However, this pub was a Victorian structure and so it had been named relatively recently. George couldn’t remember the place from his youth, but then that was a long time ago.

  ‘Hello.’

  He hadn’t noticed the young woman now at his side. She was heavily pregnant.

  ‘Oh, um …’

  ‘Pub’s open if you want a pint,’ she said. Then, probably because she noticed his dog collar, she added, ‘Not that you …’

  ‘Oh, I can assure you that priests do drink,’ George said.

  She smiled. She had a pretty face.

  George’s phone rang. He said, ‘Excuse me.’

  She walked away, towards the pub, as George took the call from Jordan Whittington.

  ‘Shaz …’

  Lee Arnold hadn’t meant to call Mumtaz’s daughter again, but now he wasn’t just anxious, he was frightened.

  ‘What is it?’ the girl asked. He could hear other people talking and laughing in the background. She was probably out with mates.

  ‘I’ve still not heard from your mum,’ Lee said. ‘Can you give me your grandmother’s number so I can check up on her?’

  ‘She’s OK, Lee,’ Shazia said. ‘Apart from having to listen to Dadi’s shit, she’s fine.’

  ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘But …’ How much should he tell her? He didn’t want to make Shazia paranoid too.

  ‘Look, I’ll do you a favour and call Dadi,’ Shazia said. ‘If Mum is there and some random white bloke asks for her then the old girl will give her shit.’

  It was a fair point. Also, if he did call and Mumtaz was fine, which she probably was, she’d be angry with him for checking up on her.

  ‘Thanks Shaz,’ Lee said. ‘To be honest, can’t think why she might be there anyway …’

  She laughed. ‘You’re so not Asian, are you,’ she said. ‘So they’re still Mum’s in-laws until she marries again. Of course she’s gonna jump if they ask her to do something.’

  Being thin was something Loz had always felt gave him an advantage in life. Habib, who struggled to keep his weight down, thought that being thin was a gift from God. However, on this occasion, Loz did find himself wondering whether it was some sort of curse. Kym, pregnant or not, was a big girl and when she pinned him to the wall outside school, he knew he was going to struggle to free himself.

  As she pushed her face into his, reminding him of the one time they’d had sex in her dad’s garage, Loz cringed in fear.

  ‘Where’s my money?’ she hissed. ‘You really want my dad to come round yours and batter your mum?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘So where’s—’

  ‘How do I know you’re really pregnant?’ Loz blurted. Why he hadn’t asked this a long time ago was precisely why his heart was hammering now. Not only did Kym have a violent dad, she was violent herself.

  She paused for a moment before she failed to answer.

  ‘What you say to me, batty boy?’

  Although white, she liked to use the same slang as some of the local black girls. ‘Batty boy’ was a derogative term for a gay boy.

  Loz, for whom logic wasn’t usually a default position, nevertheless said, ‘I can’t be gay and get you up the …’

  ‘You a baby daddy now so you need to pay!’ Kym said. ‘And even if you don’t want no child, you still need to pay for an abortion, you get me?’

  Loz said nothing. He’d put the money he’d nicked from his mum’s purse back.

  From somewhere he managed to get it together to say, ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

  This was the second time he’d challenged her and this time his audacity made her suck her teeth in fury. She also loosened her grip on him, which allowed Loz to run.

  ELEVEN

  After an unknowable amount of time, Mumtaz managed to find her handbag. Crawling on hands and knees on a rough and uneven floor, she eventually tracked it down to somewhere in front of what felt like a wall. There was still not even a pinpoint of light and so she had to go through the bag to find out what was in there using only the sense of touch. Predictably her phone had disappeared. Whoever had put her in this place had obviously taken it.

  Had they just simply destroyed it, or had they taken it in order to use it for something? And anyway, who were ‘they’? As far as Mumtaz could remember she’d walked into the house with the blue door, Arthur’s house, because the blue door had been open. Then – falling. Nothing before, only this incessant darkness after.

  Once she’d investigated her handbag again and having still found that her phone was missing, Mumtaz decided she would try and stand up. Maybe if she could follow this wall along she might find a door. But standing proved to be more difficult than she had imagined; her first attempt at getting to her feet resulted in her knees giving way and she fell back down onto the floor.

  They had been expecting them. As Father George and Jordan walked into the cathedral, they were met by a posse of clerics headed by the Very Reverend Canon Palmer and the young priest ‘Call me Harry’. Apart from those two there were two middle-aged men, one white, the other black, and a small elderly white woman.

  Canon Palmer made the introductions – although George could still only remember ‘Call me Harry’ and so it was a bit pointless from his perspective. Introductions made, the Canon suggested they all repair to the chapter house next door for tea and more private surroundings. Jordan, who clearly didn’t understand the ways of the Church, looked alarmed. To him it seemed as if the clergy were digging in for a long session. But as they moved out of the cathedral, George whispered to him.

  ‘It’s just what they do,’ he said. ‘It won’t take for ever.’

  The chapter house was a red-brick building, also designed by Christopher Wren, which was used by the cathedral staff for meetings. Ushered into a large room lined with dark wood, George and Jordan were offered tea, biscuits and cake before they all sat down to talk.

