He went to the fridge and lifted out a can of Guinness.

‘Are you operating a pharmacy on the side?’

Rebus asked. Father Leary looked at him. Rebus nodded towards the fridge. ‘The shelves of medicine.’

Father Leary rolled his eyes. ‘At my age, you go to the doctor with angina and they dose you for every conceivable ailment. They think it makes old folk feel better.’

He brought a glass to the table, placed it next to his can. Rebus felt a hand fall on his shoulder.

‘I’m hellish sorry about Sammy.’

‘How did you hear?’

‘Her name was in one of the rags this morning.’

Father Leary sat down. ‘Hit and run, they said.’

‘Hit and run,’ Rebus echoed.

Father Leary shook his head wearily, one hand rubbing slowly over his chest. He was probably in his late-sixties, though he’d never said Well-built, with a thatch of silver hair. Tufts of grey sprouted from his ears, nose and dog-collar. His hand seemed to smother the can of Guinness. But when he poured, he poured gently, almost with reverence.

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ he said quietly. ‘Coma, is it?’

‘Not until the doctors say so.’ Rebus cleared his throat. ‘It’s only been a day and a half.’

‘You know what we believers say,’ Father Leary went on. ‘When something like this happens, it’s a test for all of us. It’s a way of making us stronger.’

The head on his Guinness was perfect. He took a swallow, licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘That’s what we say; it may not be what we think.’

He looked into his drink.

‘It didn’t make me strong. I went back to the whisky.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘Until a friend reminded me it was the lazy way out, the cowardly way.) ‘And who’s to say he’s not right?’

‘“Faint-Heart and the Sermon”,’ Rebus said with a smile.

‘What’s that?’

‘A song. But maybe it’s us, too.’

‘Get away, we’re just two old boys having a natter. So how are you holding up, John?’

‘I don’t know.’

He paused. ‘I don’t think it was an accident. And the man I think is behind it ... Sammy isn’t the first woman he’s tried to destroy.’

Rebus looked into the priest’s eyes. ‘I want to kill him.’

‘But so far you haven’t?’

‘I haven’t even talked to him.’

‘Because you’re worried what you might do?’

‘Or not do.’

Rebus’s mobile sounded. He gave a look of apology and switched it on.

‘John, it’s Bill.’

‘Yes, Bill?’

‘Green Rover 600.2 ‘Yes?’

‘We’ve got it.’

The car had been parked illegally on the street outside Piershill Cemetery. There was a parking ticket on its windscreen, dated the previous afternoon. If anyone had checked, they’d have found the driver’s-side door unlocked. Maybe someone had: the car was empty, no coins, no map-books or cassettes. The fascia had been removed from the radio/cassette. There were no keys in the ignition. A car transporter had arrived, and the Rover was being winched aboard.