Confessional. Part 57

He smiled gently. 'You have the gift, so you would know.' He took a deep breath. 'Things to get straight before I go. Morag's position in all this. Have you got a pencil?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Take down this number.' She did as she was told. 'The man on the other end is called Ferguson - Brigadier Ferguson.'

'Is he police?'

'In a way. He'd dearly love to get his hands on me. If he isn't there, they'll know how to contact him wherever he is, which is probably Canterbury.'

'Why there?'

'Because I'm going to Canterbury to kill the Pope.' He produced the Stechkin from his pocket. 'With this.'

She seemed to grow small, to withdraw into herself. She believed him, of course, he could see that. 'But why?' she whispered. 'He's a good man.'

'Aren't we all?' he said, 'or at least were, at some time or other in our lives. The important thing is this. When I've gone, you phone Ferguson. Tell him I'm going to Canterbury Cathedral. You'll also tell him I forced Morag to help me. Say she was frightened for her life. Anything.' He laughed. 'Taking it all in all, that should cover it.'

He picked up his bag and walked to the door. She said, 'You're dying, don't you know that?'

'Of course I do.' He managed a smile. 'You said that Death on the Tarot cards means redemption. In my death lies the opportunity for rebirth. That child's in there. That's all that's important.' He opened the bag, took out the bundle of fifty pound notes and tossed them on the table. 'That's for her. I won't be needing it now.'

He went out. The door banged. She sat there listening, aware of the sound of the car starting up and moving away. She stayed like that for a long time, thinking about Harry Cussane himself. She had liked him more than most men she had known, but there was Death in his eyes, she had seen that at the first meeting. And there was Morag to consider.

There was a sound of movement next door where the girl slept - a faint stirring. Old Brana checked her watch. It was eight-thirty. Making her decision, she got up, let herself out of the caravan quietly. Hurried across the fairground to the public phone box and dialled Ferguson's number.

Devlin was having breakfast at the hotel in Canterbury with Susan Calder when he was called to the phone. He was back quite quickly.

'That was Ferguson. Cussane's turned up. Or at least his girl-friend has. Do you know Maidstone?'

'Yes, sir. It can't be more than sixteen or seventeen miles from here. Twenty at the most.'

'Then let's get moving,' he said. 'There really isn't much time for any of us now.'

In London, the Pope had left the Pro-Nunciature very early to visit more than 4000 religious: nuns, monks, and priests, Catholic and Anglican, at Digby Stuart Training College in London. Many of them were from enclosed orders. This was the first time they had gone into the outside world in many years. It was a highly emotional moment for all when they

renewed their vows in the Holy Father's presence. It was after that that he left for Canterbury in the helicopter provided by British Caledonian Airways.

Stokely Hall was bounded by a high wall of red brick, a Victorian addition to the estate when the family still had money. The lodge beside the great iron gates was Victorian also, though the architect had done his best to make it resemble the early Tudor features of the main house. When Cussane drove by on the main road, there were two police cars at the gates and a police motor-cyclist who had been trailing behind him for the past mile, turned in.

Cussane carried on down the road, the wall on his left, fringed by trees. When the gate was out of sight, he scanned the opposite side of the road and finally noticed a five-barred gate and a track leading into a wood. He drove across quickly, got out, opened the gate, then drove some little way into the trees. He went back to the gate, closed it and returned to the car.

He took off his raincoat, jacket and s.h.i.+rt, 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 ca.s.sock. 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 pa.s.senger 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' 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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.sed 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.'