  The canon opened the proceedings with, ‘I understood from DI Brown that he would be attending.’

  ‘He’s detained,’ Jordan said. ‘Sends his apologies.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He smiled. ‘Well, Constable, Father George, I do feel, I must say, that I don’t know what I may be able to add to what has already been said on this matter of the gates to the churchyard. I have questioned my staff and while we are all very sorry, of course, that this omission took place, it was merely an error.’

  ‘Who is responsible for closing the gates at night?’ Jordan asked.

  According to Brown, the cathedral staff had told him there were no set procedures for this activity. Brown had found that difficult to believe.

  ‘The security of the cathedral precinct is the responsibility of us all,’ the canon said. ‘Although strictly all security matters devolve to me …’

  ‘So you were responsible,’ Jordan said.

  The clerics looked uncomfortable. But the canon smiled. ‘We are only human.’

  Jordan looked at Father George, who said, ‘Canon, with respect, I find it difficult to accept that a building as precious as this doesn’t have security procedures set in stone. My own church, a small parish church …’

  ‘With respect, Father,’ the canon said, ‘a parish church is a small—’

  ‘Small it may be, but I still open the gates when the time on the board outside states, and I close them at the appointed time too. It’s important.’ Then something occurred to him and he said, ‘Where’s the old priest?’

  ‘Old priest?’

  ‘When I came a couple of days ago there was an old priest,’ he said. ‘Spoke to me just after you talked to me, Harry.’

  ‘Call me Harry’ smiled and then said, ‘I saw no old priest I’m afraid, Father George. I must have missed him.’

  ‘We have no old priest here,’ the canon put in.

  ‘Maybe he was visiting?’ Harry said.

  George was on the point of alluding to the old priest’s fears but knowing it would do no good, he kept his counsel.

  Jordan meantime had been thinking. He said, ‘Canon, if as you say, both you and your staff are responsible for cathedral security, and while you have kindly given us a list of those on duty the night of the murder, I wonder whether each one of those people including yourself, could tell us exactly what you were doing when you were meant to be securing the building?’

  The canon smiled. ‘We can,’ he said. ‘It will take a little time …’

  ‘I wondered whether we might do that now. Here.’

  No one spoke or moved. Smiles already on faces became frozen.

  The canon said, ‘We can, although as I am sure you will appreciate, Constable Whittington, recalling an event, some days ago, that had little meaning at the time requires some thought. Personally I think that maybe a period of reflection may be in order, certainly for myself. In addition, I imagine you would like a written account, for your records?’

  ‘Well, yes, I …’

  ‘Good. Well that’s agreed.’ He stood. ‘Gentlemen, ladies …’

  The other clerics stood now and George felt his heart sink. The canon had taken control. Jordan’s lack of experience and lowly rank had allowed him to assert himself in a way that was playing out as a mild rebuke of the young officer. It made him feel both angry and chilled to his core. This was what the Church did when it was protecting itself: it captured the narrative.

  Jordan, standing now, said, ‘Er, well thank you …’

  ‘You are most welcome.’

  It was then that George said, ‘Canon, may I ask a favour before we go, please?’

  ‘You may.’

  ‘Constable Whittington doesn’t know the cathedral well. I wondered whether I could show him round.’

  ‘The cathedral is closed,’ the canon said.

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘I’ll show you round,’ the small elderly woman said.

  ‘Mrs Hardwick …’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure, Canon,’ the woman said.

  He remained motionless for a moment and then he made a tight smile and said, ‘That’s fine then. Good evening, gentlemen.’

  The canon bowed and then led his staff out of the room without another word. Alone with George and Mrs Hardwick, Jordan, looking helpless, said, ‘So what now?’

  George, smiling at the elderly woman, said, ‘I think we’d like to start with the crypt if you don’t mind, Mrs Hardwick.’

  ‘They got my sample mixed up with someone else.’

  DI Scott Brown sighed. ‘They’ always did it seemed. Apparently police DNA sample results existed in a sort of ‘results salad’, where they were all chucked in and swirled about to create a large mess-bowl designed to entrap the innocent.

  Brown leant across the table towards the tall, skinny middle-aged man and said, ‘Colin, I can take another sample from you now if you want.’

  Colin Macbeth’s eyes darted everywhere except Brown’s face and then he said, ‘Yeah. So do it.’

  This happened a lot. Someone reeking of guilt, usually a man, fronting up to an investigating officer about something he knew he could only lose. But then of course that sample too would be ‘lost’, ‘contaminated’, he would have been fitted up in some way.

  Brown said, ‘Listen Colin, you’re not the first bloke to have put his dick inside someone he shouldn’t …’

  ‘I don’t know nothing about no baby!’

  ‘Maybe you don’t,’ Melina Pinker said, ‘but you’re its father.’

  ‘I’m not!’

  Brown switched tack.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we need to find the mother. We’re not ascribing blame for the child’s death to either parent at this stage, but they may know …’

  ‘I don’t know who killed it!’ Colin said. ‘I’ve got nothing to do with it!’

