A Prayer for the Dying

Fallon went round to the other side of the table and stood there for a moment, head bowed, hands thrust deep into the pockets of the blue trenchcoat. And then he looked up very slowly, dark empty eyes burning in the white face.

‘If you’re trying to put the screw on me, old man, forget it. I gave you everything I had.’

Kristou’s heart missed a beat. There was a cold stirring in his bowels. ‘God help me, Martin,’ he said, ‘but with a hood on you’d look like Death himself.’

Fallon stood there, eyes like black glass staring through and beyond and then suddenly, something seemed to go out of him. He turned as if to leave.

Kristou said quickly, ‘There is a way.’

Fallon hesitated. ‘And what would that be?’

‘Your passport, a berth on a cargo boat leaving Hull for Australia, Sunday night.’ He paused. ‘And two thousand pounds in your pocket to give you a fresh start.’

Fallon said incredulously, ‘What do I have to do? Kill somebody?’

‘Exactly,’ the old man answered.

Fallon laughed softly. ‘You get better all the time, Kristou. You really do.’

He reached for the whiskey bottle, emptied Kristou’s cup on the floor and filled it again. The old man watched him, waiting. Rain tapped against a window as if somebody was trying to get in. Fallon walked across and peered down into the empty street.

A car was parked in the entrance to an alley on his left. No lights – which was interesting. The foghorn sounded again, farther downriver this time.

‘A dirty night for it.’ He turned. ‘But that’s appropriate.’

‘For what, Martin?’ Kristou asked.

‘Oh, for people like you and me.’

He emptied the cup at a swallow, walked back to the table and put it down in front of Kristou very carefully.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m listening.’

Kristou smiled. ‘Now you’re being sensible.’ He opened a manilla folder, took out a photo and pushed it across the table. ‘Take a look at that.’

Fallon picked it up and held it under the light. It had obviously been taken in a cemetery and in the foreground there was a rather curious monument. A bronze figure of a woman in the act of rising from a chair as if to go through the door which stood partly open between marble pillars behind her. A man in a dark overcoat, head bare, knelt before her on one knee.

‘Now this.’ Kristou pushed another photo across.

The scene was the same except for one important fact. The man in the dark overcoat was now standing, facing the camera, hat in hand. He was massively built, at least six foot two or three, with chest and shoulders to match. He had a strong Slav face with high flat cheekbones and narrow eyes.

‘He looks like a good man to keep away from,’ Fallon said.

‘A lot of people would agree with you.’

‘Who is he?’

‘His name’s Krasko – Jan Krasko.’

‘Polish?’

‘Originally – but that was a long time ago. He’s been here since before the war.’

‘And where’s here?’

‘Up North. You’ll be told where at the right time.’

‘And the woman in the chair?’

‘His mother.’ Kristou reached for the photo and looked at it himself. ‘Every Thursday morning without fail, wet or fine, there he is with his bunch of flowers. They were very close.’

He put the photos back in the manilla folder and looked up at Fallon again. ‘Well?’

‘What’s he done to deserve me?’

‘A matter of business, that’s all. What you might call a conflict of interests. My client’s tried being reasonable, only Krasko won’t play. So he’ll have to go; and as publicly as possible.’

‘To encourage the others?’

‘Something like that.’

Fallon moved back to the window and looked down into the street. The car was still there in the alley. He spoke without turning round.

‘And just what exactly is Krasko’s line of business?’

‘You name it,’ Kristou said. ‘Clubs, gambling, betting shops …’

‘Whores and drugs?’ Fallon turned round. ‘And your client?’

Kristou raised a hand defensively. ‘Now you’re going too far, Martin. Now you’re being unreasonable.’

‘Good night, Kristou.’ Fallon turned and started to walk away.

‘All right, all right,’ Kristou called, something close to panic in his voice. ‘You win.’

As Fallon moved back to the table, Kristou opened a drawer and rummaged inside. He took out another folder, opened it and produced a bundle of newspaper clippings. He sorted through them, finally found what he was looking for and passed it to Fallon.

The clipping was already yellowing at the edges and was dated eighteen months previously. The article was headed The English Al Capone.

There was a photo of a large, heavily-built man coming down a flight of steps. He had a fleshy, arrogant face under a Homburg hat and wore a dark-blue, double-breasted melton overcoat, a handkerchief in the breast pocket. The youth at his shoulder was perhaps seventeen or eighteen and wore a similar coat, but he was bare-headed, an albino, with white shoulder-length hair that gave him the look of some decadent angel.

Underneath the photo it said; Jack Meehan and his brother Billy leaving Manchester Central Police Headquarters after questioningin connection with the death of AgnesDrew.

‘And who was this Agnes Drew?’ Fallon demanded.

‘Some whore who got kicked to death in an alley. An occupational hazard. You know how it is?’

‘I can imagine.’ Fallon glanced at the photo again. ‘They look like a couple of bloody undertakers.’