She came out quickly. 'It's not far. It's only a couple of streets away.'

They walked to the corner and there was the river and a hundred yards further on, a sign on the wall sayingCork Street Wharf.

Cussane said, 'All right, off you go. I'll stay back out of the way, just in case she has visitors.'

'I shan't be long.'

She hurried off down the street and Cussane stepped back through a broken door into a hard half-filled with rubble and waited. He could smell the river. Not many boats now though. This had once been the greatest port in the world, now it was a graveyard of rusting cranes pointing into the sky like primeval monsters. He felt lousy and when he lit a cigarette, his hand shook. There was the sound of running steps and Morag appeared. 'She isn't there. I spoke to the next door neighbour.'

'Where is she?'

'With a touring show. A fairground show. She's in Maid-stone this week.'

And Maidstone was only Thirty miles from Canterbury.There was an inevitability to things and Cussane said, 'We'd better get going then.'

'You'll take me?'

'Why not?' and he turned and led the way along the street.

He found what he was looking for within twenty minutes, a pay and display parking lot.

'Why is this so important?' she demanded.

'Because people pay in advance for however many hours of parking they want and stick the ticket on the windscreen.

A wonderful aid to car thieves. You can tell just how long you've got before the car is missed.'

She scouted around. 'There's one here says six hours.'

'And what time was it booked in?' He checked and took out his pocket knife. 'That'll do. Four hours to go. Dark then anyway.'

He worked on the quarter-light with the knife, forced it and unlocked the door, then he reached under the dashboard and pulled the wires down.

'You've done this before,' she said.

'That's true.' The engine roared into life. 'Okay,' he said, 'Let's get out of here,' and as she scrambled into the pa.s.senger seat, he drove away.

'Or COURSE, it's hardly surprising the Pope wants to come here, sir,' Susan Calder said to Devlin. 'This is the birthplace of English Christianity. It was St Augustine who founded the cathedral here in Saxon times.'

'Is it now?' They were standing in the magnificent Perpendicular nave of the cathedral, the pillars soaring to the vaulted ceiling high above them. The place was a hive of activity, workmen everywhere.

'It's certainly spectacular,' Devlin said.

'It was even bombed in nineteen-forty-two during the Canterbury blitz. The library was destroyed, but it's been rebuilt. Up here in the north-west transept is where Saint Thomas Beckett was murdered by the three knights eight hundred years ago.'

T believe the Pope has a particular affinity for him,' Devlin said. 'Let's have a look.'

They moved up the nave to the place of Beckett's martyrdom all those years ago. The precise spot where he was traditionally believed to have fallen was marked by a small square stone. There was a strange atmosphere. Devlin shivered, suddenly cold.

'The Sword's Point,' the girl said simply. 'That's what they call it.'

'Yes, well they would, wouldn't they? Come on, let's get out of here. I could do with a smoke and I've seen enough.'

They went out through the south porch past the police guard. There was plenty of activity outside also, workmen working on stands and a considerable police presence. Devlin lit a cigarette and he and Susan Calder moved out on to the pavement.

'What do you think?' she said. 'I mean, not even Cussane could expect to get in there tomorrow. You've seen the security.'

Devlin took out his wallet and produced the security card Ferguson had given him. 'Have you seen one of these before?'

'I don't think so.'

'Very special. Guaranteed to unlock all doors.'

'So?'

'n.o.body has asked to see it. We were totally accepted when we walked in. Why? Because you are wearing police uniform. And don't tell me that's what you are. It isn't the point.'

'I see what you mean.' She was troubled and it showed.

'The best place to hide a tree is in a forest,' he said. 'Tomorrow, there'll be policemen all over the place and church dignitaries so what's another policeman or priest.'

At that moment someone called his name, and they turned to see Ferguson walking towards them with a man in a dark overcoat. Ferguson wore a greatcoat of the kind favoured by Guards officers, and carried a smartly rolled umbrella.

'Brigadier Ferguson,' Devlin told the girl hastily.

'There you are,' the Brigadier said. This your driver?'

'WPC Calder, sir,' she saluted smartly.

'This is Superintendent Foster, attached to Scotland Yard's anti-terrorist squad,' Ferguson said. 'I've been going over things with him. Seems pretty watertight to me.'

'Even if your man gets as far as Canterbury, there's no way he'll get in the cathedral tomorrow,' Foster said simply. 'I'd stake my reputation on it.'

'Let's hope you don't have to,' Devlin told him.

Ferguson tugged at Foster's sleeve impatiently. 'Right, let's get inside before the light fails. I'm staying here tonight myself, Devlin. I'll phone you at your hotel later.'

The two men walked up to the great door, a policeman opened it for them and they went inside. 'Do you think he knows them?' Devlin asked her gently.

'G.o.d, I don't know. You've gotme wondering now, sir.' She opened the door of the car for him. He got in and she slid behind the wheel and started the engine. 'One thing.'

'What's that?'

'Even if he did get in and did something, he'd never get out again.'

'But that's the whole point,' Devlin said. 'He doesn't care what happens to him afterwards.'

'G.o.d help us then.'