'You can, not me,' Meehan told him. 'Find Fallon and stick to him like glue.'

'But I thought that was Varley's job?'

'So now I'm putting you on to it. Tell Varley to wait outside.'

'And what about you,' Billy said sullenly.

'Oh, I'll wait here for the priest to get back. Time we had a word.' He sighed and stretched his arms. 'I like it here. Nice and peaceful in the dark with all those candles flickering away there. Gives a fella time to think.' Billy hesitated as if trying to find some suitable reply and Meehan said irritably, 'Go on, piss off out of it for Christ's sake. I'll see you later.'

He leaned back, arms folded, and closed his eyes and Billy left by the front entrance to do as he was told.

* * *

It was raining hard in the cemetery. As they moved along the path to the presbytery, Fallon slipped her arm in his.

'Sometimes I think it's never going to stop,' she said. 'It's been like this for days.'

'I know,' he said.

They reached the front door, she opened it and paused in the porch while Fallon stood at the bottom of the steps looking up at her.

'Nothing seems to make sense to me any longer,' she said. 'I don't understand you or what's happened today or any part of it - not after hearing you play. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't fit.'

He smiled up at her gently. 'Go in now, girl dear, out of the cold. Stay safe in your own small world.'

'Not now,' she said. 'How can I? You've made me an accessory now, isn't that what they call it? I could have spoken up, but I didn't.'

It was the most terrible thing she could have said to him. He said hoarsely. 'Then why didn't you?'

'I gave my uncle my word, had you forgotten? And I would not hurt him for worlds.'

Fallon moved back into the rain very softly, She called from the porch, 'Mr Fallon, are you there?'

He didn't reply. She stood there for a moment longer, uncertainty on her face, then went in and closed the door. Fallon turned and moved back along the path.

Billy had been watching them from the shelter of a large Victorian mausoleum, or rather, he had been watching Anna. She was different from the girls he was used to. Quiet, lady-like and yet she had an excellent figure. There was plenty of warmth beneath that cool exterior, he was certain of that, and the fact of her blindness made his stomach churn, exciting some perversity inside him and he got an almost instant erection.

Fallon paused, hands cupped to light a cigarette, and Billy drew back out of sight.

Fallon said, 'All right, Billy, I'm ready to go home now. Since you're here, you can drive me back to Jenny's place.'

Billy hesitated, then stepped reluctantly into the open. 'Think you're bleeding smart, don't you?'

'To be smarter than you doesn't take much, sonny,' Fallon told him. 'And another thing. If I catch you hanging around here again, I'll be very annoyed.'

'Why don't you go stuff yourself,' Billy told him furiously.

He turned and walked rapidly towards the gate. Fallon was smiling as he went after him.

The city mortuary was built like a fort and encircled by twenty-foot walls of red brick to keep out prying eyes. When Miller's car reached the main entrance the driver got out and spoke into a voice box on the wall. He climbed back behind the wheel. A moment later the great steel gate slid back automatically and they passed into an inner courtyard.

'Here we are, Father,' Miller said. 'The most modern mortuary in Europe, or so they say.'

He and Fitzgerald got out first and Father da Costa followed them. The inner building was all concrete and glass. Functional, but rather beautiful in its own way. They went up a concrete ramp to the rear entrance and a technician in white overalls opened the door for them.

'Good morning, Superintendent,' he said. 'Professor Lawlor said he'd meet you in the dressing-room. He's very anxious to get started.'

There was the constant low hum of the air-conditioning plant as they followed him along a maze of narrow corridors. Miller glanced over his shoulder at Father da Costa and said casually, 'They boast the purest air in the city up here. If you can breathe it at all, that is.'

It was the kind of remark that didn't seem to require an answer and Father da Costa made no attempt to make one. The technician opened a door, ushered them inside and left.

There were several washbasins, a shower in the corner, white hospital overalls and robes hanging on pegs on one wall. Underneath was a row of white rubber boots in various sizes. Miller and Fitzgerald removed their raincoats and the Superintendent took down a couple of white robes and passed one to Father da Costa.

'Here, put this on. You don't need to bother about boots.'

Father da Costa did as he was told and then the door opened and Professor Lawlor entered. 'Come on, Nick,' he said. 'You're holding me up.' And then he saw the priest and his eyes widened in surprise. 'Hello, Father.'

I'd like Father da Costa to observe, if you've no objection,' Miller said.

Professor Lawlor was wearing white overalls and boots and long pale-green rubber gloves, which he pulled at impatiently, 'As long as he doesn't get in the way. But do let's get on with it. I've got a lecture at the medical school at five.'

He led the way out and they followed along a short corridor and through a rubber swing door into the post mortem room. It was lit by fluorescent lighting so bright that it almost hurt the eyes and there was a row of half-a-dozen stainless steel operating tables.

Janos Krasko lay on his back on the one nearest the door, head raised on a wooden block. He was quite naked. Two technicians stood ready beside a trolley on which an assortment of surgical instruments was laid out neatly. The greatest surprise for Father da Costa were the closed circuit television cameras, one set close up to the operating table, the other waiting nearby on a movable trolley.

'As you can see, Father, science marches on,' Miller said. 'These days in a case like this everything's videotaped and in colour.'

'Is that necessary?' Father da Costa asked him.

'It certainly is. Especially when you get the kind of defence council who hasn't got much to go on and tries bringing in his own expert witness. In other words, some other eminent pathologist with his own particular theory about what happened.'

One of the technicians was fastening a throat mike around Lawlor's throat and Miller nodded. 'The medical profession are great on opinions, Father, I've learned that the hard way.'

Lawlor smiled frostily. 'Don't get bitter in your old age, Nick. Have you witnessed a post mortern before, Father?'

'Not in your terms, Professor.'

'I see. Well, if you feel sick, you know where the dressing-room is and please stand well back - all of you.' He turned and addressed the camera men and technicians. 'Right, gentlemen, let's get started.'

It should have been like something out of a nightmare. That it wasn't was probably due to Lawlor as much as anything else. That and the general atmosphere of clinical efficiency.

He was really quite brilliant. More than competent in every department. An artist with a knife who kept up a running commentary in that dry, precise voice of his during the entire proceedings.

'Everything he says is recorded,' Miller whispered. 'To go with the video.'

Father da Costa watched, fascinated, as Lawlor drew a scalpel around the skull. He grasped the hair firmly and pulled the entire face forward, eyeballs and all, like a crumpled rubber mask.