Free A Prayer for the Dying (v5) by Jack Higgins

stairs quickly. Fallon tried the door which opened to his touch. As Rupert had said, a kitchen was on the other side. The far door stood ajar and he could hear voices.
    He crossed to it on tiptoe and looked into a superbly furnished lounge with broad dormer windows at either end. Meehan was sitting in a leather club chair, a book in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other. Billy, holding the whippet, stood in front of an Adam fireplace in which a log fire was burning brightly. Donner and Bonati waited on either side of the lift.
    'What's keeping him, for Christ's sake?' Billy demanded.
    The whippet jumped from his arms and darted across to the kitchen door. It stood there, barking, and Fallon moved into the lounge and crouched down to fondle its ears, his right hand still in his coat pocket.
    Meehan dropped the book on the table and slapped a hand against his thigh. 'Didn't I tell you he was a hard-nosed bastard?' he said to Billy.
    The telephone rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment and smiled. 'It's all right, sweetheart, you get back to work. I can handle it.' He replaced the receiver. 'That was Rupert. He worries about me.'
    'That's nice,' Fallon said.
    He leaned against the wall beside the kitchen door, hands in pockets. Donner and Bonati moved in quietly and stood behind the big leather couch facing him. Meehan sipped a little of his whisky and held up the book. It was The City of God by St Augustine.
    'Read this one, have you, Fallon?'
    'A long time ago.' Fallon reached for a cigarette with his left hand.
    'It's good stuff,' Meehan said. 'He knew what he was talking about. God and the Devil, good and evil. They all exist. And sex.' He emptied his glass and belched. 'He really puts the record straight there. I mean, women just pump a man dry, like I keep trying to tell my little brother here only he won't listen. Anything in a skirt, he goes for. You ever seen a dog after a bitch in heat with it hanging half out? Well, that's our Billy twenty-four hours a day.'
    He poured himself another whisky and Fallon waited. They all waited. Meehan stared into space. 'No, these dirty little tarts are no good to anybody and the boys are no better. I mean, what's happened to all the nice clean-cut lads of sixteen or seventeen you used to see around? These days, most of them look like birds from the rear.'
    Fallon said nothing. There was a further silence and Meehan reached for the whisky bottle again. 'Albert!' he called. 'Why don't you join us?'
    The bedroom door opened, there was a pause and a man entered the room who was so large that he had to duck his head to come through the door. He was a walking anachronism. Neanderthal man in a baggy grey suit and he must have weighed at least twenty stone. His head was completely bald and his arms were so long that his hands almost reached his knees.
    He shambled into the room, his little pig eyes fixed on Fallon. Billy moved out of the way nervously and Albert sank into a chair on the other side of Meehan, next to the fire.
    Meehan said, 'All right, Fallon. You cocked it up.'
    'You wanted Krasko dead. He's on a slab in the mortuary right now,' Fallon said.
    'And the priest who saw you in action? This Father da Costa?'
    'No problem.'
    'He can identify you, can't he? Varley says he was close enough to count the wrinkles on your face.'
    True enough,' Fallon said. 'But it doesn't matter. I've shut his mouth.'
    'You mean you've knocked him off?' Billy demanded.
    'No need.' Fallon turned to Meehan. 'Are you a Catholic?'
    Meehan nodded, frowning. 'What's that got to do with it?'
    'When did you last go to confession?'
    'How in the hell do I know? It's so long ago I forget.'
    'I went today,' Fallon said. 'That's where I've been. I waited my turn at da Costa's one o'clock confession. When I went in, I told him I'd shot Krasko.'
    Billy Meehan said quickly, 'But that's crazy. He'd seen you do it himself, hadn't he?'
    'But he didn't know it was me in that confessional box - not until he looked