  ‘This was a newborn,’ Brown persisted. ‘Its mother may need medical help. Maybe she’s been attacked by whoever took the baby. You thought of that? Maybe the killer has taken her somewhere, is holding her hostage? Maybe she killed the child herself? All we need from you is a name, Colin. A name and we can release ya.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t!’

  Brown looked at Pinker and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

  Lee Arnold was in the car on his way home when Shazia rang. He pressed to receive the call and said, ‘Shaz.’

  ‘Lee, she’s not there,’ Shazia said. She sounded worried and so she should be. If Mumtaz wasn’t with her mother-in-law, then where was she?

  ‘I called Amma’s dad,’ Shazia continued. ‘He’s no idea where she is. I told him not to tell her mum …’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Lee said. Mumtaz’s mother would collapse if she knew what was going on. Bad enough that old Baharat had to know. But at least now they knew that Mumtaz was missing rather than just hiding somewhere for some reason.

  ‘Lee, what are we going to do?’ Shazia said.

  Lee looked at the time on his phone. Wilko was still on duty.

  ‘I’ll report her missing,’ he said.

  ‘Where was she that you last know of?’ Shazia asked.

  ‘The City,’ Lee said. He changed course and headed for Bishopsgate Police Station.

  ‘Oh, Lee, what can I do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Is Krish home yet?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘In about an hour.’

  ‘Tell him what’s happened and keep in touch,’ Lee said. ‘I’m off to Bishopsgate now. I’ve an old mate there who’ll make sure they get onto it.’

  ‘Lee, do you know …’

  ‘I’ve got a few leads,’ he said. ‘Just let me get on with it, Shaz. Soon have her home.’

  He ended the call. Now chilled to the bone by shock, he turned the car heater up and switched his radio off. He needed to concentrate so he didn’t have an accident, because he was shaking.

  Jordan left a message for DI Brown and then followed George and Mrs Hardwick into St Paul’s Crypt. Like Wilko, George was of the opinion that the crypt was the source of underground tunnels which, if true, could mean that whoever killed the baby may have got into the cathedral complex via those. It was typical Wilko, fanciful as hell. But it did make sense, especially in the context of the old pre-Wren cathedral. Surrounded by buildings occupied in service to the great church, the tunnels could have provided a much-welcomed respite from the stinking conditions prevalent in mediaeval London.

  George let Mrs Hardwick show them around. They saw Nelson’s tomb, a stern-looking black marble sarcophagus originally made, she said, for Henry VIII’s one-time champion, later enemy, Cardinal Wolsey. Apparently Nelson’s body had been sent back to England for burial in a barrel of brandy. Apparently some of those accompanying the corpse had helped themselves to his ad hoc embalming fluid and got roaring drunk. It was all very interesting, but Jordan was keen to get back to the station to find out about the man Brown and Pinker had gone to question.

  He heard George say, ‘What I’d really like to see is the OBE Chapel, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course.’ The elderly woman had a nice smile. ‘It’s at the eastern end along here.’

  They followed her through vaulted ceilinged passageways and along marble paths until they came to a small chapel.

  Mrs Hardwick said, ‘This is the Order of the British Empire Chapel. The Order itself was instigated by George V in 1917 to honour people not eligible for gallantry medals in the Great War. The banners on the right are those of the Sovereign, on the left of the Grand Master of the Order.’

  ‘Fascinating. May we look around?’ George asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  He grabbed Jordan’s arm and pulled him towards the small altar, while Mrs Hardwick sat down in a chair and appeared to contemplate a stained-glass window.

  Once they were behind the altar, George said, ‘We’re looking for something that could be a door or hatch …’

  The chapel was quite unadorned and so it was difficult to see where something like that might be hidden. Jordan saw George discreetly pull up the altar cloth with his foot. Why here? Jordan wondered but he didn’t say anything. The next person who spoke was Mrs Hardwick.

  ‘If you’re looking for a tunnel you won’t find one,’ she said.

  George stopped in his tracks. She walked over towards them.

  ‘They were all sealed many years ago,’ she said.

  So they had existed!

  ‘Well, more correctly, some were sealed while others collapsed during the Blitz,’ she said. She smiled. ‘I share your concerns.’

  George frowned.

  ‘About the child that was sacrificed,’ she said. ‘You know, before this was a church it was a pagan temple. Sacrifices were made to the gods of the original Britons here. People then knew no better. Now they do, which has turned what was once ignorance into something quite darker.’

  Jordan said, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I share Father George’s fears,’ she said. ‘And those of Father Edward.’

  ‘Father Edward?’

  ‘The priest you saw, the old one.’

  ‘So he is attached to the cathedral,’ George said. ‘I knew it! Why did the canon lie?’

  ‘Because the canon doesn’t hold with ghosts,’ the old woman said. ‘Silly man.’

  Mumtaz would never know what made her stop on the edge of that precipice but when she sat down next to it, she could feel the pull from its endless, infinite darkness. Scrabbling for things that had fallen out of her bag, she found what felt like a pound coin and threw it down into the void. It took three seconds to register any sort of noise which, when it came, was a splash. Water.

  So what was she in? A well? A room containing a well? And where was this place and what was meant to happen now?