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A Prayer for the Dying
Jack Higgins
The classic bestseller from the master of the game.No one becomes a contract killer and expects to hang around to collect a pension. Sooner or later, even the best in their field make mistakes. Even Martin Fallon, the most ruthless hitman of them all.Fallon was the best you could get with a gun in his hand, but his first mistake was to cross powerful crime boss Jack Meehan, and his last, to seek redemption for his soul…
JACK HIGGINS
A PRAYER FOR THE DYING
Copyright (#ulink_6aebe22a-794d-50cd-8b5f-5e5213e1ed1a)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by
William Collins Sons and Co. 1973
Copyright © Jack Higgins 1973
Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007234882
Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007290284
Version: 2018-05-23
For Philip Williams, The Expert
Contents
Title Page (#u6590746b-582c-5e59-9103-a783b9d4a09a)Copyright (#ulink_3e1042bd-e580-523a-a5a7-a58c56cbcd66)Dedication (#u08d6bc0e-e0fa-5c2b-b601-1bb5132a3593) Publisher’s Note Chapter One: Fallon Chapter Two: Father da Costa Chapter Three: Miller Chapter Four: Confessional Chapter Five: Dandy Jack Chapter Six: Face To Face Chapter Seven: Prelude and Fugue Chapter Eight: The Devil and all his Works Chapter Nine: The Executioner Chapter Ten: Exhumation Chapter Eleven: The Gospel According To Fallon Chapter Twelve: More Work for the Undertaker Chapter Thirteen: The Church Militant Chapter Fourteen: Grimsdyke Chapter Fifteen: The Wrath of God About the Author (#ulink_ea3b277b-009a-52e9-8cc5-224bb6bd511d) Also by Jack Higgins About the Publisher (#ulink_b9f49b45-e9d0-5559-bc7f-e40d9cb61f19)
PUBLISHER’S NOTE (#ua70f83bb-cc2b-5d26-a107-b32237c5a5de)
A PRAYER FOR THE DYING was first published in the UK by William Collins Sons and Co. in 1973 and in 1996 by Signet, but has been out of print for some years.
In 2008, it seemed to the author and his publishers that it was a pity to leave such a good story languishing on his shelves. So we are delighted to be able to bring back A PRAYER FOR THE DYING for the pleasure of the vast majority of us who never had a chance to read the earlier editions.
1 (#ua70f83bb-cc2b-5d26-a107-b32237c5a5de)
Fallon (#ua70f83bb-cc2b-5d26-a107-b32237c5a5de)
When the police car turned the corner at the end of the street Fallon stepped into the nearest doorway instinctively and waited for it to pass. He gave it a couple of minutes and then continued on his way, turning up his collar as it started to rain.
He walked on towards the docks keeping to the shadows, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his dark-blue trenchcoat, a small dark man of five feet four or five who seemed to drift rather than walk.
A ship eased down from the Pool of London sounding its foghorn, strange, haunting – the last of the dinosaurs moving aimlessly through some primeval swamp, alone in a world already alien. It suited his mood perfectly.
There was a warehouse at the end of the street facing out across the river. The sign said Janos Kristou – Importer. Fallon opened the little judas gate in the main entrance and stepped inside.
The place was crammed with bales and packing cases of every description. It was very dark, but there was a light at the far end and he moved towards it. A man sat at a trestle table beneath a naked light bulb and wrote laboriously in a large, old-fashioned ledger. He had lost most of his hair and what was left stuck out in a dirty white fringe. He wore an old sheepskin jacket and woollen mittens.
Fallon took a cautious step forward and the old man said without turning round, ‘Martin, is that you?’
Fallon moved into the pool of light and paused beside the table. ‘Hello, Kristou.’
There was a wooden case on the floor beside him and the top was loose. Fallon raised it and took out a Sterling submachine-gun thick with protective grease.
‘Still at it, I see. Who’s this for? The Israelis or the Arabs or have you actually started taking sides?’
Kristou leaned across, took the Sterling from him and dropped it back into the box. ‘I didn’t make the world the way it is,’ he said.
‘Maybe not, but you certainly helped it along the way.’ Fallon lit a cigarette. ‘I heard you wanted to see me.’
Kristou put down his pen and looked up at him speculatively. His face was very old, the parchment-coloured skin seamed with wrinkles, but the blue eyes were alert and intelligent.
He said, ‘You don’t look too good, Martin.’
‘I’ve never felt better,’ Fallon told him. ‘Now what about my passport?’
Kristou smiled amiably. ‘You look as if you could do with a drink.’ He took a bottle and two paper cups from a drawer. ‘Irish whiskey – the best. Just to make you feel at home.’
Fallon hesitated and then took one of the cups. Kristou raised the other. ‘May you die in Ireland. Isn’t that what they say?’
Fallon swallowed the whiskey down and crushed the paper cup in his right hand. ‘My passport,’ he said softly.
Kristou said, ‘In a sense it’s out of my hands, Martin. I mean to say, you turning out to be so much in demand in certain quarters – that alters things.’
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.’
