Read The Wolf at the Door for Free Online Page B

back.”
    Ferguson said, “An interesting one, gentlemen.”
    “What is?” Harry Miller entered at that moment.
    “Well, it goes something like this . . .” Roper began.

    At the end of Cable Wharf were three patrol cars and a medium-sized police truck, the sign on one side reading “Salvage & Recovery.” There were two divers down there in scuba gear, four uniformed policemen, and an inspector who had turned up and gone to inspect the bar.
    Harry and Billy were standing by watching with Baxter and Hall and Ruby Moon, who was wearing a reefer coat two sizes too large. The inspector emerged from the bar and approached.
    “Nasty business, Mr. Salter. Stinks in there. You’ll have to close for a while. Could have been very nasty if he’d dropped a match.”
    Harry had known him for years. “A real evil bastard, had to be, to do a thing like that. We could have all ended up cooked for breakfast.”
    “Sure you haven’t been annoying anyone lately?”
    “On my life, Parky, those days are long gone. I own most of the developments round here, and my nephew Billy’s got an MI5 warrant card in his pocket.”
    “Yes, I heard they’d taken him on. I was impressed. I’d always understood they wouldn’t accept anyone with a record.”
    “True, Parky, it was the folly of youth, where Billy was concerned, but all wiped clean now.”
    “You must have friends in high places these days, Billy.”
    “Oh, I do, Inspector,” Billy said. “And here’s my warrant to prove it.” He offered it. “As you know, I’m involved in cases where the highest security and the welfare of the nation is involved—so I’d like to check the identity of the man who’s being hauled up at this moment. It could explain the severity of his intentions.”
    “Are you saying you could have been his target?”
    “It’s possible,” Billy said, and at that moment an ambulance rolled up, two paramedics emerged, opened the rear door, and pulled out a stretcher, which they took forward to where the four policemen were hauling up the drowned man in a sling.
    Water poured from the man as they laid him down on the stretcher, and one of the paramedics removed the balaclava, revealing the unshaven face, handsome enough, eyes closed in death, dark hair with silver streaks in it.
    “Good God, I know this one,” Parky said. “He used to live round here when I was a young constable. Bagged him coming out of a booze shop he’d broken into on Wapping High Street. Costello, Fergus Costello. He went down the steps for two years. Petty criminal, when he got out. Irish bloke, drunk and disorderly, that kind of thing, always getting arrested.”
    “Can you remember what happened to him?” Billy asked.
    “Not really, it’s so long ago.” They watched as a police officer went through the dead man’s pockets, producing a bunch of skeleton keys, a folded flick-knife, and a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, which they handed to Parky.
    “He certainly meant business.”
    A passport came next, which turned out to be Irish. “See, I was right,” Parky said, but frowned when he opened it. “John Docherty, and there’s a Dublin address.” He shook his head and handed the passport to Billy. “Even though he’s dead, you can see from the photo it’s the same man.”
    “You’re right.” Billy gave it to Harry. “Must be a forgery. Let’s see what’s in the wallet.”
    Parky went to his car, opened the wallet, and took out the wet contents—a driver’s license, a Social Security card, and a credit card. “All in the name of John Docherty, and an address in Point Street, Kilburn.”
    “So he was living under a false name,” Harry said.
    Parky nodded. “You know, I remember now, it’s all coming back. He used to get in a lot of trouble over the drink, and then there was a refuge opened, run by Catholics. They used to get visits from a priest, who had a big influence on the boozers there. I can’t remember his name, but, as I recall, Costello stopped