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born in England or raised here. Perfect for deep cover.”
    “Names?” Ferguson demanded.
    “It won’t do you any good. Not one of them has a police record of any kind, but here goes.”
    He rattled off four names, which Hannah Bernstein wrote down in her notebook. Dillon watched impassively.
    Ferguson said, “Address?”
    “Park Villa, Palace Square. It’s on old Victoria Place in a nice garden.”
    “So you had dealings with them?” Dillon asked.
    “No, but a friend of mine, Ed Murphy, was their supplier. He got a little indiscreet one night. You know how it is with the drink taken. Anyway, he told me all about them.”
    “And where’s Murphy now?”
    “Rotated back to Ireland last year.”
    Dillon turned to Ferguson and shrugged. “If it was me, I’d be long gone, especially after Dermot was lifted.”
    “But why?” Hannah demanded. “There’s no connection.”
    “But there always is,” Dillon said.
    “Stop this bickering,” Ferguson told them. “It’s worth a try.”
    He banged on the door, and when it opened and Jackson appeared, took an envelope from his pocket. “Takethat to the Governor and get it countersigned. It’s a warrant for this man’s release into my custody. Afterwards, take him back to his cell to collect his things. We’ll be waiting in my Daimler in the courtyard.”
    “Very well, Brigadier.” Jackson stamped his booted feet as if back on the parade ground and stood to one side as they filed past.
     
    A number of people were waiting in the rain outside the main gate for prisoners on release. Among them was the lawyer who had called himself George Brown, standing beside a London black cab, an umbrella over his head. The driver looked like your average London cabbie, which he was, a very special breed, dark curly hair flecked with gray, a nose that had at some stage been broken.
    “Do you think it’s going to work?” he asked.
    At that moment, the gates opened and several men emerged, the Daimler following.
    “I do now,” Brown said.
    As the Daimler passed, Riley, sitting beside Dillon and opposite Ferguson and Hannah, glanced out and recognized Brown at once. He looked away.
    Brown waved to a Ford sedan on the other side of the road and pointed as it moved away from the curb and went after the Daimler.
    Brown got into the cab. “Now what?” the driver asked.
    “They’ll follow them. Ferguson’s got to keep him somewhere.”
    “A safehouse?”
    “Perhaps, but what would be safer than having him stay at Dillon’s place in Stable Mews, very convenient, for Ferguson’s flat is just round the corner in Cavendish Square. That’s why I’ve made the arrangements I have. We’ll see if I’m right. In the meantime, we wait here. Ichose visiting day because I was just one of two or three hundred people and no one at reception will remember me, but the prison officer who took me to Riley will. Jackson is his name.” He glanced at his watch. “The present shift should have just finished. We’ll wait and see if he comes out.”
    Which Jackson did twenty minutes later and hurried away along the street to the nearest tube station. A keen snooker player he was, in a tournament at the British Legion that evening, and wanted to get home to shower and change.
    The tube was as busy as usual, and as he entered, the black cab pulled in at the curb and Brown got out and went after him. Jackson went down the escalator and hurried along the tunnel, Brown close behind, but keeping a few people between them. The platform was crowded and Jackson pushed his way through and waited on the edge. There was the sound of the train in the distance, and Brown slipped in closer as the crowd surged forward. There was a rush of air, a roaring now as the train appeared, and Jackson was aware of a hand against his back, the last thing he remembered in this life as he plunged headfirst onto the track and directly into the path of the train.
    The black cab driver waited anxiously. He’d already had