“A decent suit for general purposes, gray flannel perhaps and a blazer. A nice loose linen jacket and slacks, it really does get hot in St. John at this time of the year, really hot.”

“I’m yours to command,” he assured her.

They ended up in the bar upstairs with two suitcases filled with his purchases. “Strange having to buy an entire wardrobe,” she said. “Socks, shirts, underwear. What on earth happened to you?”

“Let’s say I had to leave where I was in a hurry.” He called over a waiter and ordered two glasses of champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches.

“You like your champagne,” she said.

Dillon smiled. “As a great man once said, there are only two things that never let you down in this life. Champagne and scrambled eggs.”

“That’s ridiculous, scrambled eggs go off very quickly. Anyway, what about people? Can’t you rely on them?”

“I never had much of a chance of finding out. My mother died giving birth to me and I was her first, so no brothers or sisters. Then I was an actor. Few friends there. Your average actor would shoot his dear old granny if he thought it would get him the part.”

“You haven’t mentioned your father. Is he still around?”

“No, he was killed back in seventy-one in Belfast. He got caught in the cross-fire of a firefight. Shot dead by a British army patrol.”

“So you joined the IRA?”

“Something like that.”

“Guns and bombs, you thought that would be an answer?”

“There was a great Irishman called Michael Collins who led the fight for Irish freedom back in the early twenties. His favorite saying was something Lenin once said: ‘The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize, it’s the only way a small country can hope to take on a great nation and have any chance of winning.’ ”

“There’s got to be a better way,” she said. “People are fundamentally decent. Take Henry. I was a tramp, Dillon, drugged up to my eyeballs and working the streets in Miami. Any man could have me as long as the price was right and then along came Henry Baker, a decent and kindly man. He saw me through the drug unit, helped me rehabilitate, took me to St. John to share his house, set me up in business.” She was close to tears. “And he never asked me for a thing, Dillon, never laid a hand on me. Isn’t that the strangest thing?”

A life spent mainly on the move and one step ahead of trouble had left Dillon with little time for women. They were there on occasions to satisfy an urge, but no more than that and he’d never pretended otherwise, but now, sitting there opposite Jenny Grant, he felt a kind of warmth and sympathy that was new to him.

Jesus, Sean, don’t go falling for her, now there’s a good lad, he thought, but reached over and put a hand on one of hers. “It will pass, girl, dear, everything does, the one sure thing in this wicked old life. Now have a sandwich, it’ll do you good.”

The crematorium was in Hampstead, a red brick building, reasonably functional looking but surrounded by rather pleasant parkland. There were poplar trees, beds of roses and other flowers of every description. The Daimler arrived with Dillon sitting up front beside the chauffeur, and Ferguson, Travers and the girl in the rear. Old Mr. Cox was waiting for them at the top of the steps, discreetly dressed in black.

“As you’ve asked for no kind of service I’ve already had the coffin taken in,” he said to Ferguson. “Presumably the young lady would like a final look?”

“Thank you,” Jenny said.

She followed him, Travers with a hand on her arm, and Ferguson and Dillon brought up the rear. The chapel was very plain, a few rows of chairs, a lectern, a cross on the wall. The coffin stood on a velvet-draped dais pointing at a curtained section of the wall. Music played faintly from some hidden tape recorder, dreary anodyne stuff. It was all very depressing.

“Would you care to see the deceased again?” Mr. Cox asked Jenny.

“No, thank you. I just wanted to say goodbye. Let him go now.”

She was totally dry-eyed as Cox pressed a button on a box in the wall and the coffin rolled forward, parting the curtains, and disappeared.

“What’s through there?” she asked.

“The furnace room.” Cox seemed embarrassed. “The ovens.”

“When can I have the ashes?”

“Later this afternoon. What would your needs be in that direction? Of course some people prefer to strew the ashes in our beautiful garden, but we do have a columbarium where the urn may be displayed with a suitable plaque.”

“No, I’ll take them with me.”

“That won’t be possible at the moment. It takes time, I’m afraid.”

Travers said, “Perhaps you could have the ashes delivered to my house in Lord North Street in a suitable receptacle.” He was embarrassed.

Cox said, “Of course.” He turned to Jenny. “I presume you’ll be flying back to the Caribbean, Miss Grant? We do provide a suitable container.”

“Thank you. Can we go now?” she asked Ferguson.

Travers and Jenny got into the Daimler and Dillon paused at the top of the steps. There was a car parked close to the entrance to the drive and Smith was standing beside it, looking across at them. Dillon recognized him instantly, but in the same moment, Smith got in the car and it shot away.

As Ferguson emerged from the chapel Dillon said, “One of those two men I saw at the inquest was standing over there a moment ago. Just driven away.”

“Really? Did you get the number?”

“Didn’t have a chance to see it, the angle the car was at. Blue Renault, I think. You don’t seem too worried.”

“Why should I be, I’ve got you, haven’t I? Now get in the car, there’s a good chap.” As they drove away he patted Jenny’s hand. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“Yes, I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Ferguson told her. “If Henry didn’t tell you the exact location of the submarine, can you think of anyone else he might have spoken to?”

“No,” she said firmly. “If he didn’t tell me, then he didn’t tell anyone.”

“No other diver maybe, I mean, he must have friends who dive as well, or another diver who might be able to help.”

“Well there’s always Bob Carney,” she said, “the diver I told you about. He knows the Virgin Isles like the back of his hand.”

“So, if anybody could help it would most likely be he?” Ferguson asked.

“I suppose so, but I wouldn’t count on it. There’s a lot of water out there.”

The Daimler turned into Lord North Street and stopped. Travers got out first and reached a hand to Jenny. Ferguson said, “Dillon and I have work to do. We’ll see you later.”

Dillon turned in surprise. “What’s this?”

“I’ve an appointment to meet the Deputy Director of the Security Services, Simon Carter, and a Junior Minister called Sir Francis Pamer on the Terrace at the Houses of Parliament. I’m supposed to keep them informed of my plans and I thought it might be amusing to take you along. After all, Dillon, Simon Carter’s been trying to get his hands on you for years.”

“Holy Mother of God,” Dillon said, “but you’re a wicked man, Brigadier.”

Ferguson picked up the car phone and dialed Lane at the Ministry of Defence. “Jack, American called Bob Carney, resident St. John, presently a diver. Everything you can get. The CIA should help.”

He put the phone down and Dillon said, “And what are you up to now, you old fox?”

But Ferguson made no reply, simply folded his hands across his stomach and closed his eyes.