‘Relying on professionals to the end, I see,’ Wootton said.

When George was in place, the mourners made for their cars.

‘Well, that wasn’t exactly paydirt, old sausage,’ Wootton said. ‘You’ve brought me out here in this appalling conveyance, this hot rod, for sweet bugger all.’

‘Somewhere Tony’s going to pay his respects. In so deep, he’s got no choice,’ I said. ‘Strong on respect, the Armits. If he’s not here, the bastard’s last chance is to arselick the boys at the cemetery.’

‘I’m paying you for your time,’ Wootton said. ‘Who’s paying me for mine?’

‘Believe me, if I could do this without your presence, I would.’

The priest came around the corner in a white turbo Saab, its Michelins giving a plump little squeal of pleasure. He looked at us as he passed, a nightclub-owner’s pale face, cigarette tilted upward in the mouth, mobile phone at his ear.

I started the Stud and did a U-turn. A block down the street, I looked right and saw the car. A Hertz car. I turned first left, left again and parked behind the church.

‘I’m going in to say a little prayer,’ I said, opening the door. ‘Keep an eye on the back gate.’

‘Spoken like an officer,’ Wootton said.

‘Still rankles, doesn’t it, corporal.’

‘Sergeant.’

I’d known Wootton since Vietnam. He’d been in stores, stealing more goods than he dispensed.

The church door was open. Inside, the blood of the martyrs fell from the stained-glass windows and lay in pink patches. The air smelled of incense, stale vase water and brass polish.

I didn’t see him at first. There was a row of pillars across the church and he was sitting in front of the one nearest the wall to my right: man in his early forties, crew cut blond hair, little folds of tanned fat over his collar.

I walked across and stopped behind him. ‘Hello Tony.’