'Switch it off, for Christ's sake,' Roper said.

But it was too late, for Dillon, already answering, heard the unmistakable Ulster tones of a young woman saying, 'Would that be Mr Sean Dillon, of Stable Mews, Mayfair, London?'

He slipped back into the accent of his childhood. 'It is indeed, my love.'

'I'm calling from Belfast, Mr Dillon. I'm Sergeant Eileen Flanagan, Police Service of Northern Ireland.'

'And what can I be doing for you?'

'An old gentleman called Mickeen Oge Flynn has been admitted to Seaton Hospital, and a search in his wallet has discovered a next-of-kin card.'

Dillon was all attention. 'Mickeen is my uncle. I'm his only relative. Has he had a heart attack or something?'

'No, it's nothing like that. I'm not supposed to go into clinical details. If you phone the hospital, they'll be able to answer your questions.'

'For the love of God, girl, can't you tell me more? Is it serious?'

'All right, but don't get me into trouble. He was working under a motor car and it fell on him. He was discovered by his mechanic, one Patrick O'Rourke. The air ambulance service brought him to the Seaton Hospital in Belfast. I understand it doesn't look good, but, really, you'll have to talk to the hospital about that. I have Patrick O'Rourke's mobile phone number, would you like it?'

'Yes, I would.' Dillon went to Roper's desk and found a pen and she dictated the number to him.

'Will you be coming?' she said.

'Definitely. God bless you.'

The others waited expectantly and he told them the worst. He said to Roper, 'If you could get Seaton Hospital online and find me the right person to speak to, I'd appreciate it.'

'I'll get right on to it,' Roper said. 'You do intend to go over there?'

'As fast as I can, so we'll need to check out flights from Heathrow.'

'No, you won't,' Holley said. 'I'll fly you myself.'

'Are you sure?' Dillon said.

'Of course, and I'm coming with you. I was at Queen's University in Belfast more years ago than I care to remember. It will be interesting to go back.'

Dillon said to Roper, 'Make sure we're allowed to land at Belfast City Airport by the docks.'

Holley cut in. 'And book us a suite at the Europa.' He turned to Dillon. 'Let's get going.'

Roper managed to get the flight classified as a Ministry of Defence priority, so everything worked perfectly, including the landing at Belfast. As a result, it was only ten-thirty when they reached the hospital and were directed to the neurological unit. At that time of night, it was fairly quiet, the corridors empty except for the occasional nurse.

The reception area was on the third floor. There were chairs, a vending machine for drinks, magazines, and an ageing woman with grey hair behind the desk. She smiled pleasantly as they approached.

'We don't often get visitors this late, so I suspect you'll be the gentlemen from London for Mr Flynn. We were told you were on your way. Dillon and Holley, isn't it? I've issued you with identity tags. Please put them on. It's regulations.'

'How is my uncle?' Dillon asked.

'I'm not allowed to give out that information. All I can say is that he's had major surgery and that Mr Frank Jordan performed the operation himself. He's a truly wonderful surgeon, so your uncle is in good hands.'

'Can we see him?' Dillon asked, meaning Mickeen.

'The surgeon? Oh, yes, he's come in especially.'

At that moment, the man himself came down the corridor. He seemed about sixty, with a well-used face and a shock of grey hair. He wore the standard white coat, a stethoscope sticking out of one pocket.

Dillon stood and held out his hand. 'Sean Dillon and my friend, Daniel Holley. I'm Mickeen's nephew.'

'Let's sit down and talk.' Jordan turned to the receptionist. 'Tea for three, Molly. Make it using your own kettle behind the desk there. I hate that bloody machine.'

'Certainly, sir,' she said.

'So how bad is it?' Dillon asked as they sat.

'I'm a plain man, Mr Dillon, and I always prefer to tell the truth, or at least as I see it. It's as bad as it could be. His left arm is broken – it was obviously raised as the vehicle collapsed – and there's a flesh wound on the right, but those aren't the problems. It's the head injuries. He has skull fractures of the utmost severity.'

'And brain damage?' Dillon said.

'Yes, lacerations to a certain degree. We've worked on him for four hours, and put in a titanium plate in one area.'

Molly had produced the tea, put the tray on a table beside them and poured. Dillon asked, 'What kind of chance does he have, a man of his age who's drunk a pint of whiskey every day of his life?'

'He could die five minutes from now, but head trauma is a strange business. Patients can hang in there for weeks.' Jordan was drinking his tea.

'Is that normal?' Holley asked.

'There's no such thing as normal in a case like this. I've had many patients over the years who continue to sleep.'

'You mean they don't revive at all?' Dillon asked.

'It's been known to last for months, and when the patient comes to, they've been in dream-time. Usually they've completely lost their memory.'

Dillon nodded. 'Can we see him?'

'Only through the door. Come with me.'

The private room was at the very end of the corridor. There was a square observation window in the door. Mickeen resembled a mummy, with all his bandages. He was festooned with bottles and tubes, electronic machines bleeping away. A man in a white coat sat in the corner reading a book.

'Who's he?' Dillon asked.

'The night nurse. With such a serious matter, Mr Flynn will continue to have one at his side in case of emergencies.'

Holley said, 'There's nothing for you here, Sean. Let's go and book in at the hotel.'

They paused before walking back to reception and Jordan said, 'I understand you're based in London, so seeing him on a regular basis would be difficult. There's not much you could do anyway, though, even if you came in every day.'

Dillon shook hands. 'You're right. But what if I moved him to London?'

Jordan paused. 'I think he'd be all right, but that would require a private air ambulance; it'd cost many thousands of pounds.'

Holley said, 'We've got that kind of money.'

Jordan frowned. 'Just who are you people?'

Dillon produced his MI5 warrant card. 'You look a decent sort of man, so I'm going to take a chance. We work for a special security outfit on behalf of the Prime Minister, and we have a private hospital called Rosedene in Holland Park, small but superbly equipped. It takes care of people damaged in our line of work. It's run by a Professor Charles Bellamy. He's put me together a few times.'

'But I know him,' Jordan said. 'We were colleagues at Guy's Hospital in London for years.'

'Give me your card and I'll have him contact you and make the arrangements. You are sure Mickeen can be moved?'

'Oh, yes, in an air ambulance, but, as I say, it will cost you.' He produced his card and said, 'My private mobile number. I'm used to being wakened at all hours, so your people can call me any time. All I need is the right authorization. Take care, gentlemen.' Jordan walked away.

'A good man, that one,' Dillon said.

'I agree. Now, if you don't mind me bringing up mundane matters, can I remind you we haven't had any dinner?'

'At this time of night, they'll call it supper,' Dillon said, as they arrived back in reception.

Holley thanked the receptionist for the tea. 'Will you be wanting a taxi?' she asked.

'We have one waiting. Come on, Sean,' and they walked down to the lift.

It was quiet again, not a soul about. Molly took a mobile from her handbag and dialled a number and said to the man who answered, 'Is that you, Mr Carson? It's Molly. We've just had two visitors from London to see Flynn, a Sean Dillon and a Daniel Holley.'