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.