“I can wait.”

“No way,” she said fiercely. “I’ll see you at the theatre. It’s how I want it, Tom.”

The cab turned into Vance Square and she tapped on the window. The driver pulled in at the curb. She turned, smiled once at Curry, got out and crossed to the entrance to the churchyard, and the cab moved away.

The churchyard was a jumble of Gothic monuments and gravestones, great crosses, and here and there a marble angel. There was a path running through to the old rectory with a light at the entrance and one at the other end. In between it was a place of shadows. She walked about halfway, positioned herself between a mausoleum’s bronze doors, and waited.

It started to rain in a sudden rush as the Daimler deposited Liam Bell at the curb by the entrance to the churchyard.

“Good night,” he said to the chauffeur and turned.

The Daimler drove away and Hannah Bernstein coasted into the square and slowed down. “There he goes,” she said as Bell entered the churchyard. “We can go now.”

She started to increase speed and Dillon grabbed her arm. “Just a minute. I think I saw someone in there up ahead of him.”

“Are you sure?” She braked to a halt.

“Yes, I damn well am.”

He was out of the car in a second and running for the entrance to the churchyard, a silenced Walther in his hand.

Liam Bell pulled up the collar of his raincoat and hurried on as the rain increased. He reached the center of the churchyard, was aware of a movement up ahead in the shadows. He paused and Grace Browning moved out of the shadows. At the same moment, Dillon ran through the entrance gates. In the half light, he saw Grace and shouted at the top of his voice.

“Mr. Bell, get down!”

Bell paused, bewildered, turned to look at Dillon, turned again and she leveled the Beretta and fired twice, hitting him in the heart, knocking him to one side of the path. He fell against a tombstone and hung there for a moment.

Dillon dropped to one knee and fired the Walther, but she had already slipped into the shadows of the mausoleum. He emptied his gun into the darkness of the bronze doorway, but unknown to him, Grace had dropped flat on her face on the ground. He ejected his magazine and reached for another. As he rammed it into the butt, she stepped into the light and took deliberate aim, her arm extended.

“Very foolish, Mr. Dillon.” Her voice was perfect Pakistani English in its inflection. “And you don’t often make mistakes. I admire that.”

Dillon stood there, frozen, awaiting the bullet, then suddenly she raised an arm in a kind of salute and slipped into the shadows. He pulled the slider on the Walther and fired twice, and behind him, Hannah ran up the path, gun in hand.

“See to him,” he said and ran along the path into the darkness.

Grace Browning was already on the other side of the rectory, the church to one side. There was another, older part of the cemetery there. As she went round the end of the church, a side door opened and an old man in a cassock appeared, light flooding out. She ran past him, head down, to where she knew there was a gate in the wall, opened it, and darted along the street outside. She paused in a doorway at the far end, removed the chador from her head, slipped off the muslin trousers, and pulled down her skirt. She put the Beretta into her shoulder bag, rolled up the muslin trousers, and put them and the chador in her plastic Harrod’s bag. At the end of the street there was a rubbish bin at the base of a streetlight. She dropped the plastic bag inside, turned into the High Street, and walked calmly away along the pavement.

As Dillon entered the other part of the cemetery, the side door was still open, light flooding out, and the old man in the cassock stood there.

“What on earth’s going on?” he demanded.

“Police,” Dillon told him because it was the easiest thing to say. “Who are you?”

“Father Thomas.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“A woman ran past a few moments ago, Muslim, I think. She wore one of those headscarves. Oh, and baggy cotton trousers. What’s happened?”

“There’s been a shooting, a neighbor of yours, Liam Bell.”

The old man was shocked. “Oh, my God!”

“Back there on the path. You’ll find a young woman there. She’s a Chief Inspector Bernstein. Tell her I’ll contact her on my Cellnet phone.”

Dillon hurried away, found the gate in the wall, and ran to the end of the lane.

Grace Browning reached Upper Street fifteen minutes later. There were already large numbers of people crowding into the King’s Head, one of the most celebrated pub theatres in London, and a poster on the wall featured her prominently. She walked through the crowd. Many people recognized her, smiled and said hello, but she kept on going until she reached Curry, who was at the far end of the bar.

“Oh, there you are, Tom,” she called brightly.

“Thought you were going to be late,” he said. “And I’ve never known you to do that.”

All this was for the consumption of those standing nearby. She said, “Come through and talk to me while I dress.”

Dillon hesitated on the corner of The Lane and Islington High Street. It was quite busy in spite of the rain, plenty of people hurrying by and lots of traffic. Hopeless, really, and then he noticed the plastic shopping bag sticking out of the rubbish bin at the base of the street lamp in front of him. It was the Harrod’s name that caught his eye, common enough in the right place, but not on the High Street. He took it out, opened it, and found the muslin trousers and the chador.

“Would you look at that now,” he said softly.

He replaced them in the bag and pushed it inside the front of his trench coat, then he called Hannah on his Cellnet phone. She answered at once.

“I’m on Islington High Street,” he said. “You’ve seen Father Thomas?”

“Yes, he’s here. Two police cars arrived already and I can hear the ambulance. A waste of time, I’m afraid. Liam Bell is dead.”

“Poor sod,” Dillon said. “Didn’t stand a chance. Did the priest tell you about the woman dressed like a Muslim?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve just found a Harrod’s shopping bag sticking out of a rubbish bin here on the corner of the back lane and Islington High Street. Inside a pair of muslin trousers and one of those headscarves, the chador.”

“Sounds like an Arab fundamentalist hit.”

“I don’t think so. She called out to me, Hannah, called me by name. She had a very pronounced Pakistani accent. Another thing. I’ll bet you five pounds that January 30 claim this one within the next hour.”

“But why?”

“I’ll tell you later. I’m going to take a walk up the High Street, nothing I can do here. I’ll call you.”

He put the Cellnet phone in his pocket, turned up the collar of his raincoat, and walked rapidly away through the rain.

A waste of time, of course. After all, he’d no reason to know whether she’d gone left or right on the High Street. The rain increased in force, clearing the pavements to a certain degree as people sought shelter. He turned into Upper Street and paused, looking across at the welcoming lights of the King’s Head, remembering that Grace Browning had told him she was playing there in Private Lives. He could see the poster on the wall, darted across the road, and paused in the doorway. He took out the Cellnet and called Hannah again.

She answered at once. “Bernstein.”

“Dillon.”

“Where are you?”

“Took a walk up the High Street and ended up at the King’s Head. What’s happening?”

“All the usual things. Forensic are onto it now. They’ve just turned up with the scene-of-crime van.”

“Have they taken him away?”