She put the phone down and turned as Dillon entered. He put the tray on the desk. “Doing a runner are you?”

“I can’t take it. I don’t understand what’s going on. Ferguson, you and now those men and that gun. I can’t get it out of my mind. I was going away anyway, but I’m going to get out now while I can.”

“To Paris?” he said. “I heard you on the phone.”

“That’s just a jumping-off point. There’s someone I have to see, someone I want to take this to.” She picked up the black metal box containing the ashes. “Henry’s sister.”

“Sister?” Dillon frowned.

“I’m probably about the only person left who knows he had one. There are special reasons for that so don’t ask me and don’t ask me where I’m going after Paris.”

“I see.”

She glanced at her watch. “Seven o’clock, Dillon, and the flight’s at nine-thirty. I can make it, only don’t tell Ferguson, not until I’ve gone. Help me, Dillon, please.”

“Then don’t waste time in talking about it,” he said. “Go and get your bags now and I’ll ring for a taxi.”

“Will you, Dillon, honestly?”

“I’ll go with you myself.”

She turned and hurried out and Dillon sighed and said softly, “You daft bastard, what’s getting into you?” and he picked up the phone.

It was very quiet in the waiting room of the small private nursing home in Farsley Street. Smith sat in an upright chair against the wall, his right forearm encased in plaster and held in a sling. The half hour after their encounter with Dillon had been a nightmare. They couldn’t afford to go to a public hospital because that would have meant the police, so he’d had to go and get the van from the alley by Lord North Street from where he’d driven one-handed to Victoria Tower Gardens to retrieve Johnson. The trip to Farsley Street had been even worse. Dr. Shah emerged from the operating theater, a small, gray-haired Pakistani in green cap and gown, a mask hanging around his neck.

“How is he?” Smith asked.

“As well as can be expected with a split kneecap. He’ll limp for the rest of his life.”

“That fucking little Irish bastard,” Smith said.

“You boys can never stay out of trouble, can you? Does Mr. Santiago know about it?”

“Why should he?” Smith was alarmed. “Nothing to do with him this one.”

“I thought it might, that’s all. He phoned me from Paris the other day on business so I knew he was around.”

“No, not his bag this.” Smith got up. “I’ll get myself off home. I’ll be in to see him tomorrow.”

He went out of the glass front door. Shah watched him go, then walked past the reception desk, empty at that time of night, and went into his office. He always believed in covering himself. He picked up the phone and rang Santiago at the Ritz in Paris.

The traffic at that time in the evening was light and they were at Heathrow by eight o’clock. Jenny picked up her ticket at the reservation desk and went and booked in for the flight. She put her case through, but carried the traveling urn.

“Time for a drink?” Dillon suggested.

“Why not?”

She seemed in better spirits now and waited for him in the corner of the bar until he returned with an Irish whisky and a glass of white wine. “You’re feeling better, I can tell,” he said.

“It’s good to be on the move again, to get away from it all. What will you tell Ferguson?”

“Nothing about you until the morning.”

“You’ll tell him I flew to Paris?”

“No point in not doing, he’d find that out in five minutes from a check on British Airways’ passenger computer.”

“That doesn’t matter, I’ll be well on my way by then. What about you?”

“St. John next stop. Tomorrow or the day after.”

“See Bob Carney,” she said. “Tell him I sent you, and introduce yourself to Billy and Mary Jones. They’re running the cafe and bar for me while I’m away.”

“What about you? When will you be back?”

“I don’t honestly know. A few days, a week, I’ll see how I feel. I’ll look you up when I get back if you’re still there.”

“I don’t know where I’ll be staying.”

“It’s easy to find someone in St. John.”

The flight was called and they finished their drinks, went down to the concourse and he accompanied her to the security entrance. “I’m sorry if I’ve made trouble for you with the Brigadier,” she said.

“Entirely my pleasure,” he assured her.

“You’re quite a guy, Dillon.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Frightening, mind you, but thank God you’re on my side. I’ll see you.”

Dillon watched her go, then turned and made his way to the nearest row of telephones, took out a card with telephone numbers which Ferguson had given him and rang the Cavendish Square number. Kim answered the phone and informed him that the Brigadier was dining at the Garrick Club. Dillon thanked him, went out to the rank and took the first cab in the line.

“London,” he said. “The Garrick Club. You know where that is?”

“Certainly, guv.” The driver examined Dillon’s open-necked shirt in the rear-view mirror. “Wasting your time there, guv, dressed like that. They won’t let you in. Jacket-and-tie job. Members and their guests only.”

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Dillon told him. “Just take me there.”

When they reached the Garrick, the driver pulled in at the curb and turned. “Shall I wait, guv?”

“Why not? I’ll be straight out again if what you say is true.”

Dillon went up the steps and paused at the desk. The uniformed porter was civil enough. “Can I help you, sir?”

Dillon put on his finest public-school accent. “I’m looking for Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I was told he was dining here tonight. I need to see him most urgently.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you upstairs, sir. We do require a jacket and tie, but if you care to wait here I’ll have a message sent to the Brigadier. What was the name, sir?”

“Dillon.”

The porter picked up the telephone and spoke to someone. He put the phone down. “He’ll be with you directly, sir.”

Dillon moved forward into the hall, admiring the grand staircase, the oil paintings that covered the walls. After a while Ferguson appeared up there, looked over the rail at him and came down the stairs.

“What on earth do you want, Dillon? I’m halfway through my dinner.”

“Oh, Jesus, Your Honor.” Dillon stepped effortlessly into the Stage Irishman. “It’s so good of you to see me, the grand man like yourself and this place so elegant.”

The porter looked alarmed and Ferguson took Dillon by the arm and propelled him outside to the top of the steps. “Stop playing the fool, my steak will be quite ruined by now.”

“Bad for you at your age, red meat.” Dillon lit a cigarette, the Zippo flaring. “I’ve found out who the opposition is.”

“Good God, who?”

“A name, that’s all I have. Santiago – Max Santiago. He lives in Puerto Rico, but recently he’s been in Paris. By the way, they also did the burglary.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I had a run-in with our two friends from the coroner’s court.”

Ferguson nodded. “I see. I hope you didn’t have to kill anyone?”

“Now would I do a thing like that? I’ll leave it with you, Brigadier, I feel like an early night.”

He went down the steps to the cab and got in. “I told you, guv,” the cabby said.

“Oh, well,” Dillon said. “You can’t win them all. Take me to Lord North Street,” and he leaned back and looked out at the London night scene.

Jack Lane, only recently divorced, lived alone in a flat in West End Lane on the edge of Hampstead. He was cooking a frozen pizza in his microwave oven when the phone rang and his heart sank.

“Jack? Ferguson here. Dillon had a run-in with those two suspicious characters who were at the coroner’s court and the crematorium. They’ve been working for a Max Santiago, resident of Puerto Rico, recently in Paris.”