' and he opened the rear door and got in. She slipped
behind the wheel and drove away and Devlin leaned back, watching her. 'Have they told you what this is about?'
'You're with Group Four, sir, that's all I know.'
'And that is?'
'Anti-terrorism; intelligence side of things as distinct from the Yard's anti-terrorist squad.'
'Yes, Group Four can employ people like me and get away with it.' He frowned. 'The next sixteen hours will see the making or breaking of this affair and you'll be with me every step of the way.'
'If you say so, sir.'
'So I think you deserve to know what it's about.'
'Should you be telling me, sir?' she asked calmly.
It was one way of getting it all straight in his head.
'No, but I'm going to,' he said and started to talk, telling her everything there was to know about the whole affair from the beginning and especially about Harry Cussane.
When he was finished, she said, 'It's quite a story.'
'And that's an understatement.'
'There is just one thing, sir.'
'And what would that be?'
'My elder brother was killed in Belfast three years ago while serving there as a lieutenant in the Marines. A sniper hit him from a place called the Divis flats.'
'Does that mean I pose a problem for you?' Devlin asked her.
'Not at all, sir. I just wanted you to know,' she said crisply and turned into the main road and drove down towards the river.
Cussane and Morag stood in the quiet street on the edge of Wapping and watched the freightliner turn the corner and disappear.
'Poor Earl Jackson,' Cussane said. 'I bet he can't get away fast enough. What's your grandma's address?'
'Cork Street Wharf. It's five or six years since I waS there. I'm afraid I can't remember the way.'
'We'll find it.'
They walked down towards the river which seemed the obvious thing to do. His arm was hurting again and he had a headache, but he made no sign of any of this to the girl. When they came to a grocery shop on a corner, she went in to make enquiries.
She came out quickly. 'It's not far. It's only a couple of streets away.'
They walked to the corner and there was the river and a hundred yards further on, a sign on the wall sayingCork Street Wharf.
Cussane said, 'All right, off you go. I'll stay back out of the way, just in case she has visitors.'
'I shan't be long.'
She hurried off down the street and Cussane stepped back through a broken door into a hard half-filled with rubble and waited. He could smell the river. Not many boats now though. This had once been the greatest port in the world, now it was a graveyard of rusting cranes pointing into the sky like primeval monsters. He felt lousy and when he lit a cigarette, his hand shook. There was the sound of running steps and Morag appeared. 'She isn't there. I spoke to the next door neighbour.'
'Where is she?'
'With a touring show. A fairground show. She's in Maid-stone this week.'
And Maidstone was only Thirty miles from Canterbury.There was an inevitability to things and Cussane said, 'We'd better get going then.'
'You'll take me?'
'Why not?' and he turned and led the way along the street.
He found what he was looking for within twenty minutes, a pay and display parking lot.
'Why is this so important?' she demanded.
'Because people pay in advance for however many hours of parking they want and stick the ticket on the windscreen.
A wonderful aid to car thieves. You can tell just how long you've got before the car is missed.'
She scouted around. 'There's one here says six hours.'
'And what time was it booked in?' He checked and took out his pocket knife. 'That'll do. Four hours to go. Dark then anyway.'
He worked on the quarter-light with the knife, forced it and unlocked the door, then he reached under the dashboard and pulled the wires down.
'You've done this before,' she said.
'That's true.' The engine roared into life. 'Okay,' he said, 'Let's get out of here,' and as she scrambled into the passenger seat, he drove away.
'Or COURSE, it's hardly surprising the Pope wants to come here, sir,' Susan Calder said to Devlin. 'This is the birthplace of English Christianity. It was St Augustine who founded the cathedral here in Saxon times.'
'Is it now?' They were standing in the magnificent Perpendicular nave of the cathedral, the pillars soaring to the vaulted ceiling high above them. The place was a hive of activity, workmen everywhere.
'It's certainly spectacular,' Devlin said.
'It was even bombed in nineteen-forty-two during the Canterbury blitz. The library was destroyed, but it's been rebuilt. Up here in the north-west transept is where Saint Thomas Beckett was murdered by the three knights eight hundred years ago.'
T believe the Pope has a particular affinity for him,' Devlin said. 'Let's have a look.'
They moved up the nave to the place of Beckett's martyrdom all those years ago. The precise spot where he was traditionally believed to have fallen was marked by a small square stone. There was a strange atmosphere. Devlin shivered, suddenly cold.
'The Sword's Point,' the girl said simply. 'That's what they call it.'
'Yes, well they would, wouldn't they? Come on, let's get out of here. I could do with a smoke and I've seen enough.'
They went out through the south porch past the police guard. There was plenty of activity outside also, workmen working on stands and a considerable police presence. Devlin lit a cigarette and he and Susan Calder moved out on to the pavement.
'What do you think?' she said. 'I mean, not even Cussane could expect to get in there tomorrow. You've seen the security.'
Devlin took out his wallet and produced the security card Ferguson had given him. 'Have you seen one of these before?'
'I don't think so.'
'Very special. Guaranteed to unlock all doors.'
'So?'
'Nobody has asked to see it. We were totally accepted when we walked in. Why? Because you are wearing police uniform. And don't tell me that's what you are. It isn't the point.'
'I see what you mean.' She was troubled and it showed.
'The best place to hide a tree is in a forest,' he said. 'Tomorrow, there'll be policemen all over the place and church dignitaries so what's another policeman or priest.'
At that moment someone called his name, and they turned to see Ferguson walking towards them with a man in a dark overcoat. Ferguson wore a greatcoat of the kind favoured by Guards officers, and carried a smartly rolled umbrella.
'Brigadier Ferguson,' Devlin told the girl hastily.
'There you are,' the Brigadier said. This your driver?'
'WPC Calder, sir,' she saluted smartly.
'This is Superintendent Foster, attached to Scotland Yard's anti-terrorist squad,' Ferguson said. 'I've been going over things with him. Seems pretty watertight to me.'
'Even if your man gets as far as Canterbury, there's no way he'll get in the cathedral tomorrow,' Foster said simply. 'I'd stake my reputation on it.'
'Let's hope you don't have to,' Devlin told him.
Ferguson tugged at Foster's sleeve impatiently. 'Right, let's get inside before the light fails. I'm staying here tonight myself, Devlin. I'll phone you at your hotel later.'
The two men walked up to the great door, a policeman opened it for them and they went inside. 'Do you think he knows them?' Devlin asked her gently.
'God, I don't know. You've gotme wondering now, sir.' She opened the door of the car for him. He got in and she slid behind the wheel and started the engine. 'One thing.'
'What's that?'
'Even if he did get in and did something, he'd never get out again.'
'But that's the whole point,' Devlin said. 'He doesn't care what happens to him afterwards.'
'God help us then.'
'I wouldn't bank on it. Nothing we can do now, girl dear. We don't control the game any more, it controls us, so get us to that hotel in your own good time and I'll buy you the best dinner the place can offer. Did I tell you, by the way, that I have this terrible thing for women in uniform?'
As she turned out into the traffic she started to laugh.
The caravan was large and roomy and extremely well-furnished. The bedroom section was separate in its own small compartment, twin bunks. When Cussane opened the door and peered in, Morag appeared J¯ be sleeping.
He started to close the door and she called, 'Harry?'
'Yes?' He moved back in. 'What is it?'
'Is Grandma still working?'
'Yes.'
He sat on the edge of the'bunk. He was in considerable pain now. It even hurt to breathe. Something was badly wrong, he knew that. She reached up to touch his face and he drew back a little.
