It was dawn when the packet sailed from the Hook into a calm, sunless sea. A mile from the Dutch coast the vessel was enveloped in a freezing yellow fog that persisted throughout the twelve-hour crossing. The policemen took turns guarding Carmody in a cabin on the upper deck. After a couple of drinks in the miserable saloon bar, Swallow retired to his own cabin. But sleep was impossible. He tossed and turned, marking every hour with his watch. When he rose to have supper in the ship’s dining room, the darkness of the January evening had already blacked out whatever visibility there had been. And when the captain eased the vessel alongside the quay at Harwich, even the strong carbide marker lights were hardly visible through the gloom.

Two uniformed constables of the Essex Constabulary stood, faintly illuminated below the gangway, to take Carmody into custody from the Dutchmen. Frost gleamed on their helmets and greatcoats. A man in plain clothes standing beside them nodded to Swallow as he stepped ashore. He extended a hand in greeting.

‘Essex CID. Detective Inspector Swallow?’

Swallow nodded.

‘Yes. Have you information for me?’

The detective handed him an envelope stamped with the royal crest.

‘There’s a telegram here for you from Dublin. Two, in fact. You’d best read them yourself. Come into the waiting room. It’s warm and there’s good lighting. You’ve half an hour before the London train.’

A warming coal fire glowed in the waiting room. Swallow opened the first telegram. The transmission address was ‘POLICEDUBLIN’.

PFAUS DETAILS OF FLANNERY INQUIRY TO HAND

+COMPLIMENTS

+REGRETS FAMILY NEWS

+CONFIRMING COMPASSIONATE LEAVE

+MALLON

It was if something hard, metallic almost, had clutched his heart. Compassionate leave was rare in G-Division. John Mallon’s resources were stretched to the degree that he needed every G-man he could have on duty and available at all times.

He tore hurriedly at the second telegram. It bore the transmission stamp of the General Post Office in Sackville Street. It was dated twenty-four hours previously. He glanced at the sender’s name. It was Lafeyre.

MARIA STABLE

+HOSPITAL DOING ALL POSSIBLE OTHERWISE

+NEXT 48 HOURS IMPORTANT

+ROTUNDA IMMEDIATELY YOU ARRIVE

+LAFEYRE

Stable is good, he told himself. Stable means Maria is alive. Stable means that even if she is ill, she isn’t getting any worse. Lafeyre used medical terms precisely, so words meant what they said. But ‘doing all possible otherwise’? That had to refer to the unborn baby. ‘All possible’ did not read well. ‘All possible’ was a medical term too. It was an excuse. It meant that something or some things could not be done. But surely in a hospital like the Rotunda, with its surgeons and doctors, with its skills and reputation, anything was possible? Within reason.