‘Nothing’s ever zero,’ Brown said tetchily. ‘Get on will you, Detective Sergeant.’

  She returned to her desk. He’d brought the priest in because Wilko had asked him to and everyone liked Wilko. A strange old git, but he knew his patch even if he was a bit mad. Also Brown, deep in his soul, wondered. He’d seen that tiny slaughtered corpse with its precisely placed wounds. An Englishman through to his marrow, Brown was nevertheless concerned about the divisions that had arisen in the country, especially since the Brexit vote. He’d unashamedly voted to leave the European Union, but he hadn’t foreseen the trouble and even violence that vote had caused. And some of it definitely had a weird, almost religious dimension. Wilko had said, ‘There’s a whiff of sulphur in the air these days. If we ignore it, we’re fucked.’

  Scott Brown was inclined to believe he, at the very least, had a point.

  He had thought it would be pleasant to combine a visit to St Paul’s Cathedral with a nice lunch with Barry, but as usual, any contact with his family had descended into their mockery of him. Barry had banged on about the nature of Anglicanism when they’d entered the cathedral. Not that he knew anything. Claimed to not be able to understand how George could dress and behave just like a Catholic priest, while the priests in the cathedral were more like evangelical preachers.

  Years ago he’d explained about High and Low churches and what the differences between them were, but either his brother hadn’t listened or he’d been incapable of understanding. George was an Anglo-Catholic, one of a group of Anglicans spiritually and sometimes physically tied to Rome. Not that it mattered when it came to his familial relationships. They didn’t care, and he was glad when his brother had left him alone with the young priest who introduced himself as ‘Call me Harry’.

  No clergy had been in the cathedral in the early hours of the previous morning. They’d all managed to account for their movements to the police. George said he was accusing no one of anything, but had maybe some members of the clerical team not felt in the days leading up to the child’s burial that something strange was happening?

  Harry said, ‘What do you mean, strange?’

  George had tried to articulate the occasional fringe of darkness he saw out of the corner of his eye, both inside and outside the great church. But the young man didn’t seem to know what he was talking about. That or he was trying to avoid the subject. Ditto his colleagues. It was only when George was leaving the cathedral and he noticed someone was following him that things changed.

  Out on the main entrance steps, George turned to the tall, grey, elderly priest and said, ‘Can I help you?’

  The man, who didn’t introduce himself, said, ‘I felt it. What you talked about, the evil.’

  George walked over to him.

  ‘How did you feel it?’ he asked. ‘What happened?’

  The priest, a little flustered now, said, ‘I knew it was coming …’

  ‘The death …?’

  ‘The sacrifice,’ he said.

  ‘Sacrifice? What?’

  The priest backed off. ‘I just knew,’ he said. ‘But don’t try to tell them.’ He tipped his head backwards, towards the cathedral. ‘Just don’t …’

  ‘Why not?’

  He shook his almost bald, grey head and said, ‘They don’t acknowledge it. They see it, but they don’t see it, you know?’

  George didn’t, but when he tried to follow the priest, the latter told him to back off and so he did.

  SIX

  He pronounced the word ‘eels’ as ‘ills’. He said, ‘Used to be able to catch ’em right up into West London. But you’ll be lucky to find one west of Greenwich now. Not a lot of call in recent years …’

  Arthur Hobbs looked like a garden gnome. With pink apple cheeks and a bulbous nose, he had merry blue eyes and, until twenty years before, he’d been an eel fisherman on the Thames. He was also the only other person in the pub apart from Mumtaz and Danielle.

  ‘Pollution done a lot of damage,’ Arthur continued. ‘And also ills went out of fashion. People got all queasy about ’em.’

  ‘I like eels,’ Danielle said. ‘You can still get them in Dagenham.’

  ‘Oh, Dagenham, yeah,’ Arthur said. ‘Yeah, Dagenham.’ Then he called to the barman to pour him another pint of Best.

