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the back.”
    “Go with him, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson ordered.
    Dillon sighed. “All right, Brigadier, but I’m in charge.”
    Ferguson nodded. “Do as he says.”
    Dillon got out and started along the pavement. “Are you carrying?” he asked.
    “Of course.”
    “Good. You never know what will happen next in this wicked old world.”
    He paused in the entrance to a yard, took a Walther from his waistband at the rear, produced a Carswell silencer and screwed it into place, then he slipped it inside his flying jacket. They crossed the cobbled yard through the rain, aware of music from the bar area where some loyalist band thumped out “The Sash my Father Wore.” Through the rear window was a view of an extensive kitchen, a small, gray-haired man seated at a table doing accounts.
    “That’s Driscoll,” Dillon whispered. “In we go.” Driscoll, at the table, was aware of some of his papers fluttering in a sudden draft of wind, looked up, and found Dillon entering the room, Hannah Bernstein behind him.
    “God bless all here,” Dillon said, “and the best of the night yet to come, Paddy, me old son.”
    “Dear God, Sean Dillon.” There was naked fear on Driscoll’s face.
    “Plus your very own Detective Chief Inspector. We are treating you well tonight.”
    “What do you want?”
    Hannah leaned against the door and Dillon pulled a chair over and sat across the table from Driscoll. He took out a cigarette and lit it. “Michael Ahern. Where might he be?”
    “Jesus, Sean, I haven’t seen that one in years.”
    “Billy Quigley? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Billy because I happen to know he drinks here regularly.”
    Driscoll tried to tough it out. “Sure, Billy comes in all the time, but as for Ahern . . .” He shrugged. “He’s bad news that one, Sean.”
    “Yes, but I’m worse.” In one swift movement Dillon pulled the Walther from inside his flying jacket, leveled it, and fired. There was a dull thud, the lower half of Driscoll’s left ear disintegrated and he moaned, a hand to the ear, blood spurting.
    “Dillon, for God’s sake!” Hannah cried.
    “I don’t think He’s got much to do with it.” Dillon raised the Walther. “Now the other one.”
    “No, I’ll tell you,” Driscoll moaned. “Ahern did phone here yesterday. He left a message for Billy. I gave it to him around five o’clock when he came in for a drink.”
    “What was it?”
    “He was to meet him at a place off Wapping High Street, a warehouse called Olivers. Brick Wharf.”
    Driscoll fumbled for a handkerchief, sobbing with pain. Dillon slipped the gun inside his flying jacket and got up. “There you are,” he said. “That didn’t take long.”
    “You’re a bastard, Dillon,” Hannah Bernstein said as she opened the door.
    “It’s been said before.” Dillon turned in the doorway. “One more thing, Paddy, Michael Ahern killed Billy Quigley earlier tonight. We know that for a fact.”
    “Dear God!” Driscoll said.
    “That’s right. I’d stay out of it if I were you,” Dillon said and closed the door gently.
     
     
    “Shall I call for backup, sir?” Hannah Bernstein said as the Daimler eased into Brick Wharf beside the Thames.
    Ferguson put his window down and looked out. “I shouldn’t think it matters, Chief Inspector, if he was here, he’s long gone. Let’s go and see.”
    It was Dillon who led the way in, the Walther ready in his left hand, stepping through the Judas gate, feeling for the switch on the wall, flooding the place with light. At the bottom of the steps he found the office switch and led the way up. Billy Quigley lay on his back on the other side of the desk. Dillon stood to one side, shoving the Walther back inside his flying jacket, and Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein moved forward.
    “Is that him, sir?” she asked.
    “I’m afraid so.” Ferguson sighed. “Take care of it, Chief Inspector.”
    She started to call in on her mobile phone and he turned and went down the