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'To find that man is just so much raw meat?' Professor Lawlor said.

'Is that what you think?'

'See for yourself.'

Lawlor crossed to the operating table, and Father da Costa went with him. The body was open to the view and quite empty. Gutted. Nothing but space from inside the rib cage and down into the penis.

'Remember that poem of Eliot's The Hollow Men? Well, this is what he was getting at or so it's always seemed to me.'

'And you think that's all there is?'

'Don't you?' Lawlor demanded.

One of the technicians replaced the skullcap of bone and pulled the scalp back into place. Amazing how easily the face settled into position again. Quite remarkable.

Father da Costa said, 'A superb piece of engineering, the human body. Infinitely functional. There seems to be no task that a man cannot cope with if he so desires. Wouldn't you agree, Professor?'

'I suppose so.'

'Sometimes I find the mystery of it quite terrifying. I mean, is this all that's left in the end of an Einstein, let's say, or a Picasso? A gutted body, a few scraps of raw meat swilling about in the bottom of a plastic bucket?'

'Ah no you don't.' Lawlor grinned tiredly. 'No metaphysics, if you please, Father, I've got other things to do.' He turned to Miller. 'Have you seen enough?'

'I think so,' Miller said.

'Good, then get this devil's advocate out of here and leave me in peace to finish. It will be the morning before you get the full report now.' He grinned at Father da Costa again. 'I won't shake hands for obvious reasons, but any time you're passing just drop in. There's always someone here.'

He laughed at his own joke, was still laughing when they went back to the dressing-room. One of the technicians went with them to make sure that the robes they had worn went straight into the dirty laundry basket, so there was no opportunity to talk.

Miller led the way back outside, feeling tired and depressed. He had lost, he knew that already. The trouble was he didn't really know what to do next, except to take the kind of official action he'd been hoping to avoid.

It was still raining when they went out into the courtyard. When they reached the car, Fitzgerald opened the door and Father da Costa climbed in. Miller followed him. Fitzgerald sat in the front with the driver.

As they moved out into the city traffic, Miller said, 'I wanted you to see the reality of it and it hasn't made the slightest difference, has it?'

Father da Costa said, 'When I was twenty years of age, I dropped into the Cretan mountains by parachute, dressed as a peasant. All very romantic. Action by night - that sort of thing. When I arrived at the local village inn I was arrested at gunpoint by a German undercover agent. A member of the Feldgendarmerie.'

Miller was interested in spite of himself. 'You'd been betrayed?'

'Something like that. He wasn't a bad sort. Told me he was sorry, but that he'd have to hold me till the Gestapo got there. We had a drink together. I managed to hit him on the head with a wine bottle.'

Father da Costa stared back into the past and Miller said gently. 'What happened?'

'He shot me in the left lung and I choked him to death with my bare hands.' Father da Costa held them up. 'I've prayed for him every day of my life since.'

They turned into the street at the side of the church and Miller said wearily, 'All right, I get the picture.' The car pulled in at the kerb and there was a new formality in his voice when he said, 'In legal terms, your attitude in this matter makes you an accessory after the fact. You understand that?'

'Perfectly,' da Costa told him.

'All right,' Miller said. 'This is what I intend to do. I shall approach your superior in a final effort to make you see sense.'

'Monsignor O'Halloran is the man you want. I tried to see him myself earlier, but he's out of town. He'll be back in the morning - but it won't do you any good.'

'Then I'll apply to the Director of Public Prosecutions for a warrant for your arrest.'

Father da Costa nodded soberly. 'You must