  Arthur had turned up as the women had been about to leave. He’d called over to Danielle and asked her how she was, then he’d joined them. Mumtaz had introduced herself as Marian, the historian, which was when Arthur had rolled into his tales of eel fishing.

  He said, ‘So you’re a historian are you then?’ to Mumtaz.

  ‘Yes. Looking at the social history of this area,’ she said.

  She went on to embellish her story a little; it was rarely a bad idea, adding veracity. But her mouth slipped into a word it wasn’t meant to say. ‘My dadi, er, my mother-in-law has always had a keen interest in social history.’

  This was true – but not in England, back in Bangladesh.

  Did Arthur look confused? Would she have to make something else up to cover?

  ‘Lot of history round here,’ Arthur said bluntly.

  Mumtaz felt her heart rate ease down.

  ‘Do you know how long your family have been here?’ Mumtaz asked.

  He sniffed and moved his shoulders backwards slightly. ‘Five hundred years.’

  ‘Five hundred years!’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘Same house too. Live next door to this pub.’ He looked at Danielle. ‘She knows.’

  ‘He does.’

  Mumtaz said, ‘But that’s a … Well, it looks like a Georgian house …’

  ‘The front of it is,’ Arthur said. ‘But there’s bits as date back to the 1550s. Candle-makers we was, my family. Made candles for the cathedral we did.’

  ‘That’s amazing!’

  Was this the ‘in’ Mumtaz had been hoping for? She said, ‘Has anyone ever come and photographed …’

  ‘You can see the old bits from above,’ Arthur said.

  She waited for him to volunteer some more information, but he didn’t. Eventually she said, ‘You’re just the sort of person I need to speak to, by the sound of it.’

  But he just smiled.

  ‘I mean,’ she continued, ‘you must know so much …’

  ‘I do, but I like my privacy,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well of course, you would be anonymised.’

  Then he went truly left field and Mumtaz hoped her face didn’t register her shock.

  ‘People like yous don’t come to pubs like this,’ he said.

  He was still smiling, but was it just her imagination or did his eyes look different now? Not in a good way …

  It was however Danielle who replied. ‘Oh that was me,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here before remember, when I met you? I thought Marian might be interested in this place as it’s old and that.’

  But Arthur didn’t respond, just carried on drinking his pint until it had all gone. Then he said, ‘Well, best be on me travels, ladies.’

  And then he left.

  Another one, Lee thought.

  Sixty-something, broken nose, called Gary, from Epping. Lee tried not to be bored because it was all work, but what was it with these men? This Gary’s wife, his third, was called Fallon and she was twenty-five. Lee would put money on the chances she called him ‘babe’.

  ‘I thought when she had Harrison she’d settle down,’ Gary said miserably.

  ‘Your son?’ Lee asked.

  ‘Yeah, he’s three. Had him just before we got married. Fallon wanted to look good in her wedding dress.’

  Gary produced a photograph of a white blond boy who looked a little bit like the prime minister.

  ‘So what does Fallon do?’ Lee asked.

  ‘Looks after the baby,’ Gary said. ‘I give her everything. Shopping gets delivered, we have a cleaner, she’s got her own motor …’

  ‘Does she go out in the evening when you get home?’

  ‘No.’

  Lee cleared his throat. ‘Mr Connor, when do you think your wife is meeting this man you claim she’s having an affair with?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘If I knew that I wouldn’t need you, would I?’

  It was a fair point.

  ‘Sometime when you’re not around,’ Lee said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Gary shrugged.

  ‘I’m self-employed. I’m in and out. Never know from one day to the next.’

  He was a plumber by trade. But no ordinary plumber. Gary Connor was plumber to the East End glitterati – Chigwell-based old white gangsters, top-end Asian landlords, a couple of Eastern European knock-off fag and booze millionaires. Not that he did the work himself any more. Gary had blokes for that. He hadn’t touched a ballcock himself for decades.

  ‘One of my customers wants a new hot tub or a leaky pipe fixed, I have to be there,’ Gary said.

