It was half past eleven at night and the place was quite empty. ‘Devlin,’ I said, when he answered. It took him a second or two to sort himself out. For half past four in the morning, I didn’t blame him. ‘What?’ ‘Devlin. Peter Devlin.’ ‘What about him?’ ‘He’s out here. In Dallas. He’s working with Beckermann. He’s part of it all.’ I paused, trying to picture Wesley in the darkened flat. Eight hours in McGrath’s company had given me a new perspective on AIDS. Maybe, after all, there were worse things than dying. Wesley came back on the phone. He sounded awake at last. ‘What made you phone here?’ he said. ‘I told you not to.’ ‘Devlin,’ I repeated. ‘Listen—’ ‘Devlin,’ I said for the fourth time. There was a silence. Then, reluctantly, he acknowledged the name. ‘Polly’s son?’ he said. ‘In Dallas?’ ‘Yes. I’ve got an address.’ I fumbled in my bag. ‘Devlin, Coffey and Sweetman. That mean anything?’ ‘No.’ he paused. ‘But why are you phoning here?
