A Prayer for the Dying

'What's he done to deserve me?'

'A matter of business, that's all. What you might call a conflict of interests. My client's tried being reasonable, only Krasko won't play. So he'll have to go; and as publicly as possible.'

'To encourage the others?'

'Something like that.'

Fallon moved back to the window and looked down into the street. The car was still there in the alley. He spoke without turning round.

'And just what exactly is Krasko's line of business?'

'You name it,' Kristou said. 'Clubs, gambling, betting shops ...'

'Whores and drugs?' Fallon turned round. 'And your client?'

Kristou raised a hand defensively. 'Now you're going too far, Martin. Now you're being unreasonable.'

'Good night, Kristou.' Fallon turned and started to walk away.

'All right, all right,' Kristou called, something close to panic in his voice. 'You win.'

As Fallon moved back to the table, Kristou opened a drawer and rummaged inside. He took out another folder, opened it and produced a bundle of newspaper clippings. He sorted through them, finally found what he was looking for and passed it to Fallon.

The clipping was already yellowing at the edges and was dated eighteen months previously. The article was headed The English Al Capone.

There was a photo of a large, heavily-built man coming down a flight of steps. He had a fleshy, arrogant face under a Homburg hat and wore a dark-blue, double-breasted melton overcoat, a handkerchief in the breast pocket. The youth at his shoulder was perhaps seventeen or eighteen and wore a similar coat, but he was bare-headed, an albino, with white shoulder-length hair that gave him the look of some decadent angel.

Underneath the photo it said; Jack Meehan and his brother Billy leaving Manchester Central Police Headquarters after questioning in connection with the death of Agnes Drew.

'And who was this Agnes Drew?' Fallon demanded.

'Some whore who got kicked to death in an alley. An occupational hazard. You know how it is?'

'I can imagine.' Fallon glanced at the photo again. 'They look like a couple of bloody undertakers.'

Kristou laughed until the tears came to his eyes. 'That's really very funny, you know that? That's exactly what Mr Meehan is. He runs one of the biggest funeral concerns in the north of England.'

'What, no clubs, no gambling? No whores, no drugs?' Fallon put the clipping down on the table. 'That's not what it says here.'

'All right,' Kristou leaned back, took off his spectacles and cleaned them with a soiled handkerchief. 'What if I told you Mr Meehan is strictly legitimate these days? That people like Krasko are leaning on him. Leaning hard - and the law won't help.'

'Oh, I see it all now,' Fallon said. 'You mean give a dog a bad name?'

'That's it.' Kristou slammed a fist against the table. 'That's it exactly.' He adjusted his spectacles again and peered up at Fallon eagerly. 'It's a deal then?'

'Like hell it is,' Fallon said coldly. 'I wouldn't touch either Krasko or your friend Meehan with a bargepole. I might catch something.'

'For God's sake, Martin, what's one more on the list to you?' Kristou cried as he turned to go. 'How many did you kill over there? Thirty-two? Thirty-four? Four soldiers in Londonderry alone.'

He got up quickly, his chair going backwards, darted round the table and grabbed Fallon by the arm.

Fallon pushed him away. 'Anything I did, I did for the cause. Because I believed it was necessary.'

'Very noble,' Kristou said. 'And the kids in that school bus you blew to a bloody pulp. Was that for your cause?'

He was back across the table, a hand of iron at his throat, staring up into the muzzle of a Browning automatic and behind it Fallon and the white devil's face on him. There was the click of the hammer being cocked.

Kristou almost fainted. He had a partial bowel movement, the stench foul in the cold, sharp air of the warehouse and Fallon pushed him away in disgust.

'Never again, Kristou,' he whispered and the Browning in his left hand was rock-steady. 'Never again.' The Browning disappeared into the right-hand pocket of his trenchcoat. He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. The Judas gate banged.

Kristou got up gingerly, tears of rage and shame in his eyes. Someone laughed and a harsh, aggressive Yorkshire voice said from the shadows, 'Now that's what I call really being in the shit, Kristou.'

Jack Meehan walked into the light, his brother Billy at his heels. They were both dressed exactly as they had been in the newspaper photo. It really was quite remarkable.

Meehan picked up the clipping. 'What in the hell did you want to show him that for? I sued the bastard who wrote that article and won.'

'That's right.' Billy Meehan giggled. 'The judge would have made it a farthing damages only there's no such coin any more.' His voice was high-pitched, repellent - nothing masculine about it at all.

Meehan slapped him casually, back-handed across the mouth, and said to Kristou, his nose wrinkling in disgust, 'Go and wipe your backside, for Christ's sake. Then we talk.'

When Kristou returned, Meehan was sitting at the table pouring whiskey into a clean paper cup, his brother standing behind him. He sampled a little, spat it out and made a face. 'All right, I know the Irish still have one foot in the bog, but how can they drink this muck?'

'I'm sorry, Mr Meehan,' Kristou said.

'You'll be a bloody sight sorrier before I'm through with you. You cocked it up proper, didn't you?'

Kristou moistened dry lips and fingered his spectacles. 'I didn't think he'd react that way.'

'What in the hell did you expect? He's a nutcase, isn't he? I mean, they all are over there, going round shooting women and blowing up kids. That's civilised?'

Kristou couldn't think of a thing to say, but was saved by Billy who said carelessly, 'He didn't look much to me. Little half-pint runt. Without that shooter in his fist he'd be nothing.'

Meehan sighed heavily. 'You know there are days when I really despair of you, Billy. You've just seen hell on wheels and didn't recognise it.' He laughed harshly again. 'You'll never come closer, Kristou. He was mad at you, you old bastard. Mad enough to kill and yet that shooter didn't even waver.'

Kristou winced. 'I know, Mr Meehan. I miscalculated. I shouldn't have mentioned those kids.'

'Then what are you going to do about it?'

Kristou glanced at Billy, then back to his brother, frowning slightly. 'You mean you still want him, Mr Meehan?'

'Doesn't everybody?'

'That's true enough.'

He laughed nervously and Meehan stood up and patted him on the face. 'You fix it, Kristou, like a good lad. You know where I'm staying. If I haven't heard by midnight, I'll send Fat Albert to see you and you wouldn't like that, would you?'

He walked into the darkness followed by his brother and Kristou stood there, terrified, listening to them go. The judas gate opened and Meehan's voice called, 'Kristou?'

'Yes, Mr Meehan.'

'Don't forget to have a bath when you get home. You stink like my Aunt Mary's midden.'

The judas banged shut and Kristou sank down into the chair, fingers tapping nervously. God damn Fallon. It would serve him right if he turned him in.

And then it hit him like a bolt from the blue. The perfect solution and so beautifully simple.

He picked up the telephone, dialled Scotland Yard and asked to be put through to the Special Branch.

It was raining quite heavily now and Jack Meehan paused to turn up his collar before crossing the street.

Billy said, 'I still don't get it. Why is it so important you get Fallon?'