  ‘So,’ Lee continued. ‘Do you suspect anyone …’

  ‘Oh, did I not say? It’s me brother,’ Gary said. ‘Me young one, Dillon.’

  ‘And you know, how?’

  ‘I’ve seen ’em,’ Gary said. ‘Every barbecue we had last summer, they were sniggering in corners. Round the back of the hot tub, in the loggia …’

  ‘Kissing? Touching?’

  ‘Nah. Just …’ He shrugged. ‘Cosy.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  He thought for a moment and then he said, ‘Nah. Not really. A feeling …’

  This was not an unusual occurrence. At least half the obbos the Agency mounted on supposedly cheating spouses turned out to be no such thing. Usually involving older men with younger partners, the suspected other man or woman was generally younger too. However, in Lee’s experience, the offender was rarely a family member. He said, ‘I have to ask, Gary, when do you think your wife is cheating on you if your work schedule is so uncertain? You said she looks after your child all day long on her own, when would she get the time?’

  ‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’m paying you for, to find out. I’m backed up with appointments for the next few days. I’ll be out from around eight, probably ’til six. I’ve told her, the missus. So if anything’s happening, it’ll be happening then. Can you start tomorrow?’

  ‘Who are you really?’

  Mumtaz stopped. They’d been walking away from the pub when the younger woman had asked her.

  ‘I’m Marian,’ Mumtaz said.

  ‘Yeah, your name probably is Marian, but why are you here?’ Danielle asked.

  Mumtaz knew only too well never to underestimate girls like Danielle. She’d been to school with a lot of white, East End working-class girls and most of them, despite their often risible reputation, were as sharp as tacks. What had given her away?

  Danielle took Mumtaz’s arm. ‘I saw you running in the fog two nights ago,’ she said. ‘I was looking out my window. You turned to see whether someone was behind you. I recognise your face.’

  She could deny it. In fact she should deny it.

  ‘Is it something to do with that pub?’ Danielle persisted. ‘You a copper?’

  ‘No,’ Mumtaz said. The Hobgoblin did look as if it might be somewhere British National Party members might feel welcome, but even if that were true, that was not currently her concern.

  ‘I used to work for a firm of solicitors,’ Danielle said. ‘And one time we had a historian come to us about the history of the building where we worked. He made an appointment with my boss. We knew where he come from and everything first.’

  She’d avoided naming a particular college or university department, which had been foolish. Or rather it would have been alright had Danielle not been so on the ball.

  They turned into Carter Lane.

  ‘If you don’t want to talk about it in the street, you can come up to the flat,’ Danielle said. ‘Henry, that’s my partner, is at work.’

  Father George was a strange-looking man. Of uncertain age, he was tall, stooped and wore clothes that were entirely black apart from his dog collar. Scott Brown felt embarrassed just having him in his office. Luckily, however, they weren’t alone. The young PC who had found the child’s body had been seconded to CID and had been called in to join their conversation, thank Christ. Jordan Whittington was a friend of Wilko’s and appeared to be much more comfortable with all this metaphysical stuff.

  ‘I felt it as soon as I walked into the churchyard,’ Father George said. ‘Evil.’

  ‘How did it manifest?’ Jordan asked.

  ‘You know it when you come across it.’

  ‘Yes, but how does it make you feel?’ the young man persisted.

  Scott was floored by mumbo jumbo. Didn’t know what to do with it. Couldn’t convince himself it had any relevance. Of course murder scenes made people feel shivery. Didn’t mean there was a ghost in residence. Didn’t mean ghosts or whatever even existed.

  The priest frowned and then he said, ‘Watched.’

  ‘As in …?’

  ‘As in overlooked by something one cannot see,’ he said. ‘Something malign. And when one prays, one knows to one’s very core that this malign influence is blocking one’s words to the Almighty. As if someone is shouting when you try to listen to the television.’

  The office fell silent. Then the priest continued, ‘That area around the cathedral is the oldest part of London. It’s where the city was originally founded by the pagans. King Lud, a semi-mythical king who defeated the Romans the first time they tried to invade. When they were successful the Romans themselves established temples to their gods in that area, including Mithras. All sorts of obscene ceremonies used to take place in Mithraic temples to propitiate the god. And although Christian shrines have been raised on many of those sites, a memory, if you like, can remain behind.’

  ‘Father,’ Jordan said. ‘Could it be that someone was actually watching you, do you think? I mean, I know you may disagree, but humans are animals …’

  ‘In a sense.’

  ‘And so we do have the same instincts that other animals do. We get a tingling feeling on the back of our neck, the hairs rise on our arms …’

  ‘I can’t rule that out,’ Father George said. ‘It would be ridiculous of me to do so.’

  Scott Brown felt himself inwardly sigh with relief. Now they were on his territory.

  ‘Tell us what happened?’ Jordan said.

  Brown had looked up Jordan Whittington’s CV. He had a degree in Applied Psychology, apparently. Whatever that was. He was clever.

  The priest said, ‘I’d had lunch with my brother. We went to El Vino’s on Fleet Street.’

  ‘Did you drink?’

  ‘My brother did. I don’t, apart from Communion wine. Then I walked to the cathedral, with my brother, and we talked. As I approached the front entrance, I began to feel it.’

  ‘This being watched.’

  ‘Evil, yes,’ he said.

  ‘And your brother?’

  He smiled. ‘Barry is an atheist,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘No, officer, my brother felt nothing. In fact he pooh-poohed my view that anything untoward was happening. Even when we walked into the churchyard, even when we came to the site of the child’s temporary grave, Barry was unmoved.’

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I tried to pray but the feeling was so strong, it felt as if God was being cut off from me. I didn’t say anything to my brother. I knew he wouldn’t understand. He left to go back to his Chambers and I went into the cathedral.’

  Brown asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Sergeant Wilkinson had told me that the cathedral had been empty that night, and I wanted to confirm that was true.’

  ‘And did you?’

  The clerical team had been interviewed by both Wilkinson and CID. Their stories had been consistent with each other. St Paul’s had been empty.

  ‘I did and I didn’t,’ the priest said.

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘All the clerics I spoke to confirmed they had seen, heard and experienced nothing. However, one I did not speak to, who only came up to me as I was leaving the cathedral, while not disputing that, had a rather different take,’ he said. ‘He said that “they”, meaning his fellow priests, had turned their minds away from the reality of the situation.’

  ‘Which is?’ Jordan asked.

  ‘That a sacrifice has taken place,’ Father George said.

  The room fell silent again and then Scott Brown said, ‘A sacrifice to what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the priest said. ‘All I do know is that is what it is.’

  ‘A sacrifice?’

  ‘A ritual sacrifice, yes,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything,’ Mumtaz said.

  Danielle’s flat was very cool. Minimalist, it was decorated in cool shades of pale sage green and grey. The floors were real wood, not laminate, and the furniture was upholstered in smooth grey leather. It was also uncomfortable. Even so, Mumtaz was jealous. This made her small flat look like a junk shop.

  ‘I’m in the area on behalf of a client …’

  ‘Yeah, but is it a crime someone’s done?’ Danielle asked.

  Pregnant, bored and home alone most of the time, Danielle was needy.

  ‘It’s a matter of concern to my client,’ Mumtaz said.

  ‘So not something criminal then?’

  ‘No,’ Mumtaz said.

  Why had she told her she was a PI? Was it because she liked her? Was it because she felt sorry for her? Or was it perhaps that she saw something in Danielle that reminded her of herself when she was married? Stuck at home, ignored for the most part, wondering what she was for … Or was it a sign of her inexperience?

  ‘So when I saw you and you were running …’

  ‘I was disorientated by the fog,’ Mumtaz said.

  ‘But you were scoping out the area?’

  ‘I was familiarising myself with it, yes.’

  Danielle offered her a biscuit to go with the tea she’d made earlier for them both, but Mumtaz declined. They were chocolate and, once she started eating them, she knew she couldn’t stop. Danielle had no such qualms and took four out of the packet.