He took off his raincoat, jacket and shirt, awkwardly because of his bad arm. The smell was immediately apparent, the sickly odour of decay. He laughed foolishly and said softly, ‘Jesus, Harry, you’re falling apart.’
He got his black vest from the bag, his clerical collar and put them on. Finally, the cassock. It seemed a thousand years since he had rolled it up and put it in the bottom of the bag at Kilrea. He reloaded the Stechkin with a fresh clip, put it in one pocket, a spare clip in the other and got in the car as it started to drizzle. No more morphine. The pain would keep him sharp. He closed his eyes and vowed to stay in control.
Brana Smith sat at the table in the caravan, an arm around Morag, who was crying steadily.
‘Just tell me exactly what he said,’ Liam Devlin told her.
‘Grandma…’ the girl started.
The old woman shook her head. ‘Hush, child.’ She turned
to Devlin. ‘He told me he intended to shoot the Pope. Showed me the gun. Then he gave me the telephone number to ring in London. The man Ferguson.’
‘And what did he tell you to say?’
‘That he would be at Canterbury Cathedral.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘Isn’t it enough?’
Devlin turned to Susan Calder standing at the door. ‘Right, we’d better get back.’
She opened the door. Brana Smith said, ‘What about Morag?’
That’s up to Ferguson.’ Devlin shrugged. Til see what I can do.’
He started to go out and she said, ‘Mr Devlin?’ He turned. ‘He’s dying.’
‘Dying?’ Devlin said.
‘Yes, from a gunshot wound.’
He went out, ignoring the curious crowd of fairground workers, and got in the front passenger seat beside Susan. As she drove away, he called up Canterbury Police Headquarters on the car radio and asked to be patched through to Ferguson.
‘Nothing fresh here,’ he told the Brigadier. ‘The message was for you and quite plain. He intends to be at Canterbury Cathedral.’
‘Cheeky bastard!’ Ferguson said.
‘Another thing. He’s dying. It would seem sepsis must be setting in from the bullet he took at the Mungos’ farm.’
‘Your bullet?’
‘That’s right.’
Ferguson took a deep breath. ‘All right, get back here fast. The Pope should be here soon.’
Stokely Hall was one of the finest Tudor mansions in England and the Stokelys had been one of the handful of English aristocratic families to maintain its Catholicism after Henry VIII and the Reformation. The thing which distinguished Stokely was the family chapel, the chapel in the wood, reached
by tunnel from the main house. It was regarded by most experts as being, in effect, the oldest Catholic church in England. The Pope had expressed a desire to pray there.
Cussane lay back in the passenger seat thinking it over. The pain was a living thing now, his face ice-cold and yet dripping sweat. He managed to find a cigarette and started to light it and then, in the distance, heard the sound of engines up above. He got out of the car and stood listening. A moment later, the blue and white painted helicopter passed overhead.
Susan Calder said, ‘You don’t look happy, sir.’
‘It was Liam last night. And I’m not happy. Cussane’s behaviour doesn’t make sense.’
‘That was then, this is now. What’s worrying you?’
‘Harry Cussane, my good friend of more than twenty years. The best chess player I ever knew.’
‘And what was the most significant thing about him?’
‘That he was always three moves ahead. That he had the ability to make you concentrate on his right hand when what was really important was what he was doing with his left. In the present circumstances, what does that suggest to you?’
‘That he hasn’t any intention of going to Canterbury Cathedral. That’s where the action is. That’s where everyone is waiting for him.’
‘So he strikes somewhere else. But how? Where’s the schedule?’
‘Back seat, sir.’
He found it and read it aloud. ‘Starts off at Digby Stuart College in London, then by helicopter to Canterbury.’ He frowned. ‘Wait a minute. He’s dropping in at some place called Stokely Hall to visit a Catholic chapel.’