Without Mercy Read Free

I’ve patched you up enough times over the years.”
    “You can’t patch me up this time, Maggie. How is she?”
    They both turned and looked at Hannah Bernstein, festooned in a seemingly endless web of tubes and drips, oxygen equipment and electronic screens. Her eyes were closed, the lids almost translucent.
    Maggie said, “She’s very weak. It’s a huge load for her heart to bear.”
    “It would be. We expected too much from her, all of us. Especially me,” Dillon said.
    “When she was in last year, when that Party of God terrorist shot her, we used to talk a lot and mainly about you. She’s very fond of you, Sean. Oh, she might not approve, but she’s very fond.”
    “I’d like to believe that,” Dillon said. “But let’s say I don’t deserve it.”
    Hannah’s eyelids flickered open. She said softly, “What’s wrong, Sean? Feeling sorry for yourself, the hard man of the IRA?”
    “Damn sorry,” he told her, “and you putting the fear of God in me.”
    “Oh, dear, I’m in the wrong again.”
    Maggie Duncan said, “Two minutes, Sean, and I’ll be back.”
    She went out, the door closed softly and Dillon stood at the end of the bed. “Mea culpa,” he said.
    “There you go, blaming yourself again. It’s a kind of self-justification—no, worse, an overindulgence. Is that some kind of Irish thing?”
    “Damn you!” he said.
    “No, damn you, though that’s been taken care of.” She frowned. “What a terrible thing to say. How could I?” She reached out her thin left hand, which he took, and she gripped his hand with surprising strength. “You’re a good man, Sean, a good man in spite of yourself. I’ve always known that.”
    The grip slackened, and Dillon, almost choking with emotion, let her hand go gently. The eyes closed, and when she spoke again her voice was barely more than a whisper.
    “Night bless, Sean.”
    Dillon made it out to the corridor, where he leaned against the wall, breathing deeply. A young nurse pushing a trolley approached and paused at the door, glancing at him with a frown. She was pretty enough, high cheekbones, dark eyes.
    “Are you all right?”
    Her accent was Dublin Irish. He nodded. “I’m fine. What are you doing?”
    “Seeing to the Superintendent’s medication.”
    “I think she’s gone to sleep again.”
    “Ah, then it can wait.”
    She pushed the trolley away. He paused, watching her go, then made for reception, ignoring Maggie Duncan’s call from behind, went down the entrance steps to the car park and headed for the Mini Cooper.
    Roper, having fruitlessly tried some obvious routes through the computer, sat back frustrated. Of course, the real problem was that he didn’t really know what he was looking for, but one thing was certain. There was something wrong here. What was it Blake had said? It was as if it had never happened. But it had.
    “Time to get back to basics,” he said softly, and called Dillon on his Codex Four. “Where are you?”
    “I was with Hannah at Rosedene. I’ve just parked outside Saint Paul’s.”
    “Visiting the Holy Mother again, are we? How was Hannah?”
    “Hanging in there.”
    “Good. I’ve had a call from Ferguson. Cazalet wants answers on the whole Belov thing. He’s sent Blake Johnson over to help, but it’s up to us, and Ferguson wants an explanation. I’m going round to see the Salters at the Dark Man, so meet me there.”
    “As soon as I can.”
    Dillon had parked outside St. Paul’s Church, around the corner from Harley Street, for a reason. The priest in charge was a professor of psychiatry at London University, and was much used by people operating for Ferguson who experienced mental problems. This had applied to Dillon on occasion.
    He went up the steps to the entrance and entered through the small Judas gate. There was a smell of incense, candles flaring beside a statue of the Virgin and Child, a feeling of being apart, separate from everyday life, the sound of traffic outside very