The sanctuary lamp glowed through the gloom, and to the left there was a Mary Chapel, the Virgin and Child floating in a sea of candlelight. The place had obviously had money spent on it in the past. Victorian stained glass abounded, carvings that looked like medieval copies, and a Christ on the Cross which was extremely striking. The altar and choir stalls, too, were ornate and, it had to be admitted, beautifully carved.
A woman was down there wearing a green smock, arranging flowers by the altar. Fifty or so, Dillon told himself, a strong face with a good mouth, handsome in a Jane Austen kind of way, the hair fair and well kept with no gray showing, although that was probably due more to the attentions of a good hairdresser than nature. She wore a white blouse and gray skirt under the smock, and half-heeled shoes. She held pruning scissors in one gloved hand, and she turned and glanced at them coolly for a moment, then returned to her flowers.
Dillon moved towards the confessional boxes on the far side. There were three of them, but the light was on in only one. Two middle-aged women were waiting, and Billy, sitting two pews behind them beside Dillon, leaned forward to decipher the name card in the slot on the priest's confessional door.
"You're all right, it says 'Monsignor James Murphy.' "
A man in a raincoat emerged from the box and walked away along the aisle, and one of the women went in. They sat there in silence, and she was out in not much more than five minutes. She sat down, and her friend went in. She was longer, more like fifteen minutes, then finally emerged, murmured to her friend, and they departed.
"Here I go," Dillon whispered to Billy, got up, opened the door of the confessional box, entered, and sat down.
"Please bless me, Father," he said to the man on the other side of the grille, conscious of the strong, aquiline face in profile, the hair still long and silvery rather than gray.
Murphy said, "May our Lord Jesus bless you and help you to tell your sins."
"Oh, that would be impossible, for they are so many."
The head turned slightly towards him. "When did you last make a confession, my son?"
"So long ago, I can't remember."
"Are your sins so bad that you shrink from revealing them?"
"Not at all. I know the secrets of the confessional are inviolate, but acknowledging the deaths of so many at my hands in no way releases me from the burden of them."
Murphy seemed to straighten. "Ah, I think I see your problem. You are a soldier, or have been a soldier, as with so many men these days."
"That's true enough."
"Then you may certainly be absolved, but you must help by seeking comfort in prayer."
"Oh, I've tried that, Father, saying, 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.' "
There was a moment of silence, then Murphy turned full face, trying to peer through the grille. "Who are you?"
"God bless you, Father, but isn't that breaking the rules? Still, I'll let it go for once and put you out of your misery. Sean Dillon, as ever was. Thirty years since you last saw me. I was nineteen, and you were the man the police asked to break the news that my father was dead, killed accidently while on a trip to Belfast. You told me he was a casualty of war."
"Sean," Murphy's voice quavered. "I can't believe it. What can I say?"
"I think you said it all thirty years ago when you urged me to pray, particularly the special one on a prayer card you gave me, the prayer I've just quoted to you."
"Yes, I recollect now." The voice was unsteady. "A wonderful prayer to the Virgin Mary."
"I remember you saying it would be a comfort for all victims of a great cause. Which made sense, as the prayer is directed at we who are ourselves alone, and 'ourselves alone' in Irish is Sinn Fein. So it had a definite political twist to it, urging a nineteen-year-old boy whose father had ended up dead on a pavement in the Falls Road to get angry, clear off to Belfast, and join the Provos to fight for the Glorious Cause. Now, aren't you proud of me?"
The door to Dillon's half of the confessional box was yanked open, and the woman in the green smock was there, blazingly angry. "Come out of there," she shouted, and grabbed at him. Behind her, Billy moved in to pull her off.
"You got good and loud, Sean. Only her and me in the place, and we heard most of what you said."
She pulled away from Billy and glared at Dillon. "Get out of here before I call the police."
Billy produced his warrant card. "Don't waste your breath. MI5, and he's got one, too."
The other door opened, and Murphy came out, an imposing figure at six feet, with the silver hair, dressed in a full black cassock, an alb, violet stole draped over his shoulder.
"Leave it, Caitlin, this is Sean Dillon. As a boy of nineteen, I had to tell him his father was murdered by British soldiers in Ulster. He left for Belfast for his father's funeral and never returned. There were rumors that he had cast in his lot with the Provisional IRA. If so, I can't see that it in any way concerns me. As to the prayer card that I gave him as a comfort, it may be found on the Internet, if you look carefully, Sean, and has been available to all since Easter 1916. We have a Hope of Mary Hospice and Refuge where the card is readily available." He put a hand on Dillon's left shoulder. "You are deeply troubled, Sean, that is so obvious. Your dear father worked and did so much for the church in his spare time. The lectern in beechwood by the high altar was his work. If I can help you in any way, I am here."
"Not right now," Dillon said. "But before I go, the score for dead cardholders right now is four: Henry Pool, John Docherty, Frank Barry in New York, Jack Flynn on Long Island."
"What on earth are you talking about?" Murphy looked shocked.
"Don't listen to him, he's lost his wits entirely." Caitlin moved close to Dillon and slapped his face. "Get out."
"My, but you're the hard woman. Come on, Billy, let's go." Billy opened the great door, and Dillon turned, and Murphy and Caitlin were standing close, he with his head inclined while she whispered to him.
Dillon called, "If you know anybody named Cochran, tell him we found his wallet, and the prayer card, too. God bless all here."
And Caitlin Daly snapped completely. "Get out, you bastard." Her voice echoed around the church, and Dillon followed Billy to the Cooper, and they drove away.
"Do you think there's anything doing?" Billy asked.
"Oh, yes," Dillon said. "However bizarre it sounds, I think there's something going on there."
"If that's so, don't you think you've given a lot away?"
"I intended to. Back to Holland Park, Billy," and he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, thinking about it.
At the sacristy, Caitlin Daly leaned against the door and fumbled in her shoulder bag, pushed aside a Belgian Leon.25 semi-automatic pistol, produced an encrypted mobile phone, and punched in a number. It was answered at once, a man's voice, the slightest tinge of a Yorkshire accent.
"Caitlin?"
"Just listen," she said. "We've got trouble." She quickly told him what had taken place. "What are we going to do?"
"How did Murphy take it?"
"How do you expect? He's too good for this bloody world. All he feels is pity for Dillon."
"Well, he would, wouldn't he? Leave it with me, I'll handle it somehow." The church was very quiet now when she returned, and Murphy knelt before the altar, his head bowed in prayer, and she sat in a front pew and waited. When he stood up and walked to her, she said, "You've been praying for Dillon, haven't you?"
"Of course. So sad, that business of his father's death in Belfast all those years ago. His life has so obviously been a hard and bitter one. What else can I do but pray for him?"
She stifled her anger with difficulty. "Sometimes, Monsignor, I think you're much too forgiving. But take my arm, and we'll go back to the presbytery